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paintedscales · 6 months

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003. Ura

With the idea in mind to go to Reunion to find materials to repair her morin khuur, Bayarmaa invites Nomin along so that she does not have to stay alone at the ger among the Sagahl. With more freedoms than she has ever been used to since before that visit, Nomin finds excitement and wonder in being able to visit the other stalls run by a number of other tribes on the Steppe. It is also here that she is, for the first time, presented with choices she never got the privilege to make before.

Word Count: 4,761

Steppe by Steppe Chapter List

Nomin had gotten used to waking up with Esenaij having already departed from the ger early in the morning during her time among the Sagahl. She had gotten used to having a breakfast of fruits, veggies, or boiled grain alongside Bayarmaa before she was then taught more about the plants and herbs that had been more readily available to the both of them. It had started to become the normal routine for the current location of the Sagahl, not that Nomin seemed to mind too much.

Nights when Esenaij had come back from Reunion and Nomin was still awake, she would often excitedly inquire about how his day had been and what trades he had made. Though he had almost always answered these questions starting with an exhausted groan, Nomin had been enamored with a number of new items and stories that had been brought back. One of her favorite things had been some of the brass rings that she was later informed were used to make an armor mesh.

Nomin admittedly did not really understand, but Bayarmaa later showed her what Esenaij meant by his information. She was even granted an invitation to try on the chain-reinforced deel and excitedly accepted. After Bayarmaa had been finished affixing it, Nomin looked herself over, the weight of the metal within the deel making even standing a bit of a workout for her much smaller frame.

There were a number of things that Nomin had found herself getting to experience for the first time. Bayarmaa had gone out of her way a lot of the time to offer Nomin sweet fruits or things she had cooked. She had also gone out of her way to allow Nomin some freedoms, like being able to sit and draw when she had expressed interest. Nomin had even gotten to sit with Bayarmaa as she wove stories before they tucked in for the night.

"Nomin…" Bayarmaa softly woke her up one morning. "I'm going to Reunion with Esenaij today. Did you want to come with us?"

Stirring, there was a moment when Nomin grunted in response, though she eventually cracked open her eyes and looked blearily up at Bayarmaa. She still felt the tug of wanting to sleep weighing heavily on her eyes, though she eventually sat herself up and rubbed away the sore, achy tiredness that she woke up with. Sighing and then yawning, Nomin scooched a bit to the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the ground.

“... Is that a yes?” Bayarmaa asked, standing back up to her full height and looking down at Nomin curiously.

“... I guess…” Nomin replied, her voice laced with the gravelly croak of having just woken up.

“Alright. Do you want me to brush your hair?” Bayarmaa offered, smiling gently.

“Mm…sure…” Nomin looked over at the nearby shelf and reached over. Taking the wooden comb, she handed it to Bayarmaa who sat down next to Nomin on the bed and started to run the comb through the younger Xaela's hair. It was silent for a time, at least until Nomin finally asked: “... Why are you going with Esenaij into Reunion?”

“Well…” Bayarmaa paused momentarily. “I’d like to see what seeds and bulbs have been brought in from foreign merchants. Plus, I have to buy some more horse hair for my morin khuur. Everything else -- cedar resin and larch -- I have access to in order to either repair my bow, or make a new one."

"You can play?"

"A little bit. But I haven't been able to because it's a little broken." Bayarmaa finished combing through Nomin’s hair, having getting it all smoothed out. Leaning over, she placed the comb back down on one of the shelves. "Now then…go and get yourself washed up and dressed. I'll keep Esenaij busy so he doesn't start on his way without us."

"Mhm!" Nomin hummed, feeling a little more awake now that she had been more mentally stimulated with light conversation. She slipped off the bed and went over to the small dresser where hers and Bayarmaa’s clothes were kept.

Most of Nomin's clothes had been Bayarmaa’s hand-me-downs that fit her. Anything that allowed her to represent the tribe of Sagahl while she was adopted and integrated into the tribe and culture. Her clothes from the Tumet had been neatly folded and kept close to the bedside where she slept. Admittedly, she was not quite sure what to do with them for now, but she kept them all the same.

Once dressed, Nomin hurried along outside where it looked like Bayarmaa was annoying Esenaij in some way. Not only that, but there was another woman who had chin-length green hair with them that Nomin felt like she had met only briefly. That woman seemed to also have been poking some level of fun at Esenaij -- that was what Nomin could infer, anyway, what with their laughing and Esenaij’s stern expression.

"I'm ready!" Nomin called, walking with a small skip to her step toward the loaded up wain. She crawled into the bed without hesitation and sat among the boxes and sacks with a wide smile on her face. Not long after, Bayarmaa walked over and took a ripened plum from a crate to hand off to Nomin; breakfast. Even if Esenaij gave Bayarmaa a bit of a stink eye for it.

"You won't get to ride the wain back home," Esenaij informed Nomin, looking pointedly over to her as she started nibbling on the rind of the fruit. He then looked at Bayarmaa. "Though, I suppose nothing would be stopping you from staying in Reunion for the day."

“That’s fine…I think…” Nomin responded, more in regards to not being able to ride the wain back. She then looked over at the new woman that had been giggling alongside Bayarmaa momentarily. Cocking her head to the side, Nomin then asked, “who are you?”

