#which is to be a formless mind in a jar with a body that changes based on function | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

noonmutter · 3 years

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Claw

He remembered thirst. He remembered a thirst so powerful that he'd stopped feeling it; like guzzling an entire cask of water would only have brought him back to the point where he was aware of how much more he needed. He remembered hunger, gnawing slowly at the inside of his empty stomach, leaving him desperate enough to cut off a bit of his tunic and chew on it. It didn't offer any respite, but at least it was a distraction as long as he did it.

He remembered watching his own hand sink slowly into itself when he stumbled and tried to catch himself. The horrible squelching sound as bones broke like wet twigs and ground against themselves inside. The agonizing slowness of the arm reasserting its shape.

He remembered collapsing under the rock, and not being able to get up because he couldn't tell which limb was which. He remembered trying to weep, and having nothing within him to weep with.

He remembered...speech. Vague, unidentifiable; was it a language he didn't know, or had he deteriorated so much that he'd simply lost the ability to comprehend? But it was there. Loud. Angry. More than one. Shouting.

Someone grabbed him. Recoiled, to guess by the sudden lack of dull sensation and the much louder, more high-pitched shouting. More hands the second time, and then he was moving, roughly shifted back and forth. It was hard to say, everything was so muted, but he thought he felt lighter once they began to drag him...

Terry growled under his breath and pushed his scraggly hair out of his face. Sweat had made the ever-present soot and ash cake to his forehead, and while he had been filthier in his lifetime, the detritus in this stupid, bloody tower felt greasier than anything he’d ever been covered in.

The mistake had only needed to be made once; he still had a scalding burn in his palm from trying to grab one of the many jutting spikes and seemingly random rails and pipes to support himself. Instead, he set his hand on his knee and forced himself to stand for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour.

If hours even meant anything in this shithole, he’d have been shocked. Thros had felt less endless than this. Gargantuan plate-wearing guards patrolling around every corner, metal skeleton-dog things, whatever the blue screaming fuck that building-sized skullfaced bastard had been two or three runs ago... Terry was tired of it all. It was repetitive, but random, and the combination made it all the more frustrating every time he thought he’d found a way out.

He hated thinking he’d found a way out. It was foolish thinking, and he knew it--especially before he was actually out, it was so foolish--and yet, inevitably, when he would find a way to put down an insane tree-creature or some kind of blob that seemed to siphon the energies he kept finding, he would ascend with a feeling of triumph.

He wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t something the tower did to him, forcing him to take pleasure in victory so he would feel it when it inevitably turned out to be false.

But he had no other choice. The way back was barred, as ever.

There were enemies all around him, as ever.

There was a yawning abyss all around the platform he’d collapsed on, as ever.

He was tempted to try and climb the seemingly infinite chains reaching up into the certainly false emptiness above, as ever.

And, as ever, he simply picked up the strange, bow-like thing he’d been given--it was a bow, in that it had a string and a grip and it did ugly, violent things when he drew an arrow and released it, but it felt like a weapon built by someone who had only ever had one described to them--and gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts.

And kept moving.

"Whose desire for adoration and glory..."

He remembered a voice. High, sneering. Like he would have attributed to the worst kind of blue-blood, the kind that looked down a nose that pointed right back up at them, piggish and ignoble.

"Who killed, tortured, drugged and manipulated..."

He remembered pain, but not the searing rawness of torture, of brutality. A dull ache, as though each throb of fiery nerves left him with less energy for the next beat of his heart.

“Whose pride blinded him to his failings..."

He remembered shame, greater by a thousandfold than the agony wracking his entire being. He remembered defiance, his own but not, driven by reaction rather than thought.

"Who showed remorse, but not change..."

He remembered his useless legs hitting bare dirt, cold but solid, and then the sound of snapping jaws and a hunter's horn. He remembered trying to flee in a body that was all but formless...

His back hit the wall of his cell with a jarring, painful impact that he infuriatingly noticed as though it were brand new. Yet another of the grand joys of the Hotel Torghast. Everything was old and wore at his nerves, but his nerves did not wear down, and the things he ached to stop feeling felt like the first dose every time. It was the first indication he’d had that he wasn’t in a normal prison, that total lack of exhaustion.

Terry was used to exhaustion. It made sense; you exhausted a captive, the better to make them malleable. But he was used to it, so he could cling to his knowledge to combat it, and weaponize his anger at being manipulated against it. Exhaustion had a purpose, so he could counter it. Any decent soldier, any decent spy could do that. This... this was different. There was no one standing there to cajole him, to manipulate him, for him to manipulate back and stimulate his own mind by antagonizing.

