#Kaitiaki

[polwarth]

Kaitiaki sculpture on Rotoroa Island

#new zealand #aotearoa #auckland #picture #tree #trees #Rotoroa Island #sculpture #kaitiaki

[bleuraspberrygalacticdust]

#Kaitiaki #Kereru #WoodPigeon #Ngahere #Forest #Aotearoa TeTaiao

[planetwaving]

KAITIAKITANGA

(guardianship for the sky, the sea, and the land)

#in this case it says for knowledge because this is specifically a value that my uni uses & employs #but it's usually a broader environmental term :) #kaitiakitanga #kaitiaki #aotearoa #te reo māori #my art

[koyato]

Kaleesh week

Day 4

Pups

@tuberculosis-bot-9000

All for our with @komorebi-art-blog AU

OKAY WELL SORRY I KNOW THIS IS NOT CUTE but still about children i guess?.. sorry, really sorry...

In Kaleesh society we have many sins... disrespect your family, run from a fair fight... but what are the worst?

Little Kaitiaki Huna have a jackpot. He's cannibal corpse eater.

Young and weak ginger Kaleesh lost his family really early, nothing special. But he was with a little, maybe even newborn he doesn't remember, sister and brother. And this was beginning of the final part of war.

I've been writing about it in last post but Huks started use chemical weapons to poison the nature and start the Great Hunger. And yes, trio was in this poison lands. They already lost family when they was trying to eat something, Kaleesh very tolerate to poisoning, but not in this time. And toxic zone was too big for children to cross fast.

After few days without even water older understood that it's dead end if they immediately don't find something. And the only clear meat in all forest was already here. Huna choose that little brother is weakest one and simply strangled him to death. When him and sister finally got out there was no clues that there were three of them and what happened.

Only Kaitiaki knows, for God's sake sister was to little to remember that. And well yes ancestors know it too. He convinced that they let him live only to protect remaining child.

In Kaleesh culture there is two constant values. Family, your parents, partners... and the most value-children. Children is future, murder a child is the worst thing, they don't know life yet, they don't became honorable warriors. Their souls would be cursed by ignorance.

In our headcanons Kaleesh believe in cycling of life and dead. You born, live your best life, die with honor, your family bury you in common grave, when your meat slowly rots and only bones remaining soul go in heaven, there you have good time with ancestors, help your children, but eternal existence without death sounds like curse. So when soul is ready she is reborn as a totally different kaleesh, and the past life is gone.

So little children can't go on heaven like honorable warriors, they just faster go in another life, and this is gone forever too fast... and Huna do this curse to his own brother he needs to protect no matter what. And even more he ate him, he defiled the corpse. He betrayed second great Kaleesh thing-Death.

He make himself and sister not better then Huks. Soulless demons. Maybe gods will forgive little one, but now he is getting used to the thoughts of his imminent punishment in any moment.

Аnd has nightmares every night... everytime he eats meat he again feels this taste and thinks that his mouth looks like Huk's one. Maybe it's true...

#tw: blood #tw: guro #tw: violence #tw: cannibalism #art #fanart #star wars au #fun oc #kaleesh week #kaitiaki huna

[wingkink]

I hate that now maybe forever whenever I see/hear the word kaitiaki a part of me will have to stop and get mad @ marisha ray about the. everything. and it's soooo insane how little it was talked about in the fandom

#I litchrally forget abt her doing that but then the kaitiaki kai ppl were at work today and I was like #why does this ring a weird bell. oh wait #ANYWAY

[yuck-pfaugh]

Note: I'm writing this only because I haven't seen anyone else touch on these specific points. I'm not Māori, so my understanding may be mistaken; if so I would be very grateful for correction and elaboration from tangata whenua. (And I've only read Nona once so far, and we all know that's a scratch upon the surface of it.)

Tazmuir has received fandom flack for saying in interviews that Gideon and Harrow are both Māori without mentioning it in the text — which understandably reminds sf/f readers of a certain other author's tendency to dispose of the difficult bits outside the actual work. I think it is clear by now that the reason it wasn't dealt with explicitly earlier on is that Tazmuir sticks religiously (ahem) to the flawed and limited knowledge of her point-of-view characters, and in the Nine Houses they have no concept of pre-Resurrection races and ethnicities, because Jod has not allowed them knowledge of any world but his. (Besides, explaining Gideon's lineage in a Doylist aside would have been rather tricky without revealing, before their proper time in the narrative, juicy details about Jod himself.)

My prediction is that we will find out Anastasia was also Māori. Maybe, probably, from the same iwi as Jod and/or G1deon.

Which makes Harrow, her last descendent, Māori as well.

No matter how many generations separate them. No matter how much other blood.

"Mixed Māori" or "[percentage] Māori" is kind of a pākehā concept. The more important question is, do you whakapapa? Do you know who you are? Do you know where you come from? All it takes is one verified ancestor and you're in the club, no matter how long it's been or what brand of egg carton your skin looks like on the book cover. I think Harrow is descended not just from a line of Tomb-keepers but a line of kaitiaki, guardians of the land, who through Anastasia's private pact with Alecto are sworn to protect her — Papatūānuku, the earth mother born from salt water — and who have been holding on for ten thousand years to right Jod's wrongs. We know salt water is sacred to the line of the Ninth House; we know that Alecto was called "the saltwater creature"; we know that it's Nona's natural element, which calms and renews her; all this links Alecto/Earth specifically with Māori creation myths, more than any others. And we know that preserving the ancient bloodline of the Ninth, Anastasia's bloodline, in Harrow's own improbable and desperately yearned-for person (that Alecto can recognise at a taste), was the goal Pelleamena and Priamhark pursued at the cost of the Ninth House's entire future.

Yes, this series is portraying an indigenous man as the destroyer of Earth. We know that Earth chose him as her saviour and he betrayed her, imprisoned her, set himself up as master of an empire that was her antithesis, then imprisoned her again — arguably worse sins for someone who was born into that special relationship with the land, whom the Earth loved and trusted so much and still loves even now because love past understanding is her gift.

But here's the answer to that. Here's his opposite number. Harrow, who fell in love at first sight with the Earth, who found in that love her reason and her drive to continue living and to hold to her goals through intolerable trauma, who has a unique combination of bloodline and genius and Jod-and-Alecto-derived power (through her Lyctorhood with Kiriona Gaia, wherever that ends up going) with which to fulfill this sacred pact entered into by her tipuna Anastasia.

Harrow being Māori is not a trendy convenient afterthought. It's an integral point.

Harrow knows who she is. She knows where she comes from. She knows where she's going: Hell itself, to get to the bottom of all this shit. So I think we will be hearing more along these lines.

#the locked tomb #nona the ninth #anastasia the first #anastasia the ninth #harrow too #ntn spoilers #nona spoilers #nona the ninth spoilers #acid jail for john #because that is my tag for john

[uispeccoll]

#MiniatureMonday

Happy Māori Language Week from Special Collections & Archives!

Te Wiki o te Reo Māori, Maori Language Week, is celebrated annually the week of September 14th to commemorate Te Wā Tuku Reo Māori, the Maori Language Moment, which stamps the presentation of the Maori Language Petition in New Zealand at 12 pm on September 14, 1972.

Te Reo Māori is the language of New Zealand's Indigenous Maori people. It is a part of the Austronesian language family and shares its roots with other island languages including Tahitian and Hawaiian. The celebration of Te Wiki is rooted deeply in efforts to revitalize the Māori language after years of the speaking and use of te reo was banned in schools. Today, te reo Māori is the official language of New Zealand, or Aotearoa as it is called by the Indigenous people. It has become increasingly used in New Zealand society, culture, and professional institutions. The Māori language has also become something of global interest, with the popularization of the language through its presence in music, film, television, and sports commentary.

In the United States, Polynesians as a whole make up less than half of a percent of the American population, with Māori people as one of the smallest migrant populations. Still, for those living abroad or interested in learning the language from afar, the language revitalization movement has certainly spread to the United States, along with its learning materials and resources.

There is a Māori proverb that reads ahakoa he iti he pounamu, "although it is small, it is greenstone." This refers to the importance of things small but precious, such as these miniatures!

The Reeds' Lilliput Māori dictionary and Reeds' Lilliput Māori proverbs live in Special Collections as part of the Smith Miniature Book Collection. These 5cm tall miniature books were published by A.W. Reed in the early 1960s, the dictionary in 1960 as part of a collection of miniature dictionaries made popular by other global publishers. The book of whakatauki, Māori proverbs, joined the mini-dictionary in 1964. Other language dictionaries include Spanish, French, and Romanian. Due to their size, it is likely that these books were made to entertain more so than educate. Still, they are certainly one of the many taonga, treasures, of Special Collections.