“Hm? Oh! I’m Turakina. We never really did get to introduce ourselves the first time we met, huh?” the woman introduced, offering Nomin a grin before she walked over to the wain and sat on the edge of it. The jostling and sudden weight made Esenaij grunt with annoyance as he readjusted his harness and sharply pulled on it to redistribute the weight while also getting Turakina to back off a little bit.

"She'll be coming with us to Reunion, too," Bayarmaa informed Nomin.

"Have to make sure that Esenaij doesn't forget my dear mother's favorite foreign import from the Far West, after all: galago mint." Turakina then elbowed Esenaij playfully in the ribs with a grin. "He's usually good about it, but I just can't take my chances today."

"You can simply state that you want to go because Bayarmaa’s going…" Esenaij said, walking forward to finally start them all on their way.

"I could have, but it's a less fun answer than the one that would get under your scales."

A smile found its way onto Nomin’s face as she lifted a hand and giggled at their interaction. Settling back down on the wain, Nomin had kept herself aware of the conversations going on at the very least as she drummed her hands on the crate that she leaned against. Her tiredness had ebbed away completely as she piped up and got to speak more with the others while they traveled along.

Nomin learned that Turakina had been a friend of Esenaij and Bayarmaa since they were kids -- even before they were Nomin’s age! She also learned that Turakina’s mother was still the Sagahl's go-to healer, and that Turakina herself had been the one that often went and made herself available to visit with children that were sick or ailing in some way. It was honestly rather amazing to learn about all of the ways the Sagahl used plants for healing medicines and salves when Turakina touched upon their practices.

Honestly, it was quite a bit of information that Nomin started to pretend to keep up with after some time as she ate. Having given the plum pit to Bayarmaa after she was done, Nomin did what she could to learn more about Turakina's methods of alchemy to make healing poultices. She nodded and asked questions, though it was once they had actually reached Reunion that Nomin's attention had quickly shifted. She was quick to hop out of the wain, earning a miffed grumble from Esenaij all the while as she ran ahead with an excited bounce to her step.

"Don't stray too far, Nomin!" Bayarmaa called out, a hand cupped aside her mouth.

"I won't!" Nomin called back, not turning to look back at them. She had already recalled where Esenaij had set up his stall from the last time she had been there. Now she just wanted to explore and see more of what the markets had on display! After all, the few times that she had been there, she had only ever been carried around by her birth parents, or instructed to sit and stay by Esenaij.

The sizzle and crack of a nearby stall had captured Nomin’s attention at first, the smell of frying boortsog enticing her further to come take a look. She peered around the stall and saw the woman who manned it fanning flames that a cast-iron wok sat upon, a flat strainer sitting on top to prevent the popping oil from getting everywhere -- namely the woman.

A brief touch upon Nomin’s shoulder gave her a start before she turned and looked up to see Bayarmaa who smiled down at her.

“Esenaij is setting up. I figured he would have wanted me around a little longer to help, but he told me to hurry with my shopping,” Bayarmaa informed Nomin with a slight grimace to her words. “Now then…we have a good bell or so before all the stalls are up and running, I’d imagine. Was there anything you wanted?”

Nomin hummed, thinking hard about anything she wanted. When she was with her biological parents within the Tumet and visiting Reunion, she had no say in anything that they had gotten. She was always made to stay close and to stay quiet -- either that, or she had been rather carelessly given into the care of a volunteer caretaker or caretakers that took care of other children from other tribes while their parents or tribes visited. Having Bayarmaa actually ask her what she wanted was…actually a little overwhelming, honestly!

“Do you want to have a look around first, then? We can see what you might like and bring it back with us. After I’ve paid or traded for it, of course.” Bayarmaa had been patient and gentle with her words, offering an alternative to simply straining in thought over every possibility of what could have been there. When Nomin nodded, Bayarmaa looked around before offering her hand and having Nomin take it so that they could walk together.

They passed a number of empty stall plots, and stalls that were still being set up as the morning stretched on. It was only when the sun’s light glinted off sparkling jewelry, baubles, and metalworks that Nomin had let go of Bayarmaa’s hand and hurried ahead. Her tail wiggled behind her with a sense of intrigue as she looked at the brass, tungsten, iron, copper, and goldworks. Wonder was evident in her eyes as she looked between the rings, necklaces, bracelets, and horn jewelry.

“Bayarmaa, look! Like the rings Esenaij brought back!” Nomin shouted, beaming widely as she pointed at the box of brass rings.

Walking over, Bayarmaa looked over the jewelry that was on display before looking at the box of rings that Nomin had been looking at. Allowing a silent scoff of amusement to fall from her nostrils, Bayarmaa turned her attention toward the stall owners that looked to have been setting up a small wooden trough so that the dzo they used was getting fed. Though the sight made Bayarmaa hold back a bit of a grimace, she waved toward the woman dressed in a dark, airy cloak.

Looking up, the woman walked toward them, offering a smile in greeting.

