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dycefic · 11 months

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The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

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Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

#short fiction #original story #i aten't dead #the old gods #small gods #household gods #forgotten gods who do not forget

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14thgalerie · 5 months

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i peeled my orange today

• pairing: james potter x reader

• now playing:

• word count: 1.3k

• genre: angst

— a short one that i did last night. peeling fruits had always been something that shows the tenderness of humans to me. that one poetry reading about oranges made my heart clench at the thought that came to me of best friend!reader who has always pined for james and the bittersweetness of being too late.

There he was standing by the edge of the lake, his slender silhouette illuminated by the pale blue moonlight. At the crunch of stray leaves, he turns to look at you, his expression containing surprise.

In hushed communion, you stood in silence beside him, opting to fix your gaze on the languid current of the water before you. Capturing a mental photograph of the delicate interplay of the light as it hits the dancing small waves deep into your mind, ingraining the image to a corner that you could visit now and then when you forget the laughter that bounced against the corridors.

For a while, you chose to linger in the sound of the rusting trees surrounding the castle that casts a melody for you. You were in no rush to speak your mind, not when there was a clear understanding that he would stand sentinel for a thousand years should you want to.

17 years of friendship told you that. Threads of shared laughter and silent conversations. Tales that were shared with no urgency.

And so, in the fragile and sacred lull of the moment, you reveled in the comfortable silence. If the years it took to be freed from your heart was to be likened, it would be a while before he could fathom to be in the same space as you.

“James.” You call. Slowly, you turn your head to face him, only to discover that his attention is transfixed on you already.

Finding that gaze studying you; flickering ever so slightly across the features that painted your face— perhaps he already knew the words that were poised to slip out of you. After all, he did know the twists and turns of your soul much more intimately than any other. Those pretty eyes mirrored the waters in front of you with the light hitting the silvers on his waterline.

The 15-year-old kid within you felt enraged to see the swarm of emotions that drowned you in those eyes.

A tempest of desire, and longing, woven with heaps of frustration, and guilt. It was something that held you captive and consumed you for longer than you dare admit, threatening to swallow you whole. As you stand before him, your brain struggles to recall how exactly you escaped it.

Reaching out the hand closest to him to grab his warm hands, missing the way it enveloped your shivering ones. You couldn’t help the fluster of memories that came rushing back and the instinctive way your tear ducts activated.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, a tremor infused in the last syllable.

“For what?” You ask, brushing aside tears with a subtle flutter of your lashes. Thumbs caressing the skin on the back of his hand, moving with a patterned path. You didn’t notice it but he did and that realisation added to the weight to the lump that blocked his airways.

“I just stand here and yet I still manage to upset you.” He says, a hesitant exhale lingering between the words.

“What made you think that?” You press.

“If the past year wasn’t enough proof of that, then I don’t think I even know you as well as I would like.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud threatening to explode. His lungs relax as he realises how he held his breath when you moved your eyes away.

The combination of his emotions, adding the ones he still couldn’t pinpoint, left him staggering in his stance. If it weren’t for the way his knees locked from his many years of quidditch, he would be beside you on his knees.

Every second that passed felt like a sharp blade. The pain was hollow yet deep, striking the centre of his heart and reaching throughout every nerve in his body. And it was only a deep, and unending sense of devastation left in him.

He knew what was coming, a somber revelation that loomed over his head for several weeks already. Yet, he resisted the need to acknowledge it, not when your own countenance showed no obvious indication of it. Thus he indulged himself in this false pretense, allowing himself that at least. Alas, the days kept getting shorter, and the hours were swift in their passage and he was left gripped by a sinking fear as you kept getting further and further away from him even though your physical body remained next to him.

As you always did from the ungraceful encounter on the path to the Hogwarts Express when he was 11, your faces meeting the stone cold ground with a huff.

He couldn’t accept that this would be the culmination of a slow, painful unravelling and elimination of all he knew that defined his every day.

His soul was incredibly and seamlessly intertwined with yours, so intimately bound that he trembled at the thought of the scissors you wield, deadly afraid that they would sever it when he least expected it, leaving behind a scorching mark upon his very essence.

“I peeled my orange today.”

In the hushed atmosphere, your words hung in the air, an admission that crushed you to admit out loud. But from the anguished expression of the man opposite you, you could easily surmise that his emotions far surpassed yours and were nowhere near the ones that hit him at such a mundane divulgence.

The lake’s tranquil waves lapped against the shore in a rhythmic pattern. The serene waters played a soothing contrast to the tempestuous tide swirling in the recesses of his mind. He didn’t say anything for a while, the silence between you was heavy with unspoken shared vulnerability.

However, for you, surprising as it was, it was nothing but a statement now. The words transcended meaning except for a mere reflection of a newfound learning. Something you were proud of enough that you shared the thought with him.

At last, he spoke, his voice filled with subtle remorse that is obscured by a quirk of tenderness that he kept reserved for you. “You did? You didn’t spill the juice all over your hands?”

James was surprised at himself for the unexpected eloquence that flowed from within him, a symphony of words that were likened to a normal conversation between the two of you. Astonished at the way his voice remained unnervingly steady and held no tremors. It seemed as if the invincible, vice-like grip that threatened to crush his vocal chords vanished.

You cast your gaze upon him again, your eyes directly looking at his own. In that silent exchange, his vulnerability was laid bare, accompanied by a sense of helplessness in them.

Because unlike you, that sentence meant a lot more to him. Because for him, it meant that he could no longer tell you how much he loved you when he couldn’t peel oranges for you anymore.

Your impatient self wouldn’t be hovering next to him as his hands tenderly tore apart the tough skin of the citrus until the soft flesh of the fruit was revealed. The scent of sweet citrus filling the air and the twinkle in your eyes at the pleasing aroma as he splits it apart. The calloused flesh on his fingers that were a stark contrast to the way the figures were so gentle in separating each slice.

It meant that he could no longer ignore the pout that formed when you noticed how he gave you the better half.

James’ heart ached and throbbed in the worst ways possible at that bitter realisation.

“I love you.”

So despite knowing it was too late, he summoned the courage to tell you in the way you’ve always yearned for in the sidelines.

In reply, you whispered “I love you too.” accompanied by a genuine smile that felt natural.

He just didn’t expect your hurt to feel like this.

masterlist

#harry potter #marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter angst #james potter imagine #james potter fanfic #james potter fanfiction #the marauders

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thatswhywelovegermany · 13 days

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Aufhocker

An Aufhocker (top sitter), also called Huckup, is a pressure spirit and shapeshifter in German folklore. It is a kind of goblin, who jumps onto the shoulders or backs of hikers who are still out at night, becoming heavier with each step.

The hiker is paralyzed, suffers from feelings of oppression and anxiety and is unable to turn around. The Aufhocker remains sitting on the hiker until he is released by the approaching light, a prayer or the ringing of a bell.

The nightmarish experience often takes place in three phases. The hiker is first approached or accompanied by a sinister being, then the demonic companion grows to supernatural size and finally jumps onto the back of the victim. The Hackestüpp from Düren is one such Aufhocker, who initially accompanies the victims as a playful little dog, then jumps onto their backs, cannot be shaken off and becomes heavier with each step.

Typical haunted places such as streams, bridges, lakes, forests, ditches, crossroads, ravines, churchyards and sites where murders or executions happened are the usual places for an encounter with an Aufhocker, which can result in physical and mental illness and sometimes even death for the hiker. The Bahkauv ("stream calf") of Aachen is an Aufhocker who is said to frighten drunken men at night and ask them to carry him on their shoulders.

Sometimes an Aufhocker first appears as pitiful old women; but they can also take on animal forms such as a bear, a calf (as in the Bahkauv), a werewolf (as in the Stüpp of the Western Rhineland) or a dog (as in the Sürthgens Mossel of the Hürtgenwald forest). Elemental beings such as mermen or will-o'-the-wisps also act as Aufhockers. What is important is not the shape of the Aufhocker, but the oppressiveness of the situation. Aufhockers are not limited to German folklore. An Aufhocker in the shape of an old man is also mentioned in the oriental fairy tale collection One Thousand and One Nights, in which he meets "Sinbad the Sailor" on a deserted island.