Te Wiki o te Reo Māori 2023 begins Monday, September 11, and concludes Sunday, September 17. Celebrate through songs, stories, conversations, or by learning some library-related Māori vocabulary! You can also visit the University of Iowa LibGuide on learning beginner's te reo Māori.

NGĀ KUPU WHARE PUKAPUKA LIBRARY VOCABULARY

pukapuka book

pūranga archive

whakaputunga collection

kaitiaki pukapuka librarian

wāhi tuku pukapuka reference desk

pānui to read

ako to learn

--From M Clark, Instruction GA

Reeds' proverbs (SMITH PL6465.Z77 .R44 1964) and Reeds' dictionary (SMITH PL6465.Z5 .R44 1960)

#uiowa #special collections #miniaturemonday #uiowaspecialcollections #rare books #library #maori culture #te reo maori #proverbs #new zealand

[imarvelatthestars]

Just a Man: I

Pairings: Jango Fett x f!Reader

Content: this is a Headless Horseman au set during a historical time period on Earth with a special focus on Māori culture to honor Tem's heritage; warnings include - decapitation, violence & warfare, mercenary activity, explicit references to colonization, (D)jango is morally ambiguous and a problematic king but we love him anyway, and also smut

Notes: no use of y/n, although the reader is given a placeholder last name.

Many thanks to @moodymisty who inspired it & @wolffegirlsunite who let me yell all my feral ideas at her.

a playlist | next chapter

important vocab: aotearoa - literally 'the land of the long white cloud', the māori name for new zealand korowai - a type of cloak waka - canoe; waka hourua - large double-hulled canoes made for ocean travel iwi - tribe tamariki - children mana - the supernatural, indestructible power of the gods that exists in everything pounamu - special greenstone or jade that many pendants and patu are made out of patu - a traditional māori war club kaitiaki - guardian django - possibly from a romani word meaning "i awake"; fetu - alternate spelling of the māori name "whetu" (wh- = f-)

1575 – Rotorua, Aotearoa

It is cold this night and he draws his korowai tighter around his shoulders. Most are asleep by now and he ought to be among them, but the stars have kept him up, the stars and their reflections on the lake and what lies beyond them all. This wonder is not a new one. Fetu has wondered about the great beyond many times, enough to have been scolded for it beyond what he can count. Yet still the desire remains.

It calls to him now, itching at the back of his throat, at his hands, his feet, urging him to action, to run into the night and never look back. For the thousandth time, he wonders what sort of chaos would erupt in his absence. His wife would be furious and it might honestly be best that he never return should he indeed choose to leave – her fury would certainly kill him. His brothers would shake their heads, his parents would bow theirs in shame and reluctant resignation, but no one would be surprised.

No, he tells himself like he’s done every night before, I will stay. Duty. Honor. These are things that he believes in and to run would be to abandon them. I will stay.

The stars are quiet. So are the gods, though he swears he hears something on the wind, something like the crashing of waves on a shore that whispers, “Go. Run.”

Fetu shakes his head, one corner of his mouth cracking into a smile. He’s letting his mind run away with him again. Best to get some sleep before any more foolish ideas take root.

Sleep does come, but it doesn’t calm the hunger gnawing at the edges of his mind. The not-quite voice from the lakeshore follows him into his dreams and it is here that the world comes alive with thunder and lightning and the rumbling of the earth. He sees things he has never seen before – a great waka of a shape he would never have conceived with cloaks hovering high above the bow, strange weapons that spark as if crafted by god-fire, lands as brown as his skin that rise and fall like the mountains but shift like the sand on the beach, long stretches of ice and snow, beasts of unimaginable heights and with strange faces, taller even than the tallest warrior. All this could be his to explore, the dream tells him, less with words and more with the kiss of the sea breeze on his face.

Think of the legends, it says. And he does think of them. He pictures the ancestors who sailed from Hawaiki to discover this land, the waka hourua that sailed over vast oceans, the bravery and boldness still recalled over fires so many years later. He thinks of the desperation that has burned in his gut since he was a boy and how everyone in the iwi has tried to douse that fire, his parents, the elders, his brothers, his wife. But it doesn’t have to be that way any longer. He could run.

It would be shameful, he reasons.

It would only be shameful if he were to return. And both he and the dream know that he would never want to.

I have tamariki. They are young.

They are strong like he is. They will endure.

I belong here. Even though he has always known that a part of him belonged elsewhere.

Had the ancestors stayed where they belonged, he would not be here now to live and die. Had the ancestors lived in their fear-

Fetu bristles. I am not afraid.

And yet he stays.

He surveys the things his dream has shown him, the almost glimpses of foreign people at the edges of his vision. There is destiny in the wind that pulls at their hair, there are legends in the footsteps they leave behind. There is a place for him, only if he is willing to go.

He wakes to the sound of his son crying. Another bad dream, something about drowning in the belly of a beast whose mouth is too full of teeth. Fetu thinks that facing such a creature would be an admirable end, an exciting end. His skin pimples with the idea. But he shushes the boy and tells him to go back to sleep. After all, it was just a dream and dreams are not always true.

But sometimes. Sometimes they are. This is the part he keeps to himself.

He’s always been good at plans. It’s why his brothers have always deferred to him. He sees things differently than they do, understands how others think and how best to use that to his advantage. He knows when to be quiet and when to speak, when to wait and when to strike. So he knows that now is not the time to run off chasing his dreams. The start of his story must be slow and careful, it must be restrained, and while this restraint burns in his throat, it is nothing new. He’s been waiting his whole life. He can wait a few months more.

The seasons will change with the arrival of the new year. The weather will warm, food will grow, and he will prepare. New weapons will be made, provisions carefully measured in the back of his mind, valuable skills resharpened, deals made with neighboring iwis in the late evenings when no one knows he is even missing.

Strangest of all, though, is the ache that burrows into his sternum when he watches his children. Poa is growing into a man more and more with every day, a man both very like and very different to him. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that Fetu never felt at his age, but there is also his quiet strength and warrior’s prowess. And Omeka is much the same. She is soft at heart, but it is a deceiving softness. She’s wise for someone so young, very kind and very smart, and incredibly fierce. He smiles when he thinks about the man she will marry one day. Whoever he is, he will need all the help he can get.

He's proud. And he knows for certain now that they will endure without him. They will outlive him and carry his lessons on to their own children, and he will live on through them. It could almost be enough, but… it isn’t. There is a difference in his mind between the legacy of his descendants and the legacy of his name and deeds stitched into song.

The lands of his dreams still call to him when he sleeps. Forests and barren valleys and faded grasslands. He will go there one day. Soon. The weather is almost right. His provisions are nearly ready. His weapons are made. The rest of the world is so close that he can almost taste it.

There is a place at the very north of this land that is said to be the first spot where the ancestors first saw Aotearoa. The rest of the world lies beyond this point. Hawaiki is to the north, apparently, but that is a dead land. His focus is set on the west. Where does the sun go when it sinks beneath the horizon? What people live there? What markings will they bear on their faces, what stories will they tell? He wonders if Poa’s sand beast that eats children whole lives in those faraway lands, and he smiles. There’s only one way to know for sure.

And so the long white clouds of his people fade away with the waves. He sails into the horizon with his own waka and a man from another iwi, a fellow adventurer yearning to discover the untouched reaches of the sea. It is a long voyage and it is hard. Fetu’s back burns under the sun and his arms ache at the end of each day, but he is more alive now than he ever was before. He finds himself smiling. His chest hums with something he cannot name, perhaps some new mana granted by Tangaroa for daring to venture where few will not go.

The land they first come to is not too unlike their own. There is greenery and there are people, a remarkable people that themselves in bright colors and speak in tongues he cannot comprehend. He doesn’t learn much of their language because the sounds don’t quite fit inside his mouth, but he learns enough to understand fragments of stories that tell of islands further up the coast. That is when things change. The land becomes red and cracked and dry, rocky and barren, and he cannot comprehend wanting to live in such a place, fascinating though it is. Yet still, there are people who make it their home.

It's not enough. He wants more. A part of him says that there isn’t much more he can find. He shouldn’t need more. He should be content with what he’s found.

To be content is to be complacent, and that is one thing that Fetu will never be again. He wants more, so more he will find, even if he finds himself sailing to his own ruin, to the underworld itself.

There are so many islands. There is so much water. There is so much world, and he eats it up like a starving man, consumes everything he sees with an appetite so ravenous that he cannot see beyond it. There is only the memory of the dream, the promise given to him by the gods (for what else could it have been?) that keeps him going. His companion left long ago, too tired, too homesick, too weak. He found another. And another. New islands and people come and go, new creatures for him to sink his teeth into, new weapons that crave blood like he craves the unknown.

He never looks back.

Why would he when everything he needs is before him?

He is making his own destiny, carving it out of seafoam and sweat and the constant beat of pounamu above his heart, the only piece of home he deemed worthy.