“Sister of the Sagahl, I humbly welcome you to browse wares of the Ura,” the woman said, motioning toward the jewelry. She also pointed out a sturdy set of crates that were on a nearby wain parked next to the stall itself. The crates held within them cleaned up, glittering chunks of unrefined ore. “The mountains’ bounties were favorable this past year, and our miners and metalworkers both are proud to showcase our works for trade ere we return.”

“I think my…my sister here is more interested in looking at what you have,” Bayarmaa replied with only brief hesitance, gazing down at Nomin, who was absolutely enamored with all the different shiny metal objects.

“I suspect that the Sagahl have plenty of bounty of their own to trade should anything meet your fancy,” the Ura woman replied, glancing down at Nomin and then leaning down. She smiled and then moved the box of brass rings forward a small ways. “Quite interesting that you seem to be taken with these. They’re more used for armor pieces and some reinforcement for those that would want to craft their own protective wares to their liking.”

Truthfully, Nomin just liked how there were a good number of them and how they shimmered under the light. Looking up at Bayarmaa, Nomin sidled a little closer to her before looking back at the various items. She then reached out for one of the tungsten rings -- it had a band of copper and gold embedded in it. Turning it over in her hands, Nomin did like it quite a lot, but she put it back on the stall countertop before drumming her hands on the top and then reaching over for a copper bracelet with jasper inlays.

“Some of these might be a little large for you, Nomin,” Bayarmaa chuckled. She hid the relief that surfaced in the form of a sigh when Nomin put the ring back. She reached over herself to pick up and examine some of the other pieces of jewelry. “But…I suppose you could easily grow right into them in a couple years’ time.”

“I just want something neat. Useful, maybe…” Nomin replied, putting back the other thing she had picked up.

“‘Useful’? I don’t imagine any of these would be useful to you…” Bayarmaa hummed in thought, bringing a finger to her chin.

“It’s just pretty, I guess,” Nomin admitted. She was not sure what she would have used anything like the bands, chains, or horn decorations for anything aside from simply looking at them whenever she wanted. The Tumeti trial stuck with Nomin, though, and she looked up at the Ura who manned the stall. Looking up is when she noticed the sheathed blades that were mounted up out of the reach of children like herself, and that was when Nomin pointed up at them instead of asking the question that had been at her lips.

“I want one of those!” Nomin suddenly said, jabbing her finger up a few times to make sure that Bayarmaa knew exactly what she was pointing at.

Bayarmaa brought a finger to her chin, a perplexed expression crossing her face as she thought about the logistics of trading for a weapon to give to a child of ten summers. The logical part of her brain had been telling her not to simply give into Nomin’s whims, especially when it came to the handling of weaponry. Though another part of her had been curious, especially when it seemed Nomin had been so adamant. She looked toward the Ura shopkeeper and hesitantly relented after a moment, if only to at least humor Nomin. “One of your shorter blades, if you would?”

Without question, the shopkeeper reached up and pulled one of the shorter sheathed blades from its mount and placed it before Bayarmaa. There was only a momentary glance in Nomin’s direction, though the perked up expression on Nomin’s face made the Ura woman chuckle only slightly.

Bayarmaa had taken up the sheath -- it was made of hardened and polished leather, and it had been reinforced with an iron tip. Taking the handle of the blade, she pulled it out and looked at it. It was certainly a new craft with nary a scratch upon its sharpened steel. Though she was loath to hand it off to Nomin so willingly, Bayarmaa had sheathed it and slowly handed it to her.

Perhaps having such a blade was for the best, especially given the nature of other tribes on the Steppe… After all, she and Esenaij had learned well enough how to use bows and arrows to fend for themselves should it come down to it.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

Nomin had tentatively taken up the sheathed blade, much to Bayarmaa’s surprise. Though the longer she considered it, the more she had to consider the reason Nomin must have taken to the blades in the first place. The trial of the Tumet must have been strenuous and even terrifying in some way. Bayarmaa had really only known that it existed and vaguely how it went…but she never really considered everything that must have been needed by the children with the trials themselves until she watched Nomin carefully just then. How she turned the sheathed weapon in her hand before slowly pulling the blade from its protective casing. How she gently felt the sharpness of the blade, gaging how well it could cut based on the twang of the steel as she scraped her thumb against it.

"I want this," Nomin finally said, pulling Bayarmaa out of her overall thoughts. The blade had been secured back within its sheath and sat on the stall counter before Nomin. Meanwhile, Nomin had been looking pointedly up at Bayarmaa all the while, a look that appeared to have been a mix of hopeful and expectant on her face.

The fact that it had been placed back on the counter and that Nomin had rather respectfully kept her hands to herself -- and not just with the dagger, but the other wares, too -- had made Bayarmaa raise her brow with a sense of pleasant surprise. Nomin had been well-behaved enough at the ger with some childish wonder and curiosity getting the best of her, but when it mattered was when Nomin seemed to surprise both Bayarmaa and Esenaij. Enough to have considered just what exactly the Tumet taught the children before they were of age to take part in their trial.

"... Alright…" Bayarmaa replied, her thoughts becoming more of a solidified realization that Nomin wanted the blade purely for self-preservation needs -- perhaps even fears. Especially after the trial Nomin endured. She had to recall the fact that Esenaij had tossed some extra rope with their belongings, claiming that Nomin had carried it with her.