They just... threw him into the cell, left him there for one eternity, then released him from the cell for another eternity. After each cycle of eternities, he felt exhausted in a way he would never be able to quantify, and every time, he entire being felt heavier. Sometimes it was hard to move his arms or legs, and it was a supreme act of will rather than of strength just to stand and pace the tiny space afforded to him.

He’d lost count of how many times he’d been forced to run the maze almost immediately, but that didn’t matter very much. There was no benefit to knowing; the time passed made no difference. He only knew that every time he found himself staring out of a barred doorway, he was failing to keep his promises.

Sooner or later, that knowledge more than anything else was bound to bring him down beyond his ability to stand back up. Leaning against the bars, he was once again too weary to weep. And even if he could have, there was nothing in him to make weeping worth the energy.

All he had left was his voice, so he sang.

“I'm just a poor, despairing stranger “Traveling through the dark below “I'll lead the sickness, fear and danger “From the bright world I used to know

“I'm going back no more to suffer “I'm going back no more to harm

“I'm just a-gon' to lands of shadow “I'm just a-goin' on alone...”

#the light in lordaeron #and so arrives terry #my writing #he takes his sweet time talking to me I tell you what

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crazed-rambling · 4 years

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Dating for Hedge Witches

Blossom would like to make it very clear that she was a hedge witch. Despite what her family says; it is in fact a perfect respectable career. A career which she very much enjoys.

Country life suited her, the peace of waking up to birdsong outside her window was a far more pleasant wake up call than she’d ever had before. Spending the days seeing to the villagers’ aches and ailments wasn’t easy nor glamorous work but it was kind and she could return to her cottage each day with the memory of the people she’d helped to lull her to sleep. During the winter nights she could burrow in quilted blankets with homemade teas which her family would never have deigned to touch. And on summer evenings she could laze by the riverside, bare feet dipping into the water as she watched the village children play, careful to keep a watch on any wandering spirits who thought her people were easy prey.

There was something to be said for collecting ingredients as well, even if the forest sprites tended to rather picky on their timings. The first drop of dew of the vernal equinox required for any professional beauty potion was notoriously tricky to locate. But watching the sun rise through the trees and refract scattering rainbows in the crisp morning air was always a sight to behold. There was a feeling of calm that came in that moment. As though the world itself had paused in anticipation, waiting for winter to give way to spring. Of course you could attempt to make the potion without it but the effects were rather diluted, how could you expect a transformation to hold without a sign of change. Her brothers would say that a deal with any reasonably strong life spirit could make up for the deficit. It of course was possible provided you studied for long enough. Life spirits never deign to speak any mortal tongue and must be paid their fully calculated price with all due reverence, unless you want the payment taken out of your hide. Which would be all well and good, magic will inevitably have its risks, but Blossom’s few interactions with such spirits had taught her one thing. Life spirits are dicks.

Specifically dicks mind you because for formless unknowable beings they reminded her all too much of her early magic instructor. An ageing wizard who must have been some sort of big shot at some point, she had vague memories of her father exalting his strides in necromancy. To Blossom he had been and old man with too small eyes, strained and bloodshot as he looked down upon her latest efforts and advised her that women generally lack the forceful presence required to command the life spirits. Wizards are in general, also dicks.

Of course Blossom had attended enough births to know that a forceful presence is the last thing women lack. Just last week she’d watched as Mary Conner, the most lamb hearted woman she’d ever known, broke her husband’s hand; swearing up and down that she’d remove a favoured body part of his if he thought she’d be having another child. Blossom had honestly spent longer on the spell to fix poor the poor man’s hand than she did assisting Mary. Women, mothers especially, she’d come to learn are a force of nature. A fact that any numbers of wizard’s tomes had yet to teach her brothers.

So yes Blossom was quite happy with her cottage and her gardens and her villagers who would buy her potions for copper coins and chickens eggs.

Which is why she wasn’t pleased about a dark-haired woman barging in yelling a name she’d rather forget. Unexpected interruptions were to be expected in her line of work, injuries and illness did not wait for any schedule, even witches’. But this woman was far better dressed than any of her usual visitors. A fine cloak draped around her shoulders, enchanted by the looks of it, fire protection and possibly weapons protection although a closer look would be required to confirm. But still a finer cloak than any of her normal clients could afford. Matched only by what Blossom could only call an aristocratic look. There is little to distinguish an aristocratic face from any other person except a manner of pursing the lips, however involuntarily, in the presence of humble living. Blossom of course couldn’t judge; her face had once held that same look. Although she could judge the look of contempt that followed as she surveyed the cottage, because that was just rude.

