#bird seed for them! bird seed for them for one thousand years!

[headspace-hotel]

some times i see people talking about the Earth and climate change saying things like "now i know it is difficult to deal with utter hopelessness, terror, and visiting the thoughts of death"

and it's like wow I am so deeply sorry about the suffering. but...concern. Concern. Tell me, am I missing something important? Why do I feel a sense of hope for our planet? Am I a lonely fool? Have I been consumed by naïveté and misguided optimism?

That would be weird. It feels weird. It feels like I would be well suited to despair. My natural temperament is Mortal Terror making my body crushed for a thousand years at the bottom of the deepest trenches of the ocean. I've thought before "I can't live any more. This exceeds the tensile strength of the human spirit."

And then? After irreversible catastrophic failure of the soul, there is...what?

We try to imagine the future where we fight to save our home and it is very painful. The resistance feels so small and the machine of death feels so vast. But something's missing.

Everyone else is missing—the plants, trees, bugs, beasts, and creatures. Hello? Are the other humans seeing this? Nature wants you to know that she is not a princess in a tower. Look! Look at the chaos moving through every cell! Iterating! Adapting! Becoming! Thriving! Watch the pollinators tirelessly at work, observe the mycorrhizal network in the forest floor distributing the rich fruits of decay and photosynthesis for every inhabitant! Pay attention! We belong here too. They feed and shelter us, give us the very air we breathe, and in return we plant and propagate, cull, thin, and burn, shape, trample, till, shepherd and sprout seeds. Our species can look toward the future, to the world of our descendants. We can call every plant and animal by name and teach our children to use and care for them responsibly. We can feel this anger, pain, and grief on behalf of the family of Life, OUR family, and we can love the smallest beetle and the humblest moss.

Look at it! This thing is nothing like me, it does not benefit me, it has no use or purpose for me, but LOOK at it! Look at its intricate structure! Look at the marvelousness of its behaviors and biological functions! Look at its uniqueness throughout the whole universe! Look at it, and see its infinite value!

I saved a baby tree from the scorching hot gravel of a parking lot. I watched it grow and thrive in the hands of its caretaker. Many more followed, trees and herbs and flowers, rescued and carefully placed in cups and old tubs that once held yogurt and sour cream. This is so strange, I thought. They're everywhere, offering themselves for free, and no one thinks to take them. Everyone thinks transplanting a tree is hard and that nothing grows on the edge of the pavement but weeds. But it's so easy??? This is weird. Plant Nurseries Hate Her: Get Free Plants With This One Weird Trick.

I protected an old barren garden patch where nothing had thrived from being mowed and weed-whacked, and transplanted little plants that I found. I marveled at the bees that came. Chicory bloomed, then asters and goldenrod. I shed actual tears over a spicebush swallowtail. I ordered some milkweed from the internet, and the monarchs came for them. Less then twenty-five bucks for a divine experience like this. Wow, everyone else really needs to know!

I started volunteering at a nature center, and was allowed to transplant flowers where they sprouted in inopportune locations. I collected tons of seeds all fall and winter long.

There is much, much more, all of it bigger than I ever would have imagined. But this spring there were more birds, in number and in species, than I'd ever seen in my back yard before. Chickadees, swallows, finches, nuthatches, jays, cardinals, warblers, sparrows, woodpeckers of every kind...I remembered just a couple years prior when all I ever saw out there was a couple grackles or starlings or robins, with the occasional sparrow. Those birds come in flocks rather than couples now. And then the bumblebee arrived. An American bumblebee, endangered now, a queen. For a few days she was always out there, would fly out and buzz around me when I came out to tend to my now-innumerable plants. It's nesting time for them. She chose this place I was creating. She saw that this place would take care of her.

A week ago, I discovered wild strawberries growing in my Mamaw's driveway. I found lyreleaf sage growing beside a gravel road. I've become a master of transplanting; I took several of each home. Yesterday, I saw a tiny, metallic blue bee, an Osmia mason bee. Today, I saw an oriole and a strange, very fancy fly. I see something new almost every day. Every day I am being irreversibly changed as a person. How did I ever fail to see how much this matters?

I said I feel hope...do I feel it? I don't think it's a feeling, I think it's a practice. It's being part of our communities and our ecosystems. Nature's interconnectedness is both reality and example: to survive, we take care of one another. And when one member of the community helps another thrive, it creates a cascade that increases the thriving of all. Just by existing, you help us all survive.

You can only take care of so many plants before you have to give some away. You can only hold so much knowledge before you have to give it away. I gave seeds to a dozen different flowers to my next-door neighbor and she invited me inside and wouldn't let me leave without food, and we talked about plants and trees. A family friend lets me have goats' milk and heirloom vegetables in exchange for help around the farm, and I listen to him talk about trees, bugs, and soil and learn so much I feel like I'm about to explode from knowledge.

Being a caretaker is unavoidably a community-oriented, community-forming thing. You can't grow plants all by yourself. Your garden will make too many tomatoes. Share them. Your milkweed will make hundreds and hundreds of seeds. Spread them. Wild blackberries invite you to take and eat. Your lonely retired neighbor invites you to talk and keep her company. Once you grow delicious fruits or little oak trees, you always have a reason to greet someone and say, "Look, it is a gift!"

We're not alone. We are not separate. We take care of each other. Every species, every individual. A single action of caretaking creates a cascade effect of thriving. A single unapologetic love for a creature creates a blossom of curiosity and fascination in everyone surrounding. It's so powerful.

As my chemical romance says "I am not afraid to keep on living"

#nature #community #plants #gardening #you are not separate from every other thing #the wonders #caretaking #plantarchy

[oumaheroes]

Do Not Go Gentle

Ériu

Albion

Alba

Warnings for death

--------

Cymru first dies crowded.

He is no stranger to death. It is all around him, every day- something as unavoidable and normal as children being born, or the weather changing in the sky. Lambs die. Birds die. Plants die- the earth turns over and around and things fall forever into the night, whether you understand why or not.

Their humans talk about death like an ending, an inevitable event that comes for them as though life is a rope forever pulling them forwards to a final stop, and Cymru watches from his safe distance as the years pass by hardly touching him. Although one day there will be an end for him, it is so long into the future, longer than any mortal lifespan, that it does not register with the same impact as it must do for them.

 But Mama says that their people are right, and that he should listen more carefully.

‘Here.’ She calls him over to her one day, crouched low by a pond, hands cupped and close to her chest. She opens them as he approaches to reveal a small bird within. He cannot tell what kind it is- colours mutes and shape disguised by what he notices first and foremost.

It does not move.

‘Oh,’ He says, saddened. ‘Is it..?’

Mama gestures for him to hold out his hands. He does so, reluctantly, and she gently places the body within. The bird is young, almost old enough to leave the nest but not yet- downy feathers cover the few full, strong adult ones and circle around its neck like a torc. Its eyes are closed and bulging, its bones too loose when he shifts his hands underneath it.

Cymru wants to let go, but doesn’t. Knows he shouldn’t.

‘It was where it shouldn’t have been,’ Mama says. She picks up the bird between forefinger and thumb and turns it over by the head in Cymru’s hands, quick and rough, as if the bird is nothing more to her than a seed or a stone. The movement of it, the dead weight and wide angles, is wrong. She taps the downy feathers which are more numerous on the other side, ‘See here? These feathers are waterlogged. They collected the water and pulled it under, so that it couldn’t swim back up.’

Cymru feels sick. The bird feels dirty, unnatural in the way it lay in his palms, and he longs to throw it away and wipe his hands clean. But Mama is there, watching, and Cymru knows that his brothers would be as unaffected by it as she is.

‘Even if it could have swum to safety, it might have instead died in the fall. Or been caught by a larger bird, or animal. Might have died from sickness before it fell, or abandoned and starved by its parents.’ Mama’s voice is soft but she holds one hand under Cymru’s two, forcing him to look at what he holds. The bird’s head is too big, its beak too wide and closed eyes too round. He swallows back the whine in his throat, and the jerk of revulsion he wants to let out.

‘To live is to be lucky.’ Mama lifts up one of the small wings by the tip, almost adult feathers fanning like fingers, ‘There is no boundary we can cross to pass into safety, and no time limit to survive in order to avoid it. Death can happen at any time, for anything, and everything that lives today is luckier than it knows. One chance amongst thousands.’

Just as Cymru can handle holding the bird no longer, Mama takes it from him and lays it back in the shallows of the pond. It sits there, half submerged and glistening as Mama takes his hands and washes them, before drying them on her tunic.

‘Do not think, as all young things do, that your chances will never run out.’ She meets his eye, catching him by the chin and regarding him seriously, ‘It is just as easy for us to lose the piece of luck we have as the people we watch over. The only difference between us and them, is that we have a few guaranteed half chances to remind ourselves of how precious life is.’

There are fine lines around her eyes, strands of silver in her flame red hair, but her grip is tight, muscles of her arms strong. Cymru nods, and she softens.

-----------------

‘There are so many people.’

On Alba’s shoulders, Cymru grips the wooden posts to keep them both steady. ‘I didn’t know there could even be so many.’

‘There will be more than this in a few days.’ Mama says.

On her knees, she finishes wrapping Albion to her back and glances up at Cymru and Alba where they stand atop the woodstore, peering over the mound’s defences. In the early morning light, shapes and activity emerge from the retreating shadows like a slow retreating tide. Down the hill, all around the base of the settlement, people are erecting temporary shelters and pitching their animals. Winter solstice is here, with its darkest and coldest of nights, but this year it is apparently a particularly special one.

Cymru doesn’t really understand why. Something about the stars, or the years. Or where the sun hits the ancient stones nearby as it rises and falls- a tradition older than even Mama, passed down from the people before her who stood the circles of stones so tall all over their islands. All Cymru knows is that it is busy, with more people than he has ever seen before going to and fro and glancing his way whenever he goes near them. When Cymru and his family had arrived to stay for the winter a few months ago, this mound had been nothing more than home to one clan. Now, the mound and the lands around it was home to people from at least seven.

Cymru’s eyes pass over all of them, stretched out to the lake on the horizon, his breath clouding in front of him like smoke.

Mama stands with a grunt, testing the weight and position of the wraps keeping Albion -still sleeping- securely in place, and clicks at them with her tongue to come down. ‘There is to be another King and his people arriving today.’ She licks her thumb and rubs a dark smudge of something off Alba’s cheek, ‘I have to meet him properly.’

This means that she will be gone for hours down in the new camp, learning and sharing whatever news this new group of people have to bring. Her children will need to stay away and represent their family on their own. Alba straightens, turning to seriously observe the longhouses and storage buildings as if searching for fault.

‘Ah, a keen guardsman I see before me.’ Mama strokes back Alba’s hair fondly, ‘Today, you can be off duty.’

Alba reddens and scowls, hunching his shoulders, ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Mama laughs through her nose, ‘Good, because we don’t need guards people up here. But we do need ambassadors down there.’ She takes Alba by the shoulders and steers him through the village to the open wooden gates leading to the descent. Their people move aside for them as they pass, Cymru trailing just behind her watching Albion’s fair head against her back.

They stop at the gate- thrown open wide- and move off to the side to let a hunter and his pelts go by: foxes, badgers, and deer.

‘You see those trees and lake?’ A sharp and dramatic turn of Alba to the right, Mama’s hands still about his shoulders.

He laughs, staggering on his feet, ‘Yes.’

‘Oh? What about that field?’ A sharp, wide twist to the left.

He laughs again, stumbling to right himself, ‘I see it.’

‘Good. Well, there are a lot of different children milling about now and they don’t all speak the same tongue. I need some very important people to mix them together and act as a bridge between everyone, in that such field or those such trees. Maybe a game that everyone can play; make them feel comfortable and united.’

‘You want us to play?’ Alba sounds offended, laughter vanishing immediately.

Mama inclines her head, ‘I want you to negotiate amity.’

Alba looks to the swarms of shelters and people, then back up at Mama, ‘…What?’

‘It’s important that everyone here feels part of the same thing.’ Mama says. She drums her fingers like spider legs, fluttering them onto the scarf around Alba’s neck, ‘That’s hard to do when you don’t speak the same language and you’re in a strange place. Not everyone travels like we do. For most, this will be their first time outside of everything that they know.’

Alba doesn’t say anything. He looks back down at the sprawling camp, his face away from Mama so only Cymru can see that he’s dissatisfied. Cymru feels guilty for some reason, although he doesn’t know why. There is something he is missing that Alba understands, and he wishes he were older to figure it out.

‘It is an important job,’ Mama tells them, ‘It is what we need to do. It is what I am doing with the Kings and Queens and priests; their sons and daughters are just as important. I cannot do all at once, but all should be done.’

Alba doesn’t reply. Mama eyes the crown of his head, then winks at Cymru. She lifts her hands from Alba’s shoulders to shift Albion higher, ‘Never mind. There are a lot of them, thinking about it properly. Too many, I think; maybe it’s best I do it.’

‘I can do it.’ Alba says instantly, ‘There aren’t that many.’

