#silent boatman

[kungseyesfr]

Death 💀 pay the boatman.

#question everything #ancient #ancestors #darkness #art #demon king #magik #silent death #death #dead #boatman #toll of the boatman

[springdandelixn]

The Great Escape

Summary: Your chance of freedom diminishes as the prince reminds you of your place.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon, magic bondage, outdoor sex, humiliation, physical violence.

Characters: Dark!Loki x Reader

A/N: This fic is part of the Secret Santa Collection by @fictive-sl0th​. As always, your feedback is highly appreciated and reblogs will be amazing. I hope you guys enjoy! 💚

Adrenaline courses through your veins as you run as fast as you could down the path to the docks, your sack of meager belongings bouncing at your side. You see the longboat to Vanir just up ahead, hearing the boatman calling for final passengers and a smile of relief plays on your lips, almost tasting the freedom that you’ve been yearning for since meeting the prince. 

You couldn’t miss the window of opportunity presented to you when Tove pulled you to dance with her and Brigit. You made it a point to squeeze between the towering forms of the men and the swaying bodies of the women, moving along to the music to put on a show of enjoyment and basking in the sounds of the lute and trumpets booming in the great hall as the celebration reached its peak. 

As soon as you saw Loki’s attention averted toward Lord Fandral, you immediately made to escape the festivity; stalking silently across the halls so as to not get caught by any servant or guard that is loyal to the prince. You grabbed your sack by the gates and wasted no second running away from the palace. 

You grunt as your foot gets caught in the muddy path. You pull yourself free but your slippers get stuck into the earth. Still, you pay them no mind, leaving them behind as you continue your sprint toward the boat. 

The docks finally come to view and you can’t help the tears that spring from your eyes as you feel the clutches of Loki slip from your mind but you gasp all of a sudden and stop in your tracks when you feel your throat tighten. Your knees buckle and you collapse to the ground, your hand reaching for your neck as the pressure around it intensifies, grabbing on the chain of the necklace around your throat. 

“And just where do you think you’re going, Little Mouse?” A chill fills your bones when you hear the baritone of Loki’s voice. 

“Lo—” You try to speak but the grip around your neck tightens, choking you while the emerald stone hanging on the necklace glows brightly against your skin. 

The breath is knocked out of you when you’re kicked at your side, rolling unto your back, fear creeping up your spine when you see Loki’s face above yours, angry and menacing. You gasp for air when the tension around your throat is lifted but Loki drops his foot over your chest, squirming against the dirt path as he pins you to the ground. 

“I look away for one second and I find you here, trying to flee.” He sneers and you yelp when he presses down his boot harder. 

“Please, Loki—” 

“I dress you in lavish clothes and adorn you in the finest jewelry. I give you the comforts of the palace and this is how you repay me?!” He snarls, his foot lifting from your chest but it is no reprieve as he kicks your side once more.

Your hands reach down to soothe the searing pain in your ribs but you’re not given that chance when Loki drops to his knees, flipping you back on your stomach and clamping his fingers around the back of your neck, choking once again when he pushes you further into the dirt. 

You struggle in turning your head to the side, digging your fingers into the soil as you try to push yourself off the ground, hoping you’d push him off just the same. But your strength is no match with the god, your attempts proving futile as he remains atop you, his weight pressing down on you. 

Panic surges through your veins when you feel his hand pulling at the skirts of your dress, the same one he’s given you along with the necklace before the feast, the fabric bunching up at your waist and you try to kick him away, legs flailing. You only stop when he slaps your thigh harshly, tugging at your small clothes roughly and looking at the flimsy fabric when he throws it at the side of your head.

“Loki—”

“You have no respect!” He snarls and you whimper when his hand presses against your cunt, fingers deftly moving to circle around your bud. “You have lost the privilege to say my name!” A cry is pulled from your lips when he dips two fingers into your slit, hating yourself for how your body readily responds to his touch, the slick gathering at the apex of your thighs. 

You feel his impatience as he thrusts his fingers deeper, faster, a reluctant moan slipping from your lips when he spreads them apart, stretching you wide. You try to push him off once more but he doesn’t move, only stopping any further attempts when he squeezes the sides of our neck hard. 

“Stop trying to find a way out of this.” Loki snarls, leaving you hollow when he pulls out his fingers, smearing your wetness on the inside of your thigh. Another wave of fear washes over you when you hear him fumbling with his pants from behind. 

“My prince—please,” You beg and try to reach behind you, to stop him from his brutality, but your words fall on deaf ears and your hands desist to move, wrists pinned into the dirt by his Seiðr and you’re left at his mercy, free for him to use you as he pleases.

Your tears spring free from your eyes as you whimper and continue to implore for his compassion, to release you from his wrath. His hand leaves your neck all the same and he goes to grab you by the hips, pulling you flush against his pelvis and feeling his cock brush threateningly against your cunt. 

He impales you all at once, your walls hugging him tightly as he sits inside completely. You mumble your curses against the ground, your tears staining your face and mixing in with the dirt. You feel his clothed chest press against your back, his hot breath fanning over your skin and you grunt as he snaps his hips hard, jolting your body forward and crying when your arms are pulled from your invisible restraints. 

“You may have forgotten who owns you, Little Mouse, but your body definitely remembers.” You feel his smirk against your skin, Loki pulling his hips back, leaving only the tip of his cock in your cunt before thrusting back harshly, a cry of pain retching from your throat as he begins to fuck you at a brutal pace. 

Your fingers curl against the dirt, your body rigid as you take on his wicked punishment. You keep your eyes forward, orbs locked onto the longboat and you feel all hope leave you when it sails away, your only chance of freedom slipping from your grasp. 

You close your eyes. You’re not there. You’re on the boat, floating freely toward another land where Loki cannot find you. But such thoughts diminish and your attempt to remove your spirit from his clutches proves fruitless as the sound of slapping skin and his grunts invade your senses, tying you down completely to your reality. 

Your walls flutter around his cock and you moan when he slides in deeper, the tip repeatedly ramming against the bundle of nerves hidden within. You’re panting and so is he, his hands pressing your pelvis down onto the ground, keeping your arse high for him and lifting his pelvis only to adjust his position and impaling you anew, feeling him fully once more as he takes everything from you.

His nails dig into your skin, the pain radiating throughout your body and you gasp when you feel the sudden pull at the pit of your stomach. You try to stop it, to not give him the satisfaction of bringing you pleasure despite his roughness, something you could have control over. But his fingers find your sacred bud once more, rubbing it in accord with his thrusts.

“You’re mine, Little Mouse.” He growls as he bends over you once again, his raven hair curtaining around yours and you cry when he adds pressure to the nub.

The dam within you breaks and a silent scream is pulled from your lips, Loki following suit, his groans of pleasure bouncing off the bushes and the trees as his essence mixes with yours. You slump unto the ground, tears falling afresh, and you whimper when he rolls his pelvis against your thighs, keeping himself snug inside. 