Bayarmaa looked at the shopkeeper, sliding the blade back toward her. "My brother runs the stall for the Sagahl on the other side of Reunion. I'll inform him of the transaction desired. In the meantime, we have fava beans, rice, wheat, barley, and potatoes that can make it safely back to the mountains when you return to the rest of the Ura if interested. Give it some thought, and visit him with the dagger when you're ready."

"Of course. Thanks for stopping by," the shopkeeper replied, waving at both Bayarmaa and Nomin as they resumed their journey perusing the wares of Reunion.

Nomin reached up for Bayarmaa’s hand once more as they continued meandering through the stalls, her eyes flicking this way and that out of excitement and curiosity. She was good about staying close so long as Bayarmaa was with her.

"I think the toymaker's stall is finished setting up. Do you want to look at any of the toys that might be there?"

At Bayarmaa’s question, Nomin’s head swiveled immediately up in her direction, eyes sparkling as her mouth fell agape. Her tail flicked with both happiness and trepidation. She had never been asked if she ever wanted a toy. The toys that were made available to an okhin like her were usually broken and discarded by the elder Tumet who had otherwise grown out of them after their naming ceremony.

“So the toymaker will have things like uichuur or khorol?” Nomin asked.

“Among some other things not traditionally found on the Steppe, sure,” Bayarmaa replied, thinking back on some things she had seen. “When I was your age, I liked some of the puzzles that they made and had for trade. They also have some wooden animals, or some fanciful dolls with brilliant colors.”

Nomin’s grip on Bayarmaa’s hand tightened slightly as she knit her brow in thought.

“Something wrong?” Bayarmaa asked.

Nomin shook her head before shrugging. “I don’t…know… I never thought about a toy I’d want.”

“Never?”

“Mm-mm…”

Halting, Bayarmaa looked down at Nomin before kneeling so that she was eye level with her. Offering a smile, she then made a suggestion: “how about this, then? We’ll go ahead and get you any two things that you want that tickles your fancy at the stall. When we’re home, I’ll make you your very own toy out of what we’ve got back at the ger. It could be anything.”

“‘Anything’?” Nomin parroted, wanting that resolute confirmation.

“Anything.” Bayarmaa reaffirmed with a small nod. “It could be…it could be a horse, a fox, maybe even a mighty yol if you really want! I could even see about making more of a little Xaela doll for you if you'd be interested in that."

"Hmm…" again, the look on Nomin’s face had become riddled with uncertainty by the abundance of choice. "I think…maybe…”

“You can think about it as long as you want,” Bayarmaa said, hoping that her words brought Nomin a sense of comfort. Her expression warmed as she rose back up onto her feet and placed a hand at the back of Nomin’s head. “In the meantime, we can look around at everything that Reunion has to offer, hm? I still have to return to Esenaij as well to tell him about the new dagger we’re getting just for you, too.”

“... You’re really going to let me have it?” Nomin asked. She gazed at Bayarmaa with curiosity as well as some hint of incredulity.

“Is that so surprising? Esenaij and I were taught to use bows and arrows at around your age. After having a little bit to think about it, I can see why a dagger would interest you so,” Bayarmaa replied. She tousled Nomin’s hair a bit, a small laugh bubbling from the young Xaela’s lips, before reaching back down for her hand. However, Bayarmaa’s expression faltered as a question danced within her head. Soon, she sighed and finally asked: “... Was your time with the Tumet… I mean…did they ever let you have anything?”

Nomin’s expression of amusement had given way to distant disdain as she looked away. She pursed her lips and then shook her head.

“A lot of the time…we’re just taught to sew and make things that are useful for other members who earned their names; warriors mostly…” Nomin explained. “If we don’t have names, we’re just merely fed and allowed to live with them. But…most of the adults and the other named Tumet don’t really talk to those without names. Those without names only really speak with others without names or their caretakers.”

“So mostly your parents?”

“... I guess.” Nomin felt no real pull toward the term when she thought about the people who took care of her and raised her within their ger. "But they never really let me play with too many toys. Most of what I played were shagai with some of the other children -- other times, we'd play with sticks and rocks."

"I see…" Bayarmaa led the way through the markets, walking as fast as she felt Nomin was keeping up with. Her heart broke a little, hearing Nomin tell her about what she remembered about growing up with the Tumet.

"It's fine, though!" Nomin piped up, standing taller and puffing out her chest a bit. "I triumphed over my trial, and now… Well, now I'm worthy of a name! Worthy of doing whatever I want! And I want to learn all I can of the Steppe!"

Chuckling softly, Bayarmaa lifted her free hand to cover her mouth somewhat and hide her smile. “Indeed you are. I’ll certainly see about showing you everything that I know and have learned. I might have to bully Esenaij into doing the same, though.”

The pair arrived at the stall Esenaij had been taking care of, and Bayarmaa did as she said she would: she talked to him about the trade with the Ura traders. For a moment, he had protested, but Bayarmaa held firm in ensuring that Nomin would have the blade that she was promised. Of course, the bout of sibling squabbles had made Nomin giggle knowing that their arguments were not exactly serious.

Waving off Bayarmaa, Esenaij gave his confirmation that he understood and would await the trade if they remembered. He sighed to himself before regarding Nomin, “you do need to be careful with that knife when you actually have it in your possession, understand?”

