#immaterial cultural good

[bluegiragi]

hello! i'm gira, i go by she/her, and i've been making fanart for the cod fandom for about four months now :) the majority of that time's been spent on the soapbox saga, which is sort of just what i call the very plot-ridden porn comic featuring ghost, soap and konig. and recently i've been working on the monster 141 au!

i'm here to address the reasoning behind how i assigned certain monsters to certain characters, particularly the POC characters as well as accusations of racism regarding me neglecting gaz in all my art :) whoever you are, if you're reading this in good faith, i thank you! i earnestly never intended to make anyone feel uncomfortable from my work.

The Monster AU

i won't post the blog who brought this issue up mainly because, (realistically speaking) i think people might go after them and spam them with hate so I'm paraphrasing here. but basically..."how come all the POC in the Monster AU are assigned animal-associated monsters? Comparisons to animals can be incredibly demeaning when it comes to minorities".

I completely agree! But earnestly, I think my desire to assign every character a 'monster' that was relevant to their culture overshadowed the part of my brain that would've raised red flags about this sort of thing. There's the argument here that I could've assigned these characters cooler monsters such as Price who is a dragon, and Ghost who is a wraith, but I wanted to be respectful of all the minorities in the COD cast by giving them creatures that reflected their culture and personality.

ALEJANDRO - NAGUAL

In the Monster AU, Alejandro is a nagual, which is considered a guardian spirit in Mesoamerican culture. Typically, it's said that the nagual is the shapeshifted form that powerful men can transform into in order to do evil (although that doesn't apply in this case, Ale's a heroic lad), and can come in the forms of a jaguar, deer, dog or bird. I chose a jaguar, since it seemed to be the most common form of nagual depiction in the resources I was looking at. The 'panther mode' isn't pre-established as part of nagual mythology, but since most panthers are just black jaguars, i thought the association wouldn't be unreasonable.

I chose Alejandro to be a nagual because it's so in character for him to be protective of his home. The idea of him being a literal guardian spirit for all he considers his just made sense to me :)

--

RODOLFO (RUDY) - CADEJOS

In this AU, Rudy is the vessel for two cadejos, which are legendary dog spirits popular in the mythology of Central America, parts of South America and Mexico. Historically, they've been known as psychopomps (guides to help humans into the afterlife following their death) but modern interpretation has shifted to depict them as the good guardian dog and the evil attacking dog respectively.

A lot of the minute information about the cadejos tends to differ depending on the source. Like whether they're actually two separate dogs, or they're the same dog just in different 'modes', or how big they are. My personal depiction of them has them sized as normal dogs (although their spirit nature means they can move into small spaces pretty easily by just becoming immaterial temporarily) and as separate spirits that have been passed down through Rudy's family generationally.

I chose the cadejo for Rudy because although I wanted to include him in the Monster AU, i still liked keeping him as a character who was a bit more 'human' than Alejandro. I think Ale needs Rudy to hold him back sometimes, and having the two cadejo definitely helps with that. Sort of like how cheetahs in zoos have therapy dogs growing up because they're so anxious all the time! I think it also does a good job of showing Rudy's two sides as well, like he's a softie who just wants to protect those he loves, but he's capable of a lot of violence too.

--

VALERIA - GORGON

Valeria is a gorgon which, admittedly, is not part of Mexican mythology. However, I was put in a bit of a bind here, since my research didn't really reveal to me a monster in Mexican culture that I thought would suit Valeria's vibe (manipulative, elulsive) and I just felt like a gorgon would be perfect for her. Medusa's myth has her being continuously demeaned by the men in her life and is a symbol of female empowerment, which I thought was a great reflection of the implied reason that Valeria left the army was due to internal sexism. There's also the perfect parallel of how anyone who sees El Sin Nombre's face dies, and Medusa's whole 'turn you to stone' thing.

I thought i could compromise by making Valeria a gorgon but her hair would be Mexican black kingsnakes but...turns out they're actually not that dangerous. Some people even keep them as pets! So I decided to keep the visual, but make her a pit viper, a subfamily of vipers found in the Americas as well as Eurasia.

--

HORANGI - HAETAE

Horangi is a haetae (해태) which is a beast in Korean mythology that typically comes in the form of a horned lion or dog. It's prevalent in a lot of cultures in East Asia actually, although it goes under different names depending on the region - kaichi for Japan, xiezhi for China. I made Horangi a tiger variant on the creature because...well...'horangi' means 'tiger' in korean. It just made sense to me to put that little twist on it.

Typically, haetae are seen as spirits of judgement, that decide on innocent and guilty parties in disputes and punish the latter. It's also considered a guardian against fire (hence the fire immunity and cloud manipulation powers I gave him).

GAZ - HARPY

Gaz is a harpy which, I won't lie, was purely inspired by the fact that he seems to keep falling out of helicopters. But it's also because...yeah, I did neglect Gaz in the soapbox saga. But I think I neglected...everyone in the soapbox saga who weren't directly involved in the main ship. I sort of just tunnel visioned on the main three, so my exclusion of characters isn't just limited to Gaz, it was included Price, Laswell, Alejandro, Rudy, Graves etc.

I just want to make clear that my treatment of Gaz in particular isn't reflective of any inner preference against him. And to make good on that, me assigning Gaz wings of all things was to help me spend more time on him in the Monster AU! I think the contrast between Gaz being an upstart harpy, and Price being a one-winged dragon has a lot of potential as a mentor/protege relationship (and perhaps even something more) and it's why I assigned this monster to him. I really wanted to establish a connection upfront, but just making Gaz another dragon felt cheap - the harpy thing felt a little more in turn with his character :)

--

I really hope this cleared up any remaining frustrations with my designs for the Monster AU. I hope you can see that I never meant anything demeaning by assigning these monsters to their respective characters - in fact, I earnestly tried to go out of my way and be respectful to their backgrounds.

In any case, if you have any more questions I'd be happy to answer them - I'd just ask you to please ask politely :)

#gira speaks #monster 141 au

[inariedwards]

Museum news from Finland:

Museum of Northern Ostrobothnia donates its Sámi collection to the Sámi Museum Siida

The Sámi Museum Siida is the national museum with the responsibility for preserving the material and cultural heritage of Finland's Sámi people. The Sámi objects in the Museum of Northern Ostrobothnia's collections were mainly acquired between 1900 and the 1960s with the last ones added to the collections in the 1980s.

The first part of the donation, which includes the textile items of the collection, will be transferred to representatives of the Sámi museum in the collection facilities of the Museum of North Ostrobothnia on Tuesday, 16 January 2024.

– As the new collection and exhibition facilities of the Sámi Museum Siida are now completed, this seemed like a good time to donate the objects of Sámi origin back to the Sámi community, says Pasi Kovalainen, Director of Cultural heritage work at the Museum of Northern Ostrobothnia.

– The Sámi objects and their return have a profound meaning for the Sámi community. The donation is a significant addition to the oldest part of the Sámi Museum Siida's collections. We thank the Museum of Northern Ostrobothnia for this important decision, says Taina Pieski, Siida's Museum Director.

The collections of the Museum of North Ostrobothnia that include objects of Sámi origin date back to the early days of the only professionally run museum in Northern Finland. The objects were collected by Samuli Paulaharju (1875–1944), a folklorist and museum curator from Oulu. The collection was destroyed almost completely by two fires in the museum buildings in 1929 and 1940. After both fires, replacement items were collected in Lapland.

The collection of approximately 400 items now donated consists of Sámi textiles and utensils, including a goahti (traditional Sámi hut) and several sledges. The oldest items include a cheese mould from Enontekiö dating back to 1797 and rare crossbow stocks, the oldest of which dates back to 1730.

As a large part of the Sámi cultural heritage is still held by museums outside the Sámi region, the transfer of the collection is important for the Sámi community.

The Sámi material culture is both practical and beautiful in its diversity, and the museum objects contain a wealth of intangible knowledge about their manufacture and use. This knowledge is best preserved in Sápmi by the Sámi themselves. Through the study of artefacts, it is possible to revive the old craft traditions and techniques of the Sámi community, knowledge of materials and the vocabulary related to the production and use of the objects. The revitalisation processes are a form of communal and intergenerational transfer of learning and knowledge, and they contribute to the transmission of Sámi material and immaterial culture to future generations.

The transfer of Sámi collections to the Sámi Museum Siida over the past decade is a concrete demonstration of genuine cooperation between museums and the increased understanding of the importance of cultural heritage for the Sámi community.

#repatriation #museums #sami #finland #lapland

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 7: Betrayal (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You learn the truth.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04​, @evisnotok​​, @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ and @ajthefujoshi​ for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, discussion of abortion.

You dream in abstract.

There is no form to it—no faces to see nor words to hear in the fanciful void of your mind. Instead, it is shapeless, immaterial, washes of colour and vague impressions of sound like music in a far-off hall. It is a blessed reprieve from the convincing re-enactments of the day’s events your thoughts usually produce under the sway of slumber, and most certainly a relief in light of…

No.

A sensation enters your sleeping consciousness, one that does not fit the transience of those singularities swirling about in your head. It is far too concrete, unyielding, unrelenting to belong here. That strange feeling tickles throughout your body, coalescing low in your stomach and pooling warm between your thighs.

You sigh as you awaken slowly, as peaceful as the rocking of an infant in their cradle. Drowsily, you take note of your surroundings, the way in which you are propped up against the pillows with your shift gathered at your waist and your legs dangling over your uncle’s wide-set shoulders. You wonder absently how he always manages to rearrange you so without rousing you.

Why does he always choose to wake me with his carnal appetites? It seems to you that he has never once attempted to shake you or call your name.

It does not surprise you that he is once more availing himself of your particular assets, given his near unbearable persistence in proving that his inability to bed you previously was but a momentary impediment. You have considered hiding to discourage him from making this point yet again—but you do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts.

Your breathing must change cadence, for you are drawn further into the realm of awareness by his large, calloused hand smoothing a path along the side of your rounded belly.

“Sȳz ñāqes, dōnītsos.” Good morning, sweetling, Daemon murmurs against your heated flesh. His breath spools delicately across the puffed folds of your cunny.  “Sh. Inkot edrugon jās.” Go back to sleep.

You mumble incoherently, lips curving up despite your reluctance to awaken. Your hand drifts down to pat against his, your smile widening when he flips his palm to lock his fingers with your own. Returning to his task and nuzzling inexorably at your yearning little bud, the stubble on his jaw rasps against your inner thighs in tantalising counter to the glide of tongue over tender tissue.