The figure of the Aufhocker has its origins in the fear of the revenant, the undead. The oldest reports of Aufhockers clearly speak of "haunting corpses" and not of goblins or ghosts. Unlike Nachzehrers, who did not have to leave their grave if they wanted to harm the living, other undead, like vampires, rose from the grave and stole people's vital force. This could happen in a tangible way by sucking out blood, but also in a more abstract form. As recent research has shown, this also applies to vampires, who are said in the oldest reports to have a damaging effect through "strangling" and "emaciating", but not through bloodsucking. In the western Rhineland, the Aufhocker merges with the werewolf to form the Stüpp, a dangerous monster that unexpectedly jumps on people's shoulders and forces the victims to carry him around, causing trepidations, anxiety, feelings of oppression and panic attacks until they die of exhaustion.

#german mythical creatures #german folklore #aufhocker

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inkyvendingmachine · 4 months

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T'was The Night Before Crisis... Season 4, Episode 1

💀 Call of Cthulhu: Haunted Hijinx Masterpost 💀 Call of Cthulhu Season Four Masterpost (Coming Soon)

Warning: This campaign is an edited version of a Call of Cthulhu scenario from the Tales of the Crescent City book. While a lot has been changed, there IS spoilers for it throughout these posts.

WE'RE BACK. After over a whole heckin year of 10000 RP logs, we have returned with our final season of Cthulhu! It's been not just a year out of game, but a little over a year worth of in game time has passed too, and they boys are indulging in a chill, at home seasonal celebration... for now! Surely nothing weird will happen, nothing ever does around holidays for these boys obviously.

Happy Holidays!

Art Credit: @inkdemonapologist : sketching + inking @inkyvendingmachine : concept + colouring

A week. Two weeks. A month. A season. A year.

A whole year and a couple of months go by without any crazy outside force trying to rid the boys of… anything really. The time isn't exactly calm or empty… but compared to recent events, for a while, things were… kinda normal?

Well, except for when Joey got Peter to help him meet with Y secretly to prevent the gang from continuing to mess with JDS, or when Sammy and Henry realized mid tennis match that a version of Henry had slashed him right through the center. Or how the Prophet can just pop out now without ink. And how Susie has been brought in on all this, and perhaps brought in on even more than just the supernatural content as her bonds with Sammy and Joey grow tighter. And how Peter is actually moving to New York City now and ends up visiting Jack just as Beans goes missing and now there’s many little Beans kittens. And the summoning spell to ask the spirit that helped them in Haiti what will become of Sammy and Prophet. And the other summoning spell for Prophet to get his instructions from the Masked Messenger. And Sammy still can't tell where he's going half the time after uncovering some of Prophet’s memories. And Joey is still a bit hesitant to leave the studio if not being actively distracted. But other than that! It's been normal!!

And the boys have made it all the way to Christmas. Joey's received some parcels in the mail, from the Fowlers and Nicole. The Fowlers actually sent each of the helpful boys uh… 1000$?? That's a thousand. EACH. IN THE 1930s. For helping out… which I guess if stuck eternally in soul lake hell, wouldn't have that money anyways. But still, that's quite a lot for the time.

Meanwhile, Nicole has had time to move on from her heartbreak, and is ready to start a new chapter in her life, and as thanks, leaves Joey both the keys to her old apartment (the lease being paid up for a few years already) and to her previous car, with a guarantee she's giving these things up for better, not to worry about her. And totally not because maybe all the occult scratches and bullet marks in the wall makes the apartment hard to rent, or the fact that her car is an extremely recognized Mercedes, or that both of these assets were hounded by gangs for a bit after her magical mistakes…

It probably is actually all out of good will and appreciation, and these things will come in useful, especially if they do need to deal with more mafia or what have you. Joey doesn't need them tracking Henry's car home to his family or back to Jack's house.

With those gifts out of the way, the actual holiday is spent in Jack's house, with a big potluck meal. This holiday celebration includes a small group of friends and their families, namely, all the people Jack has befriended and also would be okay with the Lurker partying with em. The event goes well, Sammy gets to play through the night, Henry’s children get to hang out with a real Bendy and also a buncha newly grown-up cats, Henry gets to eat as many cookies as he wants…

That… slows down when Henry sees a yellow sign in a ribbon. But as soon as he tries to not lose his entire cool and freak out, it disappears… the ribbon was just a ribbon the entire time. Perhaps golden ribbons shouldn't be their normal holiday decor…

Meanwhile, Peter feels eyes on him and decides to move away from the window maybe, especially because it feels like he suddenly knew exactly which star in the sky holds Carcosa at the same time… surely a fine coincidence to have happened at almost the same time. But nobody else is acting weirdly, sooooo.

The night wraps up, with Susie and Norman heading out first, followed by Henry and his family. Sammy also heads home after being socially exhausted and desperately needing his alone time, and Peter helps Jack clean up some before heading out too. Jack heads to bed, only to find an already asleep Joey with a Spark sprawled on top of him, probably after he “closed his eyes for a moment” a little earlier.

The next day, there's technically work, but it's a short day because what's actually happening is a charity auction and party. A collection of “originals, signed by the creators” has been donated to help raise money for relief efforts in a few warring European countries, as well as the “entertainment” for the evening (Bendy cartoons, of course), courtesy of JDS, which means of course all the stars who signed the auctioned items were invited to the party as well.

Yes, even Sammy.

(And also Jack, Henry, Susie, and Joey of course.)

The event is being held at a yacht club, advertised to the wealthies of the city midst the great depression, with live music playing and glittering evening wear, and uh. Denis.

Y'know, Denis?? That rich guy from NOLA who invited us to the masquerade?? That Joey casually name dropped his legal name to in order to keep him from tracing himself and Sammy back to JDS, when they didn't know who or how dangerous their initial information gathering was.

Anyways, a quick little talking him in circles by Joey corrects that past mistake, as well as gets him the information that Denis is actually related to one of the people who put the entire event together. Ha. Good to know.

Of course it's difficult to shake him afterwards, since Joey is one of the few people Denis knows all the way up in New York. At least Joey actually has a fancy car to talk about now.

Meanwhile, in the quietest, emptiest corner he could find, Sammy notices something odd about the song that's currently being played live. It sounds familiar, and while surely there's been some Bendy music played this evening…. This particular song is not that. But it WAS composed by Sammy.

In NOLA.

When he was improvising with some random music on the street while hanging out on the balcony of his and Joey's hotel room. Properly freaked out by having a song from a very scary time literally come back to haunt him, Sammy runs to find someone, (Joey is still busy with Denis), and comes across Jack first. But before he can fully explain, the entire party is interrupted.

Chatter turns into hushed confusion as some pale man up near the front starts speaking in tongues. It's hard to tell if he's trying to perform some ritual or just incoherently rambling, but it doesn't matter! Because very quickly there’s a gunshot!!

And the Prophet? He's awake. He knows what that gunshot was. He's been waiting for this.

It has begun.

Of course the entire party breaks out in panic once the gun goes off. Joey doesn't know what sort of Eldritch nonsense was happening up front, but upon scanning the crowd and noticing Jack and Sammy together, beelines for the snack table to grab Henry and search for Susie.

As everyone is being rushed out, some of the boys manage to notice that not all of the panic is simply from the mad ramblings and sudden bullet, but also we've got some people in the crowd bleeding from their eyes. How festive!

Upon getting outside, the Yacht club is of course already being surrounded by security and the police, as the sudden gun shots quickly alerted locals to the nonsense going on. Nobody is allowed to bolt until an investigation is conducted and people are questioned, but of course Joey managed to sweet talk his way over to a telephone to make a very important quick phone call.