The stars shift a bit, the weather changes again, but it doesn’t become cooler. Now Fetu finds himself sweating more often than he isn’t. Now his own breath feels heavy in his chest and his hair wilts under the weight of the air. His latest companion suggests they stop and rest.

He travels on his own after that, and the rim of the waka has a dent in it from the force of his patu striking through sinew.

He’s so hungry. He’s never been so hungry before, but no food can satisfy it. It keeps him up at night, burns through him during the day and pushes him through every current and storm. He cannot stop. He’s almost afraid of what will happen if he does. All he knows is that he is searching for something and he has no idea what it is. It calls to him all the same.

The dreams return. They crowd his mind when he wakes. They whisper to him, tell him to keep searching, keep clawing his marks into history and if he tries hard enough, children will know stories of the great warrior who traversed the seas and took the world in his hands, made it his.

And then one day, he sees it. The waka from his first dream, the one that stretches into the sky with cloaks full of sea air. The people that guide it are so strange that it almost scares him. Almost. They are pale like corpses, like clouds. (He came from a land of clouds once.) Their words are sharp and harsh, their teeth are yellow, rotting, and their bodies stink. But their eyes spark like fire. Their weapons are unyielding, harder than stone, painful and brutal in a different way than the wood and whale bone and greenstone his people have used for time untold.

Whatever has brought them to him, he is grateful because for the first time in his life, Fetu feels a knowing. This is where he was always meant to be. He holds the thing they call a “pistol” in his hands and senses something awaken deep beneath his ribs the first time he fires it, something that should never have seen the light of day. It marvels at the destruction wrought by a single little pebble and a bit of fire.

Every day, there is something new to learn. Compasses, maps, pistols and sabers, letters and ink and paper, a new language of sounds and ideas that make no sense to him, but he devours it all, swallows it whole. He learns that the curves and lines on the paper spell out his name, mark places they’ve been and places they will go, immortalize the ideas in their heads so they can never forget them. This is how these people tell their stories. He thinks they must have terrible memories, but he learns their ways without hesitation, makes them his own, stitches their knowledge into his very being so that he can travel in ships like theirs and discover riches like gold and diamonds and spices, and he will write the stories that will live on after he dies.

Finally, his dreams are inching toward reality.

There’s no room for nuance in the life that Fetu the Bold the Brave the Great just Fetu has built for himself. Colonies, empires, they matter little to him. What matters most is turning a profit, since that is what gives power in this world beyond the edge of the sea, and profit can be made on any side. Captains and soldiers are eager to find their local resistance blotted out in the middle of the night – unfortunate accidents and animal attacks take the Império Português by storm – and dethroned sultans and disillusioned nobles are more than happy to find a mercenary to defend their homes, their fortunes, their wives for a night.

His ambition takes him far and he take great pride in his achievements, but there comes a time when his ambition fails him. October 31, 1596 – a curious amalgamation of calculations that the Portuguese like to use to mark the passing of time – is an ordinary day. Fetu wakes up and collects payment for a job well done. He stops the client when he sees that his money is short. This one time, he misses the obvious and all his well thought out plans fail him when a sultan’s sword slices through his throat.

The pain is so hot that it goes cold and the disturbingly uncomfortable sensation of blood bubbling out of his body, his esophagus ripping open and his trachea crackling sends him to his knees. Double crossed for the last time.

The only regret that comes to mind when his vision starts to go hazy is that he cannot kill the man who did this to him, who snuffed out his light before he had a chance to properly shine. He was just getting started. There was still… so much… left to see…

October 31, 1596 – Somewhere in Malacca, Malaysia, Portuguese Empire

After all the stories he’d heard as a child, he’d thought that Hawaiki would be… different, somehow. More water, perhaps, and less blood. But then Fetu has a moment of realization. That blood is his, he remembers it pouring out of him. The ground pressed into his cheek is not the ground of Hawaiki, but the earth of a kingdom far from the one he was born to. It stands to reason, then, that Hawaiki is not a literal underworld in some very far away place, but simply a vision of the place where you die, something you are forced to relive over and over again.

Only, he can feel his chest rising and falling. He can see his breath creating clouds in the dirt. He can hear it rasping in his severed throat. Alive. Oh, he does not like that. fingers map out the jagged tear through his body, slick with blood and saliva and shattered, jagged pieces of something he doesn’t know how to name, but it makes him feel sick. He doesn’t want to know what happens if he vomits now, he just needs to get cleaned up. He needs a doctor, he needs a fucking miracle, whatever those damn Portuguese are always going on about in their book of gods and magic.

The trek between the spot of his resurrection and the only strong-stomached person in the city who can stitch him back up is a bit of a blur. Fetu finds it hard to gauge where he’s going half the time because the world feels out of focus and uneven. His hearing has decreased dramatically, too, and his smell and taste – well, he’s no fool, he knows those things may be lost to him forever. It matters not. He’s still alive and he is not giving up, no matter what the world may throw at him to slow him down. He still has a story to write.

He isn’t entirely certain how this story will write itself, though, because his own capabilities have diminished significantly. Even after he recovers and his throat is somehow stitched together into some semblance of not-destroyed, his eyesight doesn’t return to normal, nor does his hearing or even his touch. The world is muted. Colors are less vibrant and music is more muffled, the smells that were once most pleasant to him now smell of nothing at all, and food leaves him feeling incurably ill. What he had assumed was life he now sees for what it truly is – another kind of death that has transformed his surest desires into mere fantasies.

There is no pleasure in the world. And the hunger that once gnawed at his stomach grows until it becomes so insatiable that nothing could ever quench it, not the blood he draws on the battlefield, not the gold he obtains from wealthy fools who crave control, not the finest silks nor the richest feasts, and not even the knowledge and people of the distant lands he once sought.

He joins a crew sailing for the seat of the empire. Good. He wants to leave these scattered islands full of people who remind him of the ones he left behind. He wants something new, something to satisfy the emptiness that lingers in his belly. But the crewmates whisper in the dead of night, say things they think he cannot hear because they assume he’s asleep. He hasn’t slept since the day he died and came back wrong.

“He’s a savage, like all the rest.” This does not surprise him. The Portuguese are a delicate lot, easily offended by anything they do not understand, and he knows the mere lines of his moko are enough to frighten them. “You see his eyes? Half clouded and empty.” “Can’t even look at him, mate, that scar on his neck is damn ugly.” “Maybe he’s a demon.” “Don’t even look alive.” “Like a corpse.”

These things, however, do.

Is he truly such a gruesome sight to behold? He’d never thought about it. For the first time in a long time, Fetu wonders what he looks like. He thinks about the stench of their fear and the hushed insults they would never dare to voice in the light, and he smiles, and it feels like the first smile of his life.

A demon, he muses. A monster. Monsters live on in legends, haunting the living and children’s nightmares, they are immortal and powerful, feared and respected.

The ship docks in a new land dotted with hills and odd structures. Lisboa, they call it. A quick look at a map tells him he is in another world entirely.

Fetu thinks about the things the crewmates whispered through the voyage and he decides that it would be cruel to disappoint them. He leaves the ship with blood staining his wrists and a quiet in his gut that he has not felt in ages.

September 1820 – Sleepy Hollow, New York

Dead leaves skip over cobblestones. The wind, cool and sharp. One of the horses in the pasture whinnies and huffs, shaking its mane. The evening fog is rolling in already and even while the sun is still in the sky.

The weather has been strange of late, oscillating between the warmth of summer and the biting chill of autumn for several weeks. Today seems to be more autumnal in persuasion, with many trees dropping their leaves and the sunlight taking a particular glint, somehow warmer and darker without any physical warmth to show for it. And while you find this time of year to be particularly delightful, you can’t help shaking the feeling that something is different this season, more than any of the others before it.

Perhaps it’s the withered look of the apple trees, or the petrichor in the wind and the lingering smokiness of chimney fires, or maybe it’s the call of the ravens as they flock overhead the woods. Perhaps it’s just a feeling, albeit a bad one; it will pass, like all feelings do, so you choose not to put too much stock into it.

You end your walk with a final visit by the pasture so you can watch the horses, enjoy the calm and quiet of the moment before-

“Miss Atherwood!” “Miss Atherwood!”

Before the children spot you. But that was a fool’s hope.

You turn so your back leans against the fence and spread your arms wide as the children come running toward you. Cora reaches you first, nearly knocking your feet out from under you with the force of her tiny body colliding with yours. Her arms are around your waist in an instant and you hardly have a moment to compose yourself before Moses appears too, running so fast that he’s little more than a blur before he’s buried himself in your arms.

“We missed you!” Cora cries. She tilts her head back to look up at you better, and you catch the little strand of silver-white hair at her temple as she does. “You were gone for ages!”

You smile. “It was hardly a week.”

“A week too long,” Moses decides, very seriously. “This place is boring without you.”

