#weir the gateway

[fideidefenswhore]

Your thoughts on the prolific author Jean Plaidy? Did you read any of her books? Do you have favorite/most hated? What do you think about her view on the Tudors, Boleyn's, Yorks, Stuarts, Hapsburgs, etc?

I have found them very dull, paint by the numbers, etc. Honestly I find most of the novels from that era of that era that way, though, it's part of why I can't stand Weir's, hers just feel like a complete emulation of Norah Loft's which are also that way for me. I feel like newer authors of the genre are more likely to take risks, even if all their creative decisions are not my favorite, I can respect that (Suzannah Dunn, Christopher Rae, etc).

To be more specific, as a Henry VIII Enjoyer, these novels miss the mark for me. He's always very one-dimensional, sadistic satyr meets bluff hail-fellow-well-met, extremely pliable and easy to manipulate; it's just very boring and not satisfying to read.

#anon #very unpopular but to some degree i would even say philippa gregory > jean plaidy #(just as far as...entertainment? her depiction of henry is also like that. altho the film adaptation somehow made it even worse) #and philippa gregory > alison weir again very limitedly and only pertaining to fiction #(bcus honestly i think weir's depiction of henry might be even worse than pgreg) #(maybe even worse than margaret george's which is saying A LOTTT) #(probably as bad as norah loft's. but she's a fan. so) #i actually have some sliding door theories on pgreg tho #i basically think that her books were the gateway for weir gaining credibility #bcus they were so outrageous (a very hateful and homophobic interpretation of a slightly less but still homophobic theory from warnicke) #they made weir seem moderate and credible in comparison #and we have been stuck with that albatross ever since. god hates us every one. #i also believe weir segued to mantel's popularity to some extent #it demonstrated the popularity and marketability of that sort of portrayal of AB #cerebral ; cold; calculating and very fun to hate #of course that began earlier but while LiT is more sympathetic than some of her later works; #you definitely get the sense AW is having a lottt of fun hating her in certain sections #(earlier with TOBG i should say) #whatever tf pgreg said about her #'of criminal nature' agrewafrhdsijfs

[liminalmemories21]

AU game: TK is an Atlantean who guards the sacred island gateway to the city from the outside world. Carlos is the lone survivor of a shipwreck who washes up on shore. The island is, by nature, pretty much programmed to be hostile to humans, but TK feels compelled to keep him alive.

Okay, so first of all you said Atlantean and my mind immediately went to SGA (TK is Shepherd, Carlos is McKay, Paul is Zelanka, Judd is Teyla, Owen is Weir - this is funny to like five other people here, anyway).

Okay, going back to a more traditional lost city of Atlantis

1 - Carlos is the first human TK has ever met, and he's just so beautiful. He's nothing like the people they've been taught to fear and guard against. He can't see how someone so kind and with a smile like that can be dangerous.

2 - Carlos was sure he was going to die when his boat capsized, sure he'd died when he woke up to the most beautiful man he'd ever seen leaning over him, back lit by the sun. It takes a while for TK to convince him that he's not dead, he's just on an island that everyone says is a myth.

3 - A lot of their early conversations are just listing things they've been taught and finding out if they're true or not.

Do you have gills? What? No, of course not.

Humans think raw vegetables are poisonous What? Was the last time you talked to a human in the 16th C? I mean more like 12th, but kind of.

How has nobody noticed the island? Are we underwater? Does the island sink? We're not aliens. It's, I don't know, magic? Above my pay grade. How do you not know this? Do you know how everything in your world works? Solid point. Okay.

4 - But then they start to just talk about things - they had different childhoods, their worlds are different, but they're also the same. They talk about wanting to fall in love, about loving their parents, about feeling like they're never going to be enough. It turns out they have more in common than they have that's different.

5 - They were always going to get found out, it was never going to last. The Council of Atlantis gives Carlos a choice - stay there forever, give up his life before, or leave but with none of the memories he's made while he's here. He wants to stay, but TK makes him go, tells him that he can't give up his family and his life just for TK. Carlos wants to say that surely it's his choice to make, but TK turns his back and doesn't give Carlos the choice.

+ 1 - Six months later there's a beautiful boy who washes up on the shores of the beach where Carlos lives. He doesn't understand why he lives there so far from his family, why he's so drawn to this shore, but he can't bring himself to leave. He follows the boy to the hospital when they take him there, and he sits in his room, even though he's not sure why. And then he wakes up, and then he kisses Carlos, and Carlos remembers.

#asked and answered #AU prompt #tarlos #911 lonestar

[xasha777]

In the year 2274, amidst the sprawling megalopolis that humanity had built, there was a forgotten patch of earth where time seemed to slow, and the air thrummed with ancient secrets. It was known as the Stanley Price Weir Zone, a field dotted with monolithic structures that had mystified people for centuries. Unlike its ancient counterpart, Stonehenge, this was a place of both history and future, where relics of the past stood sentinel to the progress of mankind.

The Zone was under the guardianship of Alia, a being not entirely human. Her DNA was spliced with that of the long-extinct architects of the monoliths, granting her the wisdom of the ancients and the insight of the modern world. Her appearance was a stark reminder of her dual heritage—a crown of corroded technological artifacts adorned her head, suggesting a bygone era of greatness, and her skin was etched with circuit-like patterns, a blueprint of forgotten knowledge.

Alia's charge was to protect the Weir from those who sought to exploit its energies for war and destruction. The monoliths were more than stone; they were ancient devices capable of bending the fabric of space-time, a gateway to the stars and perhaps even to alternate dimensions.

Enter Cade, a relic hunter with eyes the color of the stormy skies, whose past was as shrouded in mystery as the Zone itself. Driven by the need to save his dying world from the energy crisis that threatened to plunge it into darkness, Cade sought the secret power of the Weir. His path led him to Alia, whose very existence was intertwined with the stones he so desperately needed.

They met under the gaze of the timeless monoliths, a dance of destiny weaving them together. Cade, with his rough charm and relentless determination, clashed with Alia’s ethereal calm and unwavering resolve. Yet, beneath the conflict, there was a current of understanding, a recognition of kindred spirits.

Together, they uncovered the true potential of the Stanley Price Weir—the ability to harness the cosmic winds, channeling the energy not for war, but as a source to rejuvenate their dying planet. It was a gift from the ancients, a means to end the energy crisis, and a chance to unite a fractured humanity.

But such power did not come without its dangers. A shadowy faction from the United Corporations, led by the enigmatic Magnus, eyed the Weir with avarice. Their agents were closing in, ready to claim the power for themselves and to control the fate of all.

Alia and Cade stood as the last line of defense, embroiled in a battle that transcended time. With the heart of the Weir pulsing around them, they harnessed its energy in an epic standoff. The monoliths glowed like beacons, creating a shield that protected the sacred ground from those who would do it harm.