Mama pulls a face, conflicted, ‘I’m not sure, it will be difficult. I was wrong to ask you, it will take patience and good communica-‘

‘We can do that.’ Alba grabs Cymru’s hand and Cymru feels panicked. ‘I can take some and Cymru can take some others. We’ll find Ériu and get him to help too. We’ll do a different language each and get together that way.’

Mama tilts her head from side to side. ‘Perhaps that will work.’

‘It will.’

‘And what will you do if they don’t want to play the same thing?’

‘We can play different things between us.’

Cymru looks up at Mama, helplessly. He does not share Alba’s confidence; there are indeed so many people, so many children. How would he talk to them? What would he say?

‘And what if there are arguments?’

Alba frowns, considering his answer, ‘I’ll listen and try to fix it.’

‘How about if some children do not wish to play?’

Alba doesn’t know the answer to that one.

‘They don’t have to.’ Cymru suggests, ‘They can watch, if they want. Or join in later. I could look after those ones.’

He does not know what games or activities Alba is thinking of offering, but none that Cymru can imagine will be things he is good at. He cannot run very fast, nor throw as far as his brothers can. He cannot climb to the tallest branches, or hunt on his own. The idea of embarrassing his family, of damaging the way they are seen by their people, is more than he can bear.

Cymru worries that Mama will see through his selfish suggestion but she smiles at them both. ‘Wonderful ideas,’ she says. She bends to brush down Cymru’s front and slides her fingers under his scarf to the fat, gold torc at his neck, ‘What clever ambassadors I have.’

-----------------

It works out better than Cymru expected.

Alba does the talking, as Cymru thought that he would. He moves amongst the groups, collecting children as he goes and directing them all to the field away from the campsites as Cymru follows at his side. Most they ask choose to join in, eager to be away from the tedium of moving and the tense atmosphere of being somewhere unfamiliar. Some have been walking all night but still want to come.

It is awkward, at first. Cymru does not know what to do with himself, does not know how to begin when people know who he is but don’t know him at all. But then he speaks to one girl on his own, hands shaking, then another. Then a boy, taller than he is, who grins down at him and follows where Cymru points him without question. Alba finds an empty pig’s bladder and blows it up, and before too long there is shrieking and running and Cymru forgets himself amongst it all.

Ériu runs over to join them with some older children not long later, fresh from hunting and eager to take part.

‘What else?’

A good while later, the poor pig’s bladder lays between their feet, finally deflated after numerous games kicked about the open field.

‘I’ll find another bladder. I’m sure there are lots going spare.’

Ériu shakes his head, ‘No, it’s getting boring.’

‘Chase, then? “It”, or something.’

Ériu makes a face, ‘I don’t want to do any more running.’ Cymru heartily agrees. ‘What about stories?’

Alba snorts, ‘How will that work if they can’t all understand it.’

‘We can translate.’

‘That’s just stupid.’

‘You’re stupid.’

‘How about the lake.’ Cymru cuts in quickly. The human children are close by, some running about on their own and others beginning to drift and talk in clumps. ‘We can slide on the ice and have races. Less running and we can use a rock instead of a bladder.’

Ériu looks at Alba, who avoids his eye to look down at Cymru. He then turns to observe the lake behind him. It is a cloudy day and the lake’s surface is dark, swallowing the reflections of the hills behind it so that it seems bottomless.

After a moment, Alba turns back, ‘Not a bad idea. Men were out there yesterday and it’s still cold today. Ice should be solid but we’ll need to get someone to check before we tell the others to follow us. One of the taller hunters; if he says it’s safe, we go.’

Ériu doesn’t seem convinced. ‘With all of us at the same time though? It might crack.’

‘There were deer on it the other day.’

‘That was the other day. It was sunny yesterday and what if the sun comes out again?’

Alba tuts and throws his hands up. Cymru knows that Alba will not take them on to the lake unless he was sure it will hold them, and also knows that Ériu will worry regardless of what Alba tries.

‘Hide and seek in the trees.’ He offers, ‘No one has to run, or talk to each other, and even the smaller ones can join in. And the hunts have already happened today,’ he adds for Ériu, ‘So the forest should be clear of anything dangerous.’

Cymru is satisfied when Ériu relaxes and Alba grins, impressed, ‘Yeah. That’ll do.’

A mad dash for the trees, Alba counting loudly at the edge in a mixture of languages,  1 2 3 in one and 4 5 6 in another.

With the field, campsite, and lake working as their designated hiding area, Cymru watches children scatter as Alba’s counting begins, his back to them. Cymru waits for them to clear and settle, keeping an ear on Alba’s voice, and searches for somewhere unique.

He knows not to stray too far. Mama has told them many stories of children who have become turned around forever by ancient trees, too confused and lost in the press of their trunks to ever find their way home again. The fae live within and they are tricky, fickle things- eager and hungry for wayward travellers. Everything can look the same if you’re not careful, Mama says, fae or not, so always find somewhere high above the treeline and keep it in sight when you walk somewhere new.

Luckily, there is a lot here to choose from- lake, hills. Cymru chooses the largest hill that crests over the trees to be his marker and begins.

The woods breathe. Whispered wind in the empty boughs of trees follow him above the high laughter of children, the hollow thumps of their feet on the forest’s earthen floor.

There is too much to choose from, yet also not much at all. Cymru is proud of himself when he finds a shallow cave, the top most rocks mossy and topped with a small, wizened tree, but several pairs of eyes already blink out at him from the mouth and so moves on quietly. The slope of a small hill has several bushes, but others have got to them first. Feet dangle overhead from branches he cannot reach, and some lay as half hidden shapes under old leaves, laying themselves down flat and still in the earth. One Cymru finds in the hollow of a fallen tree, and the tall girl presses a finger to her lips with eyes that plead with him to leave her there alone.

Far away, Alba stops counting and Cymru runs.

He jumps down a slope but at the bottom the hill with which he is marking his direction falls out of his sight so he scrabbles back up. He is tempted to press himself into its bank like some other children he’s seen, but he knows that Alba- keen, observant eyes- will find him. He wants to not be found first, wants to be good at the game he’s suggested- wants to win.

He hears running, hears footsteps come closer, and a mix of frustration and shame brings tears to his eyes.

Then, as he stands frozen and unsure, his mind blank, he spots a burrow. It is narrow, a stretched oval under the roots of an old tree which cover the entrance. Small and dark, it looks like a squeeze even for him but the leaves around it are undisturbed and a cobweb spans the top corner, from one root to the base of some nettles. Noone else has found it yet. Cymru sprints to it with relief.

He goes head first, arms brushing away more cobwebs that wait inside. The dirt floor of the burrow, damp at the entrance, dries the further he goes in and the air is cool and still. He is in to his chest when he catches it- the smell of animals, musky and heavy. He cannot tell how old this burrow is; it hasn’t been used long enough for the cobwebs to form, at least. 

Cymru hesitates.

Then, he hears the shouts of Alba’s first victim, a cry of wounded glee, and he makes up his mind. It’s tight. He has to wiggle on his belly to go in further, the space too tight for him to crawl on hands and knees. He can feel his feet sticking out, kicking freely as he shifts, but he finds purchase on a root and, with one last firm kick, he is fully inside.

The earth holds him still. He breathes in, slowly, carefully, and feels the walls around him push back on all sides. His heartbeat slows as he relaxes and then all he can hear is himself, the outside world muffled and removed and distant. Inside the burrow it is silent, with no breeze or movement apart from himself.

It is a comforting feeling, to be contained so completely. He wonders if this is how babies feel, inside their mothers as they grow. Wonders if he had ever felt this way before, when he was wherever he had come from. Maybe he’d come from a burrow such as this, pushed up from the earth once fully grown and ready to be found by Mama. He cannot see how far ahead the burrow continues but when he stretches his arms out ahead, he meets nothing but air. Satisfied, he lays his head on his outstretched arms and closes his eyes.

Time passes. Then more.

Cymru can sometimes hear children, shouting and screeching as they’re found and Alba gives chase. He hears Ériu once, cackling and stomping somewhere nearby. Someone comes near enough to Cymru’s tree that he can feel them, the earth vibrating gently with each footfall as the muted sound reverberates through the ground. But no one finds him, and slowly but surely the sounds of the other children in this area of the forest soften, before disappearing altogether.

‘Ris!’

Then he jolts, hitting his head in the dark.

It is later. He knows this because he needs to relieve himself, and because his arm is numb underneath his head. One or both must have woken him.

He stretches as much as he can, and yawns, wiggling his fingers to relieve the needles that spike through. He wonders what is for dinner tonight, for surely it must be time for something to eat. From outside, there are voices.

At first, he doesn’t know what they are saying. They’re faint, far away. Then-

‘Ris!’

He thinks he hears Alba.

Then again-

‘Ris! Come out!’

Ériu.

If Cymru strains he can hear several more voices, all calling for him. The game must be over. Far from feeling elated though, he feels panic.

The children- he can hear them now, louder- call for him as ‘Cymru’, his true name. But his brothers call for him by the name which Mama gave him. It is a name that no one but family knows, a name that is just for himself, not for who he is, and his brothers using it means that something is wrong.

The thud of someone running, then Ériu is closer. He screams Cymru’s name, breathless as though he is running, and there’s a sharp edge of fear to his voice that Cymru has never heard before.

Cymru’s stomach goes cold. Ériu‘s fear flows into him and his mind works fast. How long has he been gone? How long have his brothers been looking? Mama is going to be so angry; he hopes that his brothers haven’t gone to her yet.

His brother’s voice grows quieter, he is moving away. The wrong way.

‘Ériu! Wait!’

Quickly, Cymru tries to push himself backwards. His hands slip on the walls, dirt crumbling into his eyes, his mouth, and he coughs. He tries again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, his hands slip. They cannot hold the force his arms need to move his body backwards. He tries, the floor, the ceiling. Tries with his feet, toes digging into the earth and smacking against the sides. Knees to floor, elbows to walls and hands everywhere at once but nothing gives. He is stuck. The more he wiggles, the more he can feel himself slip further inside, and mounting terror soon overwhelms him to leave him sobbing.

‘Alba! Alba, I’m here!’

His heart pounds like a drum in his hearts, blood rushing to his face, his neck. He wants to get out. He doesn’t care that Mama will know; he wants her to find him. Even if she drags him out in front of everyone he doesn’t care, he wants to go home. The walls around him grow tighter, the darkness blacker, and Cymru fights for breath and he chokes against tightening lungs.

‘ADAIR! PADARN! Help!’

As he struggles, he hears movement from within the dark. Something soft at first, a rustle under his crying, but then there’s a growl- warm breath on his knuckles, something wet dripping onto his split skin.

He is where he doesn’t belong, Cymru realises the moment before pain hits. He is a creature that is not where it should be, and what is going to learn the truth of what comes next.

He closes his eyes, crosses his arms across his face, and screams.

-----------------

He wakes to white hot fire.

It is all over him- his chest, his neck, his arms. A burning, searing agony that rips a cry from him as he twists, the darkness swimming and churning.

‘Shhhh, shhh my love.’

Cymru hears Mama. He feels her touch him, gentle and light on his shoulder but his skin shreds itself anew at the pressure and he arches away. He cannot see, cannot think- the pain is too great. Life has returned to a body that is not ready, a soul to a house it cannot call home. Cymru pushes his head back against whatever lies underneath it as the walls of his mind close in, biting down on a life too new to taste.

-----------------

When he awakes next, the shapes can move.

The agony is duller, arms stiff and wooden when he moves them.

‘Don’t.’ Ériu says. He sounds scared, nervous. In front of something he doesn’t understand, ‘Don’t touch it.’

Fingers on his chest, something cool laid over his eyes. Albion laughs in the background at the bray of a goat, and Cymru slips away.

When he returns to himself fully, confused and tired, he finds that it is Spring.

-----------------

Cymru does not consider himself a cautious man.

He is wary, as any living thing is, but not foolishly so. Life and death come together, he understands, and the possibility of death will not keep him from living. He has suffered many worse deaths than his first, and more of the same. Burning, beheading, quartering- so many terrible ways that man imagine death for themselves, on top of all the organic riches that nature provides.

He does not fear the ground, nor the dark. Not like Alba and the endless deep, nor Ériu and his complicated feelings. Still, Cymru knows himself to be changed.

Sometimes, when the voices around him are too loud, or the tensions in the air too high, Cymru feels the edges of his mind grow dark. Invisible earthen walls press closer on all sides, his breathing tightens, his heart races, and he finds himself walking- up up up. Up into the sky, up to the tallest thing he can see, where the world can swing freely under his feet and the ground cannot swallow him. Back where he should be and where he is safe, above the earth with nothing but the airy sky around him.

There are times when he does not even know what he is doing until he is up there- the sun sinking lower in the sky when before it had been morning. Sometimes, he takes himself before he needs to go, knowing what will come if he doesn’t. The world changes, humans move in with their cement and brick, but there are always places left for him to go. Untouched hikes, lonely crags of his northern mountains where humans fear to walk lest they become lost and topple off the sharp, unseen edge. Cymru knows his lands like he knows his people, knows them more than he knows himself, and knows that his land will always hold some places hidden, just for him.