These children warm your heart like nothing else. Never before have you felt so loved and wanted, so entirely at home, not even with your own family. You press a palm to the boy’s cheek first, then Cora’s, and you smile.

“Well, now I’ve returned and we can continue with all our mischief just like before-“

“So that’s where the two o’ ya ran off ta.” Josiah Minor’s honey-sweet Southern twang is like a salve on your heart. He’s just exiting the house further up the path, smiling brilliantly as ever.

You duck your head and whisper a cheeky, “Just so long as your father doesn’t catch on. Now get!”

And off they go, like a pair of young horses at the races, giggling and pushing and yelping, narrowly avoiding knocking their father down simply due to pure dumb luck.

“’s good ta have ya home,” Josiah sighs once he’s pulled you into a hug. It’s rare, these embraces, but you treasure every one he offers. “House just ain’t the same without ya.”

“Believe me, I’ve never been so happy to be back.”

He raises one bushy eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Worse. But it’s better now that I’m here with you and your rascals.”

He seems eager to hear how your venture home went and you tell him some of it, but it leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Your grandparents have grown crotchety in their old age, worse now than ever before, and they seem to find fault in everything. They especially find fault in your choice of employment – after all, working under the authority of a former slave is not the sort of appearance they wish to keep up, and it reflects poorly on their choice to adopt you – but you care little for what they deem right and wrong. You’ve only ever known happiness under Josiah’s roof and you intend to stay here for as long as you are needed. Longer, if you can manage it.

Supper that evening is a pleasant affair, full of laughter and delighted exclamations as you tell the children about your travels, the animals you saw along the way, and reveal the gifts you’d chosen for them. Cora adores the little blown glass rabbit you spotted in the market and she chooses to name it “Lula”, although the importance of the name is lost on you. Moses, on the other hand, admires the sketch you made of a Lenape family you passed one day. He’s always been enamored with the original stewards of this land, always eager to learn more about them and their ways, so although this drawing isn’t much, you know it means something to him. And for Josiah, a book you’d gone out of your way to purchase and spent far too much money on, and he almost refuses to take it, but it’s important to you that he does.

“Your wife would want you to take it,” you finally say, softly, no bite or malice but the simplicity of the truth. “She came to mind when I saw it and I thought…”

The book is turned over and over in his hands, but he doesn’t dare to open it. The children lean forward in their seats to see better, and Josiah tilts it toward Moses first to give him the first look.

“’Siddur’. Is this like mother’s siddur, the prayer book?” A coil of his beautiful brown hair falls over his face when he looks up at you.

You nod. “I passed a synagogue on my way home and went in to speak to the rabbi.” Immediately, the children are chattering away, asking you questions about the experience. Not once have they seen a synagogue, they’ve never been outside Sleepy Hollow before. And the last time they saw a rabbi was for Moses’ circumcision – which is to say, such a thing is beyond their comprehension. “I know how much your mother’s means to you, so I thought perhaps a new one that needn’t fear your grubby little paws might be appreciated.” And to Josiah you cast an apologetic glance. “I hope it’s not too forward of me?”

But he smiles. It’s a very sad smile, but there’s happiness there too, a glimmer of hope and love that reminds you of the look he gives Cora when she acts a bit too like her mother. Bittersweet. “Means more ‘n you can guess, Mizz Atherwood.”

The wonderful thing about being a governess in the Minor household is that it simply does not feel like you’re working. Moses and Cora are brilliant pupils who are more often eager to learn than they are not, and they are still of an age where your wisdom and humor tickles them and they choose to include you in their chaos. It’s part of the reason why this house is always so full of laughter. But being employed here has also given you access to all the wonders of elevated class, most notably Josiah’s library.

In his efforts to educate himself and his children, Josiah has collected what you can only assume to be thousands of books, and they cover every subject imaginable. The history of the world, science, philosophy, art, linguistics, maps of foreign lands that you can only dream of, ancient fairy tales and folklore passed down through the generations. You’ve been most enamored with the tales of Scheherazade of late. You wander here when the moon is high and the children are asleep so you may read by firelight, transport yourself to distant kingdoms and times you wish more than anything that you could see yourself. For now, you content yourself with your books.

Only, something catches your eye as you settle into one of the wingbacked chairs near the fire. Something outside.

Everyone in Sleepy Hollow knows better than to go peering outside their window in the dead of night. Local Lenape legends and Old World ghost stories have mingled since the colonies first started, trickling down through each generation until even outsiders like you hear them. There are things in the woods, creatures, things that will look back if you dare to go searching for them.

And so you choose to tug the curtains shut, ensuring that the fabric overlaps so nothing can look in and you cannot look out, but… you do linger. Just for a moment, just long enough to look in the general direction of the thing you thought you saw, whatever it may be.

A chill runs up your spine.

Best to settle by the fire, you tell yourself. The fire is safe. You are safe. Of course you are. You’re simply seeing shadows in the starlight.

It’s awful. It’s worse than awful. There may not even be a word for the pure dread and horror pooling in the pit of your stomach, but the feeling only continues to grow, nameless or not.

The blacksmith was killed last night. Brom Bones. He was a fierce sort of man, tall and broad and always working in the smithy. His eye had been cast in the direction of Katrina Van Tassel for several months now, and the whispers in the town say he had even planned to propose to her.

Your thoughts drift to her rather quickly. It hurts too deeply to dwell on Brom’s fate or on the reality of what his final moments would have been. You hope the news doesn’t hit her too hard, though you certainly wouldn’t blame her if it did. To lose someone so close to you, someone you may well have thought you might spend your life with, is a thought that scarcely bares imagining.

You decide to do something for her. It will keep your mind off things (off the stories the people are telling of the blood on the anvil, the hammers bent in half, the bullet holes in the back of the furnace). While Cora and Moses are working on their impromptu mathematics quiz, you set to work on a condolences note for Katrina. A few roses from along the pasture path are trimmed of their thorns and bundled together with twine. It isn’t much, but it is something and it encourages a slightly more positive outlook on the whole scenario, even if only just.

You don’t notice the prints in the dirt until your walk back to the Minor home. The grass by Brom’s shop is trampled and at first you think this is a result of the earlier chaos that had to have arisen when his body was found. You think this is very logical and applaud yourself on your amateur sleuthing, only to stop in your tracks when you notice tracks that do not match any you have ever seen in town before. They’re boot prints, likely large enough to be a man’s, but the shape is odd, pointed at the toe in a certain way that doesn’t make sense to you. The detail is minute, almost impossible to miss, and you think again that it is something easily explained away. Perhaps someone was called in from out of town to deal with the matter. A doctor or added law enforcement would make the most sense.

But then you see the prints again. They lead to and from Brom’s smithy, you realize, and they follow the path. The path you’re standing on. Your heart skips over itself momentarily until you remember that this path if often walked and by folk other than you. Josiah often takes this route, as do the children and any travelers passing through.

You read too much into it, you tell yourself. This is, by all accounts, believable and logical, but your mind starts to wander the moment you come upon the edge of Josiah’s property and find the prints crossing over it.

A flash of the previous night strikes you then. The thing in the shadows, the thing you thought you saw. You thought it had been nothing more than the fire’s reflection on the glass or your eyes moving too quickly to make sense of the outside world, perhaps a raccoon or squirrel had darted past, and its tail caught a glimmer of moonlight. This is what you told yourself when sleep failed to take you and you tell it to yourself again now, hoping to soothe the anxiety hammering away inside your chest, but your thoughts are racing, and all logic has fled because a man was found dead this morning and the tracks leading to and from his home seem to have followed you.

Everything suddenly feels too hot and too cool all at once. With your heart thundering away as it leaps into your throat, you feel your body go warm, but then the sharp slice of fear pierces your spine and ice-cold panic shoots through your limbs.

The thing outside, what was that thing outside?

What if it was nothing? What if you are simply being paranoid?

A quick breeze drifts across the road and carries with it a few dead leaves. They make a crackling sound as they skip by.

It’s a silly thought. Brought on by a sudden bought of hysteria, no doubt. But still, you wonder. What if the thing you saw was no mere critter, but a… a murderer?

A new day brings with it new clarity, and the shadows that had clouded your mind previously are quickly chased away. The warmth of summer is fading fast and September is in its final moments. Food is starting to need harvesting. Fires are staying lit more consistently. Clouds cover a fair portion of the sky, both night and day.

Rosh Hashanah comes and goes, the Jewish New Year that you help Josiah coordinate so the children may have their celebration even with their mother long buried. Yom Kippur comes soon after, not nearly as solemn as you’re sure it’s meant to be, but they are young and Josiah doesn’t have it in him to bring sadness back into his home after the losses they’ve all suffered.