It is sweet, impossibly indulgent, with none of the bite of hurt that you have come to crave in your couplings. You are so sensitive these days that, at times, such contact borders on agonising. The blood in your veins thrums far hotter now that you are three dragons in one form, you and each of the babes in turn. But here in the quiet stillness of the morn, every swipe up the split of you or rumbling resonance through your responsive nerve endings or greedy suckle to your pearl tips you further and further to that golden finish. Your joined hands rest against your middle, stretched taut and full of your children. You send a silent prayer above in thanks that they are asleep as their father tends so amorously to their mother.

The release is a wave cresting to the coastline, gentle and buoyant and rapturous as it ever is. It is as though the ocean pulses out from deep within you, wetting the way for your husband’s return to the safe shores of your body.

“Daemon.” Tipping your head back, you let the surge take you. You hear the ruffle of fabric dropping and feel the press of skin against yours.

“Ah-ah,” Daemon says. “Open up, little niece.” Hands prying your knees from their clenched-together defense of your inflamed womanhood, he props your feet against the bedframe to force your legs wide, sliding the length of himself through your slick lips. “Your cunt is mine to use, even if you are already bred full.”

The velvet-steel line of his hardened shaft slips inside, a brief press to the scrunching firmness of your entry that gives way with a pop and a rush. He grunts as he cleaves you in two, the heft of his stones slapping against the skin of your rear being the only sign that he cannot invade any further.

You can do nothing but accept it, weighed down by your belly as you are. Arching your back, you let out a low whimper, feeling that terrible, wonderful overcrowding in your womb and in your cunny.

“Good girl.” He stills the discomfited shift of your hips with an iron grip. It is an abrupt taking—but like the curves of your figure, the efforts of growing his seed to their full has made you softer, rounder, more pliant. You blink hazily at him, mouth opening dumbly as you surrender to the tide. “Just lay back. Let kepa take care of you.”

His covetous gaze roams across the changes he has wrought in you; your plush thighs, plump cheeks, enlarged breasts and the sway of your distended middle as he pitches into you being but some of the most notable within his immediate reach. It is difficult to be self-conscious of these vicissitudes when his violet eyes fixate so zealously upon them, promptly trailed by the heat of his hands across those same places.

The sight of him—his silver hair rumpled from sleep, the prominent shelf of his brow and the exhilarated parting of his lips, the thrilling menace of his broad shoulders and thick-scarred skin, the flex of his arms as his hands seek new territory to touch—pools hot in your gut. The sound of your wetness being stirred with his every plunge into you is a churning melody that blazes beneath your skin.

You listen lethargically to the lustful affirmations spilling uncontrollably from Daemon’s lips. He is so terribly loquacious when his cock is in you, consumed by his ardour and forgetting any such difficulties he has in conveying the depth of his emotions.

“… so tight for me… barely any room left for my cock, but you just keep taking it, don’t you?… made to take me… fuck. I’ll fuck you forever. Keep you heavy and helpless like this fucking always…”

His obsession with your fecund form is flattering if a bit predictable. Grinning sleepily at his words, you yawn as you tug up your sleepwear to bare your breasts for him. Your nipples tingle as the cooler air makes contact, tightening them to hard tips. You smooth the pads of your thumbs over them to alleviate the sudden prickle.

His eyes zero in on the movement, ogling you heatedly.

“Play with your tits,” he says, holding the mass of your belly still so that he may speed the tempo of his cock inside you, thick and hot and catching against that high point along your walls that makes you clamp down uncontrollably. You moan faintly as you reach back up to cup the heft of your breasts. He makes an animal noise at the display. “That’s it. Are they sore, precious? A little harder—there.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you obey his command, squeezing the supple flesh, pulling at the teats just as your two babes will when they nurse from your body to nourish their own. They have been hypersensitive as of late. You are unsure if your own touch is painful or pleasurable. Regardless, the sheer strength of it is enough to reignite the familiar ember signalling a new climax.

Making a show of the ache, you wiggle down into his thrusts to feel the shudder ripple up your spine when he drives to the end of you. You are rewarded with a quickening of pace and the sound of his panting breaths as he exerts himself above you, flushed and sweating and entirely consumed by the welcoming clutch of your cunt. “Daemon. Can I pe–peak, please?”

“So well-behaved.” He chuckles, grinning wickedly as he watches a lone trail of liquid trek from your eye down your temple and disappear into your hairline. “I do love when you cry for me.”

You nod furiously at his words, blinking more stray droplets from your lashes. Eagerly spreading your thighs as far apart as you can, you yelp as the angle changes. Your uncle hisses at the sight, a hand disappearing below the protrusion of your middle; you cry out as he introduces his thumb to your bud, drawing back the hood and rubbing up in inescapable motions.

“I suppose you’ve earned it. Go on, then,” he says. “Come.”

As the obedient wife you are, you heed his wish. This time, there is little that is gentle about the way your walls constrict on him, making the rapid rock of his cock a near unbearable intrusion. The air flees your lungs and your limbs lock in place as the bliss washes over you, soundless in spite of the force of it.

“Thank you, thank you,” you say when you are able to catch your breath again, your grip upon your breasts becoming less of a cultivated show and more a necessity that keeps them from bobbing about wildly.

He ruts into you with jerky, uneven slaps, too fast and too hard for you to truly enjoy. You endure it—you have had your fill. Now, it is his turn.

“Are you going to spill in me, kepus?” you ask, falsetto pitch and airy tone, using what little leverage you have to push your lower body up into his urgent offensive. The burn in your thighs is immediate, but you will not need to hold this position for long. “I want you to, please, please—”

“Yes,” he growls, deep and dark, face contorted into something resembling pain and eyes closing in concentration, seemingly heedless of the spiel tumbling from his mouth. “I’ll come in this cunt, keep you in this bed fat with my heirs and leaking my seed, lick it out of you later—”

Your lip curls with feigned petulance, girlish and stubborn and exactly to his liking. “What if I cannot wait ‘til later, kepus?”

He gasps like he is winded by the suggestion of it, juddering strokes that begin to hurt, but you love it. You love how undone you can make him with such simple words, and you prepare yourself to deal the finishing blow.

“Maybe you should clean me up straight away,” you say coquettishly, nails digging into your skin to distract from the ache of him. “Taste us together and kiss me so I can, too—”

“Fuck!”

He moans, stilling inside, fully in your core, the spasms of his manhood pumping spend hot and thick into the very depths of you. His iron grip eases into inattentive pats across your skin as his stare refocuses on you, a look of such sheer relief on his face that you are momentarily overcome by the urge to laugh.

My poor uncle.

“Gods, this cunt.” Daemon hunches over you briefly, riding out the remainder of his release before withdrawing, catching sticky along your walls as he tugs away.

Your attention wavers when he rummages around out of sight for a cloth with which to wipe his shaft free of your mingled fluids, the tell-tale signs of breeches being yanked back up and laces being knotted easy to hear. Your legs close once more, an ingrained habit from the weeks and months of wishing your womb would do its work and catch your uncle’s seed. You shift uncomfortably at the unwelcome intrusion of reality into this sacred space.

The tea.

“Need help up, sweetling?”

You banish the disturbance from your mind. Taking his proffered hand, you allow your amused husband to assist you in sitting upright, again availing yourself of his geniality to lumber your way back into the arrangement he had facilitated you in achieving when you had gone to sleep the night previous. With your body fully covered and reclined, you flop on your side with an exhausted puff, already tired from your romp and the effort of moving about with such an unwieldy figure.

A dip in the mattress heralds his settling behind you, arm banding over your waist and palm coming to rest over your belly. “The babes give you any rest?” He punctuates this enquiry with an absent press of lips to your neck, breath humid upon your flesh.

You mumble noncommittally, distracted by the pulsating movements emanating through your middle. “I slept well enough—but you have gone and woken them.” You do not even try to conceal the complaint in your voice.

He laughs against your shoulder, hand tracking the activity under your skin. They are taking tumbling practice today, you think with some measure of vexation, though the exhilarated fascination remains ever near. You cannot help but to exult in the signs that your children are alive, that they are well, despite—No.

You will not think upon that night.

It is unhealthy to repress something of such magnitude. While you know this, you simply cannot indulge the thought of casting your memory back to the weight of that man bearing down toward your belly, the stink of his rotting breath and the sight of watery blue eyes wild on you, the warm stickiness of Miriam’s blood seeping from her cooling body through your sweat-soaked gown—

No. You shall not. The tears have come and gone. You have pandered to the urge to lay about in dazed silence for long enough.

“They’re lively little things, aren’t they?”

The urge to cry flows and ebbs in unpredictable rhythm yet again at the sound of Daemon’s quiet awe. Damn it all. You can even picture the expression he is sure to be wearing: eyes wide and dark, mouth parted with corners quirked, unblinking and trained steadfastly to the expanse of his babes as they wriggle and turn unknown within your womb.

“Does it hurt?” He sounds far too worried for such a simple query. Oh, Daemon. He might be asking about the babes’ movements, but you know what he really means.

‘Are you hurt?’ he wants to ask. ‘Are you safe? Are they safe?’

If the horrors of your time anew in King’s Landing have made you weepy and disconsolate, they have made him compulsive and paranoid, wholly preoccupied with the task of ensuring that even the slightest impediment to your peaceful confinement is removed post-haste.

“No,” you say. “It feels odd, but not painful. It… Oh, I cannot describe it right,” You turn to look at him. He is as always absorbed by you, hanging onto your every word. Taking his hand in yours, you tap your fingers across his skin, mimicking as best you can the sensation from within. “Like this—but on the inside. It does not hurt. It is just there.”

“Hm.”

You grumble as he tips you to your back, shuffling gracelessly down your body and bracing himself above you with his arms. The lower half of his face burrows into your belly so that all you are able to see of him is his violet stare and pale lashes and lined forehead. He rucks up your nightwear once again to lay his mouth upon your skin, something you usually catch him doing when he believes you asleep. The tell-tale vibrations of words spoken softly into flesh fizzle from the point of contact.

“What are you muttering to them down there?” you ask. “They are too young to become vassals for your unseemly behaviour, Uncle.”

“I’ll say what I like to my own children, little girl.” When his brows waggle with mischief above the crest of your middle, you kick him lightly in the side, the laughter bursting unrestrained from your lungs. “There are some things that ought to be kept between a father and his daughters,” he says, and you are sure he conceals a smile from beyond your view.

“If your sons take your guidance to heart, I shall not be dealing with the aftermath of whatever strife they decide to plague the Realm with. That is firmly in your hands.”

“If my daughters”—you squeal as he yanks you down by the thighs and parts them wide—“decide to follow in their kepa’s footsteps, you’re free to watch me teach them how to worm their way out of trouble.”

“Like you have?” Your voice is breathy, cracked at the end when you feel his fingers play with the seed that leaks from your raw opening, tacky and warm and squelching with each searching prod. “How many times have you been exiled again? Two? Three?”