Perched on the edge of perilous drops, his feet far above the floor below, Cymru feels more himself than he does anywhere else. For this, he knows he is luckier than most.

-----------------

AN:

This came from a very old headcanon explored in Wind Walk, Afterlife, and even chapter 2 of this fic. I hope my Wales makes more sense to you now!

For anyone who had questions about Wales from Ériu’s chapter, you’ll just have to wait for the next update to see if you can unpick things 😉

As for their names: ‘Adair, Padarn, Ris’- the names I usually use for the British Isles siblings are actually newer than the time period I am writing this fic in. But, I wanted the affect of their human names to be used and so chose the closest approximations I could for them to still be recognisable.

Thanks for reading!

#aph wales #hws wales #hetalia #hws #aph scotland #aph ireland #hws scotland #hws ireland #aph brit bros #aph uk bros #hws british isles #historical hetalia #heroes writes #aph england

[fragileheartbeats]

idea: What do you think about a prophecy like Aegon's prophecy for your own house?

Rhaevar I was on his deathbed staring at the ceiling with tear filled eyes. He stretched out his trembling hands towards the mirror and whispered with his eyes wide open, shining like starlight:

Listen, for the winds whisper secrets of impending doom, a tale of one hundred and ten thousand and then ten thousand more, seeds of wrath sown by the hands of malice.

Behold, those vile progeny, borne of darkness and scorn, shall descend upon my realm, bearing flags of oppression and robes blackened by the sun's cruel gaze. Their lineage obscured, their origins shrouded in the mists of deceit, they shall come with sorcery and false promises, intent on sundering the lands I, Rhaevar, have nurtured.

They defile and pollute, leaving homes and fields in ruins, transforming once vibrant lands into desolate wastelands. Joy and reverence dissipate, faith and covenant shattered, as the wicked lineage rises to power, tearing asunder the fabric of righteousness that I have woven into existence.

Cities shall crumble, wells run dry, scholars fall to ash, and the flames of knowledge shall be extinguished by their unholy touch. They shall defile the sanctity of home and hearth, turning verdant fields to desolate wastes, and my sacred flame shall be snuffed out, leaving naught but ashes in its wake.

In their wake, a wasteland shall bloom, where once grand villages stood, now naught but bones and dust remain. Joy shall flee from the hearts of children, and reverence for the elderly shall wither like leaves in autumn's chill. Their words shall ring hollow, their deeds black as the night, for they are faithless, betrayers of the Creator's covenant.

When this world approaches its end and the time of their birth is near, the days, months, and years will grow shorter, and the day and night will alternate and the sun will become more straight and hidden, they will invite the dead, and spread the dead.

In the darkest hour, they shall rise to power, pitting kin against kin in a ceaseless cycle of strife. They shall spurn righteousness and embrace wickedness, honoring their own lineage while casting mine as lowly. Birds shall be revered more than my kin, and the faithful shall be branded as heretics in their twisted creed.

And they will commit many sins, such as slavery and intimacy with unfaithful women, and they will make it common, and they will engage in idolatry and commit many vile acts.

When storms and violent winds come at their time, the rain will not fall as it should, except that it will bring pollution to the land and bring evil creatures with it. the rivers and streams will dry up, and it will not bring an increase, except that it will bring destruction with it. and the cattle, sheep, and goats will bear less and what they bear will be smaller and less skilled, and they will carry less weight and have less fur and tighter skin, and they will not yield milk, and their fat will decrease.

and the celebrations and customs of the past will change and the customs they follow will be weak and without belief.

when the time comes and their destruction is at hand, the mouth of Himelios will open and release all that they have hidden in their hearts of iron, silver, gold, copper, and jewels, the rule of this land will fall into the hands of evil and even the righteous rulers will follow the ways of those with evil deeds, and the kingship shall pass from them into the hands of bandits and rebels, and, the kingship of these evil ones shall spread, and if they kill a righteous in their stead, it will be as if killing a fly in their eyes.

And when the time comes for their destruction, these evil ones will be destroyed like a tree shedding its leaves on a cold winter night, and their destruction will be complete.

for in the hour of reckoning, the heavens shall weep tears of fire, and the earth shall open to swallow the wicked whole. The rule of kings shall crumble, and even dragons will fly away. Yet from the ashes, a child shall rise, born of my blood, destined to bring hope to a world shrouded in darkness.

his father will be of the fire lineage, and he will seek the help of winter in north, this child will come into the world when he reaches nine and will have a conversation with me. in that night, a sign will appear in the world. the stars will rain down and a new star will appear in the sky, visible to all.

And in that night, his father will die, and he will be raised by noble women.

many young people from my land will return to the ways of their ancestors and many will be killed and lost for this crime.

When Mars reaches its zenith and Venus falls, armies shall gather to claim the promised one's birthright. this promised savior shall emerge, heralding the final battle where the Shivering Sea shall run red with the blood of the righteous and the wicked alike.

And then a tear fell from his eye and he closed his eyes to the world forever.

House Celestyr tag list: @emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

#house celestyr #hotd fanfic #house of dragons #house of the dragon #house targaryen #hotd #house of dragon oc #house of the dragon x reader #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones oc #game of thrones #writing #story #fantasy #novel #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #a song of ice and fire #song of ice and fire #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x reader

[searchingforserendipity25]

Daeron/Maglor "...because the world is ending"? 😚

Hi @polutrope <3 This one one has been living in my docs as Daemags date night (the night to end all nights) for a month. Here it is at last!

The Night to End All Nights

Daeron had been deep into the roadless deserts, when Arien fell - her last blazing sunset had lit the dunes with dreadful beauty, rose sand purples and a red redder than red.

Then, the quiet. Handfuls of stars, snuffed out one after another.

He made his way onwards. Once, the land had not been desert; once, there had been paths of cobblestones paved with sound craft, and there had been chariots, carriages, riders and companies making their ways from glorious cities whose names were lost in the dust, removed from the world entirely, if not for Daeron's memory.

Daeron lived much in memory, now. There the dry well, there the empty streets of the empty city. Here, a deep-rooted peach tree had grown, where only a gray husk remained - he had gathered wild fruits from its generous boughs, shared them with an old enemy in the shelter of its shade, licked the juices from his fingertips and wrist and mouth until he shook as finely as the green leaves in the summer breeze.

Wherever he passed the land groaned with its own undoing.

Beleriand had been thus ruined, in its moribund years; but this was a ravaging wasting sickness, not a wound upon Arda to be solved with the amputation of one continent or another. Above and around and in all places a hundred, a thousand birds flew madly, till they dropped exhausted upon the last grass of the last spring.

The matter of the sky splintered and rained down great boulders of iron that shook and shattered the earth, smoldering with a fell fire, all the hard stone of the mountain ranges shaking and shaking like a single fevered body, bound up in strange resonances of power. One fell near enough to him that the raised dust clung to his lungs and fouled his throat for a time: and then Daeron grew afraid, for a time, shaken from the clear, beautiful rage against Morgoth into fright.

The cough passed, slowly.

The very air grew colder, made cruel without the sun. The waters grew wilder, without the moon; and all creatures grew despairing and violent, in the absence of starlight.

Still: Daeron went onwards. There was a great epilogue to judge - he was not a light-hearted critic, but he did intend to be there at the end, and at the start as well.

And he had an appointment to keep. They had agreed on this, a long time ago, and Daeron for his part was determined to cross crevasses as needed not to be the faithless one.

He had not thought Maglor would fail to be there. Not truly, in any case - not this time.

The land leaned towards the gaping of the world, its old longing for water calling out so starkly it was almost a song. This place had been full of life, once: a lake with many small islands, many new-made voices raised in song rippling the waters.

All the little water that remained reflected only darkness above, darkness around. Not enough remained of the waters of Cuiviénen to be drunk. Daeron’s torch lit it like the flare of a false moon, fading as passed it by.

It was quite beautiful, in its way. All things were unraveling to Song at last: the last fields of grass clinging to the cliff-side called out a rustling wind-song even as they turned to ash, glorious a rush of Music with the memory of the seed’s patience in winter and the growing rush of spring turning to the conflagration of summer.

Daeron closed his eyes. Did he weep, at the beauty of it? He could not sing. It was not time, yet; his voice curled thick and urgent in his aching throat, waiting.

They met at the very edge of the shoreline, where the whitewater rush of the shattered Encircling Sea broke into the gaping maw of the Void. The fall was very steep, the precipice very high, taller than any tower ever wrought. The sound of the water was an unnerving, slithering quiet, for it fell through fogs and mists; and the fall had no end.

A single raised light flickered, there where crumbling stone and air met, but the burned hand that held it up did not flinch from the licking slants of wind-swept fire.

“You are late,” Maglor said, chin raised. His voice, too, was less splendid than it might have been. Certainly less proud. Daeron’s heart turned in his chest, treacherously fond. “And I see you have not even brought any wine, either.”

“It was your turn to bring the wine,” Daeron pointed out. His words rasped in his throat a little, at the start. “I brought it last time."

"Forgive me! If it is any consolation," Maglor said. "I crossed the lands where the marketplace where those sweet bean pastries you loved once stood. Alas! Nought but ruins remain. There, here, everywhere! I had half a mind to start without you."

"That is well enough," Daeron said. He felt a little drunk already, dizzy with terror and Maglor's proximity.

His face caught the torch light, his eyes very bright. Maglor smiled at him. It was an effort - he could see the ancient grief moving in his face, a depth like the strata of the earth being pressed away to make room for it.

They had met on appointed dates two dozen times altogether. By the white piers of Belfalas or the moors of Arnor, sharing the same flask under the vibrant stars of Rhûn’s fields. Brushing knuckles; pressing their mouth’s where a touch had been, in the indulgent absurdity of second-hand lovemaking between two ancient creatures.

They had met. Not many times, but often enough; and always at the parting, regardless of how sweet or how bitter it might be, there was the renewed promise. We shall meet at the end! Even when it had been said in contempt and fury, and the end of the world not long enough to suit the day’s rage.

It passed, the anger. When one lived as long as they did, it grew very difficult to cleave to anything for very long. Grief was a habit, and singing duty and care and craft; all the rest passed and thinned as mist in the sun. Until they met again - until they met each other, and all colours grew bright, the winds colder, the summers gentler.

Daeron waved it away, lightly, light-hearted. O, he felt mad, trapped against the great maw of the black night - but a strange thing very like a laugh trembled on his throat.

"I know I shall! That is not my concern. I knew you would not start without me,” Daeron said. "I could not doubt it. And yet I am glad that I was late; I could not know how much of gladness remained, before I saw your light in the dark, waiting."

“Then I am glad," Maglor said, and the salt that clung to his hair prickled Daeron's nose when he neared. "Though it was a cold wait, and the journey colder still. You give me too much credit. For once! But I could not tarry. There was nowhere else to walk to, nor any other place I could wish to be."

“It is quite beautiful,” Daeron said, looking upon the cliffside. His eyes strained to see the scant starlight reflecting on the distant spray, silvering the night for brief instants. “In its way.”

“The sea was more beautiful,” Maglor said. "Its white sands and silver pebbles gleaming, and the black basalt sand of the Western islands. Gone, all gone! Now we are islanders only, the Encircling Sea the only sea; and its waters fall beyond reaching. I miss the sea-that-was, though it never did thank me for my company."

The mountains were gone. The fallow fields, and the valleys with their crumbling walls left abandoned in long lost days - the great cities of Men, one empire after another devoured by a greater and most ancient greed.

They had seen many kingdoms rise and fall together, over time; but there had been a constancy in that, not this absence of voices and wills, this death-bound silence.

It had not been often that they had wandered together for long. That was a thing neither of them could withstand easily - not they, minstrels to the dead, whose last elegiac duties were not suited to company. Their paths diverged, coming apart to come together again, and there had been joy too with every bitter parting. But they had agreed on this, under the light of the stars, Ages ago. Cuiviénen, at the end of all things - this much, at least, when the time came, at the end.

Daeron laid a hand on his cheek, and felt the warmth of it with a dizzying desire. So it would be this, then, he thought. The last touch; the last kiss, soft as a balm, a vertiginous fall into an embrace from a height no lesser than the sundered face of the breaking world. Daeron held him close with fierce hands, chased the stains of bitter soot on Maglor’s heeks with his mouth, tangled his fingers in braidless curls as dark as the night.

The last, the last! His eyes stung. Daeron was greedy, at the last, covetous with love as had ever been his vice, slow to relinquish. Love renewed all things, even grief; though the grief of Arda's fall had seeped into him into a killing drought, and no more tears remained in him to be shed.

The Music murmured its own last notes, a soundless song of mingled joy and despair.

More despair, at the end, and Daeron had feared, feared, feared it tremendous, more than the Starkinder's defeat or the death of all fruiting trees. Wandering alone in the lightless dark, voice failing and nothing listening, he had thought on the Theme and feared there would not be enough of joy, in the end - had judged his purpose beyond himself, all of Melian's careful and wise tutelage wasted and worn through.