“You are nothing without me.” He whispers when he leans down once more, his voice licking against the shell of your ear. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see his emeralds piercing through your soul. 

“Everything that you are is mine.” He says menacingly, trepidation filling your heart as he presses a kiss on your dirtied cheek, sealing your fate with finality. 

The merriment in the banquet hall fills your ears as you follow Loki from behind. The necklace he’s given you has now turned into a metal collar around your neck, a long chain shackled at the middle with the end held tightly in Loki’s grasp. 

You try to steer away from the direction of the Yule celebration, not wanting to have people witness your state of disarray. But Loki tugs on the chain harshly, having you bump against him and you bow your head, casting your eyes to the ground as you follow him with reluctance back into the hall. 

The silence that casts throughout the crowd is deafening and the gasps coming from the lips of the witnesses bare down on you, making you want to disappear even more. Your clothes are a wreck, the fabric ripped from your struggles with Loki on the ground. Dirt and mud cling to your skin, and you don’t doubt that your binds are the most prominent in their eyes. 

There is no evidence left on Loki’s form, using his magic to cleanse him from his brutality and presenting himself as the regal prince the Asgardians know him to be. He brings you with him to the high table, the prince reclaiming his seat beside his brother, and all at once the merriment resumes, laughter and music echoing in the great hall. 

“You really know how to put on a spectacle, brother.” The king, Thor, booms at Loki’s side. You grunt when he tugs you closer, Loki’s arm snaking around your waist to have you sit at the arm of his chair.

You don’t look up but you sense the king’s lingering gaze on your dirtied form and you don’t doubt that he’s known of his brother’s lecherous deeds toward you since the beginning. 

“I am simply reminding the little mouse of her place.” Loki intones and you look up when he grabs your chin and tilts your head back, forcing you to meet his emerald eyes. “Isn’t that right, pet?” You see the threat in them and you acquiesce to his words.

“Yes, my prince.”

The words given to me were Christmas Gala, necklace and Asgard!Loki. I used Yule instead of gala since I wasn’t sure if gala is used in the world of Asgard. And this is dedicated to @fictive-sl0th​. I know it’s not your usual Christmas fic but I hope you enjoyed!

#loki #loki x reader #loki fanfic #dark loki #dark!loki #dark fic #the great escape #secret santa fic #coconut bun stories

[somebirdortheother]

The Boatman: And, then suddenly it was all silent, and he looked so happy that this dirty crow was coming close. He didn't seem to care that it ran off with his lunch. And, I thought to myself how lonely is this guy that even a thieving crow brightens up his day?

Loving Vincent (2017), dir. Dorota Kobiela, Hugh Wenchman

#loving vincent #vincent van gogh #rotoscope #cinema

[quitealotofsodapop]

Ok, but eventually, one of them is gonna get caught. While Mr. Sunshine is the most likely, I like to think it was Moonlight instead. For one, Wukong has been disguising himself amongst humans for centuries and is a master at shape-shifting... Macaque? Dead the past several centuries, in fact. Over a thousand years dead if we consider the fact he canonically died during the journey, and that canonically was during the Tang dynasty, approximately 1300 years ago. And like any ancient warrior demon from China's most legendary era... he immediately outs Wukong like a child who got his hand caught in the cookie jar. If he is going down, Wukong is being dragged with him!

Referencing.

Absolutely its Macaque that gets found out first. Because while he's a good actor... he's not patient at all. If he spends too much time as Mr Moonlight, he gets antsy.

Wukong is able to keep the act up far longer than people expect. He has that sort of self-control. He doesn't get "stage fright" as it were if he's transformed into something/someone else. The only times he breaks character in JTTW is when he laughs too hard (Camel Ridge), or when PIF tried kissing him while he was glamoured as DBK.

First person to notice that the pets weren't normal was Sandy. He knows cats, and Mr Moonlight isn't a real cat. He probably sits the dang cat down a calmly explains that while he's not sure why he's chosen this form, that he would appriciate that he come clean to his owners. Mr Moonlight looks away guiltily enough to confirm the boatman's suspiscions.

Mei has been working a theory with Pigsy for years that Mr Moonlight is a person cursed to be a cat ala Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Pigsy's caught the cat watching tv far too many times to be normal.

Bai He is obsessed with witchy things and magical girl cartoons, so she thinks Mr Moonlight is her familiar and that his behaviors are normal for a "magic" cat.

It all comes to a head when MK gets the Staff... causing Mr Moonlight to exclaim in a man's voice; "THE HELL DID YOU GET THAT?!"

The restaurant goes silent.

Bai He stops brushing her cats fur in cofusion.

Macaque tries to salvage the situation; "Meow?"

But its far too late. Especially since MK has just discovered that the Demon Bull Family and the Monkey King's staff!!

Mr Moonlight then points a single paw at the bird on MK's shoulder;

cat!Macaque, pointing at Mr Sunshine: "He's not a bird either." bird!Wukong: "Mac wtf?!" MK: "Mr Sunshine can talk too!?" Bai He, in denial, holding Mr Moonlight: "No, he's just a bird. They repeat stuff." Tang, terrified: "But the fact that your cat talks is ok!?" Bai He, matter-of-factly: "He's a black cat, so he's a witch." Tang: "I... I dunno how to refute that... I'm doing an exorcism." cat!Macaque: "Oh for-!" *transforms into his regular monkey self* MK & Tang: *Loud gasp!!* "MONKEY KING!!" bird!Wukong, offended: "Heeey!" *bounces down and turns into his true form* MK & Tang: "TWO MONKEY KINGS!?" Bai He: "But... my kitty..." Macaque: "Only some of the time, bug."

Needless to say the chaos increases from here. Pigsy whacks both monkeys on the head for the deception ("And the vet bills!").

#cicada lily au #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #sun wukong #lmk aus #lm bai he #lmk lbd's host #lmk mk #qi xiaotian #lmk tang #lmk pigsy #lmk sandy #lego monkie kid #lmk

[lucateeth]

Silver shell and silent boatman together, as suggested by @mrgreyishere !!!

I liked these two too much together to keep it a doodle oops

Close ups!!

#Andrew about to lose it #luca was probs like “experiment time!’ #and then straight pushed him off #something in the name of science but he’s a fool #sequel to this would be Andrew hurling him into the ocean #identity v #idv fanart #identity v fanart #idv #idv art #identity v art #luca balsa #luca balsa fanart #andrew kreiss #Andrew kreiss fanart #idv luca #idv andrew #idv gravekeeper #idv prisoner #identity v comic #idv comic #my art #digital art

[breathalyzerfail]

The banana boatman was under the effect of Silence when Colin caught up to him.

Matt acted out his silent screams of terror!

Sacré Bulb, this episode goes hard.

