#so many quake forks as well which is cool

[cpunch71]

thinking of making my own patchfile format like IPS but written in YAML and supports things like scanning for memory signatures, and conditionals based on the input file hash...

either way ill probably start distributing my patches on my site for old games like my CDCheck patch for Pacman: Adventures in time which lets you play the game through wine. Might start with just distibuting IPS files for each game and leaving some basic instructions on how to apply them to start out

#cracking old DRMs is so much fun actually #these old games written in C are my bread and butter i love looking at weird engines #so many quake forks as well which is cool #if you know another patch file format thats nicer to work with than IPS lmk!!

[ourladytamara]

Dry Wine

Tamara - @_ourladytamara - 1.9k words - March 02 2021

CWs: blood, graphic blood drinking scene, death/undeath, cnc, cannibalism, forced intox, meat, dacryphilia

With a huff the Duchess returns the cup to her table.

“Thrall! Here, now.”

You begin quaking instantly. Despite all of your training and harrowing previous run-ins you’ve still managed to upset your most valuable guest, the Duchess of Shadow Piedmont. First you burned her veal fillet, managed to bring her a Beuajolais in place of her Barbera – the tavern-keepers really grilled you over that one – and then you had the audacity to begin clearing her table before she’d adequately sucked the marrow from her various leftover bones!

But you needed this job and you knew how the pale-blooded were when not given proper reverence. Disobeying the lead weights that were your feet, you turned away from the counter you were wiping and towards the tavern’s sole, remaining occupant.

She was a demure woman beyond description, but you liked to try your best at things. Short black hair, cut into one of those stylish new bobs, adorned her alabaster face, garnished with a circlet as pale as her veiny skin and ran down into her equally-black cocktail dress. Age marked her, but in a way unlike that of other women; her wrinkles seemed almost finely-crafted, as if by a sculptor, none of them random; equally sculpted was the pair of pendulous, heavy breasts which hung head-sized from her chest. They strained the fabric with each of her subtle motions, her cleavage pressed out and almost swallowing your vision whole. Despite her seated position, too, you’d seen her to her seat more than enough times to know what a thick, lewd ass she was sitting on; just thinking about it rippling made you almost start to drool.

You caught yourself the moment her eyes met yours. Piercing, angry red filled your very being – you’d seen a demonstration of Edison’s wicked direct electrical currents on animals and knew the feeling must’ve been similar. Even with the lure of her breasts it