It is at this point that Blossom must point out that this woman and many others from this point forward insist on referring to her by the wrong name. So she has decided to make minor edits to this account and switch any usages of this name to Blossom: her goddamn name.

“I am Lady Cottingford bearing a message for Mage Blossom from his royal highness Prince Richard.”

The woman left a clearly scripted pause, to allow for the expected exclamations of awe. But Blossom had met the prince many times throughout her aborted foray into wizardry, and on almost every occasion he had proved himself to be entirely deserving of the abbreviation of his name. So of course there was little awe to be found. Ever a professional the messenger soldiered on declaring,

“His royal highness has chosen you to assist him in a matter of great importance to our country, and as such has summoned you to the royal palace immediately.”

“He has the entire school of wizards at his disposal, what does he want with me?”

The woman purses her lips again, she really was quite good at that, disdaining the mere thought of answering a peasant. Blossom saved her the trouble,

“They couldn’t solve it.” Blossom had never claimed to be anything but blunt, and the look on the woman’s face made it clear she’d got to the heart of the matter.

Now Blossom could annoy the messenger all she liked but by law she was technically still the Queen’s subject so there was no way out of a direct royal command. With this in mind she collected her prestocked bag of supplies and gestured for her ever charming guide to lead the way.

The castle was as she remembered it. Pretentious. Although it was an interesting change of pace to be invited in through the servant’s entrance, off a secondary courtyard rich with the smells of laundry and cooking food. Whatever matter must be discussed was clearly meant to remain a secret, not that her presence would remain so for very long if the covert glances of the scullery maids was anything to go by. Being lead through the claustrophobic maze of servants passages only served to bring her back to days as an acolyte in the school of wizards, hours spent between rows upon rows of ancient tones alongside her brothers, and so she was grateful to be led into what must have been the most ostentatious room known to man, woman or beast.

Prince Dick sat in pride of place seemingly dwarfed by the throne he was one day expected to fill. It was a strange sight to behold as the prince could only claim superiority over his mother in one aspect: height. And yet he seemed incapable of filling any space she left. While this reunion would have been unpleasant enough it was made all the more so by the presence of Isaac taking the place of the prince’s right hand.

Isaac was as much like she remembered him as he was not. He still looked far too like a cherub with his golden curls and heart shaped face, but he held himself with more pride than he’d ever managed as her brother and fellow acolyte. Of course she’d seen the look of disappointment before; as she’d left. But it remained jarring to see it on the face of what was once her closest friend.

Eager to get the ordeal over with Blossom dipped into possibly the most lacklustre curtsy this hall had ever seen, her greeting of “Your highness, brother,” devoid of any real respect. Not that they seemed to notice, as far as they were concerned what she said didn’t really matter.

“Blossom,” Three years had clearly done little to change the prince, she wasn’t even that surprised. At least her brother had remained silent “I’m sure you’re wondering why I summoned you,” he had the same smile he’d had ever since he was a boy, the type of smile that left you feeling as though you were just a toy he’d soon grow bored of. The same flare for drama as well, if the clearly calculated pause was anything to go by. “I’m sure you’ve heard that I recently got married,” Blossom had actively not heard this and said a little prayer for whichever poor thing it was, “well since then we appear to have had a little bit of a problem. To be blunt, my wife has been cursed. On our wedding night she transformed and she hasn’t changed back since. See if you can fix her for me.” With this he listlessly waved his hand, gesturing for her to follow the guards stationed by the door.

Neither of the guards seemed inclined to acknowledge her which was fine with her. Walking the endless, lavish corridors which made up the royal castle gave Blossom time to think over the situation. If they were desperate enough to call her in, they must have exhausted every method known to the school of wizards, so Blossom was honestly shocked they hadn’t seen any improvements.

The guards came to a stop in front as rather ordinary looking door, for royalty that is, it didn’t look like the place you’d find a royal princess. Although the reason for that became clear as she entered, her two guards filing in behind her. The room its self was better than most people would ever see in their lifetimes with crisp cotton sheets on a delicately carved bed frame, a soft floral pattern covering the walls, and a large glass window overlooking the place gardens. But there in the centre of the bed sat a very bored looking goat.

The villagers owned enough goats for Blossom to be aware that this goat was unimpressed as it glanced at her, but this could also be because it was apparently a princess so most people must be rather unimpressive. Still Blossom found it was better to introduce herself before someone else does it for her and uses the wrong name, so here she was talking to a goat.