#dimension 20 #d20 spoilers #the ravening war #colin provolone

[ervona]

Day 7: Profane / Sword for @tes-summer-fest

Out on the Inner Sea, where Ebonheart had crossed to Vvardenfell with one one bold leap set in stone, the port was rocked to sleep by languid waves. Southwards lay the vast expanse of Thirr, eastwards the City of Swords over which loomed a frozen moon, and thence a ferry sailed in worn and weathered. One of the passengers, a young lady, bowed to the boatman as she disembarked. 

Rather undistinguished in her clean but simple clothes, she was glad for it and took a deep breath of sea air that mixed with the cooking from Six Fishes, watching as stevedores hauled barrels and crates onto a merchant ship. For a few more paces across the cobblestone, she needn’t have been a duke’s daughter up until the bridge to the castle, so she took a slight turn at Forth Hawkmoth.

In the Skyrim Mission hall, she asked of a friendly ambassador all the latest rumors brought in on western winds, while in the neighboring Argonian Mission she exchanged a courteous greeting and hidden scrap of paper with the consul. The significance of each meeting was not as it must have seemed, and she continued to Castle Ebonheart whither the Imperial knight at the bridge led her in without issue.

The guards inside were all aglint in silver, but the mer that strode up to her was in beetle-green silk, embellished with countless shimmering wings. Uncle appeared to her more boyish than ever, though he’d never been older, as his face and hands showed no signs of age that more closely followed the working mer. She leapt into a hug, for the illusion of their friendship was always worth upholding.

“You look like a pilgrim,” he said with a smile; she trimmed the condescension off of it like the hands of Fishmongers’ Hall fileted fish and moved on, carving a smile on her own face. “I see them crossing the lakes daily now, all sorts of pleasant people, long traveled–”

“Good evening to you too. But where’s Father?” Often enough he would have been holding court at this hour, now his seat was an empty ornament flanked by his personal guard.

“Up in his dining hall. Shall we go, then?” So she took him by the hand and followed up the spiraling staircase, soon liberated from his idle chatter by the fact that the chamber with her drawers stood afore Father’s. She excused herself to go change her clothes before sitting at the dinner table, and he proceeded rather than wait for her, which was suitable just fine.

It was apt to call it a guest room, but it had more or less been reserved for her, and all the things she hadn’t taken with her were where she’d left them. She wasted no time dressing, though she did not miss the more restrictive, overly ornate clothing she’d worn at court. Her neighbors in Saint Delyn on the other hand would work themselves to the bone for a brocade blouse like hers. 

Once when in Tear visiting Mother’s kin, she’d taken a liking to the airy anther fabrics they favored in the humid marshlands. Grey was their color, but the city had soon been wreathed in black after a high councilor’s undisclosed passing, strife had been sown and blood ran cold. These days the young, the dissidents, and all those who’d lost their spirits and loved ones in the war had many high seats to fill. 

Her time there had taught her not the evils of slavery, for she’d already looked upon them in Empire-chartered lands, but certainly more ways to strive against it. Even with her Serano cousins had she found kindred spirits, and through them much needed contacts, Black Marsh and beyond. The Dren side of the family was truly no better or worse, distinguished Hlaalu nobles as they were, but she would put that thought aside for dinner. 

Father awaited her in his golden moth robes, and she sank into a silent embrace with only the murmur of endearments into her hair and the clatter of cutlery. There was no need to say too much. He already had the perfect image of her in his mind, carefully cultivated, unable to grow beyond it even when they were alone, for too much shared grief weighed on them. The table was set for three, each with ample space of their own and the appetizer already served. 

She nibbled on a wickwheat biscuit as Uncle seemed to continue what he’d been talking about, his newly established netch ranch, the fine leather it brought, and she bit her tongue in frustration. Him and his blood-stained netch leather and the yoke that pulled lives and souls asunder. The three of them were in different worlds by now, though still only a ferry away from each other in the isles where the sacred and worldly embraced with hidden blades. 

Then he turned to her, wondering aloud why she’d chosen to live in a pauper’s residence. Without breaking her composure, she took a sip of her mineral water. She’d explained it enough to Father, and had lived well for a better part of the year, so where had he been?

“I’d seen it and thought to myself of what wisdom I could take from living in modesty. Our kin in Tearmarsh live simple but the light of the Three hardly touches them, unlike us,” she recited something akin to what she had before and before. Uncle whose kena had been a blademaster of Saint Felms giggled at that, and Father cut him a glance across the table.

“What? We’re not in Vivec, but in Ebonheart,” he stressed that last word with a Cyrod lilt, “I’d hazard to say the Three are asleep at the helm when the people are wanting for them.”

“The Three do not judge mere ill-spoken words, but the people do. Let us eat,” was all that Father had to say before calling the next course, ornada marinated in plum and comberry.

She continued to sup in silence, but imagined if they’d cleared the table and dueled in a knightly manner. A challenge of honor, for the gods at that, had been more common in warlike times but the custom was very much alive. Say they fought to the death, Uncle if he by chance won would get his final rival out of the way and send her to wed the King’s heir Ser Talen Vandas. Father had planned much the same, though not urgently, and he would hesitate to kill his brother in the first place but if he did, she would carry the Dren name.

What did she want, then? For the dinner to carry on in peace, not to lose her composure, and not have to marry the King's dear nephew. But perhaps a queen of Morrowind would carry power, more so than a duke, only the profane ruler of all Vvardenfell. There was a cloak of decorum about Father that fit a very refined doll, having his armor shined as if every day was a holy-day, little else for him to do but dictate legally worded letters for contractless builders on Azura’s Coast and hang his head. She could never become so complacent.

Father ate rather delicately to not stain his bead-woven beard and mustache, and his younger brother followed the lead, though prior stabbing his cooked ornada without grace. The knife he sliced with, dueling the carapace, was as her cutlery gilt and engraved to go along with the ebony plating. Overhead the chandelier of green glass hung as a sword pointed at them, a thousand shimmering blades. Cruel and acute was the castle, had been from its very first stone.

After dessert, she retreated to her chambers still chewing on the apple sweetcake. Father and Uncle having bid her good night continued talking, for which she was too tired, tired of her studies at the Temple and the fragile cover they made, of parlaying with smugglers or worse playing as abolitionists, of crossing betwixt and across sharp edges, and most of all knowing that she was ill-fit for their beautiful world even if she’d ever wanted to return.

She fell upon her bed face-first and rose back up, hair tousled from the impact giving her the feeling of peeking from a thicket. Through her eastward window she could see the lanterns of the city below, Ebonheart’s diadem. Further still across the water was the palace dome awash in cold fire, circled by celestial spheres that seemed like marbles from this distance. In there did Vivec dwell, as far from the cries of the helpless as one could be in the Ascadian Isles.

Once the gods had walked among them, before her time. Perhaps it rang true that they were asleep at the helm, or had spun the wheel and left it to turn uncontrollably as gods were wont to do. It fell to the people to take hold of, but only in hands that meant well could a better tomorrow be spun from the frayed yarn of the past. 