Studies are not put on hold necessarily, but they are somewhat reigned in to allow for other things like afternoon harvesting and cider making, the drying of corn husks for use in crafts you intend to teach them later in the month. Apples are peeled and cooked into cobblers, sliced and drizzled with honey and cinnamon, squashes cut open for stews and mashes. The house begins to smell like autumn and even though the days become shorter with each sunset, there is still a dazzling light that illuminates the Minor household.

And then suddenly it doesn’t.

Because Johannes Van Tassel is found dead. His throat cut, a bullet to the temple, the same as Brom. All while his daughter, Katrina, slept. Rumors start to fly. Gossip cuts hot and quick, and everyone believes their own spin of the tale to be the most likely. All you know is that you may likely retch on your own shoes if you hear one more person speak of it.

You and Josiah try not to let the children overhear the whispers. “They’ve known too much death already,” he tells you, and you understand. After witnessing their mother’s passing before the age of ten, it terrifies you both how cruel and violent the outside world can be. They are still so small, so little and innocent. It would break your heart to see them lose that innocence too soon.

So Bones and Van Tassel’s deaths are simplified for younger ears, lacking any of the gruesome details you have heard on your walks through town. They are told not to be afraid, to stay indoors once the sun goes down, and that you and their father will keep them safe. They have nothing to worry about.

But death is fixated on Sleepy Hollow. With Van Tassel’s passing, something turns up dead every morning. Livestock are left in their pastures with snapped or slashed through necks, travelers passing through are found mutilated outside the inn, townsfolk begin to disappear, picked off one by one, and no one can understand why.

Sleepy Hollow descends into chaos as primitive fear takes hold of every heart and mind. People begin leaving precious jewels, the best sections of their harvest, coins, anything and everything laid out before their homes in the hope that the demon who stalks the streets will overlook them. The church benches are filled to overflowing every day. Guards are stationed at key crossroads, the mayor’s house, the infirmary, the Van Tassel residence, and still every morning another man is found dead, his throat cut through.

The curtains of the Minor’s home are drawn shut during the day. You do not look outside once dusk has fallen, you do not dare to dwell on the image of the thing you saw those weeks ago. You do not search for strangely shaped boot prints. You do not watch the horses in the pasture. You do not leave the house.

And as All Hallow’s Eve approaches, you find yourself falling victim to your own panic and paranoia. Josiah gives you a pistol. You acquire a butcher knife from the kitchen and keep it close to your bed. The children do not sleep well and Cora has taken to crawling into bed with you at night. Moses says he’s not afraid of anything, supernatural or not, but you know he is. You catch him sneaking out of his father’s room on more than one occasion, early in the morning before the servants are awake.

For the first time in a long time, you pray. You don’t want to die, nor do you want the children to be frightened. You want them to live long and prosperous lives, happy and content and full of hope. You fear this is a dream that will never come to pass.

And then one night you wake to smoke and fire.

October 31, 1820 – Midnight

Everything is ablaze. Brom Bones’ smithy is nearly burnt to the ground, the Van Tassel residence is smoking and the women inside are screaming, and Crane is dead. Still, he feels nothing. There is no pleasure in the death he deals, no pleasure in the screams of the burned and dying. But there is blood on his boots and across his chest plate, and that could be enough. He thinks that if he soaks himself in enough blood, he may yet feel something stir in the cold, dark pit of his belly.

He marches on. There aren’t many men left of a strong build and capable age – he saw to that already – so his journey through the sleepy little village is an easy one. What few do attempt to challenge him are cut down quickly, cut through the throat. Always the throat. The ones that get back up again receive a bullet to keep them down.

A girl goes stumbling into his path, her eyes wide and frightened, hair loose around her shoulders. He thinks she begs him for mercy, begs him to take her at the cost of sparing her home. And he finds it strange how this brings heat into his body like carnage has yet to do, but it’s not the heat of lust that clouds his mind. The heat of anger stirs him, pure and righteous fury at the audacity to assume he could be bought for such a price. His knife cleaves through her ribs easily and when she falls, whimpering and crying as blood bubbles between her fingers and her yellow hair goes pink, Django feels alive again. Not by much, not enough to be tricked into thinking that his mortality has been restored, but enough that he feels human again for the most fleeting of moments.

So that’s what he needs. In all his years, he has never craved a woman, although he has known a few. His mind was always set on other sights. But now he thinks he may understand what it means to desire one, not for the sweetness of what lays between her thighs but for the sickly sight of her mouth agape in horror.

His attention flickers then to the house just up the path, the one beyond the blacksmith’s shop. He remembers a woman there, young, pretty enough, remembers her face in the window, her body wrapped up in a cloak as she traced the steps he took from Bones’ shop and across her land, back into the forest. Out of the entire town, she’s the one that’s come the closest to finding the truth. It will be good to kill her. The perfect ending to his scourge upon this town.

He's hardly conscious of the carnage he leaves in his wake, or how he breaks through the barricaded door, the servants shrieking and trembling in the corners of each room. He pays them no mind. All he sees is her, you, fuzzy and half shapeless in the back of his mind, but he will know you when he sees you.

The room he finds you in is simple, plain, sparsely furnished, but he spots you easily enough. Cowering between your bed and the wall, a pistol against your breast. There are shadows behind you that he can’t make out, strangely shaped things that rustle like little kits hiding behind their mother in a storm.

All he sees is you.

What remains of his vision is tunneled and fixated on you, your eyes, how wide they are, how the sparse rays of moonlight catch your irises. His boots are loud and heavy in this room. Your chest rises and falls as he steps closer. His fingers begin to twitch, eager to lift his blade and slice through your flesh, hoping, pleading, desperate for relief. He doesn’t know if he’s the one pleading or if you are.

The sound of a pistol firing takes him by surprise, for surely he hasn’t fired his prematurely? But then the dull ache of something lodged in his shoulder tells him otherwise. He turns.

This man reminds him of something, someone. He cares not who or what it is. He cares not for this man and the smoking gun in his hands. A quick flourish of his wrist is enough to topple him, and so he turns back to you.

His heart no longer beats, but he thinks he hears the ghost of it now as he advances. This is it. This is the moment he has been dying and living for. Your blood will be the answer. It must be. He raises his hand and-

“No!”

Time has not stood still for Django since the day he died, but it pauses itself in this moment. Long enough for him to see the whites of your eyes. Your teeth are bared. You’re screaming. Your pistol is smoking, and his sternum feels shattered. And this time you advance upon him, a knife brandished in your other hand as you scream and scream, and when you move, the shadows behind you are illuminated. The knife flies, buries itself in the crook of his arm when he raises it, and it hits him with enough force to make him stumble. But what brings him to his knees are the shadows, the children.

224 years have passed since he first died. Even more have come and gone since he left Aotearoa, his iwi, his tamariki. He didn’t even realize he still remembered the words. 224 years and he still finds that he would know them anywhere.

He sees Omeka curled into a ball and crying, though she’s trying to be brave. He would know that face anywhere. The wide brown eyes, so kind, so wise, the dark hair streaked with silver, the mark upon her temple that she was born with. He sees Poa, still just a boy, not yet a man, sees his lip snarl and curl, those little teeth bared and flashing against his dark skin, the big brown locks of hair Django still remembers grooming for him.

And then he sees you. Your weapons are spent, you have nothing, yet still you stand before his children like a warrior. You will not let him harm them; he knows this. You will give your life in defense of theirs.

The tamariki are shaking. Poa is crying now, but he hovers over his sister like a kaitiaki. He is proud of what they have become, proud they are his, yet all he feels now is shame. For how far has he fallen? To draw blood from an innocent woman, to loom above innocent children like a warmonger, to crave the fleeting flickers of their heartbeats as if their blood would fill the empty hole inside him? His people have not been above the consuming of flesh before, and it would be so easy. It was so easy; it has been for years. To take thoughtlessly, to kill every time he felt alive and every time he didn’t, to let the blood of his victims sink beneath his skin so it became a part of him. Yet sitting between your four walls, covered in gore and rattling with an anger so fierce that it threatens to burn him alive, he finds that this one time, it is not so easy to take.

He runs.

He’s never run before. He did not run from home, he left it behind when it no longer served him. He did not run from his past, but chase after the future, the promises the gods whispered in his head. Django has never run, neither did Fetu. But here in this village on the edge of the map, in this country built on blood and theft and desperation, both halves of him turn tail and run.

All the while, he sees their faces. The Poa he raised himself and the Poa he found under your protection flicker back and forth, morphing together so their faces become one. Both Omeka’s do the same. He cannot tell where his tamariki start and yours end.

He remembers the men he voyaged with, from Malaysia to Portugal, the ones who had convinced themselves he was a monster, the moment he convinced himself that he would become one. He remembers the sultan who took his life and the faceless, nameless doctor who stitched him back together. He remembers the face of every person who has met their fate at the end of his blade or his pistols.