To one Peter Sunstram!

Turns out, between all their arguments, there are a few things they can agree on, which includes quietly spying on suspicious parties even though they should probably not be doing that if they actually wanna be safe but surely everyone will understand when they find out IT'S FINE.

Anyways Peter’s been keeping an eye on Y, and earlier in the day Y seemed to be performing some ritual before having some kind of … breakthrough? Revelation? Peter had told Joey of it, and in good faith Joey agreed to keep an eye out for WEIRDNESS, hoping that Y was upholding his promise to not be interfering with JDS anymore. But now this episode seems to have specifically happened, right at their exact event for the evening, so Joey does his best to pass along as much info as he can in that moment to Peter. As well as set up a backup plan in case anything else happens to them before they can escape the Yacht Club.

After some interviews with the police though, they’re allowed to go free. Listening to other partygoers' recollections they’re able to pick up a few more names here and there – the one who fired the gun up front by the bandstand is said to be another local gangster by the name of Johnny Nero, and the band playing on that bandstand one Red Leverett and the Jumps – but no evidence that really points the crew in any sort of serious lead. (including more commentary by Denis wHY ARE YOU STILL HERE UR NOT PART OF THE GROUP)

So having managed to collect everyone together, including Prophet returning Sammy to the front for the interview thank the lord (not that one)(not that one either)(maybe that one) the JDS crew head over to their very safe and secure hide away to talk about what just happened: that’s right, they’re going to Peter’s apartment.

And staying there through midnight! Listen, the last time weird shit started happening like this, everything popped off at midnight and there were panics all around. It’d be nice to know where people were this evening. And while they’re all sitting around waiting for that to pass, Henry and Peter can even talk about the really weird things that happened last night! Yknow, where Henry saw the yellow sign for a moment and Peter felt something watching him from space? Those very normal Christmas activities?

The group also gets informed about how Peter maybe has been keeping an eye on the Y that still hangs out in the city, and how Y was excited over some weird ritual. While he goes over that and also Joey and Peter guiltily kinda admit to their secret spying tendencies, Henry gets info from Linda when he calls to explain why he’s not home yet and how he won’t be home for a little while still. She’s remembered some research that crosses over with the prophecies they had gotten a month or so after the last big event like this. And Jack and Sammy bring up how they had been theorizing over who’s and what’s in the prophecies… for instance, that which the Phantom seeks, who bears already the scars of following the Mender’s lead….

Is it Peter? He followed Jack into the weird ghosty world. Is it Joey? He’s followed the Mender in other ways, and also literally bears scars caused from Jack’s healing. Or is it somehow Y?? Who seems… involved in this somehow, despite promising he wouldn’t be fucking around with stuff that might step on JDS’s toes again.

With no real conclusions, but midnight having come and past, people start to head home. Joey has someone drop him off at the studio, as after weirdness happened with any sort of occult stuff he’s interested in checking in on Bendy and the Stone. Since, those tend to be targets for this kinda creepy thing. Bendy is perfectly fine though, and hardly even noticed anything going on… So Joey picks up some of his notes and… finds himself unable to leave the studio. For some reason it just seems like the wrong idea… so he spends all night up researching, unsettled by how many non-leads he has into what will possibly happen next. It’s starting to feel like Haiti again, knowing that something bad is coming but really having no idea where to fortify with this information.

But he does have something new…

He has plenty of things new now, including his dream spell.

Peter’s not the only one who can spy, and while Joey is sure he’d hit some kind of barrier trying to peek in on Y’s dreams… just knowing whether the man was still alive, or possessed by some eldritch nonsense seemed like a good place to start. Maybe his excitement at the ritual earlier was coincidental…

The thing is, defying all reason, Joey’s able to step into Y’s dream just fine somehow.

This is probably not something he’ll regret doing later, surely.

[Next Episode] (not yet released)

#call of cthulhu: haunted hijinx #joey drew #henry stein #sammy lawrence #jack fain #peter sunstram #bendy the lurker #beans the cat

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recklessfiction · 9 months

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What to Know if You are Gifted the Sight of the Oracle

Be mindful to whom you lend your talents. The gift of foresight is coveted by all, warlords, priests, and paupers alike. The Queen of Caverns, that great dragon, has been known to steal oracles in order to advance her reign. There is talk that her current one has died. Be careful.

Very few can change the future but it is possible. These individuals are very dangerous to those like yourself. There are tales of augurs driven to madness by the ever shifting threads of fate, the endless possibilities brought about by the dissatisfied and the ambitious. Kill them, should you have the chance, lest your mind be played by their whims like an instrument.

Your eyes, in truth the eyes of any seer, are powerful and sought after ingredients for a wide range of potions, rituals, and spells. Isn't that wonderful? Many years ago, when those cloying gods of Heat and Summer, arose from their satin sheets and began their war with us, the bodies of oracles were found littered across country sides, their eyes torn out. At that time, every man, woman, and child was desperate to know what fate had in store.

There are those that you can learn under; sages and sybils who have whetted their talents beyond anything remotely understood by the common man. The great giant Bodi, on whose hands are grafted the eyes of thousands of augur. Sister Pleasant, a silent priestess of the Winter; her great paws have crushed the heads of many a tyrant and king. Then there is the Liar who lies beneath the lake, exiled for her gifts by her god and lover, and the Mad Gargoyle, trapped on the brow of the Castle King for millennia.

I would warn you not to look too deeply into your own future. The temptation, I understand, is a powerful one but to look where one's own strings will lead will bring only premature despair or an unearned confidence that will, more likely than not, lead to your downfall.

It would behoove you to find out from where your powers came. Most oracles receive their gifts from gods, looking to relieve their own lethargy by causing chaos and confusion, but there are some whom the gods cannot claim, some who found their eyes in the light of swamp lanterns, or who were cursed by the sky to see infinitely. It would be beneficial to know what manner of creature might one day come looking for repayment for their "gift."

Many will take your word as truth, remember this. Armies will fly into battle, confident in your assurances of their victory. People will burn their homes, turn killer, heratic, humanitarian, or acolyte, all under your advisement. I am not telling you to manipulate the world around you, I am only saying that you can. Your word is worth its weight in gold, as is every other part of you. Use this gift, for it is a gift. I look forward to seeing where it will take you.

#oracles #unreality #fantasy #horror #what to do #guide #gods #religion #monsters

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atopvisenyashill · 10 months

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Harrenhal will be the new seat of what’s left of the Seven Kingdoms at the ending.

I know a few people have already said bits and pieces of this but I wanted to get everything in one post for my own sanity lmao. There’s three kind of main branches to this theory: geographical reasons, historical reasons, and reasons specific to King Bran theories.

Geography surrounding Harrenhal

It’s the center of everything! Let me show you on the map because i’m a visual learner:

Ignore the North and Dorne and probably the Iron Islands too, bc the first two are not gonna be part of The Seven Kingdoms anymore and the Iron Islands is…gonna be a fucking mess lmao. Lemme zoom in:

It’s a very centralized point in the Riverlands but it’s also fairly centralized to the Crownlands (which will probably get absorbed into the others), the Stormlands, the Eyrie, the Reach, and the Westerlands. It makes sense, from a geographical standpoint, that if the lords need to choose a new ruling seat - and they will no matter what, because King’s Landing is gonna go boom - that a more centralized location for easier access to the capital would be their decision.

The Riverlands is also an excellent choice in general because geographically, they are always getting screwed due to being right in the middle of everyone. They get fucked during the Dance, the Blackfyre Rebellions, Robert’s Rebellion, AND the War of the Five Kings. The only area that really gets screwed over more during the various wars is probably the Dornish Marches, because of the conflicts between the stony Dornishmen and the Storm and Reacher Lords but you can’t really set up there because it’s too far from the Eyrie and Riverlands.