“Hello your highness, my name is Blossom and I am a hedge witch your husband has asked to break your curse.” The goat, seemingly satisfied with this greeting, left the bed and walked to stand a few feet in front of Blossom. The goat was of course still a princess, and princesses have manners.

Even close up this looked just like any regular goat, of course Blossom could sense a trace of magic clinging to the edges, maintaining the transformation, but it seemed to have no malicious intent. Strange for a curse. Rummaging in her bag she drew out a glass bottle of clear liquid, pouring some on her fingertips she smeared it over her eyelids. Marigold water on the eyes for clear sight. Too basic for any wizard to use but useful all the same. A rough translation spell cast and she was ready.

“This isn’t a curse is it?”

“My mother taught me that a Lady must marry for her family. She never mentioned anything about letting him touch me”

This exchange served as a great source of confusion for the guards who had watched a young woman enact a conversation with a goat, baas and all, then burst into laughter as though the animal had said something incredibly witty, rather than just being a goat.

“Why a goat?” Blossom was honestly curious about this; animal transformations were notoriously tricky and most witches didn’t attempt one without a specific animal in mind.

“It seemed rather unladylike, and a goat removes any possibility of him trying to ride me in a different sense to his original plans.” It was difficult to determine tone using a translation spell, and Blossom had certainly never studied the ins and outs of Goat before. But she was at least 90% sure that the future queen of the nation was telling sex jokes, as a goat. It was a lot to process. She also may be a little in love.

“So I’m assuming you aren’t in need of any magical assistance as your….esteemed? husband claims.” Blossom had always assumed that goats lacked the correct facial muscles to properly express the emotion of sass, but here she was, sassed by a goat. Add that to the long list of reasons for her father to be disappointed.

“If I was in need of magical assistance I wouldn’t have headbutted the last three wizards they sent.”

“Well I’m grateful that you haven’t done that to me yet,”

“To be fair you’re a lot prettier than the last three,” While Blossom would claim that the heat from the fire had finally caught up with her, this excuse couldn’t quite explain the way her heart was trying its best to float its way out of her chest. “Smarter too. None of the others figured it out.”

“Wizards are dicks”

“Well it’s a good thing I’m placing my future in the hands of witch then, isn’t it Blossom?” Maybe it was hearing her name for the first time since she arrived at the palace, maybe it was the phrasing the princess had used, maybe it was the fact that Blossom’s sum total of dating experience was zero. But the idea of proposing marriage floated into her mind, then set down its anchors with no intention of leaving anytime soon. She was weak and it occurred to her that she’d do just about anything for her.

“Please help me escape.” That, that she could handle.

Now if you were to ask the princess, which she’d discovered people rarely do in these stories. She would have told you that the smile that graced Blossom’s face as she agreed, must have been sculpted by the spirits themselves. Blossom would adamantly deny that there was anything special about that particular smile, but the beginnings of love have a way of tricking the minds of all parties.

A quick discussion, of course all in Goat, and the plan was ready. The princess would have normally deemed the plan too simple to work. But alas, she had spoken to her husband, who was really rather simple too. With both women agreed there really only was one final problem to take care off. And Blossom’s childhood had taught her a few things, the most useful of which for this scenario being: how to get what you wanted from guards.

She approached the guards slowly, careful to shrink into herself, wearing fear and reverence like a cape as she made her request. “Excuse me sirs, but would you mind stepping outside? You see, well, if I am to try and transform her highness back, she will. Well she won’t be -“ Blossom was careful to keep one eye on the guards throughout this little play, waiting for the moment before intrigue turned to irritation to reveal “She won’t be wearing any clothes. It’s just not proper.” Not that the guards seemed to care for proper, they were very happy to pretend as though she’d never even spoken. Plan B it was.

Blossom drew herself up to her full height, shedding her act and allowing the aristocratic sneer of her father’s perfect son to grace her features. Most days she did not enjoy towering over most people she met, but she must admit that the intimidation factor really did come in useful. Since the guards seemed to decide that there really wasn’t that much difference between one side of the door and the other, in the grand scheme of things. With the decided click of the door, Blossom spun to face the princess, unable to keep the excited smile off her face. Rescuing a princess, disappointing her family, pissing off Prince Dick. This was going to be fun.

The spells themselves weren’t all that complicated in the end, Blossom knew of a villager who happened to own a very similar looking goat so the summoning was a breeze. It would have been considerably harder if the forest sprites didn’t find the whole idea absolutely hilarious; but they still hold this as one of their best pranks to this day. And a temporary shrinking draft was easy to make from the ingredients she’d brought with her. So with a goat in the room and an even smaller goat smuggled in her bag, Blossom took a calming breath, schooled her expression into something resembling disappointment, opened the door and requested to see the prince.