You gasp as his hand strikes your mound, catching on your bud and your folds, hard enough to shock but not to cause injury. The feeling ripples out from its epicentre, slithering through your veins and lighting the tinder of desire anew. You sigh shakily as the sting sizzles along your skin.

“Don’t be naughty,” he says, breath travelling down, down, down along your bared flesh. “Impertinent brats don’t get rewarded.”

“Sorry, kepus. I’ll behave, I promise.” Silently, you bemoan how quickly he is able to redirect your changeable mood to one of lust. I want to sleep, you think.

“Good.” Daemon presses a wet kiss to the top of your womanhood, tingling with the blood raised from his slap. It is a sure sample of what is to come. “Now—I do believe you begged me to lick this little cunt clean before I left. I’d best give my wife what she wants, hm?”

Sleep can wait. You do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts, after all.

Though you adore him so, you are secretly glad for Daemon’s departure.

In the wake of the attack, he has become even more overbearing than before. When he is not embroiled in the business of searching out the architect of this plot—and truthfully, you know little of the details, partly out of desire to avoid as much mention of the event as possible and partly because he refuses to ‘burden’ you further—you are scarce to find a moment alone. It is not always a pretext for coupling, either, though that is in plentiful supply. Mostly, he watches you with intent eyes as you stitch gowns and bonnets and blankets for your babes, or rearrange the items you have procured for them, or nap out on the balcony in the late afternoon. You had been forced to put your foot down when he had attempted to accompany you to the privy. You hardly need his assistance in relieving yourself.

Remember what Ūlla said, is what you tell yourself each time he irks you with this irrational behaviour. You are impossibly grateful for the healer. If she had not dissuaded you from your anxiety after Daemon had stormed out in such a state, you might not possess any understanding of what induces him to linger so.

“He is man of control, Princess,” she had said to you. “So much control taken from him, so he cannot manage. He is very afraid. Be kind to him.”

She had been correct, of course. All of it—the untethered restlessness, the misdirected ire, the… performance issues—had very little to do with your own conduct and more-so his fear. You had comforted him as best you can, your beloved, stolid beast of a man. His fear has since taken on this new form. Truthfully, you are glad for such compulsive care, but you nonetheless welcome the opportunity to take respite from him on this day.

You turn your mind to your present task. “Thank you for coming,” you say to your sister.

Senna serves you and Helaena tea with shaky hands, spilling some of the hot liquid upon the saucer and the table. You do not reproach her for it. She has been nervous and withdrawn since discovering Miriam, in mourning for her companion as you have been.

Writing the letter to Miriam’s parents had been an incredibly difficult task. How do you convey that the girl in your service—a position that ought to be safest of all—was slain as an accessory to a greater scheme? Lord and Lady Butterwell had dolefully accepted your offer of a small monthly stipend, a mere pittance in comparison to the life that has been lost.

You nod kindly to your lady-in-waiting as she withdraws to the chaise to read, keeping to the background of your conversation should you have need of her.

Helaena glances hesitantly toward the tea before taking the handle in a delicate grip, sipping slowly from the contents within. “Of course. How are you feeling today?” Her attempt at a carefree enquiry falls flat in light of recent circumstances, her brow dipping in discomfort.

“I am well. The babes, too.” You watch her carefully for her reaction, and you are not disappointed. The wince at the mention of your children is slight, but it is there.

“I’m glad.” She takes another nervous mouthful, offering little else.

You sigh. It seems I must make the first play.

“We need to discuss it, Helaena,” you say, reaching out for her hand. She takes it, fingers trembling, a habit ingrained from years of doing the same. It generates a wistful sort of joy to know that you are still the only person she will so readily accept touch from. “You know we do.”

She had been far too hysterical last time, before. Before. You had scarcely discerned the truth of the matter before she devolved into weeping with such desolation that you had put all questions aside so as to console her. Knowing these details will not help you determine the culprit behind your enduring of so many barren moons, but it cannot hurt to learn where she has sought the concoction from. Perhaps her source and yours are linked.

Her eyes dart away from your face, and you squeeze her grip to catch her attention. You do not want her to retreat into her mind and escape from the present as she is wont to do.

She refocuses on you, timid and afraid. “What—what do you wish to know?”

You do not intend to press upon her reasoning further. The evening of the attempt upon your life, your sister had rambled on and on about ‘the time’ not being ‘right’. Any other may have claimed her mad, but you are certain that her mutterings are not the hallmark of insanity. No. Her decision is like to be driven by whatever signs and portents had been plaguing her dreams, the fractured visions of a child not yet meant to be. ‘Prophecy’ and ‘foresight’ are not words well-loved by the Faith, but her blood—that of Old Valyria—burns bright with magic lost to time.

Spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weave dragons of thread.

You shudder at the recollection.

“How many times have you taken it?” you decide to ask. “Where are you getting it? Is it even safe?”

And that is the crux of the matter, is it not? One of your first thoughts had been anger toward her for risking her wellbeing so thoughtlessly. Moon tea, when brewed improperly, can cause all sorts of harm to a woman. You may not know much, but you do know this.

“I’ve taken a draught once a moon’s turn, partway between my blood’s expected coming,” she says quietly, eyes shining a little too bright to be anything other than tears. “I—the Maester has a supply.”

Your mouth parts in surprise. “Grand Maester Mellos? And he is giving it to you?”

It goes against everything you know of the man, far more concerned with his own perception of duty than that of offering succour to young Princesses frightened by the power of their own bodies. His maladaptive sense of obligation had led to your mother’s death in her childbed, scored open and bled out like a hunter’s prize game.

“No.” Helaena shifts guiltily in her seat, gaze flickering away again. She bites her lip. Her next statement rushes from her like a breaking dam. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

You catch her meaning immediately. “You are stealing it.” The judgement seeps out uninhibited.

“I’m sorry!” She clutches so tight upon your hand that you fear she may crack the bones. “I am not ready.” She sounds like a child. It is then that you remember that, for all intents and purposes, she is. “I want to be brave, like you. But I’m not.”

All at once, the ire departs, leaving little other than pity for the girl in front of you. To commit such acts as those Septa Marlowe had spent her entire life proselytising against—and you know this because she had subjected you to the very same—can only mean that she must have been very desperate.

My poor, sweet sister. You swallow the unpleasant acridity that hits your palate. It tastes like guilt.

“I should have fought harder. To stop your marriage, to—to take you with me,” you say. “It was awfully selfish of me to… let myself get caught up in my own life while you had to marry our deviant of a brother—”

She frowns. “I don’t hate Aegon as you do.” You had not realised your disdain for him was quite so vitriolic as to warrant such disapproval. “It is true that he is… not a good husband. We will never love each other like you and Uncle Daemon. But neither can we love each other as siblings should. Some days… I wonder where that leaves us.” She appears to have drifted off to some unknown part of her own mind, caught up in her convoluted thoughts and staring deeply into the polished oak surface upon which lay your refreshments. “But he is part of me, and I am part of him. Can that not just… be enough?”

If there had been nothing else to remind you that your place is no longer in the capital, this serves well enough. To hear her support for your brother is surprising, but perhaps it ought not to be. Too long have you allowed yourself to indulge the illusion that there is a clear separation between you and Aegon, that Helaena and Daeron had attached themselves to you while Aemond had traipsed about with his erstwhile brother, lines drawn and never to be crossed.

It is not so simple. You know this from experience.

“Alright.” You let the matter lie. There has been enough division amongst your family, and you are ashamed to realise how great a part you have taken in it as of late.

I must be better for Helaena’s sake, you resolve, taking your cup in hand and savouring the sweeter notes of the raspberry leaf tea as it percolates across your palate. It lacks the aroma that you have come to prefer in your hot drinks. Ire rises within you at the prospect of having become so accustomed to the taste of moon tea that you had developed a partiality to it.

It is then that an arbitrary thought crawls from the deep well of your mind.

Moon tea is by law a restricted substance. The Grand Maester is beholden only to the royal family. But then—

“Helaena,” you say slowly, searchingly. She looks back up from her own teacup. “The tea. Who is the Grand Maester brewing it for?”

She pauses, brow wrinkled. “I—I don’t know.”

“It has to be someone in the Red Keep.” You lean forward. The motion is hindered by the unwieldiness of your belly. “Your mother?”

You do not think your brother would care overmuch for preventing his seed taking root in another woman’s womb. Thus, if it is not Helaena, then it must be your lady stepmother. But Alicent is far too pious a creature to rid herself of a ‘blessing from the gods’, or so she would put it. Nor would it make sense for her to wish death upon her child before it enters the world, not after four previous successful births.

Though, you owe, it is entirely possible that she would request it made for any number of Aegon’s whores or maidservants or low-born companions after yet another eve of iniquity.

“Mother?” Helaena tilts her head incredulously. “What use would she have of it now?” My poor, naïve sister. You cannot bear to make implications as to her husband’s fidelity, and so you stay silent. She continues without noticing your turmoil. “Besides, she despises the very thought of it. She says that moon tea is an affront to the gods.”

A loud thump and shatter disturbs the relative peace of your conversation. You crane your head in the direction of the sound, startled to see your lady-in-waiting’s pale, pale face and her eyes wide with alarm. Her book is splayed on the stone floor, its pages soaking up the tea from the cup that is now shards of shattered porcelain before her.

“Senna,” you ask. “Are you alright?”

She looks as though she has seen an evil apparition or heard an unearthly echo from beyond the veil.  “Yes, my Princess,” she says. Perhaps you would have been assuaged if not for the crack toward the end of her statement. Her lip trembles. She gulps. “I—”

Whatever she had intended to say does not come forth. Instead, she springs up from her seat, hastily sidestepping the chaos upon the ground and hurrying from the room through the solar door. You tug yourself from your chair using the edge of the table, glancing helplessly toward your sister.

“My apologies, Helaena—”

“Go see to her. I’ll stay here.”

You offer a brief appreciative smile before hastening after your companion, though admittedly your pace is slow and ambling. The weight of your middle tugs at your spine as you move. You grimace in discomfort.

Thankfully, Senna has not gone far. When you enter your solar—a room that you have not used once since being relocated—she is pacing through the weak light streaming in from the window, disturbing whorls of dust from the rug under her feet that dance iridescent in the glow. Her skin has taken on a ghastly pallor. It seems as though her lips have vanished from the sheer pressure at which she is pressing them together.

There is something deeply wrong here. You have never seen her so distressed.

“Senna?” You inch forward in unobtrusive increments so as not to startle her. “What is wrong?”

Your strategizing is for naught. She jumps in fright when hearing your voice echo in the stark chamber, entirely unaware that you had followed her through to relative privacy. Biting your lower lip, you ponder how best to coax a revelation from her.