Her bed here was softer than in Saint Delyn, only the finest, most delicate fabrics for the Duke’s household, but it didn’t let her rest easy. In the morning, or the next, depending on how much Father wanted her to stay, she would disembark once more. She would watch the waves play, sway corkbulb boats like merlings on the seaside who had been told the world was their oyster. 

There was much work to be done, but it could wait the morning, or the next, as it had waited for far too long. And she cast a wish, just a small one, to each of the three moons that adorned the sky and sea.

#tesfest23 #tes #the elder scrolls #morrowind #ilmeni dren #vedam dren #orvas dren #also honoring the dinner prompt in this. like half of my entries #we're done when i say we're done... #scrawling tag

[birdymog]

Tudor era Ocean Witch and Silent Boatman

Prints available here

#identity v #idv #identity v fanart #identity v helena #identity v andrew #heledrew #andrew kreiss #helena adams #sea witch #birdymogdraws #historical fashion #ocean witch

[happyk44]

Hermes growing up in sunshine and bright lights and pretty thrones and regality and formality and "stay still, for the love of the stars, just stay still for one bleeding second" and hearing stories about the dirty Underworld and how its damp and dreary and no one it and the people who do are weird and strange and he meets Thanatos on a war field and admires the pretty wings stretched long across his back and watches quietly as he walks through bodies and blood and weaponry laid bare and plucks wandering confused soul up from their barely breathing chests and away from the grass they're sobbing in and and he follows him like a duck to water and Thanatos pays him no mind, just deposits the soil at the foot of his older brother and descends across the Styx with wide black wings that glitter like jewels in the dim light of the Underworld.

Charon regards Hermes with little interest, collecting payment and readying his boat. There's a young boy, no older than fifteen, who has no money, but Charon just pulls a coin from his own pocket and adds it to the bucket. It's locked tight and snaps at Hermes with large fangs when he creeps too close so he batters back and follows the boat across the Styx. She's black and vicious, waters tremulous and cruel. Beneath her waves, lost souls are screaming, begging to be saved. But around Charon's boat, her waves are soft and gentle. They push his boat along as he paddles to the gray sandy shore ahead.

He pays Hermes no mind when he lands of soft gray beach beside the boatman. Just guides the souls in a long line to the wall. There are other souls walking long across the beach and they turn and run with wispy feet and crash into the newly deceased with untapped joy.

Charon's lip twitches.

Hermes wanders through hallways and rooms and there's a large court, a myriad of souls waiting with shaking nerves as nymphs and naiads and skeletons holding stacks of parchment beside them. Some are assuring them. Others are silent, simply waiting.

Out through the final door, there's a beautiful walkway into a large field of asphodels. The Lethe trickles nearby. He can hear her soft siren call to rest, to sleep, to wash away all that worries him. Poppies flock her riverbank. Hypnos shimmers nearby. He is humming as soft tune as he lays a wispy soul to rest in the water.

The first and last time Hermes met him was Pasithea's wedding. A grand affair as Hera would have nothing less for her lovely daughter. He had been sleepy-eyed, dim and unresponsive. Here he is brighter. Whispering soft assurances as the soul rolls out of his arms and into the soft lap of the river below. He waits some time then collects them. They seem smaller somehow. Wet and dripping. But their form, once wispy and deteriorated, is stronger now. Squishy and soft along the edges, but ridge.

He seals them up in a jar and sets them aside with another set of jars. He pays Hermes no mind as he walks past. Nearby Pasithea descends. She cracks a crooked grin at her half-brother, and collects the washed souls sealed away. She disappears on gossamer wings into the darkness above their heads. Hypnos continues his work, lowering one soul at a time. Some of them are wispy and some are glowing bright. But he treats them all with the same gentleness. Like a parent tucking a child in for bed.

Hermes moves on.

It is not as dark as everyone said. Jewels glitter along the walls. The poplar trees almost glow, their white back standing strong. There is no dampness. It is cold, yes, but there's a warmth there. In the hustle and bustle. Ghosts wander, but nymphs and naiads and gods fluster back and forth among them.

It doesn't feel dreary. Feels like home. Comfortable, like every village and town Hermes has travelled through. Everyone has a job and they do it the best of their ability. They step around one another with practiced ease and smile and laugh. Cows roam freely and come when called.

Macaria doesn't say hello when he drifts by. She simply states at him for moment, but she doesn't question his presence. Just turns around and continues onwards with a cluster of souls at her side. Elysium is clustered further to the back. It is saved by a large boundary wall and strong iron gates. She pulls them open easily and he follows her inside. It is beautiful and orderly. Obsidian walkways. Colourful cottages. In the center square there is a large pomegranate tree. Each fruit is golden, hanging high and neatly in dark green leaves. As he approaches, they seem to shift, pushing outwards as though enticing him to take. Macaria grabs his wrist. It is the first true acknowledge of his presence.

"Don't," she says. "Eat those while living and my father will own you as if you were dead."

The golden fruit entices him. Turns a rich red as the trees almost tilts towards him.

"Oh," he says faintly. He doesn't like to be denied the things he wants, doesn't like to be told he can't have something, and he's tempted to take it anyway. But he withdraws his arm.

She pulls her hand off him and smiles kindly. She says nothing else, just carries on her way.

Hermes states at bright red fruit in front of him. He's never really been a fan of pomegranates. They're annoying to eat, little seeds you have to chew and spit out. And they're bitter. But he wants these ones. Distantly he thinks they'll taste good, like candy, like sugar, like the sweet relief of death.

He steps back and exhales shallowly. Turns on his heels and leaves.

The castle is far off to the corner. Built in the shadowy walls of the Underworld. He wanders through hallways and a throne room, peeking into bedrooms on the second floor. Each room is carefully curated to everyone's own design. He stumbles a bit when the castle floors shift under his feet, expanding rapidly. A new door opens up. He peeks inside to spot a nursery, and a second leading into Pasithea and Hypnos's shared bedroom. It slowly decorates itself. Sleepy wisps of fog against the ceiling. A soft rocking chair beside a study crib. Glowing jewels sprout from the walls. They are sharp for a minute before rounding out gently.

There is one room that is bare of any real effects. There is a bed that sits in middle, untouched. The sheets are too crisp. There's a closet. Dark robes sit inside, all the same colour, all the same design. There is one thing, a silver handmade crown on the beside table. It isn't well-crafted, but its cute.

He steps out and continues to wander. There is a modest kitchen on the second floor, across from the line of bedrooms. It accompanied a small seating area. But that is all. The third floor is open, no ceiling, just floor and an impressive view of all that is the Underworld. He steps onto the railing and jumps off. Flies across grass and wheat and a small but bustling farm and asphodels and poplar trees.

It's not scary. He doesn't know why the others grumble so much. Perhaps they fear what is below the surface, Tartarus, eternal punishment. The Phelegathon swirls around a large staircase that descends into flaming waters. The closer he gets, the warmer it is. The Keres are dragging sobbing souls to it and shoving them in unceremoniously. The river doesn't part for her, as she flies over head, but when a soul falls from her grasp, it spits the poor sufferer back out and into the pit itself.