“Of course!” Nomin piped up in response.

“Alright…because if Bayarmaa or I feel like you’re not being responsible with it, we’ll take it away until we feel like you will be.” Esenaij folded his arms over his chest and then looked more directly at Bayarmaa. “Right?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. It would be remiss of us to do otherwise,” Bayarmaa replied with a slight roll to her eyes.

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It was early into the afternoon when Bayarmaa and Nomin had returned to Esenaij’s stall from visiting several different stalls to sit on the wain and rest their feet. With some light trading as well as exchanging some tugriks, Nomin had chosen her toys from the toymaker. Two boxes had been chosen; one containing wooden tiles to play khorol, and another that contained puzzle pieces to build a miniature ger of her own.

She had been looking over the different tiles and all the images carved into them and painted. With all the details, Nomin found herself enamored with how pretty each individual tile was, and had expressed excitement to play a proper game of khorol with both Bayarmaa and Esenaij whenever time allowed. For now, however, Nomin put her tiles away and secured the box they came in, putting her new games away in Esenaij’s wain.

As Nomin covered up her new toys so that no one took them, she looked up in time to see the Ura stallkeep making her way over with the blade that had been picked out as well as a small bag. Tail flicking upward, Nomin hurried over to Esenaij’s side, peeking up over the stall counter as the Ura woman greeted Esenaij and Bayarmaa both courteously. Talk of the trade had been mostly ignored as Nomin stared at the sheathed blade on the countertop, her fingers coming up and gripping the edge of the counter as she bounced on the balls of her feet impatiently.

Grain and potatoes had been traded, and Esenaij had given the dagger off to Nomin, a stern expression on his face. Though she reached for it, he held firm.

“Remember…treat and use it responsibly. I don’t want to see it out when it’s not needed, is that understood?” Esenaij said.

Nodding, Nomin looked up at Esenaij and replied, “I understand. I’ll only use it if I have to. Um…can I at least look at it sometimes if I’m not in danger?”

The Ura woman could be heard chuckling softly at the question as she looked over the trade items she had received. Esenaij, meanwhile, let out a low sigh before responding with: “very well. So long as you’re not openly brandishing it and playing with it inappropriately, you can look at it every now and then.”

“I remember when my father made me my first dagger,” the Ura woman gently spoke up after cinching the sacks of grain and potatoes shut. Her amusement had not faded. “I know her excitement all too well -- the excitement of finally feeling trusted to actually pull your own weight within the family and tribe.”

Looking at Nomin, the Ura woman pointed to the sheathed blade with a smile; “treat it well, little sister. May the ever tenacious mountains keep you safe with that made of their bounty.”

#ffxiv #ffxiv writing #my writing #ffxiv oc #oc: nomin tal kheeriin #oc: bayarmaa sagahl #oc: esenaij sagahl #oc: turakina sagahl #au ra #xaela au ra #xaela headcanons #xaela ura #NTK:Chronicles

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leibal · 2 years

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Schnee-Eule is a minimal chalet located in Morin-Heights, Canada, designed by L’Abri. Located in the forest near the center of the village of Morin-Heights and designed for a family of four, the Schnee-Eule chalet allows its occupants to escape from the city and enjoy the calm of nature.

#minimalism #minimal #minimalist #minimal interior #interior design #leibal

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wot-tidbits · 9 months

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RJ’s notes Part 81 by Matt Hatch

SOURCE #1

Box 28, Folder 1 (Old box & folder #s)

THE FORSAKEN

(1) Ishamael (who is called Ba’alzamon)

(2) Lanfear (who sometimes calls herself Selene, among other names

(3) Aginor: dead

(4) Balthamel: dead

(5) De’ath

(6) Moloc (one of the most vicious)

(7) Be’aldrid

(8) Maladour

(9) Malifecin

(10) Sha’rein

(11) Savintar

(12) Sammael

(13) Rahvin

Deimondred(?), or something like, was, I believe, used one of the names in EYE. Check EYE and HUNT for any names used.

Koren’dis, Las’toth, Mourdur, Belloan, Asmodean, [Kama, Belial, Eblis, Shiva,)

Box 28, F1 (Old #s), Individuals

Selene: [Lanfear; Daughter of the Night] {She may use other names, other appearances. She can, within very broad limits, change her both apparent age and her physical appearance. Not her general size, though. She is always the same height, etc.} No matter what Ba’alzamon wants, she has her own plans. She wants power for herself, for one thing, and none of that sitting at the feet of Ba’alzamon and ruling all below. Power in her own right, with none above her. Beside that, she wants Rand al’Thor. More specifically, she wants Lews Therin Telamon reborn. When he last lived, she lost him to another; this time she means him to be hers. She is a Power weilder at least the equal to Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, who was accounted the most powerful of the Forsaken, but she never liked flaunting her ability, prefering to let others think she was less powerful than she actually was. This made them careless, and gave her advantages. She may well have been close to Lews Therin himself in strength.