And the thing about the Riverlands is that part of why it gets fucked up is that it’s right in the middle of everything and has no natural defenses. The Eyrie has the mountains, the North has their snow, the Dornish has their desert. The Reach manages to stay out of a lot of fighting because that’s where the food is (although the Iron Islands are about to screw them, but that’s because the war has spiraled out of control) and while both the Stormlands and the Westerlands have seen big battles, they have some protection in their coasts, which gives them ships that the Riverlands just can’t quite access. Having the King set up in the Riverlands gives the smallfolk of the Riverlands some much needed protection and potentially, a break from all the fighting.

So the Riverlands is a good place to set up shop, but Harrenhal specifically? Well, that’s because it’s huge:

Every child of the Trident knew the tales told of Harrenhal, the vast fortress that King Harren the Black had raised beside the waters of Gods Eye three hundred years past, when the Seven Kingdoms had been seven kingdoms, and the riverlands were ruled by the ironmen from the islands. In his pride, Harren had desired the highest hall and tallest towers in all Westeros. Forty years it had taken, rising like a great shadow on the shore of the lake while Harren's armies plundered his neighbors for stone, lumber, gold, and workers. Thousands of captives died in his quarries, chained to his sledges, or laboring on his five colossal towers. Men froze by winter and sweltered in summer. Weirwoods that had stood three thousand years were cut down for beams and rafters. Harren had beggared the riverlands and the Iron Islands alike to ornament his dream. And when at last Harrenhal stood complete, on the very day King Harren took up residence, Aegon the Conqueror had come ashore at King's Landing.

If it’s going to be the capital, it has to be somewhere that can hold a whole lot of people and Harrenhal is ginormous and perfect for holding lots of people. It’s even happened before; part of why Lord Whent stages his big tourney where Lyanna is crowned queen of love and beauty is because likely because Ser Oswell Whent, his brother on the Kingsguard, asked him to stage an excuse to get all the Lords together so Rhaegar could discuss with them what to do about his father and Harrenhal is the biggest castle they can do that in outside of King’s Landing. From The Kingbreaker chapter:

Old Lord Whent had announced the tourney shortly after a visit from his brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. With Varys whispering in his ear, King Aerys became convinced that his son was conspiring to depose him, that Whent's tourney was but a ploy to give Rhaegar a pretext for meeting with as many great lords as could be brought together.

It’s also built up to be sturdier than King’s Landing. Whereas King’s Landing was kind of haphazardly thrown together as it built up over the years, Harren the Black had always meant for a lot of people to be housed there. We see how many people can live in it during Arya’s chapters as she runs around inside of it and Harrentown and this is with a ruler who has no interest in keeping a lot of people in it. With a King or Queen living there, it opens itself up to growing in a much more easily defensible way than King’s Landing.

Historical Reasons Harrenhal is Significant

As you can see on the map, it’s built right on the edge of a very important place: The Isle of Faces and the lake that surrounds it, called the Gods Eye.

It’s a key place for the history of Westeros because it’s where the First Men and the Children of the Forest made peace:

Inexorably, the war ground on across generations, until at last the children understood that they could not win. The First Men, perhaps tired of war, also wished to see an end to the fighting. The wisest of both races prevailed, and the chief heroes and rulers of both sides met upon the isle in the Gods Eye to form the Pact…

It’s also notable for being the only place the Andals never managed to conquer:

It is possible that a few [Children of the Forest] survived on the Isle of Faces, as some have written, under the protection of the green men, whom the Andals never succeeded in destroying.

It’s a place associated with peace and negotiations between people, a place to stand strong against war and untouched by its horrors. A monument to what could be, if you will. And Harrenhal sits on its shore; it would add a very rich layer to setting up King’s Landing in a place associated with peace. And this isn’t the only time a succession crisis of sorts is settled there. The Great Council of 101 AC was held there.

To resolve the matter of his heir once and for all, Jaehaerys called the first Great Council in the year 101 AC, to put the matter before the lords of the realm. And from all corners of the realm the lords came. No castle could hold so many save for Harrenhal, so it was there that they gathered. The lords, great and small, came with their trains of bannermen, knights, squires, grooms, and servants. And behind them came yet more—the camp followers and washerwomen, the hawkers and smiths and carters. Thousands of tents sprang up over the moons, until the castle town of Harrenton was accounted the fourth largest city of the Realm.

Once again, we have Harrenhal associated with peace and negotiation in its history. However, that’s not all it’s associated with; there are several very significant battles that take place near the Gods Eye - again, it is in the middle of everything. It’s a place with lots of history and lots of ties to everyone in Westeros. There’s the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye between Maegor and Aegon the Uncrowned, The Battle of the Lake Shore and The Battle Over the Gods Eye during the Dance, as well as the story of Addam Velaryon landing Seasmoke on the Isle of Faces to take counsel from the green men after being accused of treason. It is, all in all, a very significant place in Westeros.

But that’s not the only reason Harrenhal is talked about. Basically every single time Harrenhal is brought up, someone will mention that it’s haunted. This belief comes because of Aegon the Conquerer and Harren the Black. While Orys Baratheon and Rhaenys march for the Stormlands & Daemon Velaryon and Visenya left for the Vale, Aegon himself first turns towards Harren the Black and the Riverlands. All three face opposition but Aegon conquers the Riverlands first because Harren is so ill loved:

So now the riverlands rose against him, led by Lord Edmyn Tully of Riverrun. Summoned to the defense of Harrenhal, Tully declared for House Targaryen instead, raised the dragon banner over his castle, and rode forth with his knights and archers to join his strength to Aegon’s. His defiance gave heart to the other riverlords. One by one, the lords of the Trident renounced Harren and declared for Aegon the Dragon. Blackwoods, Mallisters, Vances, Brackens, Pipers, Freys, Strongs … summoning their levies, they descended on Harrenhal.

And he makes very quick work of Harrenhal, making it the first Kingdom to become part of the Seven Kingdoms:

The riverlords outside the castle walls said later that the towers of Harrenhal glowed red against the night, like five great candles … and like candles, they began to twist and melt, as runnels of molten stone ran down their sides.

Ever since the burning of Harrenhal, no House has been able to hold it without going extinct soon after. For House Targaryen’s rule in Westeros to start with Harren the Black’s hubris and the fall of Harrenhal, and end with Harrenhal becoming the new seat of the King of the Four (??) Kingdoms is a really neat connection.

Reasons Why It Works With King Bran

But wait! you say. Didn’t you just say that Harrenhal is cursed??

Why yes I did. HOWEVER. There is one family that the Curse of Harrenhal supposedly never touched: The Whents.

You see, from Harren the Black up until the Whents, every other House in charge of it has gone extinct.

House Hoare? That’s Harren’s house and we all know what happened there - they don’t call him Balerion the Black Dread for no reason.

House Qoherys? Dead less than three decades later.

House Harroway? Wiped out a decade later.

House Towers? died out within two decades, ending with sickly Maegor Towers and then old and tired Rhaena Targaryen, until the two odd friends died and the holdings were free again.

House Strong? Well…between the fire that kills Harwin and Lyonel, Larys’ shenanigans getting him merced by Cregan, and Aemond just straight committing a minor genocide in the Riverlands, they all died out (except maybe Alys Rivers’ baby but we don’t have any info there).

House Lothston? Interestingly, they hold the castle for several decades, but they too went completely extinct under King Maekar.

So we come to House Whent. They’ve held it for about 6 ish decades and though they’ve also had some bad luck, they’ve had their people grow old - Walter Whent who threw the tourney is called “Old Lord Whent” by Barristan, and Shella Whent is old when she dies. But the most interesting thing is Minisa Whent.

We don’t know a lot about the Whent line, only that Shella refused to bend the knee to Joffrey, fled Harrenhal when it was attacked, and later died. You could say the curse still got them but in every other case, the whole line dies, not just the main line! Even Janos Slynt has no descendants and Littlefinger will have none to inherit either. But the Whents do: they have House Tully. Minisa Whent married Hoster Tully and had Catelyn and Edmure. The Whents are known for their sharp cheekbones and both Catelyn and Sansa, funny enough, are described as having sharp cheekbones. This very close relation could mean that the Starklings have a claim to Harrenhal through their mother.