So it had been, in solitude.

"Sweet Daeron. Forgive me,” Maglor said once more, sighing against his neck. His solid warmth was no greater than the flame's, wavering much as Daeron wavered on his feet. "I bring no gifts, and my might is diminished. The melody is yours, if you like. It is not wine, but it might suit your tastes as well, or better."

"It shall be," Daeron said. He knew it as he spoke, and almost laughed for how clear it was to him; he gripped Maglor's hand tightly. "But not mine alone, I judge; for are we not both singers of laments? One last paeon, then: and let not all things that were good and great and terrible fall unremembered, while there is breath with which to sing them."

Above them and around them the last stars went pale, and weary, and dead. The two torches flared, faded, lost the last of their fire.

Then, the quiet. Daeron stepped back. Raised a hand, to mark the time.

It was very easy, after all, to sing together at the end of all things: easy as summer, even in the dark.

#daeron #maglor #daeron/maglor #my fic #the silmarillion fanfic #daemags #wrestled with this on a four hour bus ride and it is finally done (and i've finally arrived 🙌 )

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Look to the Birds of the Air

Inklings Challenge 2023 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy

A quiet day for mother and son may be more than it seems

Look to the Birds of the Air @inklings-challenge

by Meltintalle

It was a quiet day. A cloudy day, with the world muffled in a soft gray cloak, and tiny bits of moisture flecking the grass. Thousands of worlds were reflected in miniature, each alike and yet unique. Mary brushed a branch on her way back from the mailbox, scattering the droplets to reform anew elsewhere. Her son skipped at her side carrying the nature magazine he'd been watching for since the arrival of the previous one but his eye was caught by a wave of migratory birds shifting positions on a nearby maple tree. Their soft chatter was kin to waves in the shore, an everswelling roll of sound.

Mary lingered in the doorway a moment, caught by the mood of the slow fog, then closed the door and returned to her world of bills to pay and phone calls to make. She caught herself looking out the window and wondering if there was a world somewhere where she would be doing some heroic deed instead.

A clatter from the kitchen shattered her daydream.

"What are you doing?" she asked, finding her son chasing a spoon across the floor. His magazine was open on the table and surrounded by a motley selection of ingredients.

"I have to feed the troops," he explained, emerging triumphant from behind the table leg.

Peanut butter, crackers, and sunflower seeds would have to multiply in an unnatural fashion, and besides…

"What troops?"

He pointed out the kitchen window toward the maple tree where the birds were tucked together for warmth. "Don't you see them? They patrolled here all summer and now they're on to their next posting."

"An army, is it?" asked Mary.

"Oh, yes. We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret."

"I see." Mary looked down at the magazine with a bemused smile. She saw the connection between the project on the glossy spread and the peanut butter, but the army of birds was less easily explained.

"Did you know they migrated?" asked her son, round face serious and concentrated on his task.

"Every year."

"It's amazing. All those miles. I couldn't do it." 

True enough. Some days he could barely sit through the ride to his grandmother's house. "Maybe if you were part of a troop–like the birds?"

His eyes gleamed with the new idea as he dropped generous dollops of peanut butter to be mixed with the other ingredients. "Maybe."

Satisfied no further silverware would be dropped, Mary returned to her to-do list. In the other world perhaps feeding the birds was an important endeavor, but here it was a few seeds and a picture.

It was twilight when the bird food was ready, and Mary helped her son carry the tray outside. The cloud cover had torn, scattering glowing pewter across the horizon. Wet grass clung to her feet and Mary watched a wave of birds rise and spiral across the sunset.

Maybe it was more than a few seeds. Maybe it was a child, happily occupied for a few hours.

We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret.

Maybe, she told herself. Maybe it was true.

#inklingschallenge #inklingschallenge2023 #team chesterton #theme: food #genre: intrusive fantasy #story: complete

[junhwe0309]

What Ekkreth Knew of Fear

Shmi once told Anahkeen the story of how Ekkreth became free, because Depur has a thousand cruelties, but Ekkreth has a hundred thousand tricks. No one can hold the Sky-walker forever, because the Sky-walker wears a thousand faces and countless forms.

In the desert, a red and black bird flew, and when it came time, a god became chained to mortal flesh, borne of no father and shed of his feathers. When Anahkeen was born, rolling thunder and chilling rain blanketed Tatooine.

When Ekkreth walked amongst mortals once more, he hungered. He hungered because Qui-Gon Jinn told him the Jedi were not here to free slaves. He hungered because he wanted more than anything, for Obi-Wan to listen to him, because he is Anahkeen’s father, despite how he will never acknowledge it. He hungered because he walked free but the nameless and numbered did not. He is hungry, but never starving.

He burned and seethed, the anger rolling around him like shifting sands, because Ar-Amu teaches her children anger. May anger nurture sparse roots and water harrowed leaves and remind those who carry fear to hold it close to their hearts so that they may till rebellion. The Amavikkan have no water to waste on tears.

Anahkeen rages and disobeys with gnashing teeth in ways that the Masters chafe at. He defies his superiors and breaks bends rules, both small and big. He plots a hundred thousand little acts of resistance and prays countless times to the desert gods. It is easier to let others come to their own conclusions than to tell them of your own suffering. Obi-Wan does not know and tries to impart the importance of serenity and discipline onto Anakin. Bandomeer is a place long lost to Obi-Wan.

But Anahkeen cannot forget what Shmi Sky-walker has taught him. He knows as he prays, all gods who receive homage are cruel. Ar-Amu cries no longer, but instead raises frenzied sand and howling dust to tear off the skin of the Krayts and bury both Depur and Amavikkan alike. All gods dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be worshiped. Shmi whispered to him under a dark sky and shifting lands that it is through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear is the most divine emotion. 

Fear is the path to the oasis. Fear leads to the soil, and the soil leads to the seeds. The seeds lead to rebellion. Half gods are worshiped in food and flowers. Real gods are paid in blood.

All these things Anahkeen remembers and holds close to his heart change very little. Shmi still paints the desert red as her final moments worship the gods. Obi-Wan becomes more lost to him. Ahsoka always leaves him. All these things Anahkeen buries have yet to make a difference. But now years of blood have tilled the seeds.

He Who Brings Rain knew in his blood that the storm would rage on, and he that one day, he would father from the storms, Lukka and Lei-yah. Two children born amongst blood and suffering and destined for lives their father could not understand. For the mighty one and the desert storm, two ways and infinite manners to communicate love in a language borne from secrets and lovelessness, it is the greatest gift a father who had nothing could give.

It is with this realization of what will be that Anahkeen changes what could be. It is treason.

“Fives... I believe you.”

Dukkra ba dukkra.

#amavikka #fialleril #anakin skywalker #star wars #tatooine #tatooine slave culture #ekkreth #star wars fanon #ficlet #amatakka #ar-amu #depur #shmi skywalker #obi wan kenobi #luke and leia #arc trooper fives

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 15: Kinslayer

You know the drill. Don't read if you don't want spoilers for the whole series.

This chapter has the heron-marked blade icon, the purpose of which is probably related to the picture I've chosen for this particular entry, just saying.

Again they crossed land blackened and burned, even the soil crunching under the horses’ hooves as if it had been seared. The burned swathes, sometimes a mile wide, sometimes only a few hundred paces, all ran east and west as straight as an arrow’s flight. Twice Rand saw the end of a burn, once as they rode over it, once as they passed nearby; they tapered to points at the ends.

This is one of several odd and unexplained details. It seems to be the scar of a rather more high-tech sort of warfare might cause this but not the Renaissance fare of the subcontinent.

There were no birds or animals, not that Rand saw or heard. No hawk wheeling in the sky, no bark of a hunting fox, no bird singing. Nothing rustled in the grass or lit on a tree branch. No bees, or butterflies. ...never a minnow or tadpole wriggled out of the roiling, not even a waterspider dancing across the surface, or a hovering lacewing.

Virtually everything is dead, which really makes it all the more impressive that the grass and trees are doing okay. I'm not quite sure on the life cycle of grasses and maybe they do fine without animals but trees often like it when animals eat their seeds and poop them out somewhere better. Knowing what we know of this mirror world, there may have been a replacement for a time... but this place is alarmingly empty and with the entire animal kingdom gone, there's an ecological collapse in this world's future. Will the Wheel keep spinning this mirror after that point? Is there an outside intervention planned to keep this catastrophe at bay? Lots of weird considerations for these what-ifs.

There was one sign of life; at least, Rand thought it must be so. Twice he saw a wispy streak crawling across the sky like a line drawn with cloud. The lines were too straight to be natural, it seemed, but he could not imagine what might make them.

Another thing that never gets solved. Even the Encyclopedia offers only a guess, though what a guess it is: contrails. On the one hand, planes are ridiculous in this part of history, but on the other... It does explain the burns, if planes were conducting air raids.

The reveal's not til next chapter, but I'm gonna cover the guesswork now anyway: yes, they are contrails. One possibility is that this world's Forsaken, lacking any particular obstacles, have whipped up a sho-wing and are making absolutely sure everything in this part of the world is dead, but considering what their aircraft would have been firing on (Trollocs), that's not entirely coherent.

The other possibility is the Seanchan. Not the Seanchan Empire we know about, forged into a singular identity by the a'dam, but the Seanchan that would have existed if Artur Hawkwing and all of his descendants had conveniently died six years before the fleet was sent across the sea. A Seanchan that never invented the a'dam at all and continued to have strong, free channelers who dominated their societies. Perhaps after another thousand years they managed to find some kind of stability, improved their tech far beyond the stifled totalitarian empire ever could, and came back across the sea a few years ahead of schedule. Instead of discovering a continent of other humans, they found hordes of ravenous demons and understandably dedicated themselves to wiping them out. Rand sees them here on reconnaissance as they search the devastated land for signs of any last communities to obliterate.

This also explains why the grolm are present. They've been on the Seanchan continent since before Luthair showed up, which means they can't be sourced from this particular iteration of the continent because it hadn't diverged yet. But the native mirror!Seanchan could absolutely have used the ones they had for the same purpose they were put to in the homeland, which promptly overwhelmed whatever was left of the native biome after a thousand years of Trollocs.

Or maybe it's some other thing we'll never know. Thank you for reading my fanfic.

When he had heard Loial sing before, it had been as if the earth itself sang, but now the Ogier murmured his song almost diffidently, and the land echoed it in a whisper.

Frankly given the metaphysics of the place, it's almost a miracle that the land could sing back.

In his hands Loial held a staff as tall as he was and as thick as Rand’s forearm, smooth and polished. Where the trunk had been on the giantsbroom was a small stem of new growth.

Let's keep an eye on this mirror-staff, shall we?

“Everything is . . . linked, Rand. Whether it lives or not, whether it thinks or not, everything that is, fits together. The tree does not think, but it is part of the whole, and the whole has a—a feeling. I can’t explain any more than I can explain what being happy is, but. . . . Rand, this land was glad for a weapon to be made. Glad!”

After everything it's seen and the abuse it's gotten from the Trollocs and the burns, it's probably grateful for any chance to make a positive impact for the prime reality. Surely it must know that it's not what it used to be and feel the weird spatial distortions that the group keeps seeing.

The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. He squeezed that thought out.

Too late Rand, Moiraine's infected you!

It’s like I’m remembering it, Lord Rand, instead of smelling it. But I’m not. There’s dozens of trails crossing it all the time, dozens and dozens, and all sorts of smells of violence, some of them fresh, almost, only washed out like everything else.

One of the conveniences about being so far outside of the prime reality where the only impressions of the future you can get are magics that none of these three have on hand is that everything else has to bend around in anticipation to stay out of the way. It's a miracle they don't see what they're going to do over the next few days right in front of them.

Rand kept their fire small and well hidden in the trees.

If my "the Seanchan Aerial Corps is currently sweeping the region looking for Shadowspawn" theory is remotely true, everyone's paranoia over Fain is the only thing that kept them from being firebombed out of existence.

Then why is he running instead of chasing me? And what killed that Fade? What happened in that room full of flies? And those eyes, watching me in Fal Dara. And that wind, catching me like a beetle in pine sap. No. No, Ba’alzamon has to be dead.

Really one of the high points of this series is that few if any of Rand's questions here get fully and explicitly answered in the text. Nothing happens for bullshit motivations or entirely out of line with what's possible in the series, but there's just something weird about all of it.

The chill moon was almost full, standing high in the blackness, and the night was as silent as the day had been, as empty.

It's good to know that despite this world clearly getting very reduced resources from the Wheel that the moon is still operating correctly. After a thousand years of not giving a fuck and bizarre geometry, it wouldn't be at all surprising if the heavens were out of wack.

“Swords do no good against me, Lews Therin. You should know that.”

I would just like it on the record that it is complete horsefeathers that Ishamael - real Ishamael and not mirror Ish, which would be very funny but also play out somewhat differently - can still track Rand across dimensions like this. I mean it's not of course, but it does make you wonder how dreamers can find anyone in T'A'R instead of just close enough versions of their targets - there should be nearly an infinite number of sleepers at any given moment.