The prince did not appear to have moved since Blossom had last seen him, despite a considerable amount of time having passed. Although it occurred to her that it was entirely possible that this was a pose he pulled in an attempt to look regal and intimidating, that seemed like the sort of thing Dick would do. It would have been helpful if this thought had occurred to her at another time, when she didn’t need to pretend to be contrite. But thoughts, much like royal messengers it seemed, do not really care whether the timing is convenient. It was a good thing she could keep her head down in a show of respect and regret, as this served quite nicely to hide the upwards twist of her mouth from view. All attention on her, princess in her bag, sprites at her back, Blossom spoke.

“I’m sorry your highness but the spell on this princess was too strong for me. I tried my best but I was unable to break it.”

Neither the prince nor Isaac looked in any way surprised, they’d called her here to watch her fail. To remind her of her ‘place’, to rub in her face everything she’d given up. And rage rushed through her veins for the first time in years, dampened only by the knowledge that she was lying to their faces and they didn’t have a clue. That they could look down on her all they liked; they still couldn’t see the truth. “I think that is a curse from the fae, probably laid on the royal family. But it is powerful. The royal wizards are the only ones who could attempt to break it.” And the royal wizards did attempt to break the curse for many more years, once Blossom had been dismissed from court in ‘disgrace’ again. But even the most experienced of scholars had little luck, for their ‘princess’ was in fact a goat.

At the sight of her little cottage, with its creeping vines and the worn paint on the door, Blossom couldn’t help but laugh, letting the tension bleed from her bones at the sight of home. Retrieving the princess from her bag, only to be informed that ‘it stank worse than the prince’s breath’ only sent her spiralling back into uncontrollable laughter. Now laughter in general is infectious, but a laugh like Blossom’s; loud, unrestrained and full of joy, to a girl already half way in love is even more so and the princess soon found herself laughing along. She didn’t require any help to transform back in the end, she’d chosen what she would become and who else could take that from her? Blossom had only just regained her breath as it was knocked out from her once more, her own heart pounding in her ears. The princess was shorter than she’d imagined princesses to be, all soft around the edges with a round face and eyes the colour of fertile ground just a little too small for the rest of her features. She was also more perfect than she ever could have dreamed.

“Nice to finally meet you. I’m Blossom.”

“Claire,” a shy smile graced the princesses face and Blossom knew that now was her only chance to keep that smile in her life.

“I was wondering. If you don’t have any other plans, of course! But if if you need a place to stay, then you could stay with me. If you wanted.” Blossom’s face was red, but she’d said what she needed to and the smile she received in return was all the reward she’d ever need.

“I’d love to! Just until I get back onto my feet. I’ll get out of your hair soon, I promise.”

Despite the princess’s promises she quickly grew accustomed to cottage life; the smell of stew cooking, logs cracking on the fire, soft touches from shy hands and that smile day after day. Days turned to months and months to years. The villagers grew accustomed to the second witch as well, smiling as she delivered potions and shaking their heads slightly when she stopped by the pens to where she’d make bleating noises at the goats as though they could understand. And if the villagers spied the two witches kissing as they gathered ingredients, well that was really no one’s business but theirs.

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atamascolily · 6 years

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A Natural History of Tatooine, part 4/?

In which Luke has a nightmare and we learn some of Tor's backstory.

(Parts One, Two and Three)

"Cray!"

His head throbbed, matching the burning pain that threaded through his infected leg. He was barely able to walk, but he had to keep going. Cray was in trouble. She would die if he didn't do something. Where was she?

He heard a scream behind him, saw Cray stumbling forward as a series of Gamorreans half-dressed in stormtrooper uniforms pushed her along. Two others half-carried, half-dragged Nichos's android body, still twitching feverishly from his attempt to jack into the Eye of Palpatine's systems and subvert the Will. There was a set of blast doors between them and Luke, closing fast.

He lunged, knowing even as he did so he couldn't move fast enough to make it in time.

"CRAY!"

He woke, gasping and sweating, sprawled in a tangle on his bunk.

It was just a dream, he told himself, his racing heart gradually slowing as he reoriented himself to his surroundings. He was on a ship, but it wasn't the Eye of Palpatine, it was Tor's ship and he was safe now. Everything was fine.