As the dawn of a new day painted the sky with hues of hope, the United Corporations retreated, their ambition thwarted by the combined might of Alia and Cade.

In the aftermath, Alia and Cade realized that their destinies were not only interwoven with each other but with the fate of the world itself. The Stanley Price Weir stood testament to their victory, a reminder that the future was built on the foundations of the past, and that the guardianship of such power demanded unity and understanding.

And so, as they walked away from the Weir, the knowledge of its secrets safe once again, they did not speak of goodbye. For in the world of tomorrow, where the past and future merge, there are no farewells, only the infinite possibilities of the cosmos.

[kahztiy]

Flash Memoir: YD6~06 Reporters Enticing SoWeTO's Black Youth To Revolt

Vitrine of Consciousness: Chapter 6

Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or, I'd like to know who reads my work: age group, gender, and your opinion in a sentence.

Here is The Story

I’m lying in the double bed in the guest room, fresh decor, bogged in my life adventures, and pondering while gazing through the small pane but large window, while white skies awakening. opening across Sunnyway, a Kelvin rooftop amid suburb’s trees’ canopies, a bird’s-eye view to Jean’s house with the boys. I lazed in bed, with an ear pricked. until footsteps arouse, from afar across the upper floor far west wing, the Knowles’ pass my door, evanescent downstairs. 

In a restless jump to my feet, I slip on a shirt and pants, stepping into shoes, toward the door, to crank the door lever pull and clear the passageway. Around the corner I descend the dogleg stairway, eyesight stumble to the east wing door. Crank the lever at my pace, swing the door. I crossed the television room to the kitchen, greeted the couple, Martin in the kitchen with Jessica, and their little boy at the kitchen table. From the offside percolator, I grab the coffee jug, pour myself a cup of coffee, exchanged a few greeting words while concerned about my endeavor. I excused a table’s dished eggs, tracking back to the hallway, stepping offside in the west wing. I head toward the bright daylight to my sunken office. Approaching the window grid to the mowed grass, pose my cup on the sill, and turned around, pace to face the flank of the room gleaming plastic bundled books, as delivery by the printer. 

Uncomfortable at proceeding with my endeavor, I heave a thick, clear plastic wrapped bundle of booklets from the stacked up corner. Embraced the bundle, step away up the two elongated slate treads, shun cross the bare slated floor kink my way offside to the hallway, unlatching the door. I step across the porch to sunlight. On the brick paved driveway apron, shifted the bundle of books to my left thigh, picked the trunk lock, tweaked the key, lifting the lid to pose in the shadowy trunk. The plentiful space spare, allot my niece, Tania, her bundle. I returned inside the house to fetch another bundle of books - smack - the trunk lid closed on the booklet’s without other perspective. I head back to my office. ‘_Can’t let coffee go to waste!_’ drink the cold coffee, looped through the kitchen, now deserted. I pose the cup on the sink, and head on a journey to merit the rewards of my venture, apart from clients’ dedicated line to my desk, enlightening the route to home renovation.

At a glance at my gold-plated wristwatch’s white crystal and a golden hour marker to spare, appeasing my steps away from the trunk. I picked the lock listening to the sight of the unlocking doors, to step inside, tweak the ignition key, the six pistons’ to the engine’s heavy breath, before awaking a purr. Slew a glance exercise my body’s wringing. The porch slips upfront, to the west wing and onto the garage doors to a hold. I uncoil in my seat, to toggle gears into drive, the gateway to sight, onto easing past veering on the dirt Roseway, riding the carriage to my destiny. Accentuated at a slow pace, the dirt street intersects Fairway. the car rocks through the gutter, leading to the asphalt, mapping in mind to fetch Tania and Paul.

I’m riding through mottled cool shades, the eucalyptus’ suburban remnant shed, and engaged on naked Old Pretoria Road. I’m cruising through the shadows of the Buccleuch interchange overpass, the east-western highway. For my delight, the right’s grassland returning wild grown eucalyptus to the wayside’s heavy trunks, joined by the left, to an acute reminiscence fee-wheeling the overseeing valley. In the tracks of the Voortrekkers’ ox wagons’ course, sweeping the hillsides across the Jukskei River’s weir. Lost in the countryside, another period higher stone-sculptured bridge, to slog pedaling the rolling siding from the deep valley. The Halfway House horses outpost, messengers’ horse changes remnants to a short-lived steep eased ledge. After a break, the straggling eucalyptus from the treacherous grassland’s wave, the town’s retailers shifted to the successive plateau. Herds of eucalyptuses returned wayside to the parent trees, to the rollover hill crest, on a clear day, to sight Pretoria’s Voortrekker monument. ‘/Yesterday, when I was young / The taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue / I teased at life as if it were a foolish game. . ./’ 

Oblivious to the sweat dried on my skin, as the Mercedes hood’s circled star’s 3 points sweeps to the side street, under the asphalt, to my regret the dirt road — Uncle Beux and Aunt Carla’s house and poultry shed on the small agricultural holdings. Which vanished, ghosting amid the surreal. The mountain sliced spearheading the highway, toward the Hillbrow Television Tower. the flare’s lanes through the intersection herd abundant automakers’ thriving showrooms. Tapered upfront, eager to hold on to my fourteenish’s driving the farm’s Volkswagen panel van, through grasslands sprinkled by small holdings fetching eggs to bringing home for distribution. 

Up comes Ilona’s property to sight, asphalt paved raised from the bed of the ancient dirt road I’ve learned to know through grasslands, and short of spotted the next door thatched roof house to plum hue brick gatepost. I steered the Mercedes coasting down the steep ramp toward leading tracks through the grassland, hissing the undercarriage, approaching the white brick gable wall to the saddled tiled roof running further toward the rear. I turned to the driveway dirt apron to halt short of the juxtaposed triple carport, gazing through cottage windows into the interior’s shadows for figures’ motion. When a figure in the distant porch’s shadows surges, Tania's peppy gait approaching under the tiled eave, her brother Paul, lagging in their approach under the vine’s foliage laden wooden pergola. She turns at the gum pole railing to the terrace, descends into sunlight, to the crazy-slate front yard path to round the car. The door swings. Tania steps inside, closing the door, while Paul steps in behind his sister in an exchange of brief greetings.

With the closing door, I gazed past Paul, reversing the car to the extended driveway apron to halt, toggle the gears to drive. We crawl away, rotating to face the beaten tracks, cutting the golden savanna property in halves. The undercarriage hiss cruising, approaching pillar’s ramped up gateway, turning into the street. In silence, accelerating along the low wire meshed fence, continuant of my earlier course. Around the block to a small holding, shielded hedgerow tight knitted and high foliage swells. Opposing a barbed wire fence to grassland, we pulled up at the junction — Unimaginable Mrs. Noble, while a post office clerk, also a storekeeper, to the adjacent whitewashed brick shacks. From a Boer storekeeper to an Indian family. An absent mechanic and pump attendant, at a pair of gas pumps on a concrete, crumbling driveway. in front of a workshop’s somber mucky thick dust window panes — Aberrant, the alternation didn’t elicit a wink from either sibling, as a translucent red and white iconic Spar spur dominates Crowthorne’s corner.