“I know you, know your blood and your line back to the first spark of life that ever was, back to the First Moment. You can never hide from me. Never! We are tied together as surely as two sides of the same coin. Ordinary men may hide in the sweep of the Pattern, but ta’veren stand out like beacon fires on a hill, and you, you stand out as if ten thousand shining arrows stood in the sky to point you out! You are mine, and ever in reach of my hand!”

Ishamael: Infinite tries means eventually one of them will be successful.

Also Ishamael: There was a First Moment which inherently means we've done this a finite number of times. Also we're never apart, Rand. Let's homoerotically wrestle.

“You find odd followers,” Ba’alzamon mused. “You always did. These two. The girl who tries to watch over you. A poor guardian and weak, Kinslayer. If she had a lifetime to grow, she would never grow strong enough for you to hide behind.”

I dunno, I feel like Rand absolutely could have hidden behind late series Egwene without much effort. He never would for so many reasons (and frankly by that point she'd say no too), but she absolutely could have been his human shield if he'd wanted her to be.

I have a thousand strings tied to you, Kinslayer, each one finer than silk and stronger than steel. Time has tied a thousand cords between us.

Now prepare to be strangled by the Red String!

This time the Wheel will be broken whatever you do, and the world remade to a new mold.

And this is probably the only time that Ishamael states the actual truth: the Dark One won't unmake existence the way he wants him to. It's a shame he only realizes this when he's crazy. If he knew there was absolutely no hope of getting out of the game, he'd probably switch back to the winning side on the ground's that it's marginally better.

Or actually knowing smart people and irrational decisions he'd probably double down and say something about how infinity makes it so there's no real objective difference between outcomes and anyway Rand or whoever pointed it out to him should shut up and die.

“Look at me, Kinslayer, and see the hundredth part of your own fate.” For a moment eyes and mouth became doorways into endless caverns of fire. “This is what the Power unchecked can do, even to me. But I heal, Lews Therin. I know the paths to greater power. It will burn you like a moth flying into a furnace.”

He's really doing his best to sell the whole, "You fucked me up ago and I'm in unbearable physical pain but despite an infinitely long track record saying otherwise I'm totally gonna beat you this time, bro". Especially with all of the homoeroticism. Rand's next lines are "I won't touch it!" and "I won't", which is clearly about the Power and yet somehow even in context sexually charged as a response to Ishamael taking off his mask after Rand begs him not to.

“I can teach you to control that power so that it does not destroy you. No one else lives who can teach you that... The power can be yours, and you can live forever. Forever! All you must do in return is serve. Only serve. Simple words—I am yours, Great Lord—and power will be yours...”

This is a much better sell and frankly he should have led with this because letting Rand get used to saying no means he's got the inertia going despite the temptations. That or he shoulda kept Rand here for the full forty days, cuz grasslands or no this place is clearly desert.

I imagined it all. Frantically, he looked around. Ba’alzamon was gone. Hurin shifted in his sleep; the sniffer and Loial were still only two mounds sticking up out of the low fog. I did imagine it.

"Yay! I'm descending into the madness that will lead me to kill everyone around me and/or everyone I love!"

Seriously the only reason he's not worrying about this is that there's no time, the narrative has a different sucker punch in mind.

There across the palm was branded a heron. The heron from the hilt of his sword, angry and red, as neatly done as though drawn with an artist’s skill. Fumbling a kerchief from his coat pocket, he wrapped it around his hand. The hand throbbed, now. The void would help with that—he was aware of pain in the void, but he did not feel it—but he put the thought out of his head.

And so an exciting part of prophecy is fulfilled, but much more importantly: Rand teaches himself one of his worst coping mechanisms by putting the part of himself that feels pain into a box and ignoring it. From this temporary injury where it is a useful thing to do under the circumstances, Rand is heading for much larger forms of unhelpful denial.

Ishamael would have been so much smarter to just dose the kid with opium.

Anyway, see y'all next time!

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #hurin #loial #ishamael

[coldbloodedstrike]

Disclaimer: I just started Genshin Impact so I'm not familiar with every piece of lore. So this isn't going to cover everything about The Travelers and Venti's relationship. But I wanted to point out some very interesting details I've picked up on so far:

1.) "Beloved of the Anemo Archon" Achievement.

Beloved is a very interesting choice here. While beloved isn't exclusively romantic, it is often used in a romantic context. Beloved indicates that someone is deeply loved... and having the traveler sit in the hand of the statue is a really interesting choice.

2.) "The Outlander who caught the wind". Kind of losing my mind over this because it implies that The Traveler caught the god of Anemo - who is also the God of Freedom.

3.) Venti's association with birds [teaching the first birds that they only needed courage to fly] and the Travelers being winged beings who lost their powers. His association with birds is also consistent with his relationship with Xiao - as Xiao is based on the Golden-Winged Great Peng [which is a being that looks like a half man/half bird. But in Genshin Impact, Xiao is represented as a bird, rather than the bird/man hybrid depiction of the Golden-Winged Great Peng.]

Article about Xiao: here

4.) The very, very interesting pattern of having the Traveler be saved by anemo users during the final moments of major story arcs.

Xiao: saves the traveler from falling to their death. [ And Xiao sacrifices sacrifice himself to save the traveler and their friends in "At Tunnels End".]

Kazuha: saves the Traveler from getting killed by The Raiden Shogun.

The Wanderer: saves the traveler from getting beamed by the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom.

"May the wind protect you" indeed...

5.) Windwheel Asters, which are used to level up the Traveler, say:

"A plant that adores the wind. To the proud children of the wind, or the citizens of Mondstadt, the Windwheel Asters are "the visible winds".

Having Windwheel Asters be one of the materials to ascend the traveler is interesting... because the ascension materials didn't have to include this flower. It could have even been some made up flower related to the stars. Like a "Star Flower" or something... but it's a flower that "adores the wind"... Also this material could have been any random material.

6.) Venti's very suspicious piece of dialogue "Ah, Traveler! We meet again. What? You don't remember me? Aha, Well allow me to join you on your quest once again. I must see to it that the bards of the world tell the Travelers tale."

Ontop of this, Venti's Windblume poem implies a connection to the Traveler. The Windblume poem is about the Traveler because in the Chinese script "you" and "your" change depending on who you pick. Since Archons can enter peoples dreams and Venti went to sleep for a period of time - it's possible he could have met the Traveler while they were sleeping. And he kept them company during their 500 year sleep - a sleep which was implied to be full of nightmares in the trailer for the beta version of the game [which is voiced over by Venti jsyk].

The reason why I think he met the Traveler in their dreams is because of this line in Ventis Windblume poem:

Who was it that embraced your noble soul in dreams deep

Here's the full Windblume poem:

"Who was it that stroked your bloodied, determined visage By stream flowing small By boulder standing large Who was it that embraced your weary yet noble soul in dreams deep In skies soaring Dear friend I am leading you by the hand Into the night where lanterns shine bright To tell you a tale of freedom and dreams The tale of where this festival begins.”

I highlighted the "noble soul" part because of the description of the Anemo Archon statues:

A monumental stone statue that watches over Mondstadt. Legends say that it was sculpted in the image of the Anemo Archon. "Seeds brought by the wind will grow over time." The statue silently anticipates the arrival of a noble soul to arrive, while thousand winds of time will soon unfold a new story...

[Jsyk you get the "Beloved of the Anemo Archon" trophy by sitting on the hands of the Statue of Barbatos in Mondstadt.]

This is extra interesting when we take into account Venti's close association with The God of time and his roll of being the wind that brings the "seeds" to where they're meant to be. It's obvious that Venti is guiding the traveler to some kind of end goal we're not aware of. And thematically, he's protecting them even when he's not directly involved in their conflict through Anemo users.

Venti also says: "There is not a single song I do not know, whether it be the past, present, or future"

I'm not sure if this is supposed to mean he is ALSO the God of Time - like when "The Anemo Archon" goes to "sleep", "The God of Time" awakens. Or if Venti is given visions by the God of Time to carry out certain events - to be the wind that delivers the seeds to where they're meant to be. But the point is is that he obviously knows future events and he's intentionally keeping them from The Traveler, while guiding them along a certain path. He's not keeping secrets from The Traveler to be malicious, but to make sure they take a certain path to a specific end goal.

And again, he's also been waiting for them to come to Teyvat for an untold amount of time.

7.) When Venti is describing what a Windblume can mean the camera switches to Ventis POV, then it pans over to the Traveler when he says "flowers of love". This is very suspicious because the camera didn't need to pan over to the traveler at all nor did we need a perspective shift to begin with... but it does when Venti says "flowers of love"... how am I not supposed to interpret that as him being romantically interested in the traveler?

Yeah. "love" - at least in english - can mean any kind of love, but it's the choice to have the camera shift to Venti's perspective, then have the camera pan over to the traveler [while still in Venti's POV] as he's saying "flowers of love" is what has me thinking "love" is supposed to mean romantic love in this situation.

8.) Venti and the Traveler missing someone who shares the same face and grieving a time they can't return to.

9.) Traveler to Venti: "Your eyes are the color of the sky in my homeland"

10.) Venti calling the Traveler "My warrior". Again, this is really interesting to me because Venti has been waiting for the traveler to come to Teyvat. He needs the Traveler to be his warrior so that some kind of end goal can be obtained.

But honestly... his teapot dialogue is very sweet.

#Venlumi #Veneather #not an exhaustive list because I just got into this game... not a very polished post either #but I will keep adding more details about their connection

[sylvctica]

hello, and goodbye

“...Sylvie.”

Their name, which often rolls off Zhongli’s tongue so naturally, felt heavy—poised hands settling down his tea which he has been taking long, tentative sips from. “May I suggest holding a funeral?”

“A wh—a funeral?” Thick eyebrows knitted in as Sylvie’s own, now empty, teacup came to a rest upon the same table, confusion spilling across their face as a weird and uncomfortable knot seemed to lump within their stomach, like a sudden lurch.

“For Foras … and you,” he continued, straight to the point and leaving no room for doubt on what he meant. “ … forgive my forwardness, but this has been weighing on my mind for quite some time. Since the Rite of Parting, I've deeply pondered if I could offer the same to you.” 

… of course, at a glance, the deceased in question is still very much alive—talking and smiling as one does, telling jokes about ‘hooters’ and ‘boobie’ birds that would get a groan to rise out of him. But for those like the Geo Archon who lived through countless millennia, he knew they were a dead God walking. Very few could recall them as Foras, God of Trees and Lord of Forests who once roamed the lands of Sumeru, whom people worshipped and adorned with garlands of flowers, whom people prayed to for safety, health, and bountiful harvests.

Now, little traces of them remain in the world. They bled into the casualties that were forgotten and buried in war. If people mourned and searched for them, they would not know it.

Sylvie’s tongue nervously darted out to lick at dry lips, mind lost between racing and having absolutely no coherent thought, as if it were frozen—something violently thrashed within their chest for a few moments as a cold seed spreads through their stomach, like icicles; it was only his gentle touch and squeeze to their hands that brought their focus back from the dark haze that edged their mind.

The sincerity in his eyes was nothing short of good intentions. They know that as a consultant—but most importantly, as their partner and an old friend—there was no one better fit for this task than him to offer such a thing. 

So what was that fear that was keeping them from directly saying yes?

Perhaps it was the finality of saying goodbye to 'Foras' that scared them more than holding a funeral for their own death. But they wanted that and have wanted to snip that past identity for a while, so why did it make them want to cry merely thinking about it?

Why did it feel like it was asking to tear themselves in two?

No easy answer came, just waves and waves of emotions that seemed to tear at the seams of their heart, torn between wanting to release, and wanting to hold 'Foras' closer. A sharp inhale followed, deep and filling—before slowly being exhaled through their nose, feeling the pressure of Zhongli’s hands squeezing around theirs patiently—worryingly.

“I … I dunno. Like I …I think it might be worth ... the um ... no, it's a good idea. Yeah." Sylvie’s voice was quiet, meek, lacking any of their usual bravado and confidence. "Please be slow with me, I ... I want to, but the idea scares me. Silly as ... I feel silly for being so scared of ... burying myself. I'm scared, but I trust you. I trust you."

And he would hold their trust close to his chest.

————————

Of course, no ceremony was one that could be done in the mere span of a day, so it gave the Dendro God time to sit and ruminate. Except, they did anything and everything to keep themselves from doing so, throwing themselves into commissions, around crowds, into conversations and hobbies that kept their mind occupied from the looming fog.

Sylvie had already long come to terms with their own ‘death’ three thousand years ago; the only remnants of the effect was the deep scar running through their whole torso—almost bisecting them—and the bitter dislike of the cold from dying in old, frigid Mondstadt in some futile attempt to get shelter elsewhere for their people.

That was whatever.

What they never wanted to revisit, was the aftermath of that upon their reawakening.

————————

There was no one there anymore for Foras.

Morax now donned the mantle of Rex Lapis, the weight of Liyue heavy on his shoulders; he had more than enough on his shoulders, they would not—could not—add to that, when they knew all too well what it meant to be a God.