This fits with King Bran because we know the lords are perfectly fine fudging things and going through the female line if it fits their needs. They did the same thing with Robert and his grandmother Rhaelle Targaryen, who married Ormund Targaryen, Steffon’s mother. Renly says here:

Oh, there was talk of the blood ties between Baratheon and Targaryen, of weddings a hundred years past, of second sons and elder daughters. No one but the maesters care about any of it.

The maesters love a loophole inheritance.

And remember that the odds of surviving the books for the Baratheons and Targaryens is very, very low. It’s pretty much just bastards all the way down (on both sides lmao, because I do not think either Young Griff or Dany are gonna survive). And whenever the inheritance isn’t clear, a Great Council is called. Catelyn even suggested it while parlying with the Baratheons:

Let the three of you call for a Great Council, such as the realm has not seen for a hundred years. We will send to Winterfell, so Bran may tell his tale and all men may know the Lannisters for the true usurpers. Let the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms choose who shall rule them.

Mentioning Bran, of course. A lot of people think it’s far fetched and while I do think him being so young is gonna be a hard sell now that the time jump is gone, I don’t think it’s that far fetched that the lords of the Stormlands, The Reach, the Eyrie, and The Westerlands would be convinced to choose Hoster Tully’s grandson and Ned Stark’s baby boy to rule over them.

And finally, Robb wasn’t called “Robb Stark, King in the North” he was also explicitly called “King of the Trident.” All the talk about who is Robb’s heir but look at how they all think of themselves - “as brave as Robb” “as strong as Robb” or they’ll have sons and name them Robb. Whereas Who Rules The North is all tied up in Robb’s legacy, the Iron Throne isn’t! If King Bran rules from the Riverlands, however, it gives Bran that tie to Robb; he gets to protect and rule from the lands Robb swore to protect, the lands he ultimately fought and died in. For Bran, he still gets to be Robb’s heir, at least in spirit, and I think that would be, to Bran, something very bittersweet.

#valyrianscrolls #harrenhal #king bran #harren the black #robb stark #house whent #ados speculation #a dream of spring #bran stark #long post #i might put it behind a cut? idk #i have to start living up to the ‘bran’s lawyer’ part of my bio!!#getting on my soap box

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mostlysignssomeportents · 5 months

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Thankful for class consciousness

On November 27, I'm appearing at the Toronto Metro Reference Library with Facebook whistleblower Frances Haugen.

On November 29, I'm at NYC's Strand Books with my novel The Lost Cause, a solarpunk tale of hope and danger that Rebecca Solnit called "completely delightful."

Before the term "ecology" came along, people didn't know they were on the same side. You care about owls, I care about the ozone layer – what does the destiny of charismatic nocturnal avians have to do with the gaseous composition of the upper atmosphere?

But as James Boyle has written, the term "ecology" welded together a thousand issues into a single movement. When we talk about "looking at our world through a lens," this is what we mean – apply the right analytical lens and a motley assortment of disparate causes becomes a unified, coherent project:

https://scholarship.law.duke.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1013&context=dlj

Unfettered, planet-destroying, worker immiserating corporate power is only possible in the absence of such a lens. Before neoliberalism can destroy our lives, it must first convince us that we are all disconnected. "There is no such thing as society," isn't just an empty slogan: it's a weapon for dismantling the democratically accountable structures that can stand against industrial tyrants.

That's why neoliberalism is so viciously opposed to all kinds of solidarity, why corporate apologists insist that the only elections that matter are the ones where you "vote with your wallet." It's no surprise that the side with the thickest wallets wants to replace ballots with dollars!

Today, at long last, after generations of deadly corporate power-grabs, we are living through an ecology moment where all kind of fights are coalescing into one big fight: the fight to save democracy from oligarchy.

There are many tributaries flowing into this mighty river, but two of the largest are antitrust and labor. Antitrust seeks to ensure that our world is regulated by democratically accountable lawmakers who deliberate in public, rather than shareholder-accountable monopolists who deliberate in smoke-filled rooms. Labor seeks to ensure that contests between profit for the few and prosperity for the many are decided in favor of people, not profit.

This coalition is so powerful that the ruling class has never stopped attacking it. Indeed, the history of US antitrust law can be viewed as a succession of ever-more-insistent laws enacted solely to make it clear to deliberately obtuse judges that competition law is aimed at corporations, not unions:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/14/aiming-at-dollars/#not-men

Rising corporate power and declining worker power is bad for all of us. The failure of successive US administrations to block airline mergers led to sky-high prices and a proliferation of "junk fees" that can double the price of a ticket. The monopoly carriers stand to make $118b this year from these fees:

https://www.fastcompany.com/90981005/airlines-fees-118-billion-dark-patterns

The consolidation of the agricultural sector led to cartels that conspired to rig the prices of our food. These Les Mis LARPers rigged the price of bread!

https://www.cbc.ca/news/business/canada-bread-price-fixing-1.6883783

Remember eggflation? Nearly all the eggs in US grocery stores come from a single company, Cal-Maine, which owns dozens of brands, including "Farmhouse Eggs, Sunups, Sunny Meadow, Egg-Land’s Best and Land O’ Lakes eggs":

https://www.cnn.com/2023/01/13/business/egg-prices-cal-maine-foods/index.html

With all our eggs in one basket, it was easy for a single company to rig the egg market, blaming everything from bird flu to Russian invasion of Ukraine for doubling egg prices while their profits shot up by 65%:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/23/cant-make-an-omelet/#keep-calm-and-crack-on

Antitrust isn't just about monopoly – it's also about oligopoly. The American meat cartel pretends that it's not rigging markets by outsourcing its price-fixing to a "clearinghouse" called Agri Stats:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

Agri-Stats gets data from all the Big Meat companies, "anonymizes" it, and publishes it back to its subscribers, who use the service to coordinate across-the-board price-hikes that have cost the public billions in price gouging (meanwhile, Big Meat was able to secure $50b in public subsidies).

For forty years, governments have ceded power to "autocrats of trade" who usurped control "over the production, transportation, and sale of the necessaries of life":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/02/20/we-should-not-endure-a-king/

But that era is coming to an end. In the past year, American regulators have blocked airline mergers and promulgated rules banning junk fees. They've dragged price-fixing clearinghouses into court:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/why-turkey-eggs-and-air-travel-just

They're getting results, too: for the second year in a row, turkey prices are down. Cranberries, too (18%). Same for whipping cream (25%). Pie crusts are down. So are russet potatoes. Airfares are down 13.2%.

The egg cartel just lost a long-running court case over the last egg price-fixing campaign, which gouged Americans from 1990-2008:

https://www.pymnts.com/cpi_posts/kellogg-kraft-secure-victory-in-price-fixing-lawsuit-against-egg-producers

The same fact-pattern that was revealed in that court case is repeated in this year's eggflation scandal:

https://farmaction.us/wp-content/uploads/2023/01/Farm-Action-Letter-to-FTC-Chair-Lina-Khan.pdf

That's terrific ammo for the FTC, and will doubtless benefit the Democrats running against would-be Indiana senator John Rust, whose family owns convicted egg cartel member Rose Acre Farms and whose wife just stepped down as chair of the board.