I’m steering the Mercedes turned from the Stop sign, the broadened country road — so acute morphed during years, since Igor and I cycled at first light, the first hillside wave, me to a construction site, he to school, in Pretoria. At dusk, the last leg home — White lane marking doubled, crawl the corner. Facing the roadway, swag across the culvert, propelled on our bikes toward the road fork. Freewheeled through the bend at the crotch of a triangulated grass traffic island. Beyond the corner house’s orchard, the gritty driveway apron welcomed us home. To cross the clanging cattle guard, to honoring rows of wide skirted conifers, lining the peaches and plumes orchards. Clearing the squatted white plastered walls capped by the orange ridges and valleys tiled roof, to a sweep driveway broadening to end to the double garage. 

Tania and Paul didn’t spare a squint passing the driveway to the neglected house on plot 8 in Kyalami, siblings’ curiosity of parents’ teen exhausted. as I’m driving my Mercedes sitting back, my heart crying the arid property, to gaze at the leading Bryanston road with a bird’s-eye view toward the converging Western Bypass highway. We passed the Leeuwkop Prison gates; the roadway ditching the steep sidings across the Jukskei River to raise and crest. Across the intersection, to the Fourways hillside ledge to a workshop filling station outpost, the road rises farther. deviated since cycling on the road, threads our way into the subway, and out crest where the Bryanston suburbs and Randburg meet at either side of the roadway, where we’ll meet the access ramps to the Western Bypass highway.

When we pulled up, into the Rand Easter Trade Show’s gateway, the parking lot asphalt with its making lay bare but a few cars, and stalled near the entrance, to a simultaneous opening of doors, to rise tall by the car - smack, smack, smack - with Tania and Paul, congregating at the Mercedes’ trunk. I raised the lid hand duck, ripping the plastic wrap, handing back to Tania and Paul a stack of ten booklets. I lowered the trunk led, to catch up with the distancing siblings, for the doorway. It dawns on me, privilege by the customer attendant’s words, left me weird without an official document. We crossed the threshold, to a corner booth’s elegant and youthful men and women on standby at the crotch of branching aisles. We hesitated. Tania nods right and heads off with Paul. I dare ease from an invisible state, step deeper in a channel margin by rows of booths. Without a niche to stand exposed, I’m turning shoulders from the men and women attendants to trade booths, my back to the diving partition nib. Ignored by the attendants, I eased, facing the entrance’s framing a penetrating glow.

From the bright light, shadows arise, morphing to silhouettes. My eyesight on a steeplechase of approaching figures colors clothing. I’m stepping away from the edge. In the open, facing one after the other man, I trot with a leading booklet, saying. “All you need to know about home improvement — Four Rand fifty.” White people trickle the passageway, each person ditching eyes, tears, a timid rejection, shunt off course. A black man walks up, while repeating my slogan. The man’s hand digs into his back pocket. He returns a fiver, in exchange for a booklet.

My fingers fumble my hip pocket to say, “_’Holly sh-t_’ — I have no change!”

The black man says. “Keep it.” Sauntering away.

I run woozy eyesight, guilt stricken, after the black man. ‘_Can’t we make some arrangement? — That’s a folly_’. My heart sinks over the stupidity, returning to grip a crowd streaming out the glowing sunlight, a few people splashing curious eyes on the bright cover, but the flow shaping me, drudging a handout, I step away into the upcoming crowds, in unison with Tania, coming from the blind corner, drained eyes, Paul trailing her. We turned away through a crowd of figures breaching light, we emerged to a glittering parking lot.

In harmony, we paced up to the orange Mercedes. Approaching the trunk, motioned to relieve Tania and Paul’s hands from the stacked books, returning mine in the trunk, feeling. ‘_This is not the place to distribute booklets_.’ Tania and Paul amble around the rear fender as I slam the trunk lid close, heading toward the other flank. The sighs pop up the door sill buttons, in unison ease to our seats. As I’m pulling my doors behind, with a glance at Tania, her gaze expressed my thought. ‘_Where to now_’ To say. “Let’s call it a day.” I tweak the ignition key, pulling away toward the gateway, ashamed for them believing in my enterprise.

#consciousness #Aetheria #Psyche #Memoir

[ryanweirsposts]

Maximize Returns and Minimize Worries with Ryan Weir's Property Management Expertise

Ryan Weir's property management services are your gateway to maximizing the returns on your real estate investments while minimizing the hassles that often come with property ownership. With a commitment to professionalism and a focus on client satisfaction, Ryan Weir offers tailored solutions to meet your specific needs. To experience the benefits of expert property management, reach out to Ryan Weir today. Whether you're a seasoned property investor or a first-time landlord, his services encompass every aspect of property management, ensuring your investments are well taken care of.

#RyanWeir #RyanWeirPropertyManagement #RyanWeirRealEstateManagement #PropertyManagementSuccess #RyanWeirInvestmentProperties #RyanWeirRealEstateProfessional #RyanWeirExpertService #RyanWeirRealEstate

[assettrust]

Hgar one key

Virtual tours are also available through the website. The website is updated every five minutes to provide the most up-to-date data to users. The New York State tax database is used to derive the houses’ and neighborhoods’ billing information as well. Every user can sign up to receive alerts on new listings, open houses and saved searches.Īdditionally, gradings of the school community in homes’ neighborhoods and demographic information are available for consumers to search. According to Tracy Weir, another member of the OneKey MLS team, consumers are able to save searches and listings, and can share their favorites with friends and family. The website’s capabilities include search tools in 21 languages. “By coming together, we are able to offer more opportunities for our realtors by giving them access to products and services that they need,” Jim Speer, OneKey MLS’s CEO told reporters on June 22 during a news conference announcing the new website’s launch. It features 40,000 listings for sale and for lease. The revamped platform aims to connect buyers, sellers, and brokers by making one consumer site serving Nassau, Suffolk, Manhattan, Westchester, Putnam, Rockland, Sullivan, Orange, Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx. OneKey MLS was formed in 2018, following the merger of the Hudson Gateway Multiple Listing Service and the MLSLI. OneKey Multiple Listing Service has launched its new real estate website,, which replaced the popular Multiple Listing Service of Long Island portal.