You do not need to.

“I cannot keep this to myself any longer!” Clutching at her middle, you think Senna may have somehow injured herself—until she whirls to you, striding forward and sinking prostrate in front of you. “Oh, gods help me!” she wails, taking your hand as a penitent before a statue of the Mother. “Princess, please forgive me!”

A sinking suspicion settles in your gut. “Whatever is the matter?” you ask. A growing sense of foreboding looms near, one that leaches viscerally through your body, bitter and ashen upon your tongue. “I do not understand.”

She stares up at you with red-rimmed eyes, a contrast to the greyish hue of her flesh that is positively ghoulish. “I didn’t want to, I swear it! But you were so frightened about having children, and then you were married, and she told me that—”

Your stomach turns. The tea.

You no longer inhabit your body. Your soul has separated itself from its blood-and-bone prison and floats somewhere above, looking down upon this moment. There is an absurdity to the detachment, as though you are watching a garish pantomime or overdramatised spectacle designed for naught but sensationalism. It is not real. It is not real.

“It was you,” you hear yourself say as though through rushing water. You wonder if you might faint. “It was you?”

How long have I known her?

You had been but a youth when she first arrived to court, eagerly presenting herself for service to the royal family. Being so much more daring and adventurous and outspoken than you, the fact that you had become so close would seem unlikely to an outsider. At least, you had thought you were close. For her to have taken what little power you possessed over your own body, to steal any number of children that might have been before you had ever had the chance to know them, all at the apparent behest of another—

You swallow frantically, willing yourself not to expel the contents of your stomach.

“You know. Oh, gods. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She weeps, tipping her chin down and kissing your hand. You fight the unwelcome intrusion of the desire to yank yourself from her grip, to slap her or throttle her for her treachery. “I promise I was thinking only of protecting you!”

“By making me think I was barren? By taking my chance to make a true family? By—” You shake your head to try and dispel the ache that has settled itself there like a heavy stone, solid and relentless. Taking a deep, even breath, you force your voice to say the words your mind rails so desperately against. You do not wish to know. “Senna. Senna, look at me. If you want to protect me, you will confess who is behind this.”

You had been right. The truth, pouring from the mouth of your friend-turned-traitor, is a knife to the heart. It is not real, the timorous whisper of the frightened girl you had been resonates noiseless throughout your hollowed form, a plaintive exhale into the air. It is not real.

You spend seconds or minutes or hours staring blankly at the city, huddled like a child upon the bench on your balcony. In the distance, you can hear the screeching protestations of Athfiezar. He had appeared in the capital a day or so after the attack—or so you are told, having been confined to your bed at the insistence of Daemon and Ūlla and thus unable to visit your boy in person—swooping and snarling and making a general fuss as he is so often wont to do when you are upset. If you squint, you think you can see the great black bulk of him atop the Dragonpit.

King’s Landing is abuzz with its usual frenetic activity. Yet, the sights and smells and the waft of coastal wind upon your cheek hardly register.

“I did not want this for you.”

It seems like so long ago that Alicent had helped you prepare for your wedding. She had voiced her concerns about the match even then. Perhaps such a thing ought to have made you even more anxious and fretful than you already had been, but the honesty had been refreshing on a day in which all had made deliberate prevarications as to their true thoughts. A frightful few had been genuinely congratulatory of your being given to your uncle as a wife, and Alicent was certainly chief among the naysayers.

Never would you have expected her capable of this.

Senna had told you everything—of how Alicent had pulled her aside after your wedding night, how she had pressed a batch of the tea into her hands and persuaded her to ensure you imbibed it the following day, how Senna had at first thought it a mere gesture of kindness from a stepmother to her beloved daughter. When she had discovered what the concoction did, she had been torn between duty and her love for you. She could not disobey a directive from her Queen, but at the same time could not abide the thought of harming you. From what you were able to gather, Alicent had discerned this conflict and swayed her into the belief that keeping your womb empty of a babe was the best thing for you.

“You were always terribly quiet after your mother was mentioned, and you avoided talk of childbirth wherever possible,” Senna had said through tears. “I wanted to help.”

A noblewoman receiving shipments from King’s Landing would hardly have been an uncommon occurrence for one stationed on Dragonstone. And so, it had been all too easy for the Queen to procure the tea from Mellos and send it forward to your island home, where you had regularly partaken in its consumption for moons.

You remember having expressed to Senna some wistfulness after spending time with the Princess Sarella Martell and her daughters in Dorne. Evidently, this had been all the motivation needed to finally risk rebellion. The tea had stopped, and Daemon’s seed had finally taken root within you.

Daemon.

What do you do? Do you tell him? Should you tell him? The questions swarm like a thousand stinging bees, loud and painful and frightening in their veracity.

He will kill her—he will murder the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, will wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze the life from her if he discovers what she has done—

But perhaps Senna is lying. Perhaps she is so overcome by her guilt that she seeks to incriminate another, to control the tale before her victim has opportunity to speak for herself. You do not wish to believe it, but nor can you bear the thought of the woman you had once felt such affection for betraying you in such a manner.

Alicent’s routine remains unchanged despite the summers that have passed since her ascension to your father’s side. Thus, it is with anxious resolve that you finally gather the will to drag yourself from your chambers and step out in search of her.

Ser Lorent Marbrand stands to attention just outside your room, hand springing to the pommel of his blade. “Your Highness?” Peering intently into the room behind you, he—like all others in your service as of late—is vigilant to the extreme. “Do you require assistance?”

“I wish to speak with the Queen,” you say, stepping forward. He moves to block your path. You frown up at him. “Please step aside, Ser.”

“My apologies,” he says, dipping his head, “but Prince Daemon has given me strict instructions to ensure you remain within these chambers until he retu—”

“If my husband discovers that I have elected to ignore his directive to you, then that is firmly my business and my consequence to contend with. I will be meeting with my lady stepmother. So, it is your choice whether I go alone or am accompanied by the Kingsguard assigned to my protection.”

The merest flash of temper, coupled with a deliberately-placed hand on your belly, is enough to make the knight quail. He takes his place at your back as you walk on, traversing the halls of your childhood home toward the Sept.

You reach deep to cling onto all the stubbornness you possess as the murmurs and gasps follow you through the Keep, the courtiers no doubt surprised to see you risk a public appearance. Though your father and his Council had done their best to quash any rumour that might have sprung to life, the news of your attack has spread like wildfire amongst those hungry for gossip in the capital. You are not brave, not in the way Rhaenyra or Daemon are, but you are more than these people see you as. It is time they learn that you can be just as resilient as those survivors of the Doom.

When you stop before the staircase leading to the Sept, steep and winding—and you remember climbing these same steps moons ago, when you were lonely and afraid and knew nothing of love—you contemplate giving up and returning to your chambers. Sighing resignedly, you make use of the overcautious Kingsguard to navigate the treacherous ascent, holding onto his arm to lug your ungainly form up and up. Ser Lorent says nothing, which you appreciate, merely proffers his bulk as resistance so that you may totter your way to the upper landing.

Your heart thuds discordant in your chest as you look upon Alicent, knelt before the effigy of the Mother with her head bent low in prayer. A thousand candles flicker golden in the chamber, giving the dark space an eerie, haunted atmosphere. The light ripples across her hair like molten fire. It is musty here, stifled from the windows being covered in times of disuse. For a place dedicated to the gods, it feels remarkably like how you would imagine the Seven hells. Given the task you have come to fulfil, perhaps the comparison is apt.

She startles bodily at the sound of your footsteps growing ever closer, echoing around the room so loudly it is as though someone far larger than you stamps onward. Rising from her supplications, her shoulders slump minutely when she sees that it is only you.

Alicent utters your name in surprise. “You should be resting after your ordeal!” she says, gliding forward to meet you. Her hand reaches out to take your own—and you notice that she carefully avoids your belly— a look of such matronly kindness on her face that you all at once feel ill again. You can barely feel her touch. “Are you well?”

“The moon tea.” It falls from your lips without conscious choice. You had intended to broach the subject cautiously, to manoeuvre her into admitting the deed under her own duress, but it seems your voice has other plans.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, brow knitting in an affectation of confusion. From the way her fingers tighten hard upon your flesh, a momentary squeeze then release, it is but a performance. She knows of what you speak.

You pull your hand from hers, stepping back when she pursues. Her mouth begins to part, concern forming on her tongue in consummate deception.

“Do not—” you start; pause. Swallow against the bile. Try to take stock of where your heart is, for it has escaped the cavity of your chest and swims untethered through your body, swooping and irregular. “I know about the tea, Alicent. What you asked of Senna. I know everything.”

There. It is said now, and it cannot be taken back. A strange sense of relief co-mingles with the terror.

Though she forces a bewildered laugh, you can see her eyes widen in alarm, shine with the fear she keeps contained with a resolve that is far stronger than even Valyrian steel. Puzzlement crosses her features, a politely baffled smile playing on her lips. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, darli—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

It hisses from you like a flame, sizzling and incandescent. Your fury is near a tangible thing, an entity that seethes and writhes with a force you had not yet known you were capable of. The reverberation of it thrums in your toes, hangs upon the air and in your ears as though you are still speaking, though the chamber is silent.

Alicent lets out a quick, shaky breath. Few would notice—but your years of isolation have honed your observance to a sharp point, a weapon by any other name. The severe line of her jaw belies her clenching teeth, a woman hanging to the last vestiges of her decorum. “I think you ought to retire to your rooms. You are clearly overcome.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” The hurt, wounded creature inside you rears up, and you must fight the tears that spring up at her continued refusal to concede her wrongdoings. You have cried far too often. It is time for strength. “I have been a good and devoted stepdaughter these many years, Your Grace,” you say. “I have been your daughter’s chief companion. I am raising your son. If you have any affection in your heart for me, you will tell the truth.”

It is calculated, but it works. She wavers, and the veil of hostility drops, leaving something conflicted and unsure. This iteration of your stepmother is new.

She looks away, seeming to turn inward on herself, slow and pondering. “When I was your age, I had already birthed a child and carried another,” she says, the resonance of it like stray whispers on a breeze. Her eyes are glazed as she stares at some point beyond your own fixation, brown turned gold in the firelight. “I remember how… confusing and frightening it was, being so young and having such a burden laid on my shoulders. Mothering the King’s heirs… To be the vessel bringing forth more Targaryens is a weight I did not wish you to bear.”

The soft, sickening pulse of sympathy warms you. Though you love your father, it is true that he has not made for a good husband. Alicent is being kind by evading such an implication, but her marriage has been one of steadfast endurance, a stiff upper lip and staunchly-maintained silence.

Then you truly process what has been said. “To be the vessel… is a weight I did not wish you to bear.” It is an admission of guilt in so many words.