One underappreciated aspect of the global war on corporate power is that the same corporations commit the same crimes in countries all over the world, which means that whenever any government establishes evidence of those crimes, they are of use to all the other governments. Competition enforcers from the UK, EU, USA, Singapore, South Korea and elsewhere are coordinating to target the Big Tech cartel. Maybe Google and Facebook and Apple are bigger enough to resist any one of those governments – but all of them?

https://cmadataconference.co.uk/

One notable absence from the anti-monopoly coalition is Canada. While other countries merely stopped enforcing their competition laws in the neoliberal era, Canada never had a good competition law to enforce. Canada's official tolerance for monopolies has allowed a handful of companies to seize control over the economy of Canada and the lives of Canadians:

https://www.canadaland.com/shows/commons-monopoly/

These monopolies are largely controlled by powerful families, Canada's de facto aristocracy, whose wealth and power make them above the law and subordinate the country's democratic institutions to billionaires' whims:

https://www.canadaland.com/tag/dynasties/

At long last, Canada has called time on oligarchy. Last week's Fall Economic Statement included an announcement of a muscular new competition law, including new merger guidelines, a new "abuse of dominance" standard, and Right to Repair rules:

https://www.linkedin.com/feed/update/urn:li:activity:7132855021548769282/

The law also includes interoperability mandates for Canada's highly concentrated – and deeply corrupt – banking sector. These measures are strikingly similar to new measures just introduced in the US by the CFPB:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

The arrival of Canada's first fit-for-purpose competition rule coincides with all kinds of solidaristic movements in Canada that are fighting corporate power from the bottom up. Even Ontario, led by one of the most corrupt premiers in provincial history, can't break its teachers' union:

https://globalnews.ca/news/10105600/ontario-elementary-teachers-reach-contract-deal/

It's not just workers who benefit from solidarity: Tenants' unions have formed across the province in response to corporate takeovers of scarce rental stock. These finance-sector landlords have armies of lawyers who've figured out how to bypass rent-control rules and evict tenants who balk. Rather than rolling over, tenants' unions are organizing waves of rent-strikes:

https://macleans.ca/longforms/rent-strikes-canada/

As with Big Tech, the illegal tactics of the rental sector aren't confined to a single nation. In America, Wall Street landlords have dramatically increased the price of housing and kicked off an eviction epidemic the likes of which the country has never seen:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/16/mortgages-are-rent-control/#housing-is-a-human-right-not-an-asset

And as with Big Meat, landlords use arm's-length clearing houses to rig rental markets, coordinating across-the-board rent hikes:

https://www.propublica.org/article/yieldstar-rent-increase-realpage-rent

In other words: to fix the housing market, tenants all over the world need to learn the tactics of labor unions. Housing regulators have to learn from agricultural regulators. Americans tenants have to learn from Canadians. These aren't 1,000 different fights – they're one big fight, and the coalition for dismantling corporate power is vast and powerful.

The most powerful weapons our bosses have is convincing us that we are weak and they are strong – so strong that we shouldn't even try to fight them. But solidarity is absurdly powerful, which is why they go to such great lengths to discredit it. In Sweden, the solidarity strikes against Tesla – who refuses to recognize its maintenance workers' union – have spread to nine unions.

Tesla can't get its cars offloaded at the ports. It can't get its showrooms cleaned. No one will deliver its mail. No one will fix its chargers. The strike is spreading to Germany, and workers at its giant Berlin factory is set to walk out:

https://www.metafilter.com/201514/Swedish-Tesla-workers-go-on-strike

There's something delicious about how palpably frustrated Elon Musk is by all this, as he realizes that neither his billions nor his bully pulpit are a match for workers in solidarity:

https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2023-11-23/elon-musk-calls-swedish-tesla-strikes-insane-as-impact-spreads

It's a reminder of just how fragile and weak billionaires are, when we stop believing in them and deferring to them. Rebecca Solnit's latest Guardian column adds up the ways that allowing billionaires to run the show puts us all in danger:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/nov/20/billionaires-great-carbon-divide-planet-climate-crisis

They are the unelected "autocrats of trade" who control "the production, transportation, and sale of the necessaries of life." They are the force that this new ecology movement is coalescing to fight: across borders, across sectors, across identities. No matter whether you are a worker, a tenant, a voter, a shopper or a citizen, your enemy is the billionaire class.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/24/coalescence/#solidarnosc

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ruumirmir · 3 months

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𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎'𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞, T𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 Part I Part II (coming soon)

ੈ♡˳ Author's◇ note - Haha what if I pretended my shamelessly OCfied male reader was a character :))) Here's to me doing everything possible to build up my "reader" lore. Everything except actually drawing and naming him 😭 If you're curious about previous posts regarding my mans, you could skim over These other posts regarding Loverboy!! Me when writing this: im gonna make up SO MUCH BULLSHIT about snezhnaya and the other harbingers.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 : ENG - Stephen Fu (Noe Archiviste from Vanitas no Carte) JP - Kento Ito (Dan Heng from Honkai Star Rail)

𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 : October 19

𝘈𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Northland Bank of the Fatui

𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Hydro

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 : Cygnus Venatici (The Hunting Swan)

A senior branch manager of Snezhnaya’s Northland bank. As a fatuus, he is formally well-known as the Venator Dux, who mans the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange founded by the Ninth Harbinger. He hunts in pursuit of the Tsar's vision, but his loyalties are far removed from her.

𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦-𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴

𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰 Ah, the renowned traveller, in the flesh. A visitor to each of the seven nations, while your reputation has run across the continent twice over. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you've heard of the Snezhnayan Order of Gold and Exchange, that'd be me who's in charge of it. I am one of the agents within Lord Regrator's primary circle of officials, so you may address me as Venator dux.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘐𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 I've been in my respective position for over a decade now, and for the last 3 - 4 years have come across choice tales surrounding your name. A big fan of your work, really! Lord Regrator has had his interest piqued for a while now... so for the sake of civilized peace and alliance, let's get along... shall we? Try not to cause any trouble and I might consider putting in a good word for you.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘋𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘬𝘴 A large bulk of my work is centered around days of scrawling pen over paper... but really, one can only digest hefty documents for so long. I've had my fill for many years on end-... now, I'd prefer to partake in more physical tasks.

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘵: 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 I fear the new batch of rookies are growing too lax in their combat training… perhaps it was my uninspiring teaching method today. As a Venator, it simply won’t do to disappoint them. Traveller, would you help a man out and spar with me? It could provide me with a fresh perspective on things.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴

No shelter to be seen... here's to praying that you don't catch a cold. Oh don't worry about me, I seldom get sick.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 I've always wondered how the real clap of thunder would feel in comparison to a shock of electro. Unless you want to volunteer for that, watch your step.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐𝘵 𝘚𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 Eh... I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. That being said, the nights that are covered in an impossibly slow curtain of snowfall are some of the rarer times I stop to admire it.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘯 𝘐𝘴 𝘖𝘶𝘵 Finally. Some real warmth to my face. I am but a simple man, languishing like a wilted flower in the absence of our sun's blazing gaze.

𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵 Actually... I think I might just prefer the miserable winter cold over this.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘞𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘐𝘴 𝘉𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 What's with the aggressive breeze today? Does the Anemo archon have bills to pay?

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Good morning. I was about to stop by the city lake on my way to the bank and feed the local geese. You could join me if you'd like. Keep your distance from Tatiana though. She bites.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯 On a slow lazy day, I'd be waking up around noon. Fortunately, the weekend is right around the corner, so I can do just that.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 Although the Northland "bank" closes to the public by evening, the building itself stays open till midnight for other classified affairs. So I may as well make the most of my break time before I'm needed again.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 Oh, I must've lost track of time. It's quite late into the night, so before I go, let me walk you back to whatever establishment you're staying at... Oh, uh- I'm... not sure I heard you correctly. You said you live... inside... a teapot...?