Box 57, Folder 9

January 14, 1996

To Bill Fawcett VIA FAX

Dear Bill:

[…]

59 Lanfear – background, dress, and coloration just fine, but hair in a sleek bun, maybe with pearls or silvery fine-linked chains woven through it – imperious and icy, not bed-tousled, is the look. Also put her arms at her sides; this is a rather folksy pose and she ain’t folksy.

SOURCE #2

Box 42, F2, Book 11 Base Notes, pg.13

Elan Morin certainly was among the first to pledge himself to the Shadow, possibly the first (at least, among, those surviving to be sealed into the Bore).

Box 45, The Great Hunt (Continuity #2)

NOTE: In the Age of Legens, Lanfear was linked with Lews Therin before she went over to the Shadow. She tried to steal him from his wife, and it was her failure as much as her own ambition that led her to forsake the Light.

Verin would know of this from various fragmentary records, some of which actually claim they were lovers. These last, linking Lews Therin with one of the Forsaken, are taken by some as evidence that he was actually on the side of the Shadow.

#wheel of time #notes #robert jordan #the forsaken #lanfear #the shadow #age of legends

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irithnova · 1 year

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@hwsasiaweek

Mongolia: Music+Instruments/"These ghosts of old desire".

Also on AO3!

I attempted to mix the two prompts together lol idk how well it turned out though.

He fastened the final clasp of his ceremonial deel, stepping back slightly to get a better look of his full appearance. The fluttering chatter of the excited guests from outside fell flat against the door, leaving Mongolia in almost perfect solitude in the dimly lit, but homely dressing room.

Gingerly adjusting his fur hat, his vision was glittered with the brilliant colours of his garment. The light - though subtle, captured the delicate glimmer of the golden thread against the sheeny blue silk. It cast an intricate floral design, meticulously and expertly woven, reminiscent of the yellow poppies that would sprout upwards towards the blue sky during the height of his country's summer.

A black velvet trim - though a stark contrast, complemented the regal outfit, and Mongolia himself was in awe of the beauty of the fabric. He turned his body every so often to observe how the dainty patterns and colours seemingly glowed when they caught the light.

He finally shifted his gaze. The Mongol swiftly walked over to where he propped his morin khuur, lacquered and lustrous, and tenderly traced his finger against the curvature of the carved horse head, trailing it down to feel the angular outline of the carved ulzii symbol against his flesh.

It's been a while since he's given a performance like this. But he had no qualms about his ability.

This is an art that he's perfected.

There was one thing though. One thing - one song, that caused a twinge of apprehension to ache in the depths of his stomach when he thought about it. An old tune…

Ah.

He glanced at the clock. It was time.

Picking up his instrument, he made a tentative tread towards the door, as if not wanting to disturb the stillness of the room, and walked out.

________________________________________

The chatter dampened as Mongolia made his way on stage, the audience's eyes now planted on him in eager anticipation.

He caught a glimpse of a few of the nations who were peppered throughout the crowd, all of them on a diplomatic visit. Upon seeing South Korea's wide grin, he fought the urge to smile back. Instead, he turned to face behind himself, giving a small nod and smile to the musicians who already took their places.

All of them were clothed in a sumptuous, silky white. The headpieces that were sat on top of the woman performers framed their faces prettily, strings of pearls hanging like decorative curtains past their cheekbones. They were all seated with their respective instruments, broad yatga with its silver strings beneath one, the slim, elongated flute of the tsuur in the hands of another. It was all coming together.

Mongolia perched himself upon the chair placed for him in front of the other performers. His morin khuur sat comfortably in his lap as he dragged his bow against the string, his cured fingers fluently finding their rightful positions against it as he began his first song, purely in the kargyraa register. For now.

The air was filled with the sound of his deep, guttural voice. It was almost as if he was growling. The Mongol could feel the deep vibrations oscillating intensely through his throat and chest, and noticed how the sheer volume of his voice caught some people off-guard.

Of course, throat singing is ideally performed amongst the wide open plains, with nothing acting as an obstacle to the sound for miles. It sounded a hell of a lot louder when performed indoors, even if it was in a hall.

Song after song came, diverse in their sounds and topics but all as equally as mesmerising as the other. However, he did not just sing in kargyraa. But khoomei and sygyt too, khoomei being slightly softer compared to kargyraa. He relaxed his abdomen as he sang, lessening the tension in his larynx, mouth contorting itself in every which way to manipulate the melodies that danced from his throat.

The way the sound whirled throughout the great hall was evocative of how the wind passes through cobbles of large stone on the steppe, the sounds not dissimilar. After all, the original intent of throat singing was to imitate nature.

His sygyt, though, was truly something to behold.

He manipulated the shape of his mouth once more, sealing his tongue around his gums, behind the teeth, leaving a small opening near the right side of his molars. His mouth positioned itself effortlessly to accommodate this style. The tension built and fell in his throat as he fluidly switched from khoomei to sygyt and back again, the vibrations even reaching his sinuses when he'd switch to sygyt.

The audience sat firmly in their seats, utterly enchanted by the alien whistling noise being emitted from the man's mouth. They watched intently at the way he'd hold a linear sygyt note with ease, eyes scrunched shut and brows knitted together. They listened in astonishment at how he could rapidly ripple his voice, matching the quickened speed of which he played his morin khuur, imitating the steady rhythm of a horse on a speedy trot.