Something inside you breaks.

“That was not your choice to make.” Your mouth is moving and the words come forth, but you feel again as though you have been unclipped from your physical form and left to float elsewhere, distant and divided. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palm and threatening to draw blood. The pain moors you to reality. You clench tighter. “It is my duty as a wife to have my husband’s children. I felt like a failure each time my blood came—because of you.”

“That could not be helped,” she says, the tone so staggeringly at odds with the callousness of such a statement. “You are far too gentle a creature for the likes of Daemon. What he did to your assailant—”

“He protected me,” you snap, incensed. “He loves me.”

The rumours of what had taken place in the early morning hours after your attack have swirled for days. All who have come to your chambers to attend you have given your uncle a wide berth, gaping at him with fearful eyes and muttering to each other under their breath. You know not if he has heard the whispers that seem to be trailing him, though it is equally possible he simply does not care.

“He stabbed the man so many times that they could not tell it was a body at first,” you had caught a pair of maids muttering.

“The Prince gutted him and strung his entrails out of the window as a warning—”

“He cut the wretch’s head off and drank the blood that spilled—”

“He broke every bone in his body and left him there for his family to find—”

No doubt the brutality that had occurred in that establishment—an inn or a tavern or a brothel, each report differing in its account—had been truly obscene. Daemon is a vicious man, needing no provocation to inflict himself upon others. You cannot imagine the carnage that had ensued after his wife and babes had been terrorised. Nor do you wish to ask, truthfully.

You had felt an iota of guilt for being so accepting of his brand of justice, being so loath of it; you recall the time you told him how you “disliked violence”, how you would “not allow unnecessary savagery” should you consent to marry him. It did not last very long in light of the circumstances.

He loves you, and for that love he had put to the sword those who sought to take your life.

Alicent scoffs, snapping you back to the present. “He was supposed to tire of you, to put you aside and seek out whatever else he might wish. Perhaps then you would be free to marry a man worthy of yo—”

“So you wished for me to be disgraced? The laughingstock of the Realm?” You laugh, icy and piercing. “You desired my unhappiness. Somehow, you have convinced yourself that doing so means you care for me above all others.”

The Queen retreats behind her mask of wintry cordiality, expression closing off entirely. Her mouth opens and closes, a response gathering but not quite fully-formed.

There is no turning back from this. You think that you will never see her look upon you with warmth again.

“It is he who has corrupted you so,” she says finally, disdainful and disappointed in equal measure. “Never would you have spoken to me in such a manner before he sunk his claws into you.”

“You do not get to behave as though I have wronged you. You act as though my uncle is some sort of monster, when it is you who has violated my body and my freedom.”

“Violated?” She sneers down her nose at you. “I would think that feat should be recognised as another’s. ‘Tis a shame to see you so ruined, stepdaughter. I hope being Daemon’s whore is worth it.”

The slap rings sudden and strident, your palm burning. You do not remember striding forward. Alicent shields her cheek with a hand, looking upon you with indignant trepidation. An eye for an eye, a strike for a strike. Your scarred arm tingles at your side, the line where the knife had carved your skin open prickling with a memory that seems distant now.

“I would rather be his whore than your saint,” you hiss, squeezing and releasing your fist to work away the buzzing sensation.

Silence pervades following your assertion, the last notes suspended soundless throughout the room. The statue of the Mother seems to stare down at you both, the lit altar casting her countenance into something eerie and judgemental. That the flames dance still upon their waxen mounts is surprising. ‘Tis a reminder that the world remains unchanged despite your feeling that the ground has shifted beneath your feet, shaking and unsteady.

“I will tell Papa of what you have done,” you say, preparing to depart. You have earned your confession, but there is no victory to be won here. “Return to your devotions, my Queen. Pray that he will be lenient.”

“Tell him? Whatever will you tell him?” she asks loftily, arrogantly, her brow arching. “You have no proof.”

You frown. “I have Senna—”

“The daughter of a minor noble house, or the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Who is the King likely to believe?” Alicent smiles unkindly, a mockery of the geniality she had once shown you.

She has a point. You cannot stand it. The moment the words had left your mouth, you had known your father will do nothing with such information. So determined is he to prevent conflict in his household that he will turn a blind eye to most anything to avoid the uncomfortable truth—that House Targaryen is breaking at the seams, each day bringing a new tear upon the fabric of what you imagine must have once been a true family.

It is too much. There is nothing more to say. The cards have been dealt, but the game is unwinnable. You are so, so tired. What is left for you in the capital? You want to go home.

I want Daemon and Athfiezar and Daeron and my babes. I want to go home.

“May the gods have mercy upon your soul for what you have done,” you say. “For my part—I hope you burn in the Seven hells.”

You leave her standing there alone in the Sept, the last refuge of a woman who has maimed all the love and affection that might have lingered from her girlhood years. Her effigies and her prayers and her piety are all that is left to her now. They will consume her from the inside out, scorch her to a shell of the smiling, tender-hearted youth you remember from so long ago.

Let her choke upon her airs of godliness, you think. One day, she will pay the price for her crimes.

You hope you are there to see it.

Read it on AO3: 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/114901333

Taglist (😭 thank you!):

Now in the comments!

#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x oc #matt smith #daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #got #got fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #targaryen #house targaryen

[genshin-side-piece]

I finally (almost) finished the Fontaine Archon quest so I was able to read the last part of your yandere Neuvillette series!

I absolutely love the progression of darling (rightfully) hating Neuvillette, to tolerating his presence, to wanting him to be around. It felt really natural, considering he and the melusines are the only company darling has had for around a year, and that - kidnapping aside - he’s quite nice.

I love the idea that the melusines care for darling as well, not because Neuvillette told them to, but because they just like darling! Who knew such cute creatures could be compliant in a kidnapping!

Neuvillette may be a bit socially awkward and not used to human culture, but he had so much rizz in that last part hehe. Maybe I’m just a sucker for pet names and how gentle he was. And I just love the “yandere carrying a sleepy darling” trope hehe

I don’t know if you plan on continuing this particular series or if this was the last part but either way I enjoyed all of it!

Awww TYSM Nonny! I hope you're enjoying the archon quests, especially the end of them. Hoyo did some fun things lore wise, I'm curious to see where we go from here.

In terms of yans, dear Neuvillette is the best you can hope for. His personality really doesn't lend itself to it, so it makes writing him as one exceptionally difficult. It makes me so happy you enjoyed it.

I feel like one of the things that isn't discussed or written about in this particular genre is the darling accepting the yandere's reasons for their actions, as well as their own fate. At most, darling generally resigns themselves to the yandere's plans, but there's never that moment of positive realization and willing acceptance. The whole thing with Neuvillette is he's coming from a good place. He takes darling to protect them. He keeps them to protect them. His whole motivation is the health and well being of darling. The melusines echo that. Their worry is Neuvillette. They like to take care of him. They like to make him happy. If keeping darling safe and well makes Neuvillette happy, then they're okay with it. Because truthfully, Darling hasn't been abducted; at least not in the eyes of the law. Neuvillette went and found them and they came with him of their own volition. The circumstances of how they're kept from that point on are immaterial. If the Iudex of Fontaine says that darling needs to be confined to his house for some bizarre legal reason that no one but him knows, then who will argue with him. If anything, I imagine people would be quite jealous. You get to live in the lap of luxury? Cared and provided for by the Iudex himself? I'm sure many would give all they have just for the chance of being in a similar circumstance. It's not all sunshine and rainbows. Darling has to endure specific inconveniences while staying there, but ultimately it's not a bad life. As darling comes to realize, things could be way worse.

Don't worry, I'm a sucker for pet names and sweet moments too. :) He makes writing them so easy. I have to try not to get lost in them.

As of now, there are no plans to continue this one. That could change depending on what Hoyo does with Neuvillette's character, but the fourth installment is meant to be the proverbial happy ending for them. Other characters have been on my brain and I have things in pieces, but I haven't been able to focus lately. This series and the one with Alhaitham & Kaveh took a lot out of me. Hopefully I'll be able to pick up writing again soon.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshinimpact #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere neuvillette x reader #yandere neuvillette #neuvillette #chief justice neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fanfic #anonymous asks #anonymous

[transmutationisms]

Do you have any insight on the DSM classification/bioessentialism of paraphilias? I keep seeing defenses that essentially 'MAPs' cannot help it and I'm questioning the scientific rigor behind that claim

you might be interested in Katrin Kämpf's article "Pedophilia Screening in Technosecurity Culture The Construction of Dangerous Sub-populations in the Name of Security" (Science as Culture 2020: 29.1, 127–152), which examines how the construction of pedophilia as an innate trait slots into current discourses of risk and technoscientific efforts to create 'risk screenings' that are rhetorically justified through the invocation of dangerous 'sub-populations' whose legal and civil rights must be curtailed in the name of public safety.

there's also "Fuckology: Critical Essays on John Money's Diagnostic Concepts" (2014), which is an edited volume (meaning some of the essays are very good and some are not) that gives some context to this sort of classification of 'paraphilias' and what's at stake in those debates.

in general i would say yeah, like virtually all human experiences, sexual desires are a lot more complicated and socially / environmentally mediated than the dsm would suggest. i don't think it's particularly fruitful to agonise over the exact extent to which any given thought or desire arises 'intrinsically' or from environmental influences, though; it's a pretty immaterial distinction at the end of the day and probably not a question we will ever be able to answer definitively in any individual case. instead i would say the main points to make here are 1) the construction of paraphilias as 'innate' has specific ideological ends and justifies the carceral apparatus and its psychiatric wing, and 2) the abuse (including sexual) of children is fuelled and enabled by their total disenfranchisement / powerlessness, which creates structural conditions in which they are rendered vulnerable to and dependent on authority figures including parents, doctors, religious leaders, &c. addressing these legal / material / structural factors will get us a lot further in protecting children than any philosophical debate over sexual desire.

[nb-n0v4]

was lookin at @charseraph 's crowns and remembered an alien I made ages ago called Seraphs! long ramble about these guys under the cut lmao

mmm okie so the seraphs have a hive mind similar to the mercane from dnd, all connected but still sporting individual personalities, with the Arch or "Arch-seraph" as a "mother" to the species that spawns more through asexual reproduction. Seraphs are essentially made of stardust and their internal composition is similar to that of a plant or fungus, lacking any kind of skeletal structure and instead having incredibly tough skin covering a network of simple muscles and a complex neural network that spans their entire bodies.

The little nodes on their cap don't function as normal eyes but instead see auras and act as powerful sensory organs that detect minute changes in atmosphere and the composition of the environment around them. They are capable of surviving in a total vacuum, since this is where they are born and they are in fact made for interstellar existence. Their main goal is to collect knowledge to further the intelligence of the collective consciousness held within the Arch and bring intellectual enlightenment to species they perceive as worthy.