Guizhong was gone, many were gone, taken away in the war without any goodbye. The rest withdrew—all carrying their own aches and pains they were healing from.

Sumeru was not an option, for even thinking of visiting made them feel shaken with shame for their failure as a God to their people—leaving ████ as a distant thought instead, even though they so, so sorely wished they could talk to her, to listen to her wisdom once more as fingers threaded through their hair to decorate it with flowers.

They were alone. 

No one could answer the anguished calls of their heart, not when their own were still hurting and bleeding.

No one could answer them.

Who were they?

What were they meant to do now that all their people were gone?

And why hadn’t they just stayed dead?

————————

“I hope you don’t mind the request, Director Hu Tao.”

Hu Tao looked up towards her consultant, hands resting on her hips as her expression was thoughtful; it was rare for Zhongli to request much outside of work and clientele, especially in a way where he didn’t wish to divulge the reasoning behind it. “Of course I don’t mind it, seeing you with such a serious face when you ask me that … go, take all the time you need.”

————————

Sylvie quietly observed the green jade within their grasp, turning it in their hands as it glistened underneath the light of the sun; they know the rite should be using Noctilucous jade, blue in its luster and glow … but they know Zhongli picked it because green was representative of them. A deviation from tradition, a gesture of kindness in a way that would not betray the original intention of the ceremony as the jade was carved.

Silk Flower perfume, incense, bell …

“And you dragged the traveller along to get all of these?” they laughed out quietly, turning to look towards him.

“Mm, yes. It was quite an experience, I will say, especially as they had to sing to open up the Glaze Lilies; I’m glad that it was not a requirement this time around, with your hand in recreating the needed ingredients.” His smile mirrored their own, small and subtle. “I’m sure you would’ve enjoyed it had you been around to see the negotiations and hurdles that must’ve been crossed in the process.”

“Ones that had someone else bartering for you because you very conveniently forgot your money? And for three million Mora for incense of all things? And the … ahem, cocogoat you had to hunt down?”

“Everburning Incense. You must be aware and mindful, my jade, I was merely learning at that stage, and anyone could’ve easily mistaken Qiqi’s request.”

“Uh huh, considering even the six thousand-year-old god did. And now you do it on purpose to leave your mora at home and use your big puppy eyes towards me to buy you stuff on occasion.” Their elbow nudged into his side, watching. “How the hell did you even manage to get the incense this time around?”

“Baizhu owed me a favour.” Sylvie could only respond with a raised eyebrow towards him. “Legal loopholes allow him to import some external herbs that within Liyue are often regulated and need months of paperwork processing ahead of time, but were necessary for a critical patient in absorbing and removing miasma without reliance on adeptal arts.”

“Mm, I’d call that a very big favour. Makes sense.”

The jade was placed back down upon the table, settled into a quiet room within the funeral parlour that was secluded and private, housing the items that were to make up the Rite of Parting; although nothing like the one held for Rex Lapis. This was just for the two of them, and no one else.

They could not bear to have anyone else see this. “… I suppose that makes all of it,” they murmured quietly, not looking back up towards him.

“Outside needing to carve the jade to its needed shape, yes. It should not be longer than a few more days before we can enact the rite.”

They know this funeral is also for him as well, and is why he is pouring all of himself into doing it; in the tides of war, where grief and vulnerability were not allowed, the weight of their death had not dawned on him until it was far too late. Feelings slowly eroded and washed away like rivers over stones, dulling them down into something they can shelve far, far behind.

Ironic that he’s picked up the mantle of a funeral consultant when he needed it the most.

And though it all rests in the past now, memories flicker for both of them, of the anguish and hurt as he held their torn body within their own cold, dying dreamscape, of the apologizes spilling out amongst sobs they could never imagine leaving him, of the regrets he's had over so many years as he felt Sylvie’s essence slipping between his fingers, of their own words assuring him in their time of peril that it’ll all be okay (oh, he thought, they were always so selfless, down to their last breath) … to him, it still felt very much real when he thought back to it, even if it was merely a dream he walked into.

So, Sylvie thinks, when has he ever had time to mourn? For them? For lost friends and companions? For the people of Liyue who had died for him? It’s why they wanted him to have this opportunity to do so, even if it was only for them, even if they were still here.

It eases up a bit of the dread coiled in their stomach.

————————

It took a few days for the jade carvings to return, and one more day until the actual procession and rite itself. Sylvie occupied themselves during those days, wanting to exhaust their body until they fell asleep and to not leave any moment to think. Of course, they prepared, mentally as much as they could, but it didn’t keep the fear from bubbling in their stomach.

White chrysanthemums and a bowl of fresh fruit decorated the small altar, with a wooden deer-carved figurine topping it; there was no body to mourn, when the body was still breathing, blinking, and moving about, so their own hands carved something symbolic of themselves to place atop the altar. 

The door was closed behind them, finalizing the fact that this was happening, as the two quietly gathered around the altar.

“We are here today to honour and remember Foras, known as the God of Trees, of Harvests, of Fertility, of Health, a god born of Sumeru’s lands, beloved by those who looked up to them. Although many years have passed, one should admire their courage, dedication and love they returned for their people across many years.”

The heavy scent of the incense and the perfume washed over them, the flicker of light blurred in their eyesight as Zhongli’s voice filled their thoughts.

“Thank you, Foras, for all your kind words, and laughter you’ve brought, of all the times you’ve been there. May you have the same in return, in gentle hands that will hold your own and will listen to you. May the earth welcome you back with open arms..”

This was a goodbye that was three millennia in the making.

A goodbye to the laughter of the past, to the small hands of children holding their robes, to smiling faces thanking them for watching over them, to feasts held in their name, to old friends they will not see again, to a Sumeru that’s long been outgrown.

Gods, did it feel like a stab through the insides to say goodbye to that part of themselves, no matter how much it still lived within them, shaped them.

It hurts. It hurts it hurts it hurts.

The quietness of the rite and his voice was only interrupted by their sobs, raw and aching as they were unable to hold back the waves of emotions that tore through them—indiscernible in name—that sent their body shuddering with a detached coldness as it shook with their voice.

They didn’t want to say it.

But they needed to.

The God of Trees was dead.

————————

Sylvie could not tell how much time passed, lost in thoughts and emotions that felt like mud. They could vaguely feel the shape of hands smoothing over their shoulders in soothing circles. Their knees ache a bit, realizing they had curled down into a squat at some point—and that Zhongli was beside them, his hand being the one to rest on their back. Green eyes lifted to look towards him, finding his expression bare—worried, concerned, and with a glassy look to his own golden eyes.

Their lips parted for a moment, before closing with a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“For doing what would come naturally in a situation like this, you do not need to apologize.” There is a quiet tenderness to his words, vulnerable and open—a funeral for both to find closure, and to both help each other up from. 

His hand moved to reach out towards them, palm splayed open … and they took his offer, stumbling up to their feet and finding their legs numb and asleep. The smell of the incense had faded out a bit, leaving only a taste of Glaze Lilies in the air.

“Thank you, Zhongli.”

Words could not cover their full gratitude, instead wrapping their arms around him in a tight embrace, a heavy sigh sinking their body down into him and face burying against the side of his head, focusing on the scent that was him instead—subtle, of sandalwood and something floral from that shampoo they gifted him. They could feel his arms in return around them, squeezing them with a pressure that grounded them further into the present. Everything still felt raw, like an open wound—but now it could close for them both.

“… could you make me a gravestone, Zhongli, saying Foras was buried there? I—I don’t know if that’s a part of the rite, but I … want one back in Sumeru. Actually, two gravestones, if that’s alright—though with the second being blank.”

Sylvie’s words tumbled a little over the latter half of their statement; something felt wrong about the concept of their gravestone being alone. Something equally felt wrong about not having a gravestone for … for someone who never had a chance to be mourned over. Perhaps just an open invitation for any visitor to see someone they wish to say goodbye to.

It took him a few moments, untangling himself out of their grasp to peer towards them. Fingers cupped their face gently, thumbs moving to press over their cheeks and to wipe the wetness underneath their eyes.

“Of course, Sylvie. I would’ve offered myself, but you thought of it first before I could say. I will; for you.”

————————

It was a simple gravestone, etched with Sylvie’s true, old name. Besides it rested a mirrored one, though lacking any engravings and simple in its nature. Zhongli’s eyes remained downcasted and half-lidded; the bundle of flowers within his arms was placed down in front of the named gravestone, looking over the small additional offerings of fruits, carvings, wheat … things drawn from nature itself that were placed in thanks.

He’s not all too surprised, given that upon the grave was written: “Here lies an old god that once called this place their home. Rest your weary head and leave your weight here, for the forest will listen to you.”

“It’s funny, seeing my grave is kind of a weird relief.” Sylvie’s voice spoke up beside him. “Maybe I’m just weirdly happy there’s some remnant left behind of myself, even if it’s in the form of my death and rebirth.” Zhongli’s eyes lifted to look towards them, patient and quiet … and eventually their own eyes lifted to meet his gaze. “Thank you, Zhongli. I hope it has helped you, too.”

“It has. Thank you, Foras.”

#[ man writing drabbles for ur oc in a way thats like ] #[ not info dumping but also not being super vague ] #[ is hard LMAO ] #OOC // DRABBLE.

[balkanradfem]

So, I had to de-clutter my seed box, because the seeds would not fit in anymore, and I knew I had a lot of extra seeds that are expired, proven to not work anymore (repeated failures), and were also huge and taking up a lot of space. The number one problem were the squash and pumpkin seeds. Every time I had a good pumpkin or a squash, I would take out all of the seeds and hoard them for future use. However, every year I would go and plant these plants, I would need mostly 10-20 seeds, from which I would actually grow 3-4 plants, and the rest would stay hoarded.

I went thru every envelope and found I had hundreds, even thousands of excess squash seeds. They're all cross-pollinated so I can't safely gift them to other people and promise them it would grow true to type, it probably would not. I'm just satisfied with any kind of squash I get (as long as it's edible).

So I put them all in a bag and now I have this situation on my hands:

That is a full bag of mixed seeds from zucchini, hokkaido squash, butternut, kabocha, various pumpkins, and they're all probably at least a little cross-pollinated with each other. And I don't know what to do with them.

I know they're edible, but I know myself enough to be sure that I am not going to crack thousands of squash seeds out of their skin, I already have a big jar of large pumpkin seeds, and I also have the green skinless seeds, that do not have to be cleaned, which I do eat.

I wanted to feed them to the birds, but birds here will adamantly refuse to eat squash seeds - and I mean, I offered them cleaned, skinless, cut into small bits, easy to digest squash seeds, and they still would not even hear of it. Birds would only take hazelnuts, walnuts and sunflower seeds and leave the squash seeds like they're not even there.

I thought for a moment, wouldn't it be funny if I just randomly distributed all of this on the field, just to see what happens, hehe. But, this year has been extremely slug heavy, to the point where everything I planted on the field has gotten eaten by slugs, and I had to give up planting anything but tomatoes there. So if I distributed a thousand squash seeds, and hundreds of them started growing, it would give a huge food source to already overpopulating slugs, and I do not want to do that, not this year.

I also have unusable sunflower seeds (tiny ones), corn seeds (they stop germinating after a year has passed), and some stone fruit seeds there as well. Any ideas on what I could do with this?

#squash seeds #seeking ideas #pumpkin seeds #what to do with extra squash seeds #i mean maybe i would eat them if i was starving #god imagine if i had an oil press tho #then i could make pumpkin oil #ah but would i need to clean them for that #it's still better to use skinless then

[marnanel]

I wrote this fifteen years ago and just found it again

And I wake from strange dreams, yellow light blinds my eyes, tearing the sleep away from my flesh. I stagger naked down the stairs, feeling my way blind into the kitchen, trying to catch the slippery tail of a dream. Coffee filter, coffee, all by touch, pulling out the glass jug, filling it with water. As I turn on the tap, the leaf brushes my skin.

My head clears like dye spreading through water. I look down at the sink, at the plant in the sink. Leaves upon leaves wrapped in a circle like a half-unfolded tortilla wrap, with a gap in the centre to take its water. This plant, I remember, is a cousin of the Venus flytrap; it's a holdover from prehistoric times, like cockroaches and alligators. I put down the jug and step back in alarm. Now I remember my dream.

I dreamed I was in a garden… we were in a garden, I was plural. High hedges surrounded and delimited the garden; the old yew and privet made the only break, sudden and vertical, between neatly-trimmed lawns and skim-milk sky. Not quite in the middle, but close to the edge, grew the plant, this plant, but closed up and ten feet tall.

Often, in my dream-garden, the I-which-was-us had to pass through from one side to the other. Each time we edged nervously around the fecund plant-being there, for to touch its leaves was sudden blinding death. And then on the appointed day it opened, it opened as we were passing, and for an eternity we held our backs to the hedge, white-eyed and hardly daring to breathe, inching past with the petals of death before us.

This plant's smell— how did I not notice that before? Strangely primaeval… of rotting fruit and torn flesh. People, animals, for thousands of millions of years have smelled the smell I'm smelling now. I rub my eyes, and the dancing colours before them blend with the smell before my nose.