He remembers the blood. So much blood. He recalls desperate nights where he licked his hands clean, hoping it would reinvigorate him, start up his heart anew, trigger the breath that once stirred in his lungs. That is what he had hoped for here, though he hadn’t fully realized it then. He had only wanted to feel something, anything. Just once more.

He can certainly feel now. He feels the burn of bile as he dry heaves inside his helmet. He rips it off and his head goes tumbling through the grass, and it hits him, stronger than any wave or weapon, exactly what it is he has become.

Django wishes he could die. He wishes more than anything that he had never been cursed with this half-life, that he had never dreamt of the worlds beyond his and chased after them like a child chasing after its mother. He was a fool. He is a fool.

He thinks of Omeka’s face and his body retches, even while his head is still detached. The world is out of focus, blurry, and his senses are so dull that he can’t feel a thing beyond the queasy rumblings of his gut. The shame.

taglist: @dystopicjumpsuit @clonemedickix @wizardofrozz @anxiouspineapple99 @multi-fan-dom-madness @deejadabbles @rain-on-kamino @wings-and-beskar

#jango fett x reader #jango fett x you #halloween au #headless horseman au #star wars #jango fett #x reader #yes there are more parts to come!! #at least 1 more if not 2. we shall see what the final edits yield

[ellanmwebb2]

The incredible story of how degraded gorse-infested farmland has been regenerated back into beautiful New Zealand native forest over the course of 30 years. Fools & Dreamers: Regenerating a Native Forest is a 30-minute documentary about Hinewai Nature Reserve, on New Zealand’s Banks Peninsula, and its kaitiaki/manager of 30 years, botanist Hugh Wilson. When, in 1987, Hugh let the local community know of his plans to allow the introduced ‘weed’ gorse to grow as a nurse canopy to regenerate farmland into native forest, people were not only skeptical but outright angry – the plan was the sort to be expected only of “fools and dreamers”. Now considered a hero locally and across the country, Hugh oversees 1500 hectares resplendent in native forest, where birds and other wildlife are abundant and 47 known waterfalls are in permanent flow. He has proven without doubt that nature knows best – and that he is no fool.

#Youtube

[a-solitary-sea-rover-backup]

On it’s 20th anniversary, BLAKE (formerly the Sir Peter Blake Trust) is celebrating two decades of work dedicated to empowering New Zealanders to commit to a sustainable future for Aotearoa and continuing the environmental leadership legacy of one of the world’s most accomplished yachtsman, Sir Peter Blake.

To mark this significant milestone, BLAKE has published its BLAKE 20th Anniversary Impact Report to demonstrate the enduring and positive influence its immersive environmental programmes have on young Kiwis by inspiring and educating them to become environmental leaders and conservation kaitiaki.

Since 2004, more than 108,000 students and 640 schools have participated in BLAKE’s current programmes – NZ-VR, Explorers, Inspire, Expeditions, and Ambassadors – with many students interacting with the natural marine environment for the first time, and often having life-changing experiences.

#BLAKE Trust #environment #Sir Peter Blake #New Zealand #link

[katiefratie]

Kaitiaki 🥺 Marishas face!!!!! This is her town this is her people!!!!

#critical role #critical role spoilers #man that was everything i wanted orym coming home to be

[waltwhitmansbeard]

my fair lady: chapter six

here are the first five chapters. thanks again to @romeoandjulietyouwish for the inspiration!

They arrive in Syngorn around midday, weary from four days of travel. Keyleth's knee bounces nervously inside the carriage as the guard driving presents their papers to the Syngornian sentries at the gate. Percy reaches a hand out to still it. "You need to relax."

Keyleth feels sheepish for being so anxious. "I haven't seen my father in so long. And this is to be my first presentation to another nation's court. And...you know, I'm me."

Percy rolls his eyes. "Bandits try to rob and kill you in the middle of the road but it's a presentation at court that has you fluttering about."

"I'm serious, Percy. I have guards to deal with bandits. Unfortunately none of them can ensure I don't trip and fall flat on my face in front of kings and nobles."

He gives the knee a pat. "You'll be fine. Just imagine everyone naked, that's what I always do."

She gives him a concerned look. "I wish I could go back to a time when I didn't know this about you."

As the entourage rolls through Syngorn, Keyleth is glued to the little carriage window, taking in all of the sights of the elven city. The architecture is stunning, far more ornate and artistic than the Ashari's more pragmatic style. The stone is covered in climbing ivy and other greenery, making the buildings seem alive. They approach the Emerald Citadel, with its ancient faded marble and emerald-tipped spires, and Keyleth's heart is a hummingbird in her chest.

The carriage comes to a halt at the base of the curved marble stairs. Her door is opened, and the first things she sees, standing at the base of the steps with his retinue of advisors, in her father, broad-shouldered and tall.

"Keyleth." He says her name like a sigh, and the sound of his deep, resonant voice makes Keyleth feel like a little girl again. She resists the urge to rush to him, instead climbing down carefully from the carriage and stepping forward to greet him. "Kaitaiki, father." She bows.

"Kaitiaki, daughter." He lifts her chin to look into her face. "I've missed you greatly these past weeks."

She can't hold back any longer; she wraps her arms around her father, burying her face in his chest. He chuckles, squeezing her back. "Alright, let's get you inside. I'm sure you'd like to rest after your time on the road." He looks past her toward the rest of the entourage. "Lord Percival, thank you for making the journey."

Keyleth pulls away to see Percy bowing deeply. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Her father's advisors greet her, and then Sovereign Korrin leads his daughter up toward the brass gates of the palace, explaining, "Normally you would have been greeted by the High Warden and her family, but knowing you as I do, I figured you would appreciate the opportunity to collect yourself before any formal introductions are made."

A weight vanishes from Keyleth's shoulders. "Thank you, father. I would appreciate that quite a lot."

He squeezes her shoulder. "I'm very glad you're here. This is a time for celebration, and I couldn't imagine celebrating without you."

Keyleth beams, for the first time in days feeling not an ounce of nerves.

.

The chambers Keyleth has been granted for her stay are lovely. The marble walls are carved with reliefs of pastoral scenes, so finely detailed that she can touch each individual blade of grass in the stone. She's been granted some attendants for the duration, but Keyleth has always preferred bathing and dressing alone. She does so, finally scrubbing the last of Vax's blood from beneath her fingernails, and dons one of her finest gowns, a pale blue number that reminds her of the skies over Zephrah.

She's just finishing brushing the road from her hair when there is a knock at her door. "Enter, please!"

Vax, having been standing sentry outside, opens the door to reveal her father, who asks, "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not. I'm nearly ready."

He steps inside, but as Vax attempts to close the door behind him, he holds out a hand. "Actually, Vax'ildan, I was hoping to speak with both of you."

Keyleth's stomach sinks like a stone, and she looks in panic between the two men. Her father certainly doesn't seem upset or angry, though there is a hint of tension behind his eyes that she can't define. Vax obediently enters the chambers and closes the door, standing tall and straight just inside.

Her father paces over to one of the large windows that looks out over Syngorn, just a few feet away from where Keyleth sits at the vanity. "I wanted to start by saying that Lord Percival filled me in on what happened while you were on the road." He cocks an eyebrow at his daughter. "It would have been nice to hear that there had been an attempt on your life from you, Keyleth."

She wrinkles her nose. "You know how I hate when you worry."

"And you thought I would worry less if the news came from someone else?"

Being chastised like this makes her feel like a child again. "I'm sorry."

"And you." He turns to face Vax, who straightens up even more. "Lord Percival also informed me of your part on that day. According to him, you took swift and decisive action to remove my daughter from the fray before any harm could come to her, and that you were even wounded in the attempt. Is this true?"

Vax's mouth opens and closes a few times, and Keyleth watches him scramble for what he thinks is the correct answer. Finally, he settles on, "I only did what any personal guard would do, Your Majesty."

Her father tuts. "That may be so, but you did it, and know that I will forever be in your debt for it."

Keyleth sees a myriad of emotions flicker across Vax's face, which he tries but fails to keep still. She knows how much this means to him, to receive the approval of a king. "No more debt than I am in to you, Your Majesty." Keyleth thinks of any one of their late-night conversations, when Vax confessed to her and the stars his fraught relationship with his own father right here in Syngorn, his admiration for the kind of father the sovereign is to her. She knows that her father believes Vax indebted for the position he's been given, but that what Vax is truly grateful for is the understanding of what a father could be.

"Yes, well, speaking of debts..." Her father turns to face her again, and the tension in his face has only worsened. "I need to explain to you all of the terms of our peace accord, which is to be signed tonight at a celebratory ball."

Keyleth leans forward eagerly. "Yes, tell me everything! I want to hear all about how the negotiations went."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "There will be time for that, dear, but the terms are what's important for you to understand first. Most of them are your standard fare for these types of deals: new trade routes, imports and exports, promises of mutual aid in times of crisis, and so on. Some land has been moved around, as should be expected after this kind of war, but there is one stipulation that King Kruvanis would not relent upon."