Hermes recognizes Alecto as she ascends from deep inside the darkness. She glares at him, unpleased, but does not say anything about his presence. Merely snaps her whip and flies off. From a safe distance, Hermes follows.

Ah. Yes. The crown jewel of the Underworld.

The mines.

The caverns are glistening. Carts and carts of jewels are stacked along the walls. Guards dogs and a couple rams hold close, growling at Hermes when he tries to sneak over. A nymph shoots him a dirty look before she returns to her parchment. Hermes floats back.

He can sneak the jewels later. Right now, he wants to know why Alecto has left her post. She flies into the caverns. Hermes follows and falls still.

He's met his uncle before. Sat near him at meetings. But the man he's seeing now and the man he's seen before do not match up. Hades had always been tall, half-covered in shadows and shifting darkness. His crown sat on his head so dastardly no one but his siblings could bare to look him in the eye. Even Ares, strong and bull-headed as he was, cowered ever so slightly when Hades walked in.

Alecto speaks low as she settles near him. He listens quietly then nods, speaking near silent. Ghosts mill around, chipping at walls and pushing carts of shiny jewels.

He seems simpler now. There is no darkness, there is no crown. His pale arms are exposed. His legs. His face.

His eyes are blacker than the void, and Hermes finds himself falling into them, falling, falling, falling. His voice is a soft thing. Coaxing. Deep beneath his bones, Hermes feels himself crave something. A falling again. To lower himself. To rip out his own beating heart and hand it over without question.

The ruby red pomegranate filters back into his mind. He swallows around thick saliva of want and wearily steps back. Alecto mutters something and flies away. Hades turns and Hermes falls.

His smile is gentle, soothing. Everything is alright, it says. It's time to go.

"Hermes," he says and his voice is like a song. Upstairs, it is rigid, cutting and sharp. Like a blade. But here it's almost like medicine, healing parts of Hermes's soul he didn't know were damaged. "I was wondering when you were going to say hello." He cocks his head, like a pup, and it's almost laughable. It's cute, which doesn't make sense. Kings of the dead should not be cute. But Hades is. In a older matured sort of way. "Did you see everything you wanted to see?"

He knew. He knew Hermes was here and nosy. Of course, he did. This is his realm, his home. It shares his name and it is him, done to the bones.

"I was curious," he says slowly.

Hades's eyes glitter. Like stars. Like diamonds. "Yes, I know." He gestures loosely around him. "They were all curious once too." He laughs and it is sweet. The souls around him shimmer and bend with the sound, as though reaching for him. "Well, except Mac, but she was born of this earth. Nothing to really be curious about when it's in your veins."

The souls wane as his laughter dies.

I am not dead, Hermes thinks. Why does the sound of his uncle instill him with such longing then? He steps back. "Sorry for intruding, Uncle."

Hades looks amused. It fits his face far better than Hermes had imagined. Here he is lively and together. Breathing in the presence of death and wealth, invigorated by what Olympus lacks.

"People don't intrude," Hades says. He pauses. "Well, that's not true. Mortals intrude when they want something. But gods don't. Our family-" He waves his hand dismissively and moves forward. Each step is languid and calm. "-tend to stick to where they feel safest. Mortals will avoid me until they need me. But our family oftens feels I am unnecessary."

Hermes blinks. "Ares doesn't think that."

Hades grins. It is a sharp toothed thing, reflecting bloody war-torn bodies and rapid burials in shredded grass. "Ares likes Thanatos. And the Keres. That doesn't mean he thinks what I do is necessary. I am not the reason people die, nor am I the creator of their deaths."

Hermes blinks and Hades looms over him. It's not scary. Not worrying. There is something comforting in the presence of his uncle towering over him. It feels... Protective.

"They worry," Hades says, "about my proximity to our father and his friends. To the souls I have. My realm will always grow, even when belief begins to fade. The dead will always need a home to come to, even if they have no home in mind. It worries them." He shrugs. "But that's not a concern you need to bother about."

"I-" Hermes falters. He looks away from porcelain skin and glittering eyes and the sweet voice that coaxes him to spill bitter juice across his tongue and stay. "I should go."

Hades steps back. "I'm not stopping you," he says. "But when you want to, try to come back during the day. Charon locks the door at dinner and I wouldn't want you to be waiting too long for everything to open up."

Hermes falters again. Distantly he knows he was going to be come back. Drift in to poke around again. Maybe try to steal some pretty gems. Explore the farm. Check out the heated punishments down in Tartarus or sit in on one of the court proceedings.

There is too much he hasn't yet seen.

But how did Hades know?

Hades just smiles and says, "I told you. No one living walks in here unless they want something." He turns on his heel, to the souls waiting before him with carts of diamonds and emeralds and gold. "You don't have to know what you want now," he continues. He shoots Hermes a pleasant smile from over his shoulder. "But let me know when you figure it out."

#my writing #my original work #hades #hermes #happy talks greek mythos #this was supposed to be a romantic thing but lmao failed at that

[judy1926]

Two old children

One of the memories that lingers in my mind, like a framed picture, is the meeting between two of my father’s cousins ​​who met again in Argentina in 1984, after a separation of seventy years. It is difficult to imagine how in those years it was possible to enter through the widest doors two great wars, other lesser wars, and with them mass migrations, fascism, dictatorships and the boom in the market economy, and even the Russian Revolution, in short, everything that happened from 1914, when Alfredo Bravi left… The eldest brother, with abundant offspring, asked his family to go to Buenos Aires (I don't know the motive behind this, but I like to imagine that he went in search of adventures). In those same years the city began to emerge as a fascinating spectacle of a new culture. These are the years in which Roberto Arlt wrote his great novels and his famous work, “The Etchings of Buenos Aires,” or the years in which Borges began publishing his first books of poetry, “The Fever of Buenos Aires” and “The Moon Opposite,” and in which Macedonio Fernández wrote his book “It’s Not All Vigilance.” Open Eyes", which is one of the texts that laid the foundations for an enchanting metaphysics, and they are also the years in which the city began the early twentieth century will later be attributed to it. It is certain that this uncle of my father knew Corrientes Street when it was still narrow, and who knows if he frequented milonga dance parties, or was a prisoner of his shell.

The shell of an Italian immigrant. The brothers were born in a rural town in Macharata, where they lived by farming the land. And I am talking here - as I said at the beginning - about two of my father’s cousins, about two brothers of my grandfather Nazareno, who died in 1962, ten years after leaving his hometown to go with his family to Buenos Aires, where he lived with them in a neighborhood near the river, to work there as a boatman.) .

As luck would have it, in 1984, Alfredo and Antonio met in a small house in the town of Leon Suarez, Buenos Aires. Seventy years had passed, as I said. And now, here they are, each with his own family and his own world, standing like two strangers in front of the other. I remember that someone helped Alfredo get up from his chair to greet his brother who had traveled to Argentina to see him. They embraced each other, leaving their sticks aside, and then they began to eliminate everything that would prevent them from rekindling the childhood moments of the past years that remained hidden in the glass of old pictures. Before the meeting, they imagined each other in their own way, and

I say “imagine,” instead of “remember,” because After seventy years, memories end up turning into pure fantasy.)