#Hgar one key

[fieriframes]

[A man standing in front of a car posing for the camera. Caption: There is no escape. (Weir) The gateway is open,]

#s29e02 sandwiches southern and south of the border #guy fieri #guyfieri #diners drive-ins and dives #escape #weir the gateway #open #car #outdoor #road #building #man

[forbidden-sorcery]

Where did the old-time witches, and their modern counterparts, meet to celebrate their rites? Traditionally it had to be close to running water, even though folk belief said it was impossible for a witch to pass over it, where two or three streams or rivers met, near a weir or waterfall, at an ancient tree, a prehistoric standing stone, or a crossroads. In the old days the place where three or four roads converged was often used for burials, especially of suicides, murderers and witches who were laid in unconsecrated ground. They were also a popular site for gallows and gibbets and where traditionally dark magic was practised, hence the popular term 'dirty work at the crossroads'. Crossroads often marked where the boundaries of several parishes met.                 Liminal places like the edge of woods where they meet moorland or open countryside, and beaches or cliffs where the sea meets the land were deliberately chosen by old-time witches for their rites because of their Otherworldliness. They were regarded as physical gateways between the material world and the spirit world. Any hedge where oak, ash and thorn grew was also regarded as one of these liminal entrances. As we have seen, witches also convened at prehistoric sites such as wells and springs, burial mounds, earthworks, megalithic circles, hill forts and former Celtic nemetons or sacred groves.                 Uncultivated plots of land, known in folklore as the Devil's Acre or No Man's Land, were also used as meeting places for the same reason. There is a village in North Devon called Nomansland or No-Mans-Land, which is so called because the boundaries of four parishes meet at its crossroads. In Scotland pieces of uncultivated land were known as the Gudeman's croft or Cloutie's Croft, both popular nicknames for Auld Hornie, Old Splitfoot or the Devil. At Elgin in 1602 several local men were called before the kirk (church) session to explain why they had reserved a plot of land for the Devil. They said it was a peace offering to the Old One so he would not blight their crops and animals. The Scottish novelist Sir Walter Scott compared the tradition of the Gudeman's Croft to the temenos in Ancient Greece, a piece of land that was set aside and regarded as sacred and dedicated to the worship of the pagan gods.

Michael Howard - Children of Cain

#Michael Howard

[lailoken]

“Where did the old-time witches, and their modern counterparts, meet to celebrate their rites? Traditionally it had to be close to running water, even though folk belief said it was impossible for a witch to pass over it, where two or three streams or rivers met, near a weir or waterfall, at an ancient tree, a prehistoric standing stone, or a crossroads. In the old days the place where three or four roads converged was often used for burials, especially of suicides, murderers and witches who were laid in unconsecrated ground. They were also a popular site for gallows and gibbets and where traditionally dark magic was practised, hence the popular term 'dirty work at the crossroads'. Crossroads often marked where the boundaries of several parishes met.

Liminal places like the edge of woods where they meet moorland or open countryside, and beaches or cliffs where the sea meets the land, were deliberately chosen by old-time witches for their rites because of their Otherworldliness. They were regarded as physical gateways between the material world and the spirit world. Any hedge where oak, ash and thorn grew was also regarded as one of these liminal entrances. As we have seen, witches also convened at prehistoric sites such as wells and springs, burial mounds, earthworks, megalithic circles, hill forts and former Celtic nemetons or sacred groves.

Uncultivated plots of land, known in folklore as the Devil's Acre or No Man's Land, were also used as meeting places for the same reason. There is a village in North Devon called Nomansland or No-Mans- Land, which is so called because the boundaries of four parishes meet at its crossroads. In Scotland pieces of uncultivated land were known as the Gudeman's croft or Cloutie's Croft, both popular nicknames for Auld Hornie, Old Splitfoot or the Devil. At Elgin in 1602 several local men were called before the kirk (church) session to explain why they had reserved a plot of land for the Devil. They said it was a peace offering to the Old One so he would not blight their crops and animals. The Scottish novelist Sir Walter Scott compared the tradition of the Gudeman's Croft to the temenos in Ancient Greece, a piece of land that was set aside and regarded as sacred and dedicated to the worship of the pagan gods (McLellan 1957:62-63)

Historically churchyards and ruined churches were also favoured for witch meets, especially those built on the ancient sites of pagan worship. Unfortunately their use of such places gave the witches a bad reputation among the ignorant. Today if evidence of such places is discovered the newspapers react with sensational headlines about so-called black magic rites and satanic practices. An example of was provided in the early 1960s when a series of magical working were carried out in several ruined churches in Norfolk. The newspapers at the time got over-excited because one of the churches used was on the royal estate at Sandringham. In 1963 evidence of a necromantic ritual was found in a ruined church on a hilltop at Clophill in Bedfordshire.

A media sensation was also caused in the 1970s when the Windsor covine mentioned previously was disturbed by a farmer while convening at a ruined church near the village of Bix near Henley-on-Thames in Berkshire. Although the story was picked up by the local press and a Sunday newspaper, which inaccurately claimed that local villagers were living in fear of 'black magic' rites, the farmer told the police that he had no objection to the witches meeting on his land. The church was on the site of a former pagan shrine and was well known locally for its powerful psychic atmosphere and associated paranormal phenomena.”

—

The Children of Cain:

A Study of Modern Traditional Witchcraft

by Michael Howard

#children of Cain #magic #witchcraft #traditional withcraft #Michael Howard

[inky-duchess]

If I wanted to do some research on royalty and nobility and stuff (often at the worst times to get random questions 😂), where would you recommend I start?

Books! Any biography is a great gateway into learning about royalty and nobility, they are actually not only filled with tea on people who have been dead for years but also facts and looks into the world around them and their world. Some of my most recommended:

The Romanovs by Simon Sebag Montefoire

Game of Queens by Sarah Gristwood

Courtiers by Lucy Worsley

Ladies in Waiting by Anne Somerset

Love & Louis XIV by Antonia Fraser

Marie Antoinette by Antonia Fraser

Four Sisters by Helen Rapport

Sex with Kings by Eleanor Herman

Sex with the Queen by Eleanor Herman

The Plantagenets by Dan Jones

Six Wives of Henry VIII by Alison Weir

The Royal Art of Poison by Eleanor Herman

She Wolves by Helen Castor

#Ask answered

[anne-the-quene]

Asking because I truly am not familiar - what’s problematic about Alison Weir?

So I could go on a big long rant here because there’s a lot that’s problematic about her, but that’s just gonna put me in a bad mood and it’s my birthday so I can’t be in a bad mood today. So I’ll just give you the short answer, but if someone else wishes to rant then please feel free to add on to this.

The biggest thing is that her books are not very well-researched to begin with and then on top of that, she can’t cite sources to save her life!

There’s also the fact that she’s incredibly biased—which, that in and of itself isn’t terrible because everyone has biases—but her biases are usually incredibly misogynistic and close-minded. She’s also overly critical of women especially and treats them very unfairly (especially the six wives).