They have no spoken or written language and instead communicate through complex telepathy. they range in color from void black to bright white and always have a vaguely pearlescent sheen to them. Their "eyes" are a nebulae of colors that shift with the electromagnetic currents that pulse through their bodies. They're graceful creatures, and surprisingly agile and strong.

If a seraph dies, which is a rarity, it's a somewhat common practice for another seraph close to them to fully assimilate the deceased seraph's consciousness and live as a combination of the two, meaning seraphs will occasionally house multiple sets of memories. If the memories are not assimilated then eventually that seraph is reborn through the Arch, with a fledgling occasionally choosing to take on the life of a deceased seraph instead of gaining one through their own interactions with the universe.

they don't have a concept of family unit structure within their society beyond existing as a collective, and are largely solitary or pairs, with no need or desire to reproduce and physical distance being immaterial to their interaction with others of their kind. Seraphs also don't have a concept of age, since they receive a wealth of knowledge about existence in general from the moment of their conception, and emerge fully developed. "Young" serpahs only exist in a chronological sense, but a seraph always remains with the Arch for around 70 years communing within the knowledge of the collective before venturing out, regardless of how they chose to assimilate, in order to be properly knowledgeable and suited to bringing enlightenment.

Older seraphs will often pose as what could be likened to psuedo-religious figures, imparting the secrets of the universe onto planet-bound species and encouraging them to interstellar travel. The Seraphs will then travel with these races to gain their unique perspective on the universe around them. They have no culture of their own, and instead strive to understand the universe through all of its infinite lenses.

They hold no regard to morals, good or otherwise, and are an utterly unbiased and mostly passive race. Not to say that you couldn't get them to help you out with something, after all, their own interaction with the universe and the races in it is part of the knowledge they strive to collect, it would just take a lot of convincing as they largely prefer to simply observe.

the oldest recorded seraph (outside of the Arch, who's age is indeterminable despite best efforts, and is even theorized to be a remnant of existence from a previous universe,) is roughly 24 billion years old, as Seraphs do not die naturally. This seraph, unlike it's bretheren, has actually begun to show what could only be called signs of aging, bearing small under-developed growths reminiscent to that of the Arch.

It is theorized that this seraph is in the very beginning stages of growing into an Arch itself, and grants a mind-boggling look at the time scale necessary to create one of these beings. This seraph is also capable of creating primitive proto-seraphs that are colloquially known as "cherubs" that resemble small earth jellyfish both in appearance and level of conciousness.

#my art #alien species #speculative biology #sci-fi #spec bio #seraphs #original aliens

[rainydetectiveglitter]

1st | Life House of Self: Physical appearance, traits, and characteristics. First impressions. General outlook into the world. Ego. Beginnings and initiatives.

2nd | Wealth House of Value: Material and immaterial things of certain value. Money. Belongings, property, acquisitions. Cultivation and growth. Substance. Self-Worth.

3rd | Brothers House of Communications: Higher education and childhood environment. Communication. Happiness. Intelligence. Achievements. Siblings. Neighbourhood matters. Short, local travel, and transportations.

4th | Parent House of Home and Family: Ancestry, heritage, roots. Early foundation and environment. Mother or mothers as a figure. The caretaker of the household. Cyclic end of matters.

5th | Children House of Pleasure: Recreational and leisure activities. Things that make for enjoyment and entertainment. Games and gambling. Children. Love and sex. Creative self-expression.

6th | Health House of Health: Routine tasks and duties. Skills or training acquired. Jobs and employments. Health and overall well-being. Service performed for others. Care-taking. Pets and small domestic animals.

7th | Spouse House of Partnerships: Close, confidante-like relationships. Marriage and business partners. Agreements and treaties. Matters dealing with diplomatic relations of all kinds, including open (known) enemies. Attraction to qualities we admire from the other partner.

8th | Death House of Reincarnation: Cycles of Deaths And Rebirth. Sexual relationships and deeply committed relationships of all kinds. Joint funds, finances. Another person's resource. Occult, psychic, and taboo matters. Regeneration. Self-transformation.

9th | Journeys House of Philosophy: Foreign travel and foreign countries. Culture. Long-distance travels and journeys. Religion. Law and ethics. Higher education. Knowledge. Experience through expansion.

10th | Kingdom House of Social Status: Ambitions. Motivations. Career. Status in society. Government. Authority. Father or father figure. The breadwinner of the household. One's public appearance/impression at large (audience).

11th | Friendship House of Friendships: Friends and acquaintances of like-minded attitudes. Groups, clubs, and societies. Higher associations. Benefits and fortunes from a career. One's hopes and wishes.

12th | Prison House of Self-Undoing: Mysticism. Places of seclusion such as hospitals, prisons, and institutions, including self-imposed imprisonments. Things that are not apparent to self, yet clearly seen by others. Elusive, clandestine, secretive, or unbeknownst matters. Retreat, reflection, and self-sacrifice. Unconscious/subconscious. Unknown enemies.

Sun = Ego / Self

Moon = Emotion / Moods

Mercury = Communication / Thinking

Venus = Harmony / Affections

Mars = Confidence / Energy

Jupiter = Prosperity / Good Fortune

Saturn = Limitations / Practicality

Uranus = Individuality / Inventiveness

Neptune = Idealism / Compassion

Pluto = Transformation / Power

#astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology rants #aquarius placements #astrology #cancer placements #sagittarius placements #aries placements #gemini placements #capricorn placements #scorpio placements #taurus placements #leo placements #virgo placements #libra placements #aquarius placements #pisces placements #house placements #signs

[f1ghtsoftly]

I’m becoming suspicious of the entire concept of indigeneity and I wonder if there is a better framework to protect the lifestyles of indigenous peoples without also, backwardly, supporting the weird race science of who is indigenous to where and when. Am I indigenous to Ireland despite never setting foot there? Are jewish people indigenous to Israel? Are the descendants of slaves, indentured servants in the southeast-who’ve lived off the land for 400 years not indigenous? How many years does it take? 100, 500 , 1000? What seperates

Not only are these uncomfortable questions, I think they’re mostly a waste of time. I struggle to see a moral difference between a white person who loves the land they grew up on and endeavors to protect it, and may have been there for generations already, and an indigenous person. Of course, governments and our economic system treat those people differently but claiming indigenous people have some woo woo magic ties to the land is uh…I don’t know it strikes me as a modern version of the noble savage trope. This doesn’t even factor in that most indigenous people were subject to forced relocation multiple times so a tribe could be headquartered in the Dakotas or Oklahoma now but they’re originally not even from that area. That doesn’t even count historical, more voluntary, migrations of peoples which occurred during the Pre-Columbian period. I’m open to being schooled on this but I have a suspicion I’m onto something.

I think one’s relationship to the land-not blood quantum is what counts. Do you love your home and are you trying to protect it? Do you see god in the hawks and the rushing rivers? Or do you only see what you can extract and make profitable.

I’m also suspicious that this concept of indigeneity is really compatible with Marxism. I would turn to Marxist, Leninist and Stalinist discussions of Nationalism and it’s utility for more information, I might return to this post to do just that but certainly, this idea of “being indigenous” is not an economic relationship, it doesn’t describe one and in that way….I think

This isn’t at all to delegitimize the struggles against, my intention is to clarify in order to root out grifters. The real work indigenous people do everyday to fight against the destruction of their homes and to try to preserve their traditions and escape the persecution of a government that wants to force them to be assimilated workers without place or culture is good. An international network of indigenous people doing that is great and it’s a benefit of the concept I’m critiquing. But the issue isn’t “the oppression of indigenous people” as like a static, blood determined identity, the issue is proletarianization and the resistance by peoples not yet subject to capitalism’s social discipline. There was once a time when my ancestors were “indigenous” too and they were thrown off their land and forced into the factories to work or starve. The land taken became playgrounds for the rich to turn into magnificent gardens and hunting, meanwhile the peasants of Europe starved and choked to death in factories, their means of subsistance robbed of them.

What is the oppression of indigenous people if not forced proletarianization? What separates the boarding school from the workhouses or homes for wayward mothers? How does settling differ from enclosure? Temporally yes, in brutality maybe but not in motivation. The forces that starved my ancestors in Europe are the same forces that killed the Buffalo to starve the plains Indians and the same forces that tried to “kill the Indian and save the man”.

Indigeneity as a blood inheritance and not a social position/of perspective also opens left wing peoples up to the justifications of ethnostates, ethnic cleansing and settler colonies based around this decidedly immaterial thing called “being indigenous” which is easy to manipulate without staying in line with the principles that I believe this concept is supposed to convey and leaves out potential allies from the fight.

Anyways, I’m going to amend this tomorrow but basically indigenous is a social positon relating to a refusal to become assimilated into capitalism and not a racial or ethnic category.

#I got really into the idea of extractive vs generative economies and mindsets #it is 3am and I am BACK BABY #I will clean this up tomorrow #char on char

[shamandrummer]

Honoring the Spirits of the Home

Shamanism is a way of perceiving the nature of the universe in a way that incorporates the normally invisible world where the spirits of all material things dwell. Shamans have different terms and phrases for the unseen world, but most of them clearly imply that it is the realm where the spirits of the land, animals, ancestors, and other spiritual entities dwell. Spirit encompasses all the immaterial forms of life energy that surround us. We are woven together into a net of life energies that are all around us. These energies can appear to us in different forms, such as spirits of the land or spirits of the home. Spirits of the home are the spirits that inhabit our place of refuge: where we live, where we work and where we play. These kinds of spirits share our homes with us and help us in our times of need.

Honoring the spirits that share our homes is important for our well-being. House spirits in many ways are the heart of the house itself and can affect the home's atmosphere as well as influencing the occupant’s moods and physical health. All homes have spirits, and in many cases there are layers of spirits. Spirits of the home are the echoes of people, of events, of ideas which have become imprinted upon a location, for better or for worse. House spirits may manifest as vague feelings or impressions associated with an area, but more often they appear with a clear physical form. Spirits of the home may be the manifestation of a home's spirit or they may be a spirit that is strongly tied to a home, but either way they have the ability to influence a person or family's luck, health, and mood. Most homes will have several different spirits associated with them, usually at least one with the home itself and in homes with an attached yard possibly more.