Hugging is more than a sign of knowing the other, it is to include a part of you lost yourself over time.

They speak two different languages ​​now

forgotten his mother tongue. One of them drank his hundred in the morning, and the other coffee. One of them loved neighborhood life with all its stories and gossip, and the other loved getting up early and going out to the fields.

And yet, despite everything, they understood each other, even when they were silent to stare at each Other Without saying anything.

In 1989, Alfredo's spirit overflowed into his home in León Suarez.Three years later, Antonio followed him, in Sambuquito, a small town between Macerata and Recanati.

@fredandginger64

Here's the story if you're interested

#books #book quotations #book quotes #Story

[glasskey]

THT Tokens Part 1 - Vengeance Tokens

Today I’m going to be discussing the use of tokens on THT. I’ll be doing this in 2 parts - Vengeance tokens and Love tokens, so make sure you stay tuned for part 2.

So what exactly is a token? Tokens are objects that are used to quickly remind the audience of significant plot lines, a short hand in some respects. Tokens are usually something precious; an object either gifted or collected. These objects embody soul, as such they carry an individuals spirit within them.

A token that we’ve seen consistently throughout the seasons is June’s ear tag. It reminds us of Gilead and June’s imprisonment there. It’s been consistently present throughout the seasons but in season 5 it was conspicuously absent. Why? No Fred.

A vengeance token symbolizes a moral debt that one character owes another and most likely comes in the form of what has been taken from them. A classic example might be a memento from an innocent victim that the protagonist carries as they wreak revenge on those responsible.

A vengeance token from season 5 was Fred’s ring finger…..yep, gross. Tokens will often tell you something about the nature of the relationship shared by these two individuals. Rings and ring fingers signify commitment and when June sends Serena Fred's finger, it symbolizes the absolute severing of any connection between them. Sending body parts to your enemy is meant to instill mortal fear and communicate proof of death. When Fred's finger arrived on Serena's doorstep, she understood exactly how brutal and bloody Fred’s death actually was. June had personally taken the time to tear him “limb from limb”. Serena is rightfully terrified.

The severing of Fred's finger was a call back to the removal of Serena’s finger and payback for June’s broken family, a lost connection. The removal of Serena’s finger created a gulf between Fred and Serena that was never truly crossed. Her finger was referenced in shots throughout the seasons to emphasize her resentment and punctuate her grief. Given what Fred had done to Serena, I would have understood if she’d sent June a fruit basket, but no such luck.

Serena’s mother fashioned her a faux finger to cover up Freds act of violence and told Serena to suck it up, go home and play the silent, dutiful wife. June simply won’t allow it, his deeds must be answered for.

As Serena stands next to Nick and June under those giant angel wings in Ep 6 S3, she senses their connection. When Fred steps up to stand next to June the camera closes in on the hand with her missing finger. She’s pissed, her husbands lopping off her fingers meanwhile her husbands obsessed and Nicks travelled miles just to see June, what’s to be done? How about a nasty rant about how Nick was in the Sons of Jacob and well golly gee, didn’t June know about that?

In S5 June gleefully boasts to Luke that she sent Serena Fred’s finger, a proud admission of her act of revenge. His response is extremely telling, he is horrified, not only that but he is angry. “You are obsessed with her……How does that help our family?” he asks. He knows that this is payment for their broken family.

In season 1 we saw Luke reluctantly trade his ring to the boatman for safe passage into Canada. In myth “The Boatman” is a figure that transports one across the river Styx between the land of the living and the dead. It’s folklore that the boatman must be paid a fare and so previously pennies were placed on the eyes of the dead to ensure that souls reached their final destinations. Gilead is truly the land of the dead and Luke’s choice to pay the Boatman with his ring gives us pause for thought, what exactly did he give up in order to win his freedom?

June hasn’t worn her wedding ring since she hit the shores of Canada, however we did of course see Nick wearing one. He’s worn one before and it’s ended in tragedy, in fact wedding rings seem more cursed than blessed on THT and Nicks not much happier second time around. This makes me wonder, with all this talk of losing fingers and rings symbolizing losing a connection with another individual; what can we expect with Nicks marriage in S6?

Next time, we’ll be talking about the Osblaine and Lurv tokens :D

Glasskey

#june osborne #june x nick #nick x june #hulu streaming #max minghella #osblaine #nick blaine #elisabeth moss #the handmaid's tale #handmaid's tale #handmaid's on hulu #hulu tv

[theyorozuyadesk]

When Marnie was There headcanon

Toichi knew Marnie when he was young. He would wait for Marnie’s ghost every night. To see her sail past the marsh and watch the marsh from the blue windows of the abandoned mansion.

The girl who rowed the boat alone in the moonlight,

Her blue eyes reflecting the stars.

Was she was a spirit that escaped the dark,

Or a cloud that had descended on the marsh.

In the night, when the mind plays tricks on the eyes,

I watched as she sailed like an endless dream.

And then on the little room with the blue windows

In the hauntingly allure manor,

Where the lights shine only for me

And Marnie would smile only for me.

The townsfolk speak of the strange old man,

The silent boatman who speaks nary a word.

But if there was an invisible magic ring in this world,

Marnie and I existed far from it.

My precious secret that would remain so forever,

The lonely sailor and the blue little girl.

I stay awake at night thinking about this movie

#Obsessed with this Marnie forever #when marnie was there #studio ghibli #headcanon #ghibli movie #anime #marnie #poem

[stealingpotatoes]

An Eye for an Eye

[also on ao3]

Summary: Daud is betrayed by all the Whalers AU -- Corvo wakes up in the Flooded District to find a familiar stranger by his side. 

--

Corvo had gotten very used to not waking up at home over the last eight months. 

He’d prepared himself for those first two months, expecting his own bed once his ill-fated aid voyage was over. But the day he returned, he found himself sleeping (rotting) in Coldridge Prison, framed for Jess-- for the Empress’ murder. He had woken there, on bloody hay and fresh burns, for six months. And then it had been the Hound Pits. 

And now? Corvo wasn’t sure.

Corvo knew that where he lay now was not the ship, nor Coldridge, nor the Hound Pits -- and most certainly not the Tower. There was no gentle sway, no cold stone, and no residual smell-of-beer; no signals of his past residences. He was sprawled on an uncomfortable mattress, and still dressed in what he assumed was his coat. His coat, still full of weapons and ammo, Corvo realised. 

The room around him was too damp and too dark. A fire crackled somewhere to his right -- but the room was otherwise silent. A very certain kind of silence; that same mortal silence of a graveyard where Death hung, watching with disinterest. 