And I know a lot of people have a problem with the fact that she’s not a ‘real’ historian. Personally, I don’t care as much about that because I don’t have a history degree from a university so I think that saying that everyone who doesn’t have a degree in history but writes about history is inherently wrong and doesn’t know what they’re talking about is just...a huge generalization. I don’t claim to be a historian, I’m not, but I do try to do the best research I can and present history as accurately as I can—and, of course I have my biases but I try not to let that get in the way of the truth. So when people criticize Alison Weir for not being a real historian, like I get it—she doesn’t have the formal training—but I feel like there are bigger problems about her that need to be addressed first.

But when it comes down to it, I think the biggest yikes about Alison Weir is that she’s so popular. If she was just some little-known writer, it would be a lot easier to dismiss her failings, but she’s literally everywhere. So many people get introduced to Tudor history through her books—and, for some reason, there seems to be this belief that you’re not allowed to criticize whatever thing got you into Tudor history which is just...weird. And I mean, her books being a gateway into Tudor history isn’t a bad thing in and of itself if you actually research on your own, but a lot of people don’t do that. They read her books and then take her words as absolute fact and that’s just not good.

Like I said, if there’s anything anyone wants to add then please feel free. These are just the general reasons why she really doesn’t deserve to be as successful as she is.

#alison weir #anonymous #ask

[aion-rsa]

Andy Weir on Writing a Buddy Cop Story… Set in Space

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Andy Weir is all about survival. His first novel, The Martian, centers upon the attempts of astronaut Mark Watney to survive long enough on the Red Planet for a rescue mission to reach him. His sophomore book, Artemis, is a fast-paced survival story of a different kind, set among various criminal factions on the Moon. His latest novel, Project Hail Mary, raises the stakes even higher— it’s about the survival of our entire species, and all life on Earth.

In Project Hail Mary, the Sun is getting dimmer, thanks to a mysterious substance known as Astrophage, a type of interstellar infection. Humanity is facing a ticking ecological time bomb; unless the secret of the Astrophage can be discovered and the planet-wide cooling process reversed, it’s goodnight for life as we know it. There’s just one long shot left for humankind: send a starship to make contact with whoever – or whatever – is behind it all. 

Project Hail Mary is as much a mystery novel as it is an SF survival tale. The book opens with our protagonist, Ryland Grace, waking up in a medical bay with two corpses and no memory of how he got there. What follows is a constant peeling back of layer after layer of this mystery, until finally, the truth is revealed. It’s a deeply satisfying ride, made even more so for those readers who share Weir’s obvious passion for science. Surprisingly, at its heart, Project Hail Mary is also a buddy road trip story, which kicks into high gear when Grace connects with an alien partner he names Rocky. 

After bonding over a shared love of Terry Pratchett, Andy and I talked about the influences behind Project Hail Mary, and what it took to bring the world of the Astrophage to life. 

Den of Geek:  Project Hail Mary evokes similar feelings to the Robert A. Heinlein juveniles, and Arthur C. Clarke’s Rama books. Were those influences for you? 

Andy Weir: Oh, big time. I grew up reading my dad’s science fiction collection, Heinlein and Asimov and Clarke, they’re my Holy Trinity. And yeah, that sense of optimism I feel has kind of vanished from sci-fi, and a lot of science fiction ends up being this bleak, dystopian misery-scape where a teenager doing weird stuff is the only thing that’ll save the day. I just don’t buy into that. I have a firm belief that the future is almost always better than the past. I mean, 2020 kind of sucked, we can all agree, but I would rather live through 2020 again than 1920. 

Speaking of 2020, let’s talk about the Astrophage, which is basically Project Hail Mary’s nemesis. It’s a stellar virus, an infection transmitted from star to star. Did you plot the book during the Covid-19 pandemic, or was it just a fluke of timing? It seems like a very timely concept.

It does, but it’s pure coincidence. I actually finished the entire book before COVID-19 happened. This is the longest I’ve ever had a book done, but not yet published, because COVID messed with the print production pipelines. I actually finished the book in January of 2019. Astrophage was originally a technology called black matter, not a life form. It would absorb all electromagnetic radiation that hit it, and turn that energy into mass, in the form of more black matter. I thought, this is the perfect spacecraft fuel, because it mass converts. Then I thought, “Well, we have no way of creating that technology, I could not make that take place in the modern day… what if it wasn’t a technology? What if it was a life form?” Black matter takes energy and makes more black matter, but that’s kind of what life does, right? Humans take energy and make more humans out of it. That’s what we do. Cats take energy to make kittens. 

It’s the ultimate double-edged sword. It has the power to wipe us out, but if we were smart enough to harness it, Astrophage could become humanity’s gateway to the stars. 

That was my…kind of “shower epiphany.” I was thinking, “Oh, but we’d need to be really careful, because we wouldn’t want to let this shit get in our sun, because it would start breeding out of control. That’d be a disaster. We can’t have that.” Then I was like: “Wait a minute, disasters are where books come from. We can have that. We will have that!” Astrophage was… I can’t say handed to humanity on a silver platter, it was really more handed to humanity on a spiky, poisoned platter. 

That’s how the Big Three – Heinlein, Asimov, and Clarke – saw atomic power, wasn’t it? 

Yeah, they did, and they’re not wrong. I still think that in the real world, our best bet for regular interplanetary travel is going to be ion propulsion, which requires a huge amount of energy, and so that’ll be reactors. This isn’t weird, way off in the middle of nowhere, made up science; this is real stuff. Humanity has put ion propulsion craft into space and used it, but if you scale that up big enough that you can have a passenger spacecraft, then you’re going to need to scale up the energy production. So, pretty much nuclear reactors are the only way to get that much energy out of such a small amount of weight. 

The novel has a very non-traditional structure, essentially starting at two different time points, and unfolding from there in tandem. Was Project Hail Mary a difficult book to plot? 

It wasn’t difficult to plot once I decided to use that structure, but it was a very difficult decision to go for that structure. I hate flashbacks. I always tell aspiring writers: “Don’t use flashbacks. Nobody likes them.” One of my main problems with flashbacks is, I’ll be really invested and interested in a story that’s going on, then suddenly we’re off somewhere else. We were over here doing neat stuff, now you’re over here doing boring stuff. This is a book, it’s entertainment, not a lesson. So, flashbacks often feel to me like you’re out playing with your friends and your mom tells you to come in and clean your room.

But I realized that this story, if told linearly, would be really weird. The whole scientific mystery which leads to the creation of the Hail Mary, and then the launch, is interesting, but it’s not a book… and so the flashbacks skip over the years. There’s this scene, and then the very next flashback you see will be two years later after that. The whole book would be really disjointed. From the second act on, it’s a completely different book. And so, I couldn’t think of any way to do this other than flashbacks. I’m like, “If I neat out the backstory bit by bit so that the stories kind of converge, and I’m constantly revealing new information in the flashbacks, then the flashbacks are compelling as well,” and just had the two stories come together at the end.

If this had been poorly executed, it would have been a very difficult read, but I felt no jarring at all due to the jumping backward and forward in time. I found myself looking forward to the next flashback, then getting back to the Rocky and Ryland show.  I was also delighted to find there’s a lot of humor in there.