Honoring the spirits of a home is much easier than most people realize. It requires being open and aware of their presence without judgment or expectation. Know that the spirits are there and acknowledge their presence. Be respectful of them in word and action. Here are some good ways to honor the spirits of your home:

Cleanse Your Home

Honoring the spirits of your home begins with cleansing your abode. Your house holds the energies of all your emotional ups and downs. It collects the energies of all of your houseguests, domestic disputes, family emergencies, holidays, and so on. Picking up negative energy that is not ours can make us less balanced and can cause blockages to the natural flow of energy in our body. We may feel tired, unbalanced, anxious, depressed or even sick. The most important thing you can do is to smudge yourself and your home each day. Smudging is a method of using smoke from burning herbs to dispel negative energy. Sage, cedar and sweetgrass are traditionally used for smudging. To smudge, light the dried herbs in a fire-resistant receptacle, and then blow out the flames. Then use a feather or your hands to fan the smoke around your body and home. I recommend cracking a window or door for ventilation and for releasing unwanted energies.

Bless Your Home

Blessing a home, similar to cleansing one, is merely working to keep certain energies flowing within the house. We perform blessings on our homes to attract harmony, happiness, and prosperity to our dwelling and that can be done as often as we feel the need to. Many shamanic practitioners recommend the use of holy or consecrated water for blessing a home. The practice of charging water with intention, words, and sound is widely practiced in indigenous cultures throughout the world. In fact, people have believed in our ability to influence water since the days of antiquity. The Christian tradition is the obvious example, with the ongoing performing of rituals that turn regular water into holy water. Essentially, holy water is water with salt added during a rite of blessing. Learn how to make your own consecrated water, and use it for cleansing, protection and blessing. Pour some holy water into a spray bottle. To bless and protect your home, spray holy water around the perimeter of your dwelling and yard. You can also incorporate an incantation or spoken prayer into your blessing. This can be as simple as saying, "I bless this home with happiness. I bless this home with love. I bless this home with prosperity…"

Make Offerings to the Spirits

Offerings are a beautiful way to acknowledge and honor your household spirits. Giving and receiving are an essential part of any relationship. Anything can be used as an offering, but food is common in many cultures across the world. A simple way to incorporate food as an offering is to simply leave a portion of your meal for the spirits near the hearth or on an altar. An altar is any structure upon which we place offerings and sacred objects that have spiritual or cosmological significance. It represents the center and axis of your sacred space. A simple altar can be created with a cloth, a candle and other symbols that mean something to you. Offerings can be made weekly, monthly or annually and might include fresh flowers, herbs, incense, fruits, milk, or wine. The offerings serve as an acknowledgement and sign of gratitude for the spirits presence and beneficial activity.

Listen to the Spirits

Developing a relationship with your house and its spirit is very important for your home is your sanctuary; it keeps you safe and warm and protected from the elements. Let your home speak to you. As shamanic practitioners, we are often able to hear things that others cannot. And we know that it is not uncommon for spirits to speak up when they want something specific. Our houses can be the same way. Take some time to sit quietly in your house and listen to it. Be open to communication and let it tell you what color walls it was happiest with, what kind of music it prefers, or what holiday traditions it was fondest of; and let these messages guide your offerings.

As with any relationship it takes time and effort to build a connection with your house spirit, but it is worthwhile. Most home spirits are more open to human connection than the spirits of the land. Keep in mind that spirits choose to come into relationship with the person seeking. You can seek a connection, but the spirits must choose. Respect and connection to spirits is what makes for an authentic relationship, which is what the shamanic practitioner yearns for in a society that has severed itself from nature and spirit. Humans have lost touch with the spirit world and the wisdom of inner knowing. The spirits, however, have not forgotten us. They are calling us to a path of environmental sanity, to rejoining the miraculous cycle of nature.

#shamanism #shamanic practice #spirituality #spirits #spirit work #house blessing

[exeggcute]

good stuff from wired. it's far too easy to forget that all of the data you send and receives goes somewhere—real tangible servers that people have to build and maintain, supported by both digital and physical infrastructure with not-at-all negligible financial and environmental costs—including the post you're reading right now.

some highlights:

[The tech industry has] trained us to upload, download, stream, post, and share to infinitum. In turn, we have come to expect seamless and instant access to digital content anytime, anywhere, as if data were immaterial. [...] A typical data center spans about 100,000 square feet, but I have been inside of facilities that are the size of a small home or as large as a university campus. The average data center can consume as much electricity as a small city in order to power and cool its computing equipment, drawing energy from electrical grids that in many parts of the world are coal-fired. To maintain our expectations for constant availability without as much as a hiccup, data centers run diesel generators in a state of hot-standby to supply power in the event of an electrical grid failure. [...] The International Data Corporation, a “global provider of market intelligence” for IT professionals and executives, estimates that digital data storage capacity may have to double or triple by 2030 to meet rising global demands for data storage. By the end of this decade, some estimate that cloud infrastructures will gobble up 20 percent of the world’s energy resources. (These figures, however, are speculative, provisional, and reliant on quantification schemes that are themselves highly contested given the opacity of the privately owned infrastructures behind the cloud and the complexity of variables involved.) [...] The cloud, as I have seen it, is already broken, already breaking. There are no easy techno-fixes that can save us, because the problem we are facing is not an engineering problem, but a cultural one. We suffer from a deficit of imagination because capitalism has conditioned us to think of the digital as inexhaustive and instant, to think of ourselves as consumers rather than stewards, to think of the cloud as a service rather than a community.

[moonyinpisces]

No you're so right about Satan/God and Good/Evil not being mirrors or organic parallels. People equating God to Satan like I've seen a lot of GO fans do always makes me sigh a little because that's SUCH a Pop Culture Misconception? If God and Satan were equal, then Christianity would be considered a duotheistic religion, not a monotheistic one. So by definition- Satan cannot be equal in power to God. They're not counterparts. Satan is just as subject to God's will as everyone else is. In traditional Christianity, he's actually usually considered to be equivalent to the Archangel Michael in power (Michael is generally considered to be the 'Supreme Archangel' in Christianity, but GO makes it Gabriel). Mild disclaimer that I'm not Christian I just study Abrahamic Religions and it's a huge pet peeve when I see people do this

okay yes awesome i am validated now. on that same vein of monotheism i think GO fans are also forgetting that jesus IS god. the idea of him being “son of god” is just an explanation to bridge his dual designations of material & immaterial. all the jesus headcanons are very fun but it’s important to me that people understand that jesus and his crucifixion WAS god’s first and only experience living amongst the humans (which will absolutely show up in hdwtotl). so when jesus christ returns for judgment day, it’s GOD returning in material form to earth. if you view jesus christ as distinct from god, that’s idolatry babey!

#ask box #the trinity is very difficult for even theologians to grasp so this is just a simple explanation #god exists everywhere so him being jesus doesn’t negate him being everything else

[goldmanguyperson]

i feel like people dont understand just how many of our concepts are socially constructed. The concepts we have to recognize each other: queerness, alterhumanity, neurodivergence, even personhood, are also socially constructed. What else do you think you’re doing when you coin terms? You might be describing something real but it is something that can never be real in the same way to everyone. It couldve been described totally differently, or been within a description of something similar but else, in another time by another person. Otherkinity and therianthropy are literally that, even genders related to concepts and animals and creatures can be like otherkin or therianthropy. They are often guided by similar feelings. But they all have different names and ideas associated, because different people thought of them and built different communities and coined different terms.

Ideas sometimes hailed as scientific can also be social constructs. Species is socially constructed. If we lived on evolutionary time scales, we would be able to much more easily see how all species actually gradually flow into each other. The idea of planets is socially constructed. What is the difference between planets and dwarf planets and spheroid asteroids? Not much. Mostly just size. The way we conceptualize time itself is a social construct. Western forms of timekeeping have stamped out traditional ways all across the Earth. Lunar new year is a part of a form of timekeeping that has now been rendered uncommon among its cultures of origin.

Any scientist worth their salt understands these things. Any worldbuilder who’s any good understands these things. Face your assumptions and wonder why they exist. If somebody challenges your preconceived notions, wonder why you had them in the first place, not why that person exists.

Labels and all constructs are not prescriptive. they are descriptive. holding yourself beholden to an exact definition of an idea you use to label yourself and the world can only hurt your understanding of yourself and the world.

Do not replace old restrictive social constructs with yet more restrictive social constructs. Especially not under the guise of personal freedom. Let people call themselves whatever the fuck they want. Be truly free. It’s 3:46 pm on a Sunday on November 2023, timezone PST. It’s been an uncountable amount of Earth orbits since the Earth formed. The sun has only orbited fully around the galactic core about twenty times since its own formation. None of that matters to me as a tiny little person. My time scale is measured in immaterial minutes and hours.

Have some perspective

Be okay with being wrong

#otherkin #therian #alterhuman #plurality #im having a bit of a rant #queer #shut up! the eagle’s talking!

[musings-on-wisteria]

Alright apparently someone had to tell me “if you want to talk about witchcraft on your witchcraft sideblog, do it!” So guess what? I’m gonna do it.

So I was inspired by this post from @breelandwalker, but I’ve always wanted to make my own runes/symbol system for casting since I learned how to use Norse runes. I already had a symbol system, actually, because of course I did (it’s been incredible useful for making sigils).

So here they are!

They’re organized by element in rows, because if you know anything about my practice you know its gotta involve the elements. At the top is fire, then earth, water, and wind at the bottom. I made an effort to balance out the symbols with positive, negative and neutral/complex meanings, so that each element had both good and bad omens, though I think wind and fire are slightly more positive and water slightly more negative.

So, the meanings! (Left to right, top to bottom)

Fire (symbol of the whole element): the core, the spark, the energy source, the physical/mundane realm, encompasses the whole of the element (much like an ace in tarot.)

The Quilt: generosity, protection, warmth and rest, home, a safety net/supportive community

The Candle: ritual/routine, an observance/vigil, duty, hope/faith, diligence, memory

The Key: power, privilege, authority, safety, opportunity, secrets, ideas/knowledge, choices

The Cake: gathering, love, an achievement, celebration, reward, intimacy

The Bag: responsibilities, stress, overwhelm, burnout, emotional baggage

The Brick: Institutions, foundations, building; but also, destruction, disruption, conflict.

Earth (symbol of the whole element): the social sphere, kindness, connection, wonder, gratitude, passion, other people, the whole of the element basically.