As an adult, I read an article in a magazine once about Japanese knotweed; it reminded me of my childhood. Japanese knotweed was introduced to England by a nobleman botanist, who failed to see the importance of a plant's ecosystem in regulating its life. Away from all natural predators, the knotweed grew unstoppably, so fast you could almost hear it growing.

There was a churchyard where the knotweed took hold— a few seeds blown in by the wind, perhaps, or dropped by the birds. Within days, the natural mosses and grasses were strangled; within weeks, the tombstones were buried beneath gently-nodding heart-shaped leaves and bright flowers. The occupants were buried: the names on the stones had become unreadable.

Some people told of getting knotweed in their gardens and putting down weedkiller to no avail; the only recourse was to send all the soil, down to the bedrock, away in a van to a laboratory to have it cleaned. But the owners of the garden merely hoed and raked and put down more weedkiller, and went up to bed in hope that the knotweed was dead. Next morning they came downstairs to see a tendril curling out from behind the radiator… They left the house.

I have seen a nettle break through a concrete floor to breathe the air above. They say that in ancient times, prisoners would be executed by tying them down onto a soil bed where bamboo had been planted. Within a few days, the bamboo had broken through skin and flesh and bone out to the other side; the prisoner died in the bamboo's bid for life.

I read that article as an adult, but the story reminded me of my ancient fear of bindweed, jack-by-the-hedge and all other inscrutable plants that infest without mercy and without empathy in the world. They began to grow in the childhood places I played; I drew back, chilled. The heart-leaves popped up again and again; soon they grew tall and burst out in white flower: defiant; uncaring.

Stuck in the middle, an afterthought, is the great pink flower of the plant— tarty, gaudy, unpolished as a prehistoric flower ought to be; it probably accounts for the smell, too. The magenta is close enough to the dream-plant's cardinal red flower to re-form the connection in my mind. As I look at the plant, the dream-plant wraps itself around it and becomes one with it.

I manoeuvre carefully around the edge of the plant, without touching it, to fill the jug with water, lest the leaves are also leaves of blinding death. At another time I might mock at this, but my mind is still sleeping and ideas close to my heart are the most plausible: suddenly my mind has passed in a world where plants like this spontaneously grow like mould in the kitchen.

Perhaps there will be one growing out of my desk, in my car, out of my computer's keyboard, budding slowly with a quiet repeated cracking noise in the silence. I wonder what will happen after it touches me, after the plant-death.

I hear a noise.

I turn around.

#cw phobias #plants

[madamlaydebug]

Here are some interesting facts about the dandelion flower:

The dandelion is the only flower that represents the 3 celestial bodies of the sun, moon and stars. ☀️ 🌙 ⭐️. The yellow flower resembles the sun, the puff ball resembles the moon and the dispersing seeds resemble the stars.

The dandelion flower opens to greet the morning and closes in the evening to go to sleep. 😴

Every part of the dandelion is useful: root, leaves, flower. It can be used for food, medicine and dye for coloring.

Up until the 1800s people would pull grass out of their lawns to make room for dandelions and other useful “weeds” like chickweed, malva, and chamomile.

The name dandelion is taken from the French word “dent de lion” meaning lion’s tooth, referring to the coarsely-toothed leaves. 🦁

Dandelions have one of the longest flowering seasons of any plant.

Dandelion seeds are often transported away by a gust of wind and they travel like tiny parachutes. Seeds are often carried as many as 5 miles from their origin!

Animals such as birds, insects and butterflies consume nectar or seed of dandelion.🐦 🐛 🐜 🦋 🐝.

Dandelion flowers do not need to be pollinated to form seed.

Dandelion can be used in the production of wine and root beer. Root of dandelion can be used as a substitute for coffee. 🍷 🍺

Dandelions have sunk their roots deep into history. They were well known to ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans, and have been used in Chinese traditional medicine for over a thousand years.

Dandelion is used in folk medicine to treat infections and liver disorders. Tea made of dandelion act as diuretic.

If you mow dandelions, they’ll grow shorter stalks to spite you.

Dandelions are, quite possibly, the most successful plants that exist, masters of survival worldwide. 💪

A not so fun fact: Every year countries spend millions on lawn pesticides to have uniform lawns of non-native grasses, and we use 30% of the country’s water supply to keep them green.

Bee Happy Gardens 🐝

Read more: http://bit.ly/3Lseaoa

#wedontdeservethisplanet

[bottlecaprabbitgames]

happy almost birthday! squeezing in some q&a questions before it's too late.

you don't have to answer these: (saw you were playing Sun Haven) what's your favorite video game? what video game do you have the most hours in?

Game Qs:

Any idea how much time (in-game) your series will span? The events will be ongoing for a few years' time?

Will the MC ever meet another Alpha? Spoilers? Will the MC ever have the opportunity to look into why... Alphas disappear... once they enter the employment of the Advocacy?

Does Quinn have any cool scars? What are his hobbies?

Would Sylvia ever want to get matching BFF tattoos with the MC? Tasteful or tacky?

RO Qs:

How do ROs feel about an MC that likes to bite? Affectionate bites <3

ROs reaction if they and the MC got stuck somewhere overnight and it only made sense to sleep next to each other for warmth, but they woke up cuddling the MC?

ROs plan a romantic date night?

Someone is being annoying and persistent, hitting on the MC even though the Mc isn't interested. MC spots the RO and blurts out, "here comes my bf/gf/partner!" RO reactions?

The birthday has come! Let's get into these Qs, heheh!

My favorite game OF ALL TIME is definitely a tie between Pokemon Platinum and Fallout 4! Pokemon Platinum is the first game I ever had that I owned, and Fallout 4... god. I don't know, it's just so good??? Sun Haven is DEFINITELY in spot #2 though.

The game I have the most hours in... hmm. Probably Skyrim. I don't have them recorded because I played it mostly offline, but I know I have well over a thousand hours in it. How many exactly, the world may never know, though...

HMM. This is something I'm still debating! I know at least a year will. Maybe 2. I don't really know the time for each individual game in the series' time frame until I'm in the midst of planning and writing!

The MC WILL meet more Alphas! Actually, they have already, they just... don't know it yet. And yes. MC will indeed be looking into the rumored disappearances of Alphas... it's actually part of the main plotline in Book 4.

Quinn does have some pretty cool scars, with stories linked to each one! To go with the ask for his hobbies, he actually has small scars on his fingers from when he first learned to whittle as a child, and from some mishaps with putting bait on fishing hooks. He has a pretty gnarly scar on his ribs from his youth, when he was only a detective, before he even became his father's deputy. He was investigating the disappearance of a young man, down in a cave not far outside of Armington. He found that the man had been taken captive by a female Arachne... a spider-humanoid creature, and this particular variety has a nasty acid spitting capability. By the time he managed to get himself and the man out, it had eaten through his protective gear and hit the ribs.

As for hobbies though! Whittling, fishing, making sure MC isn't off doing something stupid again, and he likes reading horror or sci-fi books. He's a big fan of Stephen King and James Patterson.

Sylvia absolutely would get matching BFF tattoos with MC! She'd probably try to convince them to get something floral or related to birds in some way.

A BITEY MC... excellent. I'm ngl I would love to affectionately bite. Just a lil nibble.

Okay with it: Iri, Adontis

Has a thing for it: Blake, Fawn

Unsure of why or how it's affectionate, but allows it: Freja, Loche

AAAAAAA I LOVE THAT TROPE! I'm taking this as like crushing phase!

Blake... would be all for it. He'd actually probably snuggle closer and fall back to sleep. He is a very cuddly dude, and he sleeps easier when there's someone else in the room with him, especially someone he's romantically interested in. He might even give MC a very light kiss on the temple.

Loche... oh man. Their heart would be POUNDING and they would feel such an intense longing. They'd curl MC closer to them, gently running their scarred fingers ever so lightly over their face, memorizing every curve and dip. There would be a seed of hope down in their chest that this will eventually be something that happens every morning... if Loche can just tell MC the truth.

Freja would freeze. She wouldn't move an inch, she wouldn't even breathe. It'd take a few long moments for her to gently pry the MC's arm from around her waist and extract herself from the warmth of the covers. She'd cover them back up and proceed to leave them to sleep, her mind still replaying the incident over and over and over again.

Iri is a cuddlebug, just like Blake. They'd MORE than welcome MC cuddled up to them or being cuddled up to MC, even that early into their relationship. Iri would have the BIGGEST grin, then simply go back to sleep.

Adontis would wake, taking a moment to breathe in MC's scent, then realize just how close he is to MC. In fact, they're curled up to his chest, his arm keeping them close. He would softly smile, run his fingers through their hair, before easing his way out of the bed, making sure to pile the pillows around them and tucking the covers to keep the warmth in. It would be a memory he holds close, even deeper into the romance.

Fawn... hmm. She's a hard one. She'd stiffen for a moment, her senses wiring themselves up, before she realized what exactly is going on. She'd slowly relax, especially once her body and mind caught up to each other and she realized how comfortable she is with this. With them. She'd bury her nose in MC's hair and keep them close, until she felt them starting to wake. She'd move away, back to her side of the bed, and pretend to be sleeping.

A romantic date night....

Blake is a simple man, which I'm sure you've all figured out by now. He'd probably make dinner and have it outside on a cool but not chilly evening, fresh flowers on the center of the table, and he'd be waiting outside for the moment MC got home. He'd be close all through dinner, and would want to curl up on the couch with MC after, holding them close to his chest. Now, I can't say that when they get to the bedroom it's still gonna be all romantic and whatnot, but he does have their favorite candles on the nightstands and the dresser, and he washed all the bed linens and put fresh ones on. Simple man.

I'm going to be honest, Loche doesn't know much about romance. They're trying to learn, to figure things out for MC, because they want to know how humans show affection and love, so they can give that. They would rely heavily on the team for help, and would eventually decide to do something similar to Blake: Loche would ask Freja to help them make a dinner that is fitting for 'romance' (and Freja would be happy to help, she finds it very sweet and also she's a big romantic herself), have the table set with rose petals leading to it from the door, and probably would take Iri and Adontis's advice to offer MC a massage with warm oil.

Freja, Ms. Big Romantic at Heart, who loves her romance novels to bits... would have to wage war against her crippling social anxiety and fears of [redacted] to do the very best she can. She would have Adontis screen and handle calls for the night, so she can plan her method of attack. I can without a doubt say a hot bubble bath with MC's favorite candles and scents would be part of the night, MC's favorite meal cooked to perfection, and the two of them curling up together on the couch to pick back up on the show they've gotten super behind on. Lots of affection, starting slow as Freja relaxes.

Iri, Iri, Iri... definitely would take MC out to their favorite restaurant, and get them whatever the wanted, no holds barred. And when they get home? There's a full-body, sensual massage waiting for MC with oil and Iri's very warm, big, capable hands.

Adontis... I'm sure it's not surprising that Adontis is a man with expensive tastes. He would buy out the most beautiful point of whatever city or town they're in, have whatever meal MC would like whipped up to perfection, and he'd break out some of his oldest wines. Gentle music playing, the soft sounds of the night creatures, and talking. His hand would migrate to MC's thigh for most of the dinner, and when he gets them home... well. He's worshiping them until well into the wee morning hours, for however long they can handle.

Fawn. God, Fawn's questions are really making me think! Hmm. I definitely know she'd steal one of Adontis's finer wines, a sweet red, and would get flowers that remind her of MC to give to them. She'd have them two gifts: a painting she did of them that's probably not one MC would want the general public seeing, but it's not exactly sexual... just shows MC, through and through, how Fawn sees them; and something more utility-wise, like a knife she made herself or something to keep MC from harm. She's not one for romance, but she'd try to make sure MC knew how she feels about them, and would probably ask them what they wanted to do.

HMMMM, what stage is this? Crushing? Middle of the road? I'll do middle of the road.

Blake would probably nearly choke on his beer, but mostly from surprise. He's not been called a boyfriend in goddamn ages, and here is someone he's really wanting to be with yelling that that's what he is. He'd look between MC and the person pestering them, put two and two together, and go into Big Angry Werewolf Sort-Of-Kind-Of-Boyfriend mode. Very scary if you're on the receiving end, I mean, Blake was a biker for pretty much all of his 'human' years, and he never got out of the ruffian habits.

Loche doesn't socialize much, and the boyfriend/girlfriend/partner stuff is still something they're learning. Like, they know the baseline meaning, but hearing MC call them it wouldn't immediately spark something. Instead, they'd read the exasperation on MC's face and the blatant interest on the pesterers... and. Well. Loche is a lot scarier than Blake, as Loche does not go by the normal societal rules, and was instead brought up in a world where if someone is bothering the person you're involved with... well, sometimes it ends in the death of one of them.

Freja would freeze. Statue-level freeze; not a single part of her body would move, except her eyes. Her mind would be running wild, her heart beating rapidly, but her eyes would be taking in the scene before her. And she'd realize what exactly is going on. When her mind can get over the being called "girlfriend" bit, she'll haul ass over in her very prim and elegant manner, and make this annoyance feel lesser than a fly.