Like the sound of a family of birds gliding freely across the blue sky, his harmonious voice, too, travelled freely throughout the hall. The shrill but soft sound fell gracefully against the ears of the audience.

After finishing the penultimate song, he turned his head to catch his breath, the audience's boisterous applause dimmed by the sick feeling in his stomach he felt before he came on stage.

He silently cursed himself for choosing this song to be his final - Ertnii Saikhan. A tune that - though cheerful, caused his heart to ache and swell with bitter, painful nostalgia.

At the time, it felt like a good idea. Surely he was over it by now, right? Plus it couldn't all just be throat singing, the Mongolian long song is also a beautiful art. Ertnii Saikhan seemed like a great choice at the time, but now, he wasn't so sure.

As he opened his mouth to give his final performance, his piercing voice ringing throughout the hall, he remembered a time, long ago. A time when this powerful song was just a gentle, muted hum, lulling a squirming child to sleep.

He remembered how small he used to be, how he was weightless in the cradle of his arms. The way his fragile fingers peaked curiously from beneath the layers of fur, instinctually finding something to grab on to. He remembered how the gentle, glowing light from the sun fell through the tonoo of his ger, casting its pleasant warmth across the child's face, his dark eyes shifting to a subtle, golden hue.

He was a glowfly amongst the vastness of the forest, a star amongst the boundless black sky.

His son.

He gave a final drag of his bow against his fiddle, executing the last note as his voice fizzled out, drowned by the loud praise of the crowd. He didn't realise it at first, but his eyes were glassy with warm wetness, gravity threatening it's fall.

Turning away from the crowd, he stood up and gave a meek bow before gesturing for the other musicians to stand and receive their praise.

He swiftly made his way off of the stage, eyes downcast, unable to deal with being haunted by the ghosts of old desire.

End notes:

Deel - (From UNESCO) Deel is traditional Mongol clothing consisting of a caftan-like long garment, sash, belt, hat and boots. Every ethnic group has created and developed its own unique style, design and decorations, embodying specific features of their culture, origins and historic background.

Morin Khuur - Mongolian horse head fiddle

Ulzii/Ulzii symbol - Buddhist endless knot symbol that's widely used in Mongolia

Yatga - (Wikipedia) traditional plucked zither of Mongolia

Tsuur - (Wikipedia) end-blown flute of varying lengths that is common among Inner Asian pastoralists

Kargyraa, Khoomei and sygyt are different registers of throat signing, kargyraa being the lowest and sygyt being the highest, khoomei being kind of a middle ground. Khoomei is also used as a generic word to describe throat singing amongst Mongolians. Honestly go and check it out for yourself, I can't describe in words how great it sounds (even though I tried to in this fic lmao).

Mongolian long song - (Wikipedia) The long song is one of the central elements of the traditional music of Mongolia. This genre is called "Long song" not only because the songs are long, but also because each syllable of text is extended for a long duration. A four-minute song may only consist of ten words

Ertnii Saikhan - A Mongolian long song. Some researchers speculate that this was the first hymn of the Mongol empire, which is why I chose this song.

Ger - Traditional Mongolian home, a portable, round tent covered and insulated with skins or felt.

Tonoo - The upper ring/roof of the ger, which allows air to circulate through the tent, supported by two pillars (bagana). When cooking, the felt is taken off of the tonoo to allow the smoke out. When it's cold, the felt is put over the tonoo again to keep the heat in.

#Hwsasiaweek #Aph mongolia #Hws mongolia #Hetalia mongolia #Hetalia #hetalia world twinkle #hetalia world stars #hetalia world series #aph south korea #hws south korea #hetalia south korea #aph golden horde #hws golden horde #Hetalia golden horde

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amazingarchitecturewebsite · 1 year

Photo

La Cadrée Perchée, Morin-Heights, Quebec, Canada by L'Empreinte Design Architecture @lempreintedesignarchitecture Read more: Link in bio! Photography: Pier-Olivier Lepage @pierolivier_lepage. La Cadrée Perchée: In constant interaction with nature. A home where wood and natural light triumph. With La Cadrée Perchée, L’Empreinte Design Architecture offers constant interaction with the outdoors through a home that reflects light and frames a wild, rejuvenating, and inspiring environment. As a demonstration of symbiosis with nature, this achievement reflects the benefits of architecture on the well-being and mental health of users… #casa #canada #quebec #архитектура www.amazingarchitecture.com ✔ A collection of the best contemporary architecture to inspire you. #design #architecture #amazingarchitecture #architect #arquitectura #luxury #realestate #life #cute #architettura #interiordesign #photooftheday #love #travel #construction #furniture #instagood #fashion #beautiful #archilovers #home #house ‎#amazing #picoftheday #architecturephotography ‎#معماری (at Morin Heights, Quebec) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmNyvc8MF7v/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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cdnart · 2 years

Photo

Lorne Bouchard; First snow - Morin Heights

#Lorne Bouchard #Canadian art

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mr-voorhees-husband · 2 years

Note

Cowboy anon with a wee little thing for you, feel free to build off it or just enjoy it!

You were a smart person. You were frugal, resourceful, and efficient.