The Sprout: Spring, youth, vulnerability, innocence, empathy, growth, new life

The Firefly: Summer, vitality, color, passion, expression, community, wonder, fertility

The Acorn: Autumn, luck, knowledge, an opportunity to invest/prepare, harvest

The Branch: Winter, barrenness, regret, loss, peace, forgiveness, death

The Felled Tree: think the tower card in tarot. Chaos, misfortune, expulsion from comfort zone/a sanctuary, disaster

The Woods: distance from civilization, adventure, getting lost, nature, wonder and strangeness, possible danger

Water (the whole element): the spiritual, intuition, mental health, relationship to the self, fluidity, patience, mindfulness

The Well: creation, wishes, renewal, healing, a source of life, creativity, inner life/world

The Umbrella: an mental shield, a listening ear, peace amidst emotional turmoil, disconnection from emotions, mindfulness, avoidance

The Mirror: Reflection, judgement, redirected energy/projection, meditation, self-image

The Eraser: start over, frustration, cleansing, practice, low-stakes, mistakes

The Mug: “not for you”, toxicity/addiction, hostile environment, broken dreams, perfectionism

The Hourglass: time, cycles, mortality, “start now” “time is limited”

Wind (the whole concept): imagination, change, progress, wishes, magic, the mind, immaterial things, concepts, the “beyond” or the external/opposite of the core

The Patch: independence, grit, resilience, self-expression, controversy, weirdness/counter-culture

The Dice: luck, fortune, risk, laughter, games, levity, arrogance, superstition

The Book: intellect, knowledge, challenge, lessons, passive methods of learning, seeking

The Lightning Bolt: sudden change, clarity, direction, energy, motivation, an exclamation point

The Mosquito: annoyance, life-draining, conflict, grudges, “scratching makes it worse”

The Feather: comedy, convenience, avoiding consequences, freedom, escape, a favor owed

They are SO FUN, I highly recommend making runes like these. Having picked personal symbols, there was nothing to memorize (I made this whole post without looking at my reference) and after a few readings, they seem really accurate and easy to understand!

#cheshi muses #lithomancy #witchcraft #witchblr #divination #I have no idea why anyone would want to read these but here you gooooo

[beardedmrbean]

Sanger and other eugenicist issues in the pro-choice movement aside, it's pretty insidious how that one article makes the jump from not strongly believing in "[contemporary] systemic racism and the legacy of slavery" to "racial resentment," and then from there uses weasel words to turn it into “Some have argued that evangelicals oppose abortion not simply because of their views on the sanctity of life, but due to racial resentment against government policies and other cultural shifts related to a broader movement towards greater racial equality."

Nope, can't possibly be that people believe things for the reasons they say they do, gotta be because they're secretly racist.

I didn't feel like adding any more to that post than I did because OP has a tendency to behave like a real scientist and delete things that may call into question the validity of their findings.

Such as the founder of planned parenthood was a massive racist and eugenicist.

We I to have actually typed something out as a response it would be something along the lines of. _____________________

How incredibly stupid are the people running this study, seriously now they come in and say the reason that some people are opposed to abortion is racism, how in the hell do you figure that.

maybe we pull up the numbers and see which racial demographic is having the largest number of procedures on average, I don't know them but I can guess and even if I'm wrong it's still immaterial.

If I was a racist and was out there pushing "The Great Replacement" theories then I would be encouraging abortion and planting clinics in economically depressed areas that are populated predominantly by the race I chose to hate.

Because then there's less of them and they pose less of a danger in the mind of the person that feels like they're in the process of being replaced.

Making the "bad" population bigger by removing family planning services of any sort is counterintuitive and just plain stupid, just means they're going to replace you faster. ________

You don't need to be a psychologist or even a 2nd grader to be able to figure that one out, 1st grader could point out why saying that it's because of racism that they're increasing the population of the race they don't like.

Whoever did that study isn't to be trusted on anything imho, at least not with the information from them I've currently seen.

The desire of racists to deny their chosen demon race their rights would not extend to things that will slow or stop the increase of the numbers of that particular race, I know racists are stupid but that's just beyond stupid.

-----------

Only reason it didn't work out for Egypt when they did their whole thing with the Hebrew babies is the Big Guy had a plan and while Pharaoh may have thought himself a god there was the actual one out there working His plan.

Other than that ending pregnancies is gonna be a good way to reduce populations, just like Margret Sanger wanted.

#supreme-leader-stoat

[markedbyfireandash]

2024 Grimoire Challenge: January Week 1

Figured I could do the @2024-grimoire-challenge more consistently if I answer the prompts in batches instead of daily.

Preparatory Work

Notebooks I already have a planner-journal for messy notes, dream journaling, and personal insights, a pile of loose paper for research notes and organizing them, and a dedicated logbook for keeping track of arcane shenanigans. I'll be answering most of the prompts on my personal journal. Research-related ones will go to my research pile.

List of 52 herbs to study Skipping for now. I already have a good number of botanicals researched for both mundane and magical use. May instead post my research notes on whatever new plant I come across that interests me.

List of 52 crystals to study Definitely skipping. I don't use crystals enough to make a deep dive worth it. I already did my research on the ones I own, and currently have no plans to collect crystals for magical purposes. May or may not replace this with a random topic deep dive.

Grimoire

Naming the Book

I already do name my magical tools, even my journals! In my personal craft, names hold immense power, so the act of naming is itself some sort of consecration and empowering ritual. Considering their importance, I will be keeping these names private.

Outline/Index Pages

My arcane logbook has one, as it's the only one that will actually benefit a lot from it. The rest of my notebooks (including the pile) run mainly on tabs.

Definitions

Ritual Any action or set of actions with a symbolic, cultural, and/or emotional significance typically done on specified events.

Spell An act of magic done to achieve a specified purpose, usually to enact a change in the world according to the caster's will through symbolic gestures.

Personal Practice

Spell Writing

A spell is itself a tool that creates another tool specific to a predefined purpose. My approach to writing spells is very similar to problem-solving in general, and is very loose.

Identify a problem and its causes. If there's currently no direct problem, then I find a goal to achieve.

Identify the best or most feasible method to achieve the goal.

Survey available resources. Adjust goal and method if needed.

I don't adhere to a particular format, but in general, a spell for me consists of:

A source of energy or power

A way to color, filter, alter, move, or interact in any way with that power

An anchor or a physical vessel for the spell

Some examples of a power would be myself, a fire, physical movement (dance, wind, song), spirits, the materials themselves, celestial influence, cultural significance, and emotion. Interacting with that power may utilize divination, spirit communication, prayer, visualization techniques, meditation techniques, physical gestures, tools such as wands and knives, and so on. The anchor is not required, but it's useful for maintaining and dismantling spells, and I personally just like creating something physical for the spell to hold on to.

Common Tools

Paper, to hold names, words, sigils, and even material and immaterial influences. A blank canvas full of potential.

Any writing tool. A regular writing pen or pencil works, but brush and dip pens are great for working with specialized, magical inks. Toothpicks for writing on candles, cotton buds for harsher liquids such as alcohol and oil, chalk for most non-paper surfaces. Even a finger would do. A tool of creation and direction.

A tarot deck, sometimes a normal deck of playing cards, both a divination and a spell tool.

Candles - white tealights, mostly - to carry light or flame, act as a power, be a source of wax, or be a way to suffuse scent. Scented candles especially are reserved for offerings.

A tea cup, to hold water - and metaphorically 'hold' things that the hands can't. Cups are good for small things that don't need much heating. For anything that needs to be hotter than boiling water, I use the pot. Pair with a strainer to filter out unwanted things. Lidded containers for storage.

Washi tape, which makes hiding magic in plain sight easier.

Scissors for snipping plants, paper, thread, and connections.

Miniature, pen-sized broom used for quick cleansings and asperging.

Music, both to mask the sounds of spell casting and to define a space away from the mundane.

I should experiment with things like bookmarks and keys, and the tea plant stave I have currently just standing around the living room.

Calendar

The solstices mark very significant events in my life, so I like to honor those dates yearly.

Equinoxes mark a subtle but notable shift in the day cycles, so while they have no symbolic or cultural significance at the moment, I just like to track them.

Epagomenal days, ie the last 5 days of the year. Calculating when exactly they land is tricky so I just synchronized it with the usual calendar.

New years - lunar and Gregorian.

Fruiting and flowering seasons of mango, rambutan, kalachuchi (frangipani), and the cotton tree. Mostly because they're common in the area, but also because seeing them fruit and bloom gives me a lot of joy.

I'd like to add more specific dates, but they have more to do with local weather changes, which have lately been weird because of climate change.

Altar Design & Workspace

I do not have a set altar or workspace! If I need to perform a spell, I do it on the spot, using whatever flat surface is available if it is needed. Usually, that flat space is either a desk table or the dining table.a

What I do have is a spread in a notebook (one that opens flat) decorated and dedicated to specific deities, and I use that to better communicate with them every now and then.

Introspection: Personal Practices

(Keeping this one in my journal)

#2024 grimoire challenge #witchcraft #eclipse exclaims #my stuff

[bretongirlwrites]

writerly thumbprint challenge

tagged by @wispstalk and tagging anyone who wants to take part :) i don’t remember who’s been tagged already

Rules: look back on your work, both past and present, finished and unfinished. what are five (or more) narrative elements, themes, topics or tropes that continuously pop up in your work?

a little more conversation, a little less action. almost all of my fics seem to revolve around some kind of conversation. nobody ever does anything do they. except what they manage to do through words. probably over a cup of something hot or alcoholic. i don’t drink either of those things so idk why... i guess i like the Aesthetic more than the Taste

ordinary people doing extraordinary things. i could probably do better than my stock of ocs for various games being overwhelmingly human. but without wanting to ‘exoticise’ the other cultures featured in them, it’s the only position i feel brave enough to write from, especially working so much in the first person. also even if it’s an option, i don’t like my characters having unique powers or being overqualified. and so they don’t tend to like it either

the power of friendship. established a long time ago that i cannot write romance. taking lessons from stendhal absolutely did not help. even when i write julienne and marcurio, i feel like it’s more banter between best friends than the sweet nothings of lovers. have quite often been known to portray romantic relationships as inherently turbulent and potentially destructive, but that’s a little unfair i think. anyway the importance of friendship and a number of platonic relationships are common across my ocs

ten thousand people, maybe more. even in game narratives that kind of revolve around the idea of the singular hero, i always seem to make it absolutely impossible for them to go it alone. which i suppose isn’t an uncommon change. but i am just so opposed to the idea that people don’t need other people to accomplish big things. some of my heroines actually end up being more the followers themselves (like julienne of delphine and even, sometimes, of marcurio), though they must also learn to find a bit of their own voice among the others

what time is it? as perhaps exhibited by one of my recent fics mentioning corn-exchanges, dustbin-men and a shambles-market in the imperial city, i have no idea what period of history i’m drawing my inspiration from. the same goes for various anarchically outdated features of my writing, like my chaos punctuation and uses of the subjunctive. in truth when it comes to material and sometimes immaterial features, i just make stuff up or introduce elements based on what suits the narrative. harder to do that outside of fantasy-fanfiction i suppose. but i hate researching what’s historically accurate or whatever if it’ll ruin a good story... but then i’m no realist, i don’t often stop to include specific material details, so it’s usually all fine

#ask game