Of course, being a Jedi, Luke's dreams had a tendency to be prophetic, little glimpses of futures that might or might not come to pass. But this nightmare was no future vision, but a memory of the past--

The chronometer on the wall said it was 0630 shipboard time, so he gave up on sleeping, threw on a fresh set of robes, and padded out into the conservatory. The artificial lights were set low and would gradually increase their output over time to imitate a natural sunrise. Tor also had programed a series of bird calls to mimic the dawn chorus - though like the plants themselves, the recording boasted an odd mixture of planets and ecosystems/ Luke heard the cry of Yavin fairy-peacock and a Sawarran nighthawk, followed shortly thereafter by a Coruscanti tower dove, a combination he was fairly certain would never exist without human interference.

Tor sat on a cushion on the floor, her legs folded and her eyes half-closed in meditation, an emerald green silk envelope on her lap. She'd thoughtfully spread out an extra cushion nearby, evidently guessing he'd be up in time to join her.

Without a word, Luke settled down beside her. He thought he saw the faintest flicker of a smile flash across her face, but it passed too quickly for him to be certain of it. The presence of her mind was still and calm and unreadable as always, reflecting back at him like water in a tranquil, still pool.

As they sat together in silence, the cries of the birds rose to a crescendo and faded away as the "sun" rose around them. Luke's thoughts, agitated and unsettled from his dream, began to settle out, like oil and water in a jar no longer shaken.

After about thirty minutes, a bell rang, so high-pitched and pealing Luke thought it was another bird at first. Tor reached down to pick up the silk envelope, and balanced it on her head before lowering her hands up to her heart and pressed her palms together. Out of long habit, Luke mimicked the last gesture. Together they chanted:

"Vast is the power of the Force, A formless field of benefaction, I renew my ceaseless vows To be good and kind for the benefit of all beings."

Tor took the cloth envelope off her head, and pulled out what looked like a woven cloth bib with a wooden ring tucked in one of the upper corners and put it around her neck. This was her rakusu, a miniature version of an ordained priest's robe on Sawarra, that was also worn by dedicated lay students. However, the cloth was the same deep living green of the jungle plants around them rather than the shades of blue, black or brown in common use there.

Although not officially ordained as a priest, Tor had spent over a decade in an isolated monastery in the wild Sawarran mountains--partly out of a familial commitment to the old abbot, and partly to keep herself hidden from the local Sawarran government, which had taken a very dim view of any anti-Imperial opinions following Palpatine's rise to power. Hunted by the planetary authorities, Tor had taken sanctuary in the monastery, going literally underground whenever soldiers dropped in for a visit.

A few days before the abbot's death, he'd formally ordained Tor as one of his teaching heirs, a gift that had never been offered before to a lay student, let alone a woman. The abbot's decision upset many of the more conservative hard-liners in the monastery hierarchy and Tor had been forced to flee off-planet when they'd leaked word of her presence to the military. Despite the pain it had caused her, she took her responsibilities to her teacher seriously, and wore her rakusu with pride, though it was usually tucked under her coveralls and rarely visible in public.

Inspired by his experiences at the Sawarran monasteries a few years earlier, Luke had adopted some of the chants to close out morning meditation sessions at the Jedi academy. Now, watching her, he wondered if he should modify the custom yet further to include the rakusu as well. Traditionally, a Jedi's rite of passage was constructing their own lightsaber--but he'd discovered that many of his students still viewed the instrument as a weapon of power and war, injuring themselves and others in the process. Perhaps adding a less martial component -- such as asking students to sew their own robes by hand, as the Sawarran priests did - might go a long way towards correcting that misconception.

He sighed. For a thousand generations, the old Jedi order had been passed down in an unbroken line of succession from master to student, only to be scattered and nearly destroyed in the Empire's rise to power. He and his fellow instructors at the academy were doing their best to restore the order--but times had changed and they'd also made adjustments where they felt necessary and appropriate, rather than slavishly following the old ways.

In addition to lightsaber constructions and trials as rites of passage, they had also been experimenting with the practice of first errantry, in which one or two recent graduates would go on missions, accompanied by a more seasoned instructor to keep an eye on things and offer corrections in the field. Mara, in particular, had been especially vehement about this practice, which was one reason why she was off with Kyp and Cilghal--two very different students she had taken under her wing for vastly different reasons--instead of remaining on Yavin for the rainy season retreat.

First errantry was also why Luke had taken Cray and Nichos with him to Ithor--where they'd stumbled upon an odd message that had led them straight to the Moonflower Nebula and no end of trouble--

Tor rose, and Luke did the same, stowing their cushions under the seats around the holo-display, which was set this morning to mimic a bubbling fountain. Were they back at the Academy, it would be time to for temple cleaning, but Luke wasn't sure what, if anything, needed to be done aboard ship.