"What is it?"

He takes a deep breath. "You are to be betrothed to the king's youngest son, Tiberius Stormwind."

Keyleth stares at her father, a dull ringing in her ears. She can see his face, can tell that he's speaking, but she can't hear anything else after his initial proclamation. There's a roiling in her stomach, as if she's standing on the deck of a ship in the middle of a hurricane, and she worries that if she opens her mouth, she'll vomit all over her father.

She watches his mouth form her name—Keyleth? Keyleth?—but she cannot answer. She stares straight ahead, unblinking and unmoving. Somewhere, through the swimming din in her ears, she can make out an echo of his voice: "I'll leave you to sit with this for a while. I'll come back later." And then he's gone, and Keyleth is staring at the place he left.

A few moments pass, or maybe an hour, Keyleth has lost all sense of time, but eventually a new face appears, just a few inches from hers. "Keyleth?" Vax is kneeling in front of her, eyes scanning her face. He grabs her hands where they rest listless atop her lap. "Kiki, are you okay?"

It hits her all at once. She launches herself out of her chair, knocking Vax's hands away, and grabs the unused chamber pot tucked beneath the bed. She hurls into it, body heaving as she empties her stomach. He feels a hand run up and down her back, and when she's spent, a second hand gently pulls the chamber pot away. Vax wraps her up in his arms, gathering her into his chest. He shushes softly in her ear as she sobs, her body trembling.

She doesn't know how long they stand there, her falling apart, him keeping her together. After some time, when her sobs have somewhat subsided, he leads her over to the large bed, where she sits and stares at the ground. Vax disappears for a moment, then returns with a bowl of water and a cloth, which he uses to pat her face, which she imagines must be red and swollen by this point. A hairbrush materializes, and he begins slowly and methodically brushing out her hair, from crown to ends, before he perches on the bed beside her to work a system of interlocking braids into her locks. The sensation of his warm, steady hands helps her breathing return to normal, and her eyes slide closed.

"I don't know what to say." His voice is little more than a whisper. His hands are around her shoulder blades now, working the braids into a larger plait.

Keyleth takes a deep breath. "I...have spent a lot of time thinking about destiny. I've reconciled a great many things about what my future will hold." A single tear trails down her cheek. "I never thought...how did I not see this coming?"

"Hey." The braiding stops, and a finger hooks under her chin to turn her head toward him. She opens her eyes. "No one should have their future written for them like this. I..." He sighs. "I wish I knew how to fix this."

Keyleth smiles sadly and places a hand on his face. "I know you do. So do I." She looks down at her dress, which now feels like a prisoner's uniform rather than a beautiful gown. "How am I supposed to go out in front of my people and Draconia's and Syngorn's and pretend that my world isn't collapsing around me?"

Vax brings a hand up to rest against the column of her throat. He looks directly into her eyes. "Let me be perfectly clear about something: regardless of any treaties or bargains or edicts from kings, my loyalty will always lie with you. Not your father, not the Ashari Nation, you. If you ask me to get you out of here, I will." He takes a deep breath. "If you ask me to kill this Prince Tiberius Stormwind, I will."

"Vax!"

"I'm serious, Keyleth. Anything you ask. My entire purpose is to lay down my life for you, and that is what I'll do, even if that means losing my head for assassinating a prince."

Keyleth grips the edge of his armor tightly. "You cannot say these things out loud. This is not Zephrah; we don't know who is listening."

He nods, and she relaxes. Her life has spun so wildly out of control in just a matter of minutes, and she wishes desperately she had never left home. "Will you do me a favor?" He makes a face that clearly reads, Are you really asking me that?, so she presses on. "Will you...gather what information you can about..." She can't bring herself to say his name. "...this prince? What he's like, if he seems...I don't know, cruel or arrogant or....I just want to be prepared for the ball tonight."

He kisses her forehead, and for a moment, she considers changing her request to his offer to whisk her away from this citadel. "I will find out everything I can."

"Do so without being seen. The last thing we need is for the Draconians to think their new allies are spying on them before the peace treaty is even signed."

Vax smirks. "Please, have you met me? I'll be a ghost." He quickly finishes up his braiding, tying it off in a lovely bow with a blue ribbon that matches her dress. He presses a final kiss to her cheek. "I'll go look into the prince. Grog will be placed at your door." He gets up and makes for the exit.

"Vax?" He turns to look at her. "I know I'm not the only one suffering under the weight of this...turn of events." She slides off of the bed and draws herself to her full height. "And let us be clear on this: your purpose is for something far greater than laying down your life for me. Do you understand?"

There's a long pause, and then Vax slowly ducks into a bow, his eyes never leaving her face. He straightens up and sweeps out of the room, leaving Keyleth alone and shattered in her chambers.

#critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #vaxleth #vaxleth fic #vaxleth au #vox machina #vox machina fic #tlovm #tlovm fic #my fic #my fair lady #this one goes out to blorbologist who saw through my bullshit like three chapters ago lol

[a-flickering-soul]

what r ur alecto predictions

Wonderful question! I have a running list of predictions on Discord that I started September 21st after I read Nona and am planning on updating continuously until Alecto comes out. I actually have split it into plot/character predictions and meme reference/allusion references! It's a little long, so I'll put them all below the cut :)

Alecto the Ninth prediction list (started 9/21/22, ongoing): -Chussy fisting scene PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE -The gang goes through the stoma -The wedding that's supposed to happen is between Kiriona and Ianthe because god forbid a single good thing happens to Griddlehark girlies -There IS a God and it's not Jod and Harrow finds them -The wedding is actually between a straight couple just for laughs -The kaitiaki meta is correct (I will CRY if so) -Pyrrha sacrifices herself for Paul or Harrow or Gideon with some allusion to domestic life -Alecto kills herself to take John out -Corona kills Ianthe and then she kills herself -Ianthe consumes Corona and double-Lyctors herself to become the big bad -Griddlehark both die -Griddlehark amnesia endgame -No good Griddlehark ending is what I'm trying to say because FUCK this woman

Alecto the Ninth meme/reference prediction list (started 9/21/22, ongoing): -Griddlehark Orpheus/Eurydice parallels -Superhell reference -If two guys were on the moon and one killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what -BOE member named with Rickroll lyrics -"Road work ahead? Uh. Yeah, I sure HOPE it does" quote -Someone references Mary Oliver's "Wild Geese" -The tower will fall and it'll be totally a reference to the Tower of Babel or something like this whole backlash against daring to defy God -Judith stabs someone w/ something resembling a peg -Paul quotes Galatians 3:28 or some bastardization of it -ENDS WITH 1 CORINTHIANS 13:13 -Carmilla by Le Sheridan Fanu quotation -Pyrrha sees someone she loves get killed and she goes berserk and fulfills her Iliad role -ABBA reference

#answered #theeonlyheartbreaker #tlt #i actually recycled a fair amt of them from nona bc ntn was just. so wholly unexpected to me. #i love talkinga bt tlt it maeks me deranged so ofc if anyone wants background on any of these i'll gladly give it!!! #ty for sending this ask bc this is also great proof that (if any of this happens) i WAS predicting it before reading atn #but yeah this is all i got now and who knows there's almost a year till atn so who knows what tf else i got to predict

[asin201hons]

The extraordinary exhibition of Selwyn Ruru’s works (Ruru for short). At Mt Cecilia Park Pah homestead gallery in Hillsborough.

Explores elements of ranginui and papatūānuku (sky father and earth mother respectively), of Māori justice and cultural markers that were damaged due to violent acts of colonisation, brutality and injustice. The glossary given was a beautiful summation of key elements within different works, translated in a simplified version in English.

My works look at themes of rongo wairua (or the spirit of peace). Using Māori language in art practice is a way to decolonize work from the limitations that English language places on work that concerns itself with the whenua (land) of Aotearoa. My work is made in Tamaki Makaurau and therefore should respect the language of this place especially in regards to spiritual processes.

Works of mention in Ruru’s practice:

This body of work includes a number of different mediums, each a testament to the breadth of his legacy as an orator, activist, visual artist, broadcaster, playwright, musician and actor (amongst other things!). In perusing the collection, I was struck by the versatility of our Māori artists – particularly in light of Muru and his contemporaries. Amongst this generation, so many actions exist that have shaped the social landscape we find ourselves both witnessing and, in our own contemporary context, navigating now. Highlights include the paintings Half-caste Ruru (2002) and Maunga Piko (1999), which are an honouring of the role that kaitiaki play in our lives, and the whakapapa that connects us to our whenua. I was also particularly taken by the Untitled Figures (circa 1985), having spent a significant portion of time letting my eyes follow the lines as they mimic the shapes of traditional whakairo patterns.

https://i.stuff.co.nz/entertainment/arts/300777985/te-hkoi-toi-the-length-and-breadth-of-selwyn-murus-legacy

[legend-collection]

Taniwha

In Māori mythology, taniwha (Māori pronunciation: [ˈtanifa]) are large supernatural beings that live in deep pools in rivers, dark caves, or in the sea, especially in places with dangerous currents or deceptive breakers (giant waves). They may be considered highly respected kaitiaki (protective guardians) of people and places, or in some traditions as dangerous, predatory beings, which for example would kidnap women to have as wives.