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘚𝘯𝘦𝘻𝘩𝘯𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘯 𝘖𝘳𝘥��𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘌𝘹𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 It was the very first decree of order at the hands of Lord Regrator when he came into power as a Harbinger many years ago; to inaugurate a faction dedicated to rearing the potential he painstakingly carved into the foundations of the Northland bank. It is just as the name implies. An executive body responsible for developing economic policies and providing regulation, consulting, and forecasting of socioeconomic and business development, ranging from simple roadside shops to production factories-Oh, have I lost you? Haha... don't apologize, I've seen that expression a couple times before. In simple terms: we help run the nation's cycle of mora, trade system, and citizen’s businesses.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘶𝘯𝘵 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 4] The title bestowed upon me, Venator Dux, signifies not just leadership but mastery over a successful hunt- or in some cases, a successful business strategy. The master hunter requires a discerning eye, a mind that can decipher the intricate patterns woven by our adversaries. Information is our ammunition, and knowledge is the silent arrow that strikes before the prey even realizes the hunt has begun.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘳𝘵𝘴 Various forms of dance and song are the lifeblood of Snezhnaya’s festivals. During fall, you’ll find multiple dance troupes and clowns passing each village, town, and city to perform. I personally look forward to the dancers.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘜𝘴: 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Your little companion has stuck with you since day one? Truly? That is… a highly admirable trait, one that I will always stand by. Loyalty is not a mere pledge, it anticipates the unspoken desires of another; a commitment that transcends the superficial bonds of allegiance. I keep this ideal close to my heart... for only a single person.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 I was hesitant to use a delusion in the first place, so frankly, I’m glad to have been gifted this for whatever reason I was found worthy of. However… Lord Regrator harbours an uncanny dislike for my vision. It’s not something that has been brought up, but I can read between the lines.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 You didn’t hear it from me, but I encourage the employees at the bank to keep a list of all the infuriating and rude customers. It’s to spice up all the sparring and combat practice sessions by naming and dressing up the dummies as people they’d like to kick- Ha!

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 This wintry climate is harsh and unsustainable for various flora and fauna. The Charmomila flower doesn’t care about any of that. They’ll grow in obnoxious places if they want to. The real deal comes from the summer butterflies that feast on its nectar. After a while their wings turn a beautiful honey-yellow, which are harvested and brewed into the sweetest and most expensive nonalcoholic beverage you’ll find around here. I enjoy a glass of one semi-regularly on work mornings.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘦 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] He will have my sincere respect, always. Lord Regrator has built his empire up from a scratch in the dirt, something impossible to do if he were a different man. His sacrifice of blood, sweat, and tears has bled into the policies that the bank stands on today. Money breeds imbalance and power, which in turn grants freedom and recognition if you are on the right side of the coin. Regrator is a utilizing man and he guards what’s his, zealously. He will take and take until his arms sag with the weight, and uphold his promise to give out the correct equivalents because he lets his value of fair exchange lead him like a vice. For as long as he stays true to his greed, I will be the hand that reaches forward to grasp what he desires.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘶𝘮 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] Lord Regrator always expects a strict level of decorousness from everyone working under his name- from me to even the most forgotten grunts. It's nothing outrageous of course. You would only ever see the metaphorical boot-licking than a literal one. I find it a bit much sometimes but the public eye is nothing to scoff at. Especially to a man of his status. The Snezhnayan dvoryane make up more than a third of the Northland Bank's clientele- not to mention the stakes a couple of them have invested. And if there is anything that those feather-headed fools care about, it's posh theatrics. *Sigh* Still... I quite enjoy falling in step with Pantalone's politesse. He has a beautiful manner of speech that I've never been able to measure up to.

𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳: 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 [Unlocked at Friendship Lv. 6] …Why do I feel like you’re trying to fish for critical information...? Fine- I'll concede. It's your head on the line anyways. Lord Regrator is a big player in the system of underground businesses that connect Nathan and Snezhnaya. Technically it could be called a black market, but it’s mainly run by a small council of social elites from both nations. There are occasional hosted auctions, that my lord targets to buy out priceless artifacts from. I’m talking about lost pieces of history and endangered caged beasts over items with resell value. Now… with that being said, as long as this secret remains safe… so do you. It’ll be me who’s dispatched to make sure it stays that way.

#➳❥ Ooh Lover Boy #pantalone #genshin #genshin impact #fatui #fatui harbingers #pantalone genshin #genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x male reader #genshin impact fatui #➳❥ Rumour writes #➳❥ rumour says #genshin imagines

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insanitybl00m · 30 days

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Tales From Under The Wisteria Tree

Chapter 7 - Don't go near the water

When Missa woke up he noticed that it was still early hours of light. He didn’t want to wake Philza but if he could go get them fresh water from the stream he mentioned last night…

That would be helpful. And after everything Phil did for him he really wanted to do something nice in return. Even if it was just getting them fresh water. So he got up and grabbed their canteens.

Yesterday Phil made his way west to the stream, so Missa would go west to find the same stream. Right? He sighed. He never was the best at navigation.

Probably an hour later he stumbled upon the inlet. Where the stream he was looking for rushed into a loch. Or was it a lake? Missa was never good at telling the difference. But he filled up their canteens with the fresh water pouring into the lake.

When Missa looked up he was face to face with a horse. Not Cielo. If you could call her a horse since she was technically a unicorn.

No. This horse had a shimmery blue-black coat. Probably a magical horse. Missa was enthralled with its seemingly glowing eyes.

“Hi there. Aren’t you pretty?”

It neighed. Showing off it’s mane a little.

“Are you a water spirit? A water nymph maybe?”

No response, just the glowing eyes shining a bit brighter. But that was probably Missa’s imagination.

“Is there anything you want? I left my oats back at camp but otherwise I’d offer you some.” The horse bowed down, almost encouraging Missa to ride it. “Do you want–” A neigh, seemingly encouraging it. “Okay…” Missa sat on the horse’s back. It took off, straight into the river. What the hell was happening? He tried to get off to swim to the surface but he was stuck. He was stuck. Oh no. The horse was magical.

It was a Kelpie.

Phil woke up with a start. His chest was throbbing. Almost pulsing with pain.

Missa.

He looked to his left. Gone. Fuck.

“Missa!” He yelled. Nothing. No response. All his stuff was still there, he couldn’t have gone far. Where would he have gone?

The stream? It was the only thing he could think of. He tried to make sure there was nothing else off with camp. Where was his water? He needed water. Missa must have gone to the stream to fill up their water. That was the only reason both their water and Missa would be missing. He needed to go.

So he transformed into a crow. His wings still stung with the harsh pain of pulled muscles but he continued flying, faster, faster.

When he transformed back he noticed the canteens, water spilling out onto the ground. No Missa. “Missa!”

Again no response. His chest felt like a thousand stabbing knives. Magic. Magic was what was hurting Missa.

Water. Water spirits. There must be water spirits in this water. He looked down. A serpent whipped its tail in his face. And so he dived into the water. A serpent-like horse bared its sharp teeth.

Kelpie. Of course it was. Missa was the kindest soul he knew, of course a Kelpie would trick him.

“Let him be.” Stabbing pain again. His charm wouldn’t keep Missa safe for much longer.

Well. Phil should have assumed that would be the answer. He had no weapon. Everything was back at camp. He had to get Missa off the kelpie. Kelpies wouldn’t just let their prey go so easily. He spotted a shard of glass at the bottom of the river. Humans polluting the wild might just aid him for once.

He threw the shard of glass as hard as possible at the Kelpie. It stabbed it right in the eye, giving Phil enough time to grab Missa while the Kelpie was distracted.

He swam as fast as possible up to the surface. Missa would live but how would he get the water out of his lungs? That would kill him right? He really should have learned more about how to save a human’s life. They were so easily killable, how was he supposed to know how to save a human from countless deaths? Luckily the charm he put on Missa yesterday would be enough.

Human lungs were in the chest like fae’s, so if Phil was to push on his chest then maybe it would force the water out?

He was rapidly trying to figure out how to get the water out of Missa’s lungs when all of a sudden he heard sputtering. Coughing. Missa was coughing up the water.

Holy shit. Missa was safe.

He was safe.

Before he realized what he was doing he was kissing Missa. His anxiety rushed away as he felt Missa breathe before pulling him into another kiss.