Iri would grin IMMEDIATELY. And would not take the aggressive stance. Oh, no, Iri likes a more... fun approach to things. So they'd swagger over, wrap their arm around MC's waist, and kiss their cheek and ask what all the fuss is about. Meanwhile, staring at the annoying person with such a cold look that they feel nailed in place.

Adontis... is a gentleman in all things. Except when the romance between him and MC starts to grow. Then, well, disrespecting MC is like slapping him in the face. And Adontis does not deal well with being disrespected. He'd give MC a warm smile and crook a brow, before coming to tower over the annoying person... and let them get a glimpse of just what his vampiric form can really look like. Needless to say, they'd be scared shitless.

And last but not least in any way, Fawn would not handle this with any grace. No, Fawn is a lot like Loche in her thinking, and the moment she sees how uncomfortable MC is? Her vision is going red. And she's planning to give one threat to the annoying person... and if they don't take the hint? She'll give them an asswhoopin' that they'll be smarting from for months to come. If she doesn't just y'know. /eyes emoji/

Thank you SO much for the questions and birthday wishes!!! I hope you enjoy the answers!!!

#birthday qna '23 #mind games #agent fawn #agent loche #agent ellingboe #agent adontis #blake gautier #agent faede #scenarios #ro reactions #about me

[pokemonbiologyirlthetabletop]

Morpeko

Morpeko (#877)

Cavias bielementus

General Information: Morpeko the Two-Sided Pokémon. This Pokémon has an insatiable hunger, and when it experiences prolonged hunger it shifts into its other form, Hangry Mode, and becomes a violence malicious brute until its hunger is satisfied. The reason it is always seen eating, is because the electric energy it creates (or dark energy if in its Hangry Mode) quickly consumes the energy of the food it just ate. Trainers with Morpekos they battle with need to keep an extra large supply of food for their little buddy.

Morpekos have two forms: Hangry Mode and Full-Belly Mode. The typing of their signature move Aura Wheel changes depending on which form it’s in. In Hangry Mode it is a dark-type attack, and in Full-Belly Mode it becomes an electric-type attack.

Morpekos average at 1 ft tall (0.3 M) and 6.6 pounds (3.0 kg).

Habitat: Morpekos are to the Andes Mountains, and are full substitutes for guinea pigs.

Life Cycles: Morpekos are born in litters of 1 to 6 pups (with 3 being the average), and reach reproductive maturity as soon as they reach level 15. Females (sows) are able to breed year round, but have a peak during the Spring. Sows can have up to 5 litters a year. Baby Morpekos are fully capable of defending themselves from birth, but stick with their mother for a few weeks before departing. The gestation period for Morpekos is 2 months, split between 1 month where the egg energy accumulates inside of the mother, and 1 month between laying and hatching. The sows are capable of getting pregnant again while tending to their current litter. There is little to no involvement from the father, and Morpeko sows are known to mate with any suitable mates.

Morpekos are eaten by many things and are regularly predated upon by cats, birds, snakes, giant spiders, and even humans.

Behavior: Morpekos are known to be ravenous eaters—at least proportionately. They are always carrying food in their cheeks that they snack on, which keeps their hunger at bay. In Hangry Mode, Morpekos become malicious and evil—which really isn’t any different from actual guinea pigs! When they’re kept full, they are pleasant, but when allowed to go hungry for too long, their Hangry Form becomes quite unmanageable for many.

They are not terribly companionable to other species, at least not in general. They like the company of other Morpekos, but as prey animals they are highly suspicious of other Pokémon that aren’t similar to them. But don’t let their disagreeableness with other species convince you that they don’t need a Pokémon-friend, because they do. Morpekos are social animals, just picky about what they socialize with.

Diet: Fruit, grass, seeds, and nuts, but mostly fruit and grass.  

Conservation: Least Concern

Relationship with Humans: As guinea pigs, Morpekos have been domesticated by humans for thousands of years in South and Central America, where they are raised as a food source or as pets. There are many varieties of Morpekos that are propogated by pet fanciers the world over. They are not beginner pets, and in fact their high food needs means that they are not recommended for beginner trainers and only owners who can afford their care should really own them. Morpekos get a bad rep because of their Hangry Mode, causing many to be abandoned by unprepared humans, but really a well-taken care of Morpeko is a great friend to have in the house or on your team.

Of course, Morpekos are the mascot of a major snack food company, Morpeko Foods Inc. (subsidiary of Dark Moon Corporation), which sells a lot of popular junk foods meant to satiate those Hangry Mode urges!

If a trainer wishes to acquire a Morpeko, the only way to obtain one outside of Central and South America, is through a breeder.

Classification: Cavias bielementus is the scientific name of Morpeko. “Cavias” refers to “Cavy” or “Cavia” (Guinea pig) and “bielementus” means “two elements.”

~~~~~~~~

Hey guess what, if you like my stuff, this is my website where you can find other Pokémon I've written on and more information about the game that I’m slowly making! Check it out! I write books sometimes too.

#morpeko #pokemon #pokemon biology #homebrew #ttrpg #pokemon tabletop #pokemon biology irl #tabletop #tabletop homebrew #pokemon irl #pokemon biology irl tabletop #pokemon gen 8 #pokemon sword and shield #sword and shield #gen 8 #gen 8 pokemon

[potchatok-art]

Thousand years pass, and the echoes of the Nyrrawās are apparent. Many Kafurr’ had left any agriculture, carrying on any traditions or stories of the settlements in more mobile forms. Such people adopt a new name Kaiurr’ diss aligning themself from the cult of crops. Remnants of the Kafurr’ are a small state on the coast, employing rivers to hinder any potential raids and a number of city states, hiding themself in mountainous regions, where they are shielded by the landscape. Kafurr’s southern offshoots adopt a river-faring nomadic lifestyle. Going down with the flow, they meet and interact with similarly adapted migrants from the Tonuwērdai. Ēwar’ recognize their shared lineage and fate, dubbing their northern neighbors Kayarunar’ - “Folk that look like us”. Some sailors of Nuch Wejykōiur find G’utölan - Sutviprra of Nyzymagaf’öl zhan, who managed to win over some more territory for them. Interestingly enough, these territories are gained through assimilation, rather than conquest, but the deeper in their territory you go, the more isolationist G’utölan get, as a remnant of their founding circumstances.To the north, islands Wkonuwēr, Wower and Fulel’ had developed their own identities and politics. In particular, Natives would not name the whole island Fulel’ - only the south-eastern part, closer to other Kafurr’, but as you move westward and cross the river, you get to Kōhonidai. To the north - Beyond the Yawelār mountains it is Kuzisōw - land particularly isolated, and so Sutviprra there move away from their previous identities quicker. Some researchers continue to explore along the Tofur’akuiwer coast, across the Worowalasōw sea.

In fact, Kūwnukujur’ of the coast are in a very interesting position. They themself are resigned to the mountain valleys, because open territories are populated by other tribes, some of them speaking alien, but seemingly complex language - they encounter Gutölan, but overwhelmed researchers dub them Wodiakukarr’. Gutölan on the other hand, are alarmed by tighter competition with Sutviprra with smaller body size, but more engineering Nyzgöts from the east and less sophisticated culturally, but capable in their own right Konölthazyt göts. Gutölan populations, who approach the mountains have a chance to meet uninviting on the first glance, but capable and ready for trade and communication - Lun Mauñuts - Unzu, who herd and live off of mauñuts - bipedal nimble and resilient creatures. Rarely, after a lifelong connection between Sutviprra and Mauñuts one could become a rider - the one, who is trusted by the animal so deeply they allow an individual to climb their back.

South from the Göman mountain range, the Unzu family admire a wild landscape. Savannah of Kodomzun Kaföln is a place with a unique flora - what looks like trees are endemic to this region and come from cactusoids and drought resistant plants found nowhere else. Environments get truly weird in the jungles of Katsdumzan. Apart from consisting of endemic flora, Jungles stand in a place with no rivers. Despite receiving frequent rains, some plants still had to evolve to capture and preserve water, their stems and leaves contorting into vases or pots. Closer to the shore, more novel plants appear. Like earth’s palm trees, their seeds can clear great distances on water - in this case seas Nzymakodat and Atkaduñ. Over the range of Sun Gatsakun, another offshoot of Unzu, this time western Unu are the pioneers from their civilization. To the north of them - Kagafözan desert, another jungle biome, this time consisting of whatever plants crawled their way here up the rivers. From the west, unfortunately, nothing inviting comes. First time their ancestors made their way here, they may have distressed kutharrnuzezha - intelligent bird-like creatures who happen to have great memory, web of contacts and symbiotic relationship with Rraferuk - Sutviprra of this region. From that time, these birds alarm any tribes of danger, and any attempts of contact are met with defensive violence.

In the meantime, Tharrtharr diversified, splitting into two distinct groups - lower shore Sárrsárr have access to the more temperate forests of the Kùrón shores - Jozén. Their access to wood and opportunities for water travel proliferated raft building and river faring. Thaarr of the northern lake coast are isolated in their resources, and as Sárrsárr expansion northwest started, they have to move east in search for a better chance. Also, Thaarr have become somewhat of the Sárrsárr’s natural enemies, with Thaarr resort to stealing vessels and produce of Sárrsárr.

Kawarra - Sutviprra, who still hold the Tonuweerdai islands, keep active trade going from Wurrakujinor Kajawerrada to Tofuranucherrasowe. Keeping intact with jungle culture, they spread name for the continent to all - Eekisur’ “Oujsōer” becomes Kakasurra “Owejasorra” to Kaaisur “Oejasora” and Gutölanaf “Ovezasola”.

#sutviprra #art #speculative biology #spec bio #worldbuilding #alien design #exobiology #spec evo #speculative evolution #digital art #map drawing #map making

[shoefullofpudding]

Since I'm not an artist, I'm going to do a writing version of Paratober.

1 Stanley

He walked a thousand miles through these halls, echoes of footsteps etched into his brain. Every twist and turn was just another well-worn path. Fear had turned to boredom, hope faded to complacency. Still what could he do but keep going? The end was never the end. 

2 Bucket

Stanley plopped the bucket on his head. [I am Bucket Man.]

The Narrator sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Not this again. "Stanley that is a expertly crafted narrative prop, not something to shove on your immature noggin!"

[Bucket Man sees his arch-nemesis Captain Party Pooper! It’s Bucket Time!]

"Hey that's my line!" The Narrator yelled.

He watched in horror as Stanley bent down like a bull and kicked each foot. Oh no. The Narrator held his hands up.

"Stanley! Please. Not ag-"

His words were cut off by Stanley barreling the bucket into his side. The Narrator let out a huff of air and fell back.

3. Coward

Stanley hid under his desk. It was safe here. No one would ever get him… But that wasn't true, was it. The Narrator's words would end and the story would restart. *Please make it end. Please make it end please make it end.*

He imagined it did once the darkness of the reset took him. The floating void was the darkness behind his own eyes and once he opened them, Stanley would be in a nice warm bed, staring at the stucco of a blank white ceiling.

He'd turn his head to a window. A tree stood tall and proud bearing apples, or maybe oranges. A squirrel made corkscrews around it's trunk. Stanley yawned and-

Stared at the blinking screen of his office monitor. The Narrator's voice droned on in the background. He took a deep breath and pushed back the fantasy. It was time to play his part.

Fanon 

1 Stanley 

I'll choose the Stanley from my fic I don't dare dream, because dreams burn my tongue. This is a post fic poem he wrote.

My heart split open

Like a seed 

That could no longer

Contain my worth

I am no longer 

A wounded bird

But an angel 

Taking flight

2. Tumblr sexyman

The Narrator is from my fic Home Has Always Been You.

Narry stared at his reflection. The new haircut and the new clothes almost made him feel like himself. But not quite. His body was still frail and skinny, with a face aged beyond its years.

What did Stanley see in him? He wasn't the sweet chubby boy he'd been when they were kids. Nor was he some suave model with chiseled features and effortless muscles.

Maybe he didn't need to be either. Stanley loved him, not his image in the mirror.

3. Puppyboy Stanley

"Bark!"

The Narrator stared at the lab at his feet. "Just how did you turn yourself into a dog, Stanley? The bark command was only supposed to affect your voice!"

Stanley proceeded to run around and tear up random papers. He tried to dig up the carpet, eat 432's pencil sharpener, and the Narrator’s favorite yellow slipper.

"No! Stanley, give it back!"

He yanked at it, which just made Stanley pull harder. Soon, they were in a dire game of tug-of-war, the fate of the Narrator’s footwear hanging in the balance. 

Halfway through, Stanley turned human and spat the item of contention out. He got up and dusted himself off as if nothing happened.

"What? That's it? You aren't going to apologize for destroying my office or ravaging my slipper?"

Stanley shrugged and walked off, leaving the Narrator to sigh and wipe the slipper off with the sleeve of his jacket. 

#paratober2023 #paratober #the stanley parable #tspud #tsp fic #tsp