Corvo slowly pushed himself to sit up, his body and the pounding in his head protesting as he did. Staring forward, he saw only a dark brick wall, quite some distance from the dingy mattress he was lying on. Orange firelight danced on the wall, interrupted by Corvo’s hunched shadow and--

“I thought you weren’t going to wake up,” a gravelly voice stated flatly. 

Corvo snapped around to squint at the voice, trying to make out its owner through his haze. A man sat alone, tending to a dying fire in the middle of the room. Corvo briefly hoped it might have been Samuel, but quickly realised the mess of a man ahead of him was not the boatman. Another enemy. 

It was then that his final few hours came rushing back to Corvo; exposing the Lord Regent, the Loyalists, being poisoned, floating down the Wrenhaven, Emily-- 

Corvo needed to leave wherever this was. He needed to get back to the Hound Pits and find his daughter. He needed to go now. Would the stranger by the fire stop him? 

Corvo’s eyes darted to the stranger again. His eyes were focused on Corvo, and filled with quiet and distant intrigue, not disgust or hate. Nothing hostile -- but Corvo knew better than to trust someone simply because they didn’t seem hostile at first glance. 

At least he wasn’t dressed for a fight, in his thick black overcoat that seemed more than a little stifling. His hands, resting on his lap, were gloved -- black, again. Corvo squinted at the stranger’s face again; the fire’s light danced around the man’s features, making them harder to properly see, but Corvo could make out a nasty scar and unkempt stubble. And no blood from the eyes, at least. 

The stranger felt familiar in a dangerous way Corvo couldn’t place. A dangerous way that his mind, clouded by whatever poison the Loyalists had given him, was too slow to recognise. Think, Corvo, Think.  

Corvo stood up -- which he immediately regretted after it was met by that same protest from his body and headache. He stumbled, hand finding purchase on the wall, before he regained his balance. The ceiling was barely taller than Corvo standing up straight, so he crouched over a little. 

“You should be careful. Whatever they gave you was heavy stuff. The Mark will help you, but only so much,” the stranger said.  

Corvo furrowed his brow. The stranger had seen the Outsider’s Mark on Corvo's hand. He had recognised the Mark, and evidently knew quite something about it. How did he know, and why was he so calm about it? 

More importantly, why hadn’t the stranger turned him in? The Mark alone was enough for any good citizen to call on the Abbey, but Corvo’s face was on half the city’s wanted posters, and with a high reward. That combined with the mask sitting in his coat -- which was on its own fair share of posters -- made Corvo a very valuable man to give to the City Watch. Did the stranger not know about all that? Or had he made a choice not to hand Corvo in? With Corvo’s luck, the latter was very unlikely. He needed to stay prepared. 

Or to become prepared, he thought. He stretched out his Marked-hand, ready to summon the Heart’s whispers-- when he saw the knife on the floor. 

Corvo fell completely still. 

He wanted to forgive himself for not recognising the man -- he had only seen his wretched face for a fateful few seconds, and the man by the dying fire was hardly what he was seven months ago. He had fallen from whatever lowness he had been at to begin with, and that only helped his disguise. 

But the blade… the blade had not changed one bit. It looked exactly as it had that day. Exactly as it had when Corvo had first seen it, helpless against the wall, and exactly as it had when it was plunged into his Empress’s stomach.

“Daud,” Corvo growled. The numb haze the poison had left seemed to break and build itself into the sharp red-mist of anger. 

Daud didn’t stand up, nor did he seem all that worried about the man whose Empress he had murdered regaining his senses. Daud left the blade by his feet untouched. “I won’t fight you, Corvo,” Daud stared up. 

Corvo didn’t trust a word the Knife said. 

But what he did next, Corvo never saw coming; he kicked his blade toward Corvo, and it skidded across the hard-stone floor. “My life is in your hands.”  

This was a trick. This had to be a trick. Corvo’s eyes darted around, “Where are your men?” 

“Oh, I don’t have men anymore,” Daud huffed, looking more tired than he had at any point before. “The Whalers betrayed me.”

Not ready to be fooled again, Corvo’s vision shifted through the Void and into hues of orange. Yet where he had expected to see the yellow shapes of masked assassins filling the building around them, there was simply nothing. A few rats, but no other person in the area aside from Daud. They were alone. 

Had Daud’s gang truly double-crossed him? If Corvo was less angry, he might have been able to appreciate the irony of Daud helping those who betrayed Corvo, only to be betrayed himself. 

“When I killed your Empress and took her daughter,” Daud started, “it broke something inside of me. The Whalers knew that-- they saw that. They knew I was weak, and they took their chance, just like I trained them to. They tried to hunt me down after that, but--”

Half-running and half-blinking, Corvo slammed Daud into the brick wall behind and held the blade to the assassin’s throat. 

Daud’s breah hitched and he stilled entirely beneath the grip. 

Corvo looked in the assassin’s eyes. But he found no defiance, no will to escape. Only acceptance, a readiness to succumb to the Void. No, he more than that; wanted this. He wanted to die by Corvo’s judgement. Was that why he fished him out of the Wrenhaven? Simply to fall to his own sword? 

My life is in your hands. 

Corvo tightened his grip of Daud’s coat, knuckles shifting white. It didn’t matter why the Knife was letting Corvo kill him; it only mattered that Corvo had his chance. He had his chance to take revenge for Jessamine’s death, to end this killer’s life, and to… and for what purpose? What was the point in killing a man with nothing but his life to give? Where was the vengeance in killing someone who wanted death? 

Fighting against every screaming instinct inside him, Corvo let go of Daud and lowered his blade. He stepped back, leaving the assassin to half-crumple to the floor. 

Daud furrowed his brow up at Corvo, rubbing a confused and angry hand over his hunched neck. “Really?” he breathed, sagging like a deflating balloon. “After everything, you choose mercy? 

“Not quite.” 

Daud perked back up, still kneeling. 

“Your death won’t change what happened, nor what you’ve done,” Corvo said, wishing with both his hearts that it would. “But you can change what happens next.” 

Daud squinted, mouth poised for questioning.

“I can never trust you, assassin, but I know what you are. That has to be enough.” Corvo raised his chin, cooling the white-hot anger running through his veins. “You’re going to do one final job, for me, then you’re going to leave Dunwall forever, understood?”

An unsettling loyalty ran behind Daud’s predator-eyes as he nodded, standing up. My life is in your hands. “Where’s the job?”

“The Hound Pits Pub.” Corvo handed Daud his sword as Corvo unsheathed his own. “Some men have yet to learn what happens when you cross me.” 

#corvo attano #daud #daud dishonored #dishonored #potes wrotes #dishonored fanfic

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Craig Simpson

Published: Mar 25, 2023

Agatha Christie novels have been rewritten for modern sensitivities, The Telegraph can reveal.

Poirot and Miss Marple mysteries have had original passages reworked or removed in new editions published by HarperCollins.

The character of a British tourist venting her frustration at a group of children has been purged from a recent reissue, while a number of references to people smiling and comments on their teeth and physiques, have also been erased.