Tor gestured him towards a broom and a dustpan tucked away in the corner. He set to work sweeping the floor, while she circled the room, checking in on her plants and occasionally harvesting fruit or leaves for the "morning" meal. Tor was a purist about "real food," as she called it, and while she tolerated ration bars and vacuum-sealed processed meals for fieldwork, she preferred her meals fresh and green whenever possible.

By the time Luke had finished sweeping and was casting about for a new task, Tor had assembled two trays loaded with fruits, vegetables, and nuts--only some of which he recognized--and steaming mugs of cha, the Sawarran national beverage. Tor, being Tor, had a small collection of cha plants aboard the Destiny and an even larger one in her garden on Yavin so she would never be deprived of a fresh cup. It was bitter and grassy compared to hot chocolate, but Luke had gradually come to appreciate it. He and Tor had spent many hours bent over a large pot, wrapped in discussion over some point of Jedi minutiae.

She switched off the holo-table, revealing the flat surface underneath, and Luke helped her carry both trays over. Only once they were both sitting down, and finished offering thanks for their food, did they meet each other's gaze.

#star wars #my fanfiction #fanfic excerpt #a natural history of tatooine

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readfelice-blog · 6 years

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moominland chronicles elf . its not you, its me.

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good.

It's late today, well i mean there is no set time, but im slow, on this gorgeous early autumnal sunday, i dozed till 15h, getting up intermittently to empty my washing machine, tug at my hair (vinegar makes it sticky? I'm trying to find the perfect all natural solution to shampoo because I’m no poo now : https://www.nopoomethod.com , in fact i’m practising a very loose version of alchemy in my house, trying to find drinks that energise but don't make me anxious, cleaning solutions for my body and for my house that bewitch the nostrils and incinerate grease / kalk. Essentially I’m just concocting weird stuff, hunched over materials collected around the city, boiling my hell broths in ikea pans, surrounded by recycled jars).....

Lets press on…...

Yes, my morning, my intro to the day, I was up so late because I was up last night so late, till 4am, painting and listening to sweet feminine soundwaves in my kitchen, getting it done in my way, step by step. Because now I’m working a 5 day week again, my days are 3 hours long, 5 at a push, 6 in the most extreme cases, so now I’m back to burrowing out time where i can find it, because now i have my teeth dug in to a big project, a big project that will be realized, for the first time since may May last year.

May last year:

I killed myself, artistically, me artistically is the majority of me.

My whole life has been sewn into my practise, my method, my way of understanding and redistributing everything that comes into my life, and May last year I moved out of the house I shared with my ex husband , moon, and into a shared flat, to embark on a restorative journey. Me and moon were not doing well in our little cramped caravan, we were at each other's throats incessantly, already broken up, him with a new partner, me in full swing of frantic madness, fuelled by bottomless bottles of booze.

Day in day out in my studio, I slowly turned my 450sq ft basement into a mermaids cave, drunk on 8% cider, night after night, sticking black bin liners to the walls with double sided tape, hanging spirals of bubblewave to the ceiling, spray painting floor tiles, screaming at the camera on my iphone half naked, making terrifying life size dolls and cry singing to myself, emphatically paranoid and fractured, writing letters to a man I’d never met who I thought could save me. It was my last great project, I created a film I can never show my parents and documented myself throwing my life away, in my wedding dress, shadowed by the virgin: a wreckage, a car crash, a lot of footage I haven’t been able to edit because I haven’t got the equipment to do so.

It's all stored on a clunky hard drive bundled up with the moon, he saved it for me, without him I would of lost it because my laptop, his laptop, broke in the middle of me editing it and since then its been untouched. I’m afraid the hours of video that follow me dancing around everything i’d ever owned up until that point, rigorously chucking it all in more black bin liners. When I can find a place to edit everything and the capacity in my mind, then I can piece it back together and show it to the world.

Since May last year, I have totally uprooted my life, moved out of London, had a very strange, sometimes beautiful, sometimes harrowing time with my family in Devon, rolled through Turin, Cork, Helsinki, chasing the man I’ve never met, blocking the man I’ve never met at the behest of my friend in Cork, defending and understanding my art more deeply in Helsinki, and finding Tove Jansson. Her bronze bust on the door of the studio she used to hold, her gorgeous expanding black and white prints in the mumin cafe that towered in the sky under artificial light, her room in the museum of Modern Art, her soul in the botanical gardens amongst the families having lunch together.