Something happened. He fell unconscious in the water. And when he woke up he was on the surface. He took a gasp of air before soft lips were pressed against his. Desperate. He opened his eyes and saw Phil. Philza was kissing him.

Philza was kissing him like he had nearly died, which I guess was true. He tried to sit up and Phil pulled away. That wasn’t happening. Missa pulled him back, continuing the kiss.

A neigh distracted the two of them. Phil was ready to fight. Missa stared up at Cielo.

“Oh uh hi!”

Blood red poured over a deep blue flooded Missa’s brain.

“It will never stop being weird to see emotions, but is something wrong?”

More red. Phil had pulled himself off Missa and leaned against a tree.

“Danger?” A nod from the unicorn. “We’re fine. Trust me, Phil saved me.”

Green, sour green, mixed with the sweetness of a touch of pink. A mint green almost. Almost like…

“Concern? You’re concerned for me.”

“You’re getting better at reading her emotions.” Phil said, his voice was rough.

“I’m ok, Cielo. I promise you.” Missa stood up and reached out to pet her. He didn’t really notice Phil standing up behind him.

So when Cielo nudged him hard enough to make him trip backwards he was not expecting to fall into Phil’s arms.

“Got you.”

Despite the fact they were literally making out before Cielo showed up Missa’s face went red. If unicorns could laugh Cielo would be laughing. Instead it was just a neigh that mimicked a laughing sound.

“Our clothes are soaking wet.” Missa said. Changing the subject when he was embarrassed was a habit of his.

“That does happen when you try to befriend a Kelpie.” Cielo whinnied and disappeared on the spot. “Huh, that’s weird. Did she say anything to you?”

“Nope, she must hate kelpies.”

“I do too, especially considering one tried to fucking kill you!” Missa looked away and scooped up the canteens. “Missa…”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I yelled, but I was terrified when I woke up and you were just gone. I could feel that something was wrong.”

“I was just trying to get us fresh water, do something simple to make up for the fact that you washed my hair yesterday.”

“I did it because I wanted to, not because I wanted something in return. Wisteria. I—“

“It was just meant to be something nice.”

“I know. I just want you to know that anything I do for you is never with any expectations of something in return.”

“We should probably get back to camp.”

Missa was silent the whole walk back. Man, Phil messed up. “Can you talk to me please?”

“Hi. Sorry. I was thinking.”

“You want to hear stories about my kids?”

“You have kids?”

“I never told you? I thought I did. I could have sworn I told you when you were telling me about your son.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Oh. Well I have two kids. My son is probably about seven—“

“Probably?” Missa seemed horrified.

“He doesn’t really care about his birthday, if he did I’d start celebrating it the second he suggested it.”

“Oh, I guess that’s different.”

“My daughter is six. She really loves celebrating her birthday on the other hand. But she really only celebrates it for the gifts.”

“You have a daughter as well? How do you manage?”

“Well my son is studying abroad right now so that makes it a bit easier for me.”

“Oh, but what about your daughter?”

“She’s staying with her godmother for a bit. She’s a witch and my daughter loves her garden. She’s always helping her grow flowers.”

“You know a witch?”

“She helped me out ages ago, got myself stuck in a situation with some creatures of the fae. She was nearby getting something for a potion she needed, got me to safety and we’ve been friends ever since.”

“Wow, I didn’t know witches were still around. I thought fae stopped blessing humans with magic after the war.”

“Fae still bless humans with magic. But to be a witch you have to be raised with magic infused in your blood from a young age, most new witches are still kids. And most older witches are gone. She’s the only living witch from before the war that I know.”

“Wow.” Missa paused as they were standing in the middle of their camp. “Should we pack up camp?”

“If you don’t mind then maybe we should stay here, our clothes are going to need to dry.”

Spending a whole day at camp with Phil. Oh boy. This was different. Phil was sketching something, leaning against a rock and letting his wings spread across it. He had changed to dry clothes but he said that he needed to wait for his wings to fully dry before putting on a shirt again. Which left Missa trying his hardest not to stare as he pretended to read the book on fae that Phil had left him.

Eventually Phil got up and made his way over to Missa. “What are you doing pretty boy?”

“Reading.”

“Mhm.” He said, almost with a knowing laugh. “What’s one thing you learned about nymphs then?” Missa looked down, oh. The page on nymphs was open. Well obviously he had been reading it right?

“Their life force is tied to an element, like dryads and trees.”

Phil sat down next to Missa. “Yep.” He leaned his head on Missa’s shoulder. “You didn’t read, did you?”

Missa sighed. “I didn’t.”

“Distracted by something?” Stars above, Phil was a shameless flirt.

“No.”

“You’re a bad liar, you know that right?” He said with a laugh, leaning back so that he was spread out on the ground next to Missa.

He huffed before turning around to look at Phil. “You’re all grumpy.”

“I’m tired. Despite the fact I literally just woke up.”

“Yeah but you nearly drowned, that would make anyone tired.”

“I’m fine. I made a mistake again but it won’t happen again. I’m too trusting and it won’t happen again. I’m going to be stronger.”

“What do you mean M-Wisteria?”

“I wasn’t strong enough, I’ll be stronger.” Missa repeated the phrase in his brain, over and over.

“What makes you think you aren’t strong enough?” Phil had sat up and he took Missa’s hands into his own.

“I couldn’t fight off the Kelpie, I trusted it without a second thought. Without you I’d be dead at the bottom of the river. Actually scratch that I’d be dead in the dragon cave. I’m meant to be going on this elaborate quest but I’m really just doing nothing and you’re saving me every single time.”

“Oh Wisteria.” Phil pulled Missa into a tight hug. Missa wasn’t crying. He promised he’d be stronger. He had to be stronger. “You are so, so strong. You don’t need to change anything. Kelpies are notoriously good at tricking people and they aim for ones with pure souls. They aim for those who won’t doubt their intentions.”

“You keep telling me my soul is so pure but that’s bullshit. I’ve killed people phil. Hundreds. Not all by my own hand but nonetheless. I’ve killed people.”

“There’s a difference between killing people with malicious intent and killing those out of necessity.”

“People died.”

“And you lived. You kept those you loved safe, even the universe can’t fault you for that. It’s noble. And this quest? You’re risking your life to save your son. You doubt yourself but everyone around you can see that you are full of good. You are good.” Missa was officially crying at this point.

“Oh darling.” Phil murmured. He placed a light kiss on Missa's head. “It’s alright.” He couldn’t stop himself from crying a little bit too.

“Why are you crying?” Missa asked when he heard Phil sniffle.

“God this is so cliche but seeing you sad makes me sad.”

“Clingy.” Missa muttered as he adjusted so he was still wrapped in Phil’s arms.

“You should get some rest.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Never said you had to, just that you should close your eyes and try to sleep.”

“But then you’ll be stuck while I nap.”

“And get to hold you the whole time? Sounds great to me.”

“Of course you’d say that.” Phil kissed the top of his head again.

“Just sleep. When you wake up you’ll feel better.” Missa sighed but Phil could swear that he drifted to sleep in minutes.

When Missa woke up he was groggy. He was warm though a soft blanket had been wrapped around him. Wait, those were wings. All the more reason to just go back to sleep.

“I know you’re awake Wisteria.”

“No I’m not.” Phil laughed.

“Ok then, I’ll just go back to admiring you then.”

“Stop.” Missa hid his face in Phil’s shoulder.

“So you are awake?”

“Yes idiot.” Phil started peppering him with little kisses.

Missa giggled and lightly shoved him away. He heard ruffling from a bush nearby. “What was that?”

“Probably a squirrel or something. Maybe Cielo.”

“No, I'd know if it was Cielo.”

Then like a blur a humanoid popped out of the bush. She pulled leaves out of her jet black hair before beaming at the pair.

“Hi Papa Phil! Is he my new Apa?”

Papa.

New Apa.

WHAT?

#pissa nation #qsmp #pissa #qsmp pissa #pissa au #TFUTWT AU

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