People don’t know it when they start the book, but it’s a buddy cop movie, basically. I don’t know if you watched those road movies from the ‘40s. Bob Hope and Bing Crosby will be on the road to something. There’s a bunch of movies that start with Road to…and then a location. It’s always the same principal plot, these two guys are trying to get somewhere, and all the funky, comedic things that happen along the way. It’s kind of like that. 

So, Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, the team behind The Lego Movie among many others, have been tapped to direct the Project Hail Mary Movie. 

MGM bought the rights, and they bought them outright, not an option, which is neat, because it implies they’re much more serious about making the movie. Ryan Gosling is attached to play the lead, so that’s pretty cool. 

Wonderful! Who’s your dream casting for Rocky, Grace’s alien partner?

I have some ideas for that, but I don’t want to give them away, because there’s been a lot of discussion on how do we portray the [alien] language situation on screen. In the book, after a while, I just start using italics to indicate what Rocky’s saying, and either Grace is looking it up on his computer, or later in the book has just learned Rocky’s language, learned how to understand what Rocky’s saying. We have an idea, and I think it’s a really solid idea. Ryan Gosling came up with it, and so I think that’s what we’re going to do. But films are so security conscious, I can’t really talk about it. 

It was great talking with you, Andy, and I wish you the very best of luck with Project Hail Mary. 

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

You too. Bye-bye.

Project Hail Mary hits the shelves on Tuesday, May 3rd.

The post Andy Weir on Writing a Buddy Cop Story… Set in Space appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3gTzEik

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[gronglegrowth]

The Imperial Census of Daedra Lords

Azura, Lord of Dusk and Dawn, maintains the domain of Moonshadow, a twilight country of shades and half-thoughts. Visitors to this isle have historically come mainly from the Dunmer of eastern Morrowind and the catfolk of Elsweyr, whose people both hold a great affection for the mother of immanence, though by separate roads. At the time of this writing, regular gateways to Moonshadow have been inaccessible for the last several years. Whether this has to do with the unlawful incidents at Hogithum Hall in the Capital City or mere whim of Azura herself, no one can say. Of course, Azura’s most famous acts of recent times is the Incarnation of the Nerevarine, a subject that while far beyond the scope of this pamphlet has been felt to the present day.

Boethiah, the so-called Prince of Plots, has renamed his country of labyrinthine policy and betrayals yet again. Formerly “Snake Mount”, Prince Boethiah’s maze gardens and twisted towers is called “Attribution’s Share”, a realm best avoided by those that live outside the arcano-politic. Boethiah, like his cohort Azura, is much revered by the followers of the former Tribunal Temple, but sub-cults of his are entrenched in nearly every terrestrial seat of governance. His traditional festival date is the 2nd of Sun’s Dusk, when many contracts are writ between kings and commoners alike.

Clavicus Vile, child-god of the Morningstar, bestows a strange tranquility to his lands that seem concordant to his spheres of mockery and oath breaking, though what shape such concepts might take is admittedly unfathomable. Perhaps by rendering his domains as idyllic countryside the Prince exemplifies his greatest aspect, and that which ingratiates him to his many followers, the power of serenity through wish fulfillment. Only the strongest of the Emperor’s servants are advised to make covenant with Prince Clavicus, and even then are warned against sipping from the Bitter Cup.

Hermaeus Mora, “the Gardener of Men”, claims that he is one of the oldest Princes, born of thrown-away ideas used during the creation of mortality in the Mundus. Imperial Mananauts have verified that his influence on fate and time is real and unfeigned, implications of which tie this Prince directly with Akatosh, chief of the Nine Divines. Since Akatosh is the prime temporal spirit whose appearance led to the formation of the world, perhaps Hermaeus Mora speaks the truth. Nevertheless, it is the will of His Majesty Uriel VII that only on the official holiday of 5th First Seed should any propitiation to this Daedric Prince be delivered. “All else is mutation.”

Hircine’s Hunting Grounds have been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Malacath holds the hardest to access of Oblivion’s extant lands, the Ashpit. As Prince Patron of the disenfranchised and cast out, it is only reasonable that the pathways to his domain take on a characteristic level of concealment. Orsinium, kingdom of the Orcs, gives Malacath its highest esteem, which is surprising when one considers the normal Orcish revilement of Daedric spirits. One might conjecture then that the rumors of Malacath not being a true Daedroth but an imprisoned aetherial spirit are true. It would certainly fit the Prince of Exile that he be one himself.

Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Razors, has proven himself time and again the enemy of the Empire. Of terrible aspect and crowned in beaten copper, the four-armed Prince of Destruction has troubled the borders of the Mundus with warfare, foul rumor, and force of arms. Banished to dissolution during the Weir Gate massacre and again at Kvatch by battlemages of the 33rd, Mehrunes Dagon is returned to Oblivion once more, and the stars have foretold that his tenacity has known no forfeiture. All heroes of Cyrodiil are called upon to stand vigil against his hidden agencies.

Mephala’s domains in Oblivion are numerous and obscured, collected together by vast strands of magical ghostweb. All of them are devoted to her spheres of sex and secret murder. Echoing this same structure are the various esoteric cults devoted to her across Tamriel, many of which are forbidden by Imperial law. Her aspect is shrouded and manifold, even when she appears in the crowds that gather within her temples during Frost Fall.

Meridia’s holdings in Oblivion are collectively known as “The Colored Rooms”. Another Prince whose origins may not entirely be outside of the aetherial, Meridia has at several times been linked to Magnus the Sun. The most famous account of this association is the Tract of Merid-nunda, which overtly casts Meridia in the role of a wayward solar daughter, cast from the heavens for consorting with illicit spectra.

Molag Bal, King of Strife, is second only to his brother Prince Mehrunes Dagon in the enmity of our Emperor. His lands are the charnel houses the slave pens of Coldharbour, which hold no contrition for those travelers that visit them in error or purpose. That Molag Bal is allowed his holiday at all hearkens back to a treaty of ancient times, when he reputedly lent his infernal power to the creation of the first soulgems.

Namira’s Scuttling Void has been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Nocturnal is accorded the title Ur-dra by nearly all the Royalty of Oblivion. As the mother of night, she claims to be an aspect of the original Void itself, and it is generally deemed best to fortify this declaration in one’s evening prayers.

Peryite’s pits have always been inaccessible to mortals. Our only real knowledge of them comes from reports of the other diabolical Princes. It is said that Peryite guards the lowest orders of Oblivion and that his summoners are to regard his likeness to Akatosh as some primordial and curious jest.

Sanguine, Prince of Hedonism, lords over no less than ten times ten thousand pleasure pockets of the Void. As revelry and drunken stupor fall under this Prince’s influence, he has been a favorite of many Emperors since the first foundation. Records even indicate that he resided in White-Gold Tower during the reign of Reman Cyrodiil and helped in the somewhat dubious draftsmanship of the Crendali Festivals, whose vulgarities did little to help Imperial expansion into Alinor and the other Summersets.

Sheogorath’s Asylums have been closed by consensus of the Elder Council until further notice. It is mentioned here only for the sake of completeness.

Vaernima, Prince of Omen and Dream, shares a special mageographic connection with the Mundus, since mortal sleepers often slip into her realm without any help at all. Traditional sacrifice to Vaernima is held on the 10th of Suns Height, but as with most luck spirits, prayers to this Daedric Prince occur quite frequently, and not always before bedtime.

#tes #tes lore #daedra #daedric prince

[sohannabarberaesque]

Underwater America with Peter Potamus (episode 24: Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire)

Soooo ... another episode of this contrived 1970-71 first-run syndiucated series awaits following a journey which, for one, involved the Port Jefferson-Bridgeport ferry over Long Island Sound to save much traffic through New York heading out of Long Island ... as well as bypassing Boston via the I-495 ring heading towards the Spalding Turnpike in New Hampshire, and heading to--well, let’s leave it to Your Kindly Host:

PETER POTAMUS, in narration as the approach to Lake Winnipesaukee comes into sight aerially: Not quite the change between night and day as between salt water and fresh water ... but it turns out we were heading for the New Hampshire Lakes Region out near Laconia, and more specifically Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire’s largest lake ... close to the White Mountains in its own way, and long a popular weekend retreat from across New England ... home to no less than 265 islands of varying size and remarkably clear waters!

MILDEW WOLF, trying to add some levity: Is it just me, or do things seem a little too laconic down in Laconia?

BREEZLY BRUIN: So what exactly is the dive routine going to be like?

PETER POTAMUS: It took awhile to look up some old diving buddies of ours out by Weirs Beach--what you might call a “suburb” of Laconia, perhaps the most important town in the Lakes Region; his is the sort of diver’s rendezvous as requires close acquaintenance to access--and he was one to suggest a few interesting dive spots more to the north of “the Great Spirit’s smile,” as the Indian name of Winnipesaukee translates. (More on those later.)

In any case, the scene shifts to the excursion boat M/S Mount Washington, the better to get acquainted with that particular lake; we can find the inevitable double takes among unacquainted tourists on a day’s excursion, as well as the views to be had and snippets of the narration. Not to mention “candid” shots of some of our divers otherwise enjoying a day’s sightseeing.

So, to get acquainted somewhat with the lake itself, we took a boat excursion aboard that grand old lady, the M/S Mount Washington ... and can you believe just how many among the tourists gave us rather dumb looks, as if we were--well, you wouldn’t be interested ... [Shifting now to a boater’s bar in Weirs Beach for some New England boiled dinner with a view unto Lake Winnipesaukee itself, with the diving buddies along as well ...] And following the boat tour, wouldn’t you believe some classic New England boiled dinner over some discussion over the dive spots that were recommended....

Shifting now to the scene off Center Harbor, on the northwestern part of Winnipesaukee, especially focusing on the dive boat chugging its way merrily along ... and Peter continues with the narrative:

The first of the spots as was recommended was at a spot called Becky’s Garden, which is situated between Two Mile Island (as in distance from Center Harbor, I presume) and Blackcat Island on the northern side essentially....

MIDEW WOLF: Whoever this Becky was, I just have to wonder how she was able to keep her garden growing underwater all this time....

SQUIDDLY DIDDLY, ever stoked up at what to expect: But I’m sure the discovery is bound to be more fascinating than what explains the name!

Meanwhile, approaching the location of Becky’s Garden, we move back unto the dive boat, fitting on wetsuits as much as the gear; Lake Winnipesaukee’s waters can get into the mid-50′s even in the heighth of summer, hence the precaution. We can also listen in on what are essentially the basics of the dive, the safety precautions to be experienced ... followed by a “ballet in black” as the wetsuit-clad crew makes their entry into “The Smile of the Great Spirit”, as captured by the ever-incomparable Squiddly Diddly from the underwater perspective. And as the inevitably cheesy music starts in the background, the greenish-blue waters of Winnipesaukee are evidently highlighting the black neoprene wetsuits. At least two have brought along underwater flashlights to enhance the sense of discovery in Becky’s Garden....

LIPPY THE LION, narrating over some rather crazy footage showing him and Hardy Har-Har close to the bottom: Trying to avoid a letdown big time based on what a name suggested isn’t easy to come by underwater, especially when the name suggests some sort of magical underwater garden....

LOOPY De LOOP, filling in somewhat: Still, you can’t help but wonder what can be found ... especially some lake eels and bass, some mislaid fishing tackle--

WALLY GATOR, narrating off camera: --and a fresh sense of curiosity, as if the feel of foam rubber against by alligator skin wasn’t giving me headaches, don’t you know! And you thought ice cream headaches were awful enough!

HOKEY WOLF, likewise: And you wonder why it was called “Becky’s Garden” in the first place, to begin with, even when most of the time was spent shining a flashlight on a mostly grass-strewn bottom!

Otherwise, the scene at Becky’s Garden could be considered almost serendipitious in its own way....

PETER POTAMUS, changing back from wetsuit to trademark safari jacket: And if you thought Becky’s Garden was interesting enough a place just because of the name ... wait till you see what we found off Wolfeboro, to the west along the north shore!

We shift the scene after the inevitable break to the harbour area of Wolfeboro, another important community on Lake Winnipesaukee--and more specifically, the area around Clark’s Point Beach and its shallows. Again, considering the cool waters, wetsuits are more or less the norm even as our divers gather in knee-deep waters in the shallows.

Off Wolfeboro, on the northern side of Winnipesaukee, comes a couple of particularly interesting dive spots ... the first such comes off Clark’s Point, at a park along the lakeshore. Which, for the somewhat rock-strewn shallows to be had, is a gateway into a rather surprising underwater world. And what makes it especially amazing is that such can be entered from shore....

And what a sight ensues, with a fascinating time to be had by all, especially starting at around 50 feet down, whence a “wall” starts descending down into the lake featuring some unlikely formations and at least a shallow underwater cavern into which some light is shone into same. You can pretty much let some carefully-scored-to-match-the-setting background music speak for itself with this scene as much as the curiosity factor seeing such a sharp underwater wall as this ...

But at any rate, we “saved the best for last,” as it were.

Aerials of a dive boat approaching Parker Island, off Wolfeboro, eventually moving to a briefing explaining what was to hand in the dive: A sort of “giant’s staircase” in granite underwater off the island, at a depth of between 20 and 40 feet under the surface, replete with jokes about the possibility of some Lost Underwater Civilisation perhaps having made its acquaintenance with Lake Winnipesaukee being shot down by Peter’s explaining such was the product of glacial action during the Ice Age as created the New Hampshire Lakes Region as much as the White Mountains. And following the safety briefing and check of equipment ... off into the water, scored to equally incredible stock music. Which also features the camera work of Squiddly Diddly capturing a wide shot of the underwater “giant’s staircase”, followed by bemusing scenes of the divers themselves trying to “climb” same as if they were rockclimbing.

SQUIDDLY DIDDLY, narrating the scene to hand: Setting things up beforehand, I must admit, almost seemed like a piece of cake ... though on seeing such an unlikely staircase as this underwater, I had to admit to being rather stunned and yet amazed at just how stunning an underwater stairway could look. Especially considering its glacial origins, by and large, belieing the almost symmetrical shape of such a staircase!

HOKEY WOLF, narrating the experience off camera: And just imagine sensing yourself a kid again, imagining crawling on all fours on the ground--only you’re doing so underwater against something as unlikely as this!

PETER POTAMUS, getting narrative himself at the experience: Ahhhh, feeling almost like a kid again! Imagining myself climbing such a staircase as this underwater!!

And we also get an interesting group shot of the wetsuited crew seated on the “stairs” of this underwater marvel ... and to wrap things up, here’s Peter one last time:

The things you can’t help but picture or imagine underwater ... especially with a crew like us ... and next week, we start to wind things down in the north country of Maine, as in around Moosehead Lake and Moxie Pond, as in that popular New England concoction of refreshment. In the meantime ... enjoy the dive!

@warnerarchive​ @hanna-barbera-land​ @warnerbrosentertainment​ @hanna-barbera-blog​ @hanna-barberians​ @joey-gatorman​

#fanfic friday #hanna barbera #peter potamus #diving #scuba #scuba party #lake winnipesaukee #new hampshire lakes region #squiddly diddly #wally gator #breezly bruin #lippy the lion and hardy har har #magilla gorilla #loopy de loop #hokey wolf #mildew wolf #weirs beach #center harbor #becky's garden #wolfeboro #parker island #giant's staircase #clark's point #hannabarberaforever

[etto-etto]

十八日目 // 2019年5月23日 | [link to challenge post]

1. 防 (defend; on: ボウ; kun: ふせ.ぐ)

防止　⋆　ぼうし　(prevention check)

予防　⋆　よぼう　(prevention; precaution; protection against)

堤防　⋆　ていぼう　(bank; weir; embankment; levee)

防ぐ　⋆　ふせぐ　(to defend against; to protect against)

消防　⋆　しょうぼう　(fire fighting; fire department)

2. 内 (inside; on: ナイ、ダイ; kun: うち)

内容　⋆　ないよう　(contents; content; substance; matter; detail; import)

以内　⋆　いない　(within; inside of; less than)

内科　⋆　ないか　(internal medicine)

内　⋆　うち　(inside; within; we (referring to one's in-group); our; imperial palace grounds; I (primarily used by woman and children); me)

内臓　⋆　ないぞう　(internal organs; intestines; viscera​)

3. 出 (exit; on: シュツ、スイ; kun: で.る、 -で、 ��.す [more kun readings here])

出血　⋆　しゅっけつ　(bleeding; hemorrhage)

出荷　⋆　しゅっか　(shipping; shipment; forwarding)

出版　⋆　しゅっぱん　(publication)

出口　⋆　でぐち　(exit; gateway; way out; outlet; leak; vent)

出す　⋆　だす　(to take out; get out; begin; start to; burst into)

#1monthkanjichallenge #japanese langblr #japanese vocab #kanji #kanji list #vocab list #mine #mine: vocab list

[funkymbtifiction]

Event Horizon: Dr. William Weir [INTP]

Functional Order: Ti-Ne-Si-Fe

Judging Functional Axis:

UNOFFICIAL TYPING BY: anonymous

Introverted Thinking (Ti) / Extroverted Feeling (Fe)

Weir is a genius within his field - astrophysics - and his communication with others who are not - using "layman's terms" - does not flow easily or naturally; when explaining something, the doctor more often than not  falls into specialist jargon and comes across as condescending and arrogant, however unintentional on his part. Since he was very young, Weir has held an intense fascination with the mysteries of the universe, and this boundless curiosity, which prompted him to design a spaceship capable of generating an artificial black hole meant to be used as a way of interstellar travel, is what eventually dooms him and the entire crew. "I built the Event Horizon to reach the stars, but she's gone much, much farther than that." Weir has a meticulously structured, rigid thought and belief system, which prevents him from quickly accepting or adapting to new or unexpected circumstances; he keeps insisting the inter-dimensional gateway is "perfectly safe" even after an unexplained, potentially lethal incident involving another crew member has taken place. Weir's stubborn response to the escalating paranormal manifestations aboard the Event Horizon is to insist the crew members are "delusional" despite clear and obvious examples of the contrary. Dr. Weir is notably lousy at gauging the emotional state of others; when he's assigned to the Lewis and Clark to be a part of an international crew of astronauts heading out to search for the missing Event Horizon, Weir is shown to be in high spirits, not noticing or caring that the rest of the crew were taken off "a well-deserved leave" and not at all excited about the mission. Weir then goes on to misinterprets the reserved stance of the crew, particularly Captain Miller, as something personal against him. Weir does not utilize his Fe function much, except when he is shown grieving over his deceased wife and regretting he "let his work come between them". Because of his intense denial of the factual reality aboard the Event Horizon, Weir also rejects the idea of being possessed until his mind has already been taken over and he is powerless to fight the invading force. Weir is passionate in defending his creation and quick to silence any criticism; when Starck asks him why he created a black hole, "the most destructive force in the universe", he responds with glee and excitement, but also confusion at the other crewmembers' lack of excitement about his pet project.

Perceiving Functional Axis:

Extroverted Intuition (Ne) / Introverted Sensing (Si)

Weir's character embodies the absolute worst of the NTP cognitive style: his high extraverted intuition makes him more preoccupied with the mathematics involved in breaking the laws of nature instead of the question of "should this be done?" Weir, lacking Se, is withdrawn from physical reality to the point of hilariously delayed reactions; when Cooper offers him coffee after the crew spent 57 days in stasis, Weir's brain takes an additional five seconds to process the question and come up with an answer: "No… thank you." Though he does not speak of it to anyone, Weir has visions of impending doom and destruction before and after he joins the rescue crew , manifesting in the incredibly personal symbolism of his wife's suicide. Weir is hesitant and fearful of entering situations he is unfamiliar with, such as traveling in a gravity tank for the first time. Both his sensory and emotional reactions are often out of sync with the surroundings, which causes a great deal of friction with the rest of the crew, particularly Captain Miller.

Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw

Values: wit, intelligence, creativity, and wisdom.

Though he starts out with good intentions, Weir, who is convinced of his own genius, is incapable of seeing the flaws in his logic and garner enough situational detachment to make good choices.

#c: intp #intp #m: intp #event horizon #mbti #william weir #submission #character typing