You rubbed your nails with olive oil to keep them strong, you took your daily vitamins, you washed your face and brushed your teeth twice daily, you always paid your rent on time, you were a smart shopper and knew how to keep yourself sustained. You were very proud of the person you were, what you became to endure living in New York away from everything you knew from your small backwoods town.

You were a bank teller. Not a glamorous job but a dream with an old flame brought the two of you to the city before they eventually left you for “better things”... dwelling on it makes you fume, and you refused to give them the satisfaction that you couldn’t handle city life and chose to stay. Now here you were, on your only day off during the week, patiently resupplying your small apartment.

You did the math to most efficiently spend your dollar. It was cheaper to make bread from scratch, cheaper to buy several pounds of rice, cheaper to utilize the sunny spot in your apartment to grow herbs and to use the rooftop garden for vegetables, cheaper to thrift your clothing and better to splurge on sturdy shoes; you had every trick in the book.You relished in your body fat, the only indicator that you’re well fed enough, unlike so many others in New York City. You relished in your health, in your job’s benefits, in your little run down apartment with a shockingly low rate. You suspect someone might have been murdered in your room for the rent to be so cheap, but you were raised to never look a gift horse in the mouth.

On an early sunday morning, you learn why your rent was so cheap

=-=

You sat on the fire escape on a camping chair, drinking your morning coffee and soaking in the sounds of the noisy city to wake you up, when a white cowboy hat fell literally on to your lap.

Above you, you hear arguing through an open window, two to three men you guess; and you also guess one of them threw the hat out the window. Shrugging, you grab the hat and move silently back into the apartment that you own, planning on making the bread you’ll eat on for the next week. You place the hat on your table and get to work

Barely twenty minutes later, as you leave the dough to rise in the sunny spot by your herb garden, a knock comes from your front door.

You’re immediately on high alert; it’s not that no one knows where you live, it’s just…. Yeah, no one knows where you really live. You’re not prone to visitors. None of your co-workers would know, nor any of your friends… if you had any.

More knocking ensues, so you rush quietly to the door before opening it slightly, just wide enough to peer through.

Before you stands a man, a little shorter than average height, with an auburn mullet and teal eyes, staring at you with an expression of sheepishness and authority.

“Mornin’.” he drawls, and your toes curl in your shoes from the accent. ‘Oh,’ you think, ‘he’s also not from here.’ and the similarity makes you trust this stranger enough to open the door wider.

“Good morning.” you mumble out, too shy to maintain his eye contact so you focus on his clothes. Yellow button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, brown pants, cowboy boots, and a teal bolo tie. All that’s missing is-

“Oh!” you exclaim, straightening your posture and meeting his inquisitive gaze again. “It must be your hat!” you conclude.

The man smirks and nods. “My, uh, roommates got right pissed at me this morin’ and threw it out the window.”

As he spoke, you quickly turned around to retrieve the item, vigorously wiping your hands on the front of your sweater to get the excess flour off before grabbing the white hat, leaving your door widely ajar.

Surely , the man must’ve seen clearly into your humble abode; seen your clothing hanging to dry by the dehumidifier, seen your plants, your shabby furniture and ancient television, your properly made mattress on the floor in the corner. But he was a polite man, and made no mention of your less-than-lovely accommodations. By the time you returned to him, hat in hand, his facial expressions were schooled back into a grateful smile.

“Thank ya kindly, and apologies for disruptin’’ your mornin’.” With his hat to his chest, he bows his head in gratitude, before returning the article to his crown. He was so courteous! If your mother were here, she’d be cooing and gawking over him.

Rather, you flush, and shyly meet his eyes once more. “Not a problem.”

And that was the end of the interaction. Polite, curt, no names exchanged or unnecessary ramblings.

It wasn't until you started to idly watch the news as you wait for your bread to rise do you learn of this man’s name. A newsreel revealed that several members of the Sinister Syndicate had recently escaped Rikers and were on the loose, most likely going to old haunts. And you freeze right as they show a mug shot of the man you just saw.

“Jackson ‘Montana’ Brice, also known as ‘Shocker’ was one of the few who escaped last week; not much is known-” you shut the tv off, and curl into yourself. Why would a well known criminal pick such a crummy place to lay low? Wouldn’t he have a ton of money stashed somewhere for someplace nice?

But another thought enters your brain. It would make sense to pick such a run down seedy place. Nicer places would call the cops, your apartment complex was so vile that surely no one would even bother to ring the police; not even you. This is a part of town not even the police visit because crime is so frequent.

But in the last week, there has been a distinct lack of petty crime, no one’s stealing bicycles or snatching purses, no atm busts or defacement of public property. Maybe the Enforcer being here is… helping? Maybe he’s scaring all the other rats back into their holes with his being back on the streets. Sure, major crime rates go up; thefts and property damage; but all the little stuff takes a nosedive down every time a big bad escapes prison.

Besides, your rent is too low to rat out a very polite and handsome man who you returned to hat to.

oh my god.. i- i love this si much. You- cowboy anon i love you/p this is amazing.

I WANNA ADD MORE BUT I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO ADD BUT THIS IS STILL GREAT NONETHELESS

#🤠 anon's writing #🤠 anon #mr. voorhees rambles

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