It comes after books by Roald Dahl and Ian Fleming were edited by modern publishers.

The new editions of Christie’s works are set to be released or have been released since 2020 by HarperCollins, which is said by insiders to use the services of sensitivity readers. It has created new editions of the entire run of Miss Marple mysteries and selected Poirot novels.  

Digital versions of new editions seen by The Telegraph include scores of changes to texts written from 1920 to 1976, stripping them of numerous passages containing descriptions, insults or references to ethnicity, particularly for characters Christie’s protagonists encounter outside the UK.

The author’s own narration, often through the inner monologue of Miss Jane Marple or Hercule Poirot, has been altered in many instances. Sections of dialogue uttered by often unsympathetic characters within the mysteries have also been cut.

In the 1937 Poirot novel Death on the Nile, the character of Mrs Allerton complains that a group of children are pestering her, saying that “they come back and stare, and stare, and their eyes are simply disgusting, and so are their noses, and I don’t believe I really like children”.

This has been stripped down in a new edition to state: “They come back and stare, and stare. And I don’t believe I really like children”.

Vocabulary has also been altered, with the term “Oriental” removed. Other descriptions have been altered in some instances, with a black servant, originally described as grinning as he understands the need to stay silent about an incident, described as neither black nor smiling but simply as “nodding”.

In a new edition of the 1964 Miss Marple novel A Caribbean Mystery, the amateur detective’s musing that a West Indian hotel worker smiling at her has “such lovely white teeth” has been removed, with similar references to “beautiful teeth” also taken out.

The same book described a prominent female character as having “a torso of black marble such as a sculptor would have enjoyed”, a description absent from the edited version.

References to the Nubian people – an ethnic group that has lived in Egypt for millennia – have been removed from Death on the Nile in many instances, resulting in “the Nubian boatman” becoming simply “the boatman”.

Dialogue in Christie’s 1920 debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles has been altered, so where Poirot once noted that another character is “a Jew, of course”, he now makes no such comment.

In the same book, a young woman described as being “of gypsy type” is now simply “a young woman”, and other references to gypsies have been removed from the text.

The 1979 collection Miss Marple’s Final Cases and Two Other Stories includes the character of an Indian judge who grows angry demanding his breakfast in the original text with “his Indian temper”, a phrase now changed to say “his temper”.

References to “natives” have also been removed or replaced with the word “local”.

Across the revised books, racial descriptions have been altered or removed, including, in A Caribbean Mystery, an entire passage where a character fails to see a black woman in some bushes at night as he walks to his hotel room.

The word “n-----” has been taken out of revised edition, both in Christie’s prose and the dialogue spoken by her characters.

It is not the first time Christie’s works have been altered. Her 1939 novel And Then There Were None was previously published under a different title that included a racist term. 

Agatha Christie Limited, a company run by the author’s great grandson James Prichard, is understood to handle licensing for her literary and film rights. The company and HarperCollins have been contacted for comment.

==

“The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect.”

-- George Orwell, "Nineteen Eighty-Four"

#Agatha Christie #sensitivity reading #sensitivity reader #English literature #memory hole #corruption of literature #religion is a mental illness

[thegreatyin]

do the Bandaged Scoundrel and your seeking alt know each other

actually yes and im THOROUGHLY DELIGHTED YOU ASKED

so, quick context for those not in the know, my seeking alt is caeru. he's a pre-existing OC of mine that i inserted into the role of a nemesis ambition playthrough against his metaphorical will. this is because i really wanted to play SMEN at some point or another, and caeru is exactly the type of guy to go on a self-destructing doomed spiral of madness in pursuit of forbidden knowledge. also he's just built to go through horrors in general. the best way i can possibly describe it is that if everyone else in his original setting lives in a resident evil/silent hill kind of horror game, caeru specifically exists in a fear and hunger or pathologic kind of horror game. no respite no peace no rewards only madness death and hunger forever and ever <3

so! the scoundrel and caeru exist in the same world. and they hate each other. they do not get along. they have so much beef. primarily because caeru would be intensely liberationist and very much on the side of murdering all stars forever, while the scoundrel is... shall we say, neutral on average and leaning towards white at worst. but also im gonna be so fr it's actually mostly because the scoundrel is just a huge bastard that's absolutely full of themselves and thinks they're above everyone else and caeru hates that exact character archetype with every fiber of his being. chronically incompatible pair of dudes. they're acquaintances but they probably send each other pipebombs in the mail.

but also. i think they do semi-rely on each other just a bit. caeru's very much analysis and correspondence focused where the scoundrel picks a red science experiment and fucks around purely to find out. the scoundrel is charismatic and wealthy where caeru struggles to hold a five second conversation without shriveling up like a raisin. they probably owe a lot of favors to each other is what im saying. weird hate friendship dynamic where neither of them like the other guy but still need them around so they only passive aggressively taunt each other instead of active sending to the boatman. the scoundrel may call on caeru to work at their lab every now and again, and caeru may come willingly, but they will never not grumble about being in the same room together.

it's a strange sort of kismesis, if you dare.

#note that i call him caeru here bc that's his name but 1) the character technically has a dozen equally fitting and valid names #and 2) if he had a proper london-style moniker it'd be The Doomed Scientist #ask #fallen london #ik ive mentioned him in passing before but this is the first time ive actually sat down and elaborated lol #in a way the scoundrel is made in a lab to be caeru's ultimate nemesis. they dont even go to utmv they're exclusively a fl oc #they're just that annoying #also caeru's account isnt actually very far in in the slightest since he's just an alt and ive got like. the entire scoundrel #their relationship is mostly a lore/hc thing for me atm #it's kinda funny how caeru keeps collecting hateships including ones across realities. how does this keep happening #i havent decided yet but i think it'd be fun if this dynamic kept going even post-ambition for both of them #mr cards and its horrible little seeker

[sapphirecastles]

XLI

The Boatman is out crossing the wild sea at night.

The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the violent wind.Stung with the night's fang the sky falls upon the sea, poisoned with black fear.The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the Boatman is out crossing the wild sea.

The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the night with the sudden white of his sails.I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in the dust and waits.

What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor darkness?Is it heavy with gems and pearls?Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white rose in his hand and a song on his lips.It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning.

She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind and hides her eyes.The storm shrieks through her broken doors, the light flickers in her earthen lamp flinging shadows on the walls.Through the howl of the winds she hears him call her name, she whose name is unknown.

It is long since the Boatman sailed. It will be long before the day breaks and he knocks at the door.The drums will not be beaten and none will know.Only light shall fill the house, blessed shall be the dust, and the heart glad.

All doubts shall vanish in silence when the Boatman comes to the shore.

(Rabindranath TAGORE. Fruit-gathering)

#rabindranath tagore #Tagore #Will it be long before the day breaks and he knocks at the door? #In my translation to another language this verse has a question mark and it makes it more optimistic #poem #poetry #indian poetry