It's been a glorious invigorating illuminating intrepid journey (I’ve been writing a hip hop song recently, can you tell?) but its not been anything monumental in terms of creation and since May last year is the longest time I have gone without a major project in my life, for possibly my entire adult life, bar being at uni, where conversely I was more orientated towards squat parties than art making.

So here I sit now, with a great big juicy exciting idea inflated in a giant balloon, ready to be released into the atmosphere, the only snag is that it needs to be manifested into real material, which means a lot of work, and so, I find myself back in a place I’d forgotten about.

That's the very good thing about having such a long break, is now I can totally observe what happens to me when I’m in this phase: it’s quite extreme from a fledgling perspective.

Not fueled by booze this time, but instead concocting things to give me a buzz that I can buy in the supermarket (don’t drink to much valerian, it gives you a bad tummy, im not drowsy or euphoric I just feel sick from the after affects and rancid smell) and developing my cleaning routine to be the most streamlined and creative that it can be, to give my art sustenance.

But if I could I would lock myself away from the world in a cabin far up on a mountain and painfully draw out everything in a more concentrated form, the cleaning is fine for now but it's hard to concentrate when I have to go to peoples houses and deal with their kalk as well, it might be one of the factors in why the whole thing is so stressful, but I have the suspicion that it will always be stressful, even if I ever get the luxury to entirely dedicate my day to working on my art.

The big thing I’m noticing is incessant, almost intolerable paranoia, that someone will steal my idea and present it to the world before I’m done. I notice it now and then I turn and look at my past and see its infected traces throughout my history, it's a big driving force in getting the work finished and I’m starting to see that I cannot share or talk about what I’m doing when I’m in the midst of it, but all i want to do is share and talk about it, hence why that cabin would be a better place than a city I’m not fully established in.

I know it’s unreasonable, untrusting, maybe even unkind of me, to believe that someone would steal something like this from me. I know that sharing ideas is healthy and loving and makes the world go round, but this paranoia is totally immovable and so I just accept it and try to satiate it, hoping by feeding it homemade remedies that it won’t make my life worse.

But these big idea’s, they come upon me, I don’t choose them, all the strands of my life and experimentation ferment slowly and then one day I wake up and I know what I have to do, then as I start to do it it grows and morphs, develops, things come and go from my wall, until I have reduced and finelined the parameters of a project, that's where I am now, all the mental groundwork is laid, its just the creation that's left, I’m now half way through the musical aspect of it but not halfway through the visual and I need to amp up, because it must be done by November the second, so I can take it to Turin with me, so I can deposit it at the gates of hell, so I can complete a cycle, so I can be free to make blue music and who knows what, maybe try something formless, kind and organic - that's not for me to know yet though.

Once it rears its great dense head, I am in its power, I am in the throng of obeying my art and that's a lonely place to be. It's lonely being an artist, some of us are collaborative and collective and have communities, but I’m not among those right now, this project, lets just call it by its name for here in : восем acht ocho : is not something I can share and make with others, it is a process of me picking up the pieces of my life, of giving praise to the moon, who has saved me and supported me so many times. I must give praise to him finally so I can move on and give praise to myself.

So I sit in my house and dutifully work back and forth between paint and ableton, singing and faux performing in my hallway in between, performing to my very tolerant invisible neighbours that must think I’m some kind of banshee from a deep buried part of the world. I sit in my house alone, I reject all the invitations extended to me, I retract from the life I am building to some extent and just hope the friends I have been finding will be understanding, though it's hard to explain to someone that I can’t come because of something I am choosing to do myself. It's not work related in terms of my bread and butter, Its not health related, I’m not resting, I guess a lot of people won’t understand which is perhaps why I feel compelled to try and somehow explain myself in this blog today.

I must make this work, it is not a choice, I am in my house alone because this idea has bound me up and demands my care and attention, because for the first time in over a year I can make work again and make it with diligence, create something on a large scale. It means that Berlin is working, this is the change I was looking for, because I feel like I have a future again, whilst the 100’s of drawings, paintings, books, trinkets from my life decay in some junk yard close to London, I have the space to bring new art into the world. It’s really a glorious turning point in my life so far.

I am still terrified that it will all collapse in on me at any time, but there are ways of fighting this paranoia, careful planning, creative problem solving, and probably just not talking about the details of what I am doing anymore until it is finished.

Phew, nothing enlightening this week, more of an attempt to bridge the gap between myself and the life that flows around me. I’m now off to edit my most current track on ableton then do some line work and probably make up some mixes of citric acid / bicarbonate of soda cleaner for the week ahead.

We just have to do what we must, and be grateful when we know what it is we must do.

#big ideas #realisation #self growth

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