At sea, a taniwha often appears as a whale or as quite a large shark such as southern right whale or whale shark; compare the Māori name for the Great white shark: mangō-taniwha. In inland waters, they may still be of whale-like dimensions, but look more like a gecko or a tuatara, having a row of spines along the back. Other taniwha appear as a floating log, which behaves in a disconcerting way (Orbell 1998:149-150, Reed 1963:297). Some can tunnel through the earth, uprooting trees in the process. Legends credit certain taniwha with creating harbours by carving out a channel to the ocean. Wellington's harbour, Te Whanganui-a-Tara, was reputedly carved out by two taniwha. The petrified remains of one of them turned into a hill overlooking the city. Other taniwha allegedly caused landslides beside lakes or rivers.

Pic by DragonAotearoa on DeviantArt

Taniwha can either be male or female. The taniwha Araiteuru is said to have arrived in New Zealand with the early voyaging canoes and her eleven sons are credited with creating the various branches of the Hokianga Harbour (Orbell 1995:184-185).

There has been some speculation based on several marine sightings and on purported habitat & physical representations that the Taniwha myth may be based on periodic populations of Saltwater Crocodile which rarely end up crossing the strait from Australia. Northern New Zealand presently appears to be just outside the temperature range where a population can sustain itself indefinitely, dying out during unusually cold winters.

Most taniwha have associations with tribal groups; each group may have a taniwha of its own. The taniwha Ureia, depicted on this page, was associated as a guardian with the Māori people of the Hauraki district. Many well-known taniwha arrived from Hawaiki, often as guardians of a particular ancestral canoe. Once arrived in Aotearoa, they took on a protective role over the descendants of the crew of the canoe they had accompanied. The origins of many other taniwha are unknown.

When accorded appropriate respect, taniwha usually acted well towards their people. Taniwha acted as guardians by warning of the approach of enemies, communicating the information via a priest who was a medium; sometimes the taniwha saved people from drowning. Because they lived in dangerous or dark and gloomy places, the people were careful to placate the taniwha with appropriate offerings if they needed to be in the vicinity or to pass by its lair. These offerings were often of a green twig, accompanied by a fitting incantation. In harvest time, the first kūmara (sweet potato) or the first taro was often presented to the taniwha.

Arising from the role of taniwha as tribal guardians, the word can also refer in a complimentary way to chiefs. The famous saying of the Tainui people of the Waikato district plays on this double meaning: Waikato taniwha rau (Waikato of a hundred chiefs) (Mead & Groves 2001:421).

Witi Ihimaera, author of The Whale Rider, says that he has a female kaitiaki (guardian) taniwha named Hine Te Ariki who lives in the Waipāoa River.

In their role as guardians, taniwha were vigilant to ensure that the people respected the restrictions imposed by tapu. They made certain that any violations of tapu were punished. Taniwha were especially dangerous to people from other tribes. There are many legends of battles with taniwha, both on land and at sea. Often these conflicts took place soon after the settlement of New Zealand, generally after a taniwha had attacked and eaten a person from a tribe that it had no connection with. Always, the humans manage to outwit and defeat the taniwha. Many of these taniwha are described as beings of lizard-like form, and some of the stories say the huge beasts were cut up and eaten by the slayers. When Hotu-puku, a taniwha of the Rotorua district, was killed, his stomach was cut open to reveal a number of bodies of men, women, and children, whole and still undigested, as well as various body parts. The taniwha had swallowed all that his victims had been carrying, and his stomach also contained weapons of various kinds, darts, greenstone ornaments, shark's teeth, flax clothing, and an assortment of fur and feather cloaks of the highest quality.

Many taniwha were killers but in this particular instance the taniwha Kaiwhare was eventually tamed by Tāmure. Tāmure lived at Hauraki and was understood to have a magical mere/pounamu with powers to defeat taniwha. The Manukau people then called for Tāmure to help kill the taniwha. Tāmure and Kaiwhare wrestled and Tāmure clubbed the taniwha over the head. Although he was unable to kill it, his actions tamed the taniwha. Kaiwhare still lives in the waters but now lives on kōura (crayfish) and wheke (octopus).

Ngārara Huarau is a taniwha known from the myths of several groups of Maori in the northern South Island. In most versions of the story, the monster eats several villagers and captures a young woman whom he keeps in a cave by the sea. Ngārara Huarau is eventually enticed to come to the local village for a feast, where he is ambushed and killed by the villagers. In each version of the story, upon his death the monster's tail detaches itself and is thrown far away into a body of water. In the version of Wainui Bay, and the Tākaka Māori, the tail lands in the pool at the base of Wainui Falls.

Sometimes, a person who had dealings with taniwha during their lifetime might turn into a taniwha after they died. This happened to Te Tahi-o-te-rangi, who had been a medium for the taniwha, and had been rescued at one time by one of the creatures. Tūheita, an early ancestor who drowned, became a taniwha despite the fact that he had no prior dealings with the mythical beasts. Sometimes relationships are formed between humans and taniwha. Hine-kōrako was a female taniwha who married a human man, and Pānia was a woman from the sea who married a human and gave birth to a taniwha (Orbell 1998:150).

In the legend "The Taniwha of Kaipara" three sisters went out to pick berries. One of the sisters was particularly beautiful. The taniwha caused havoc on their walk back and the sisters fled. The taniwha caught the sisters one by one, trying to capture the beautiful one. On succeeding, he then took her back to his cave. Many years passed and the woman bore the taniwha six sons, with three like their father and three fully human. She educated all her sons and in particular taught her human sons the art of war, helping them to fashion and use weapons. The human sons then killed their three taniwha brothers, and eventually their father. They all went back to their homes.

#Taniwha #maori #new zealand

[ashleysingermfablog]

untitled, ashley singer, 2024, poem

Following iconography of women leaning into landscapes and becoming emerged into them in the picture plain, this poem unpacks the historical connection women and our bodies have had with the cycles of the earth. the moon cycle is a pivotal example of the celestial world having an external pull on menstruation which follows a monthly cycle. further many spiritualities see women as the earth mother, in Aotearoa she is Papa or Papatūānuku, she can be Gaia, or Mother Nature colloquially.

The Earth Mother Concept In Te Ao Māori by Aotea

Papatūānuku as a mother

Papatūānuku is a nurturer. She, in her wisdom, impart life’s essential lessons to her tamariki (children). In other words, she teaches us how to act, what to value, what to prize and what to let go of in life. Her gifts include endurance, action and decision, caution, humour, hope and courage, judgement and fairness. 

Papatūānuku as the earth

Māori have a spiritual link to the land that is the land of their ancestors. In one respect, respecting the land connects them with their ancestors in the distant past. In another respect, it is directly respecting and maintaining the authority of Papatūānuku. Papatūānuku gives us the air we breathe, rivers and lakes in which to clean our bodies, food and medicine & plants and animals. Conflicts over land and mana whenua (territorial rights, authority over the land) are common, but Papatūānuku herself shows manaaki (care) for her tamariki (children).

Māori consider themselves tangata whenua, people of the land. As tangata whenua, they are therefore the kaitiaki (guardians) of Papa’s natural environments: te takutai (the coast), ngā repo (wetlands), ngā moutere tapu (islands), te pō (the night), te whenua waotū (the high country) and Te Wao Nui a Tāne (the forest). This role is important for sustainability of these treasured environments.

Contemporary New Zealand Māori Artist, Star Gossage (Ngāti Wai / Ngāti Ruanui) portrays elements of Papa in her personification of divine wahine in her painting practice. She lives and works, surrounded by whanau, on ancestral land at Pakiri, north of Auckland.

"The imagery Gossage brings forward is expansive on one plane, yet lit by her inner world” Ngahiraka Mason, Artand, 2014. Star Gossage produces hauntingly beautiful figurative works connected to the land, often using elements of the earth: clay, soil, lime and tar mixed with pigments. While drawing inspiration largely from her Maori heritage, she also draws influence from Australian painters Sidney Nolan, Albert Tucker and Arthur Boyd.

The language of the divine feminine and womanly figures ebbing and flowing into the landscape is also seen in a different manner in images from children's stories and European narratives of the seasons- these narratives of Spring, Snow, Frost and The Mist largely come from indigenous European folkloric images of women as the weather or women who personify the role of energy that cultivates life and opens flowers in springtime, seals in rooms during the cold winter and casts a hay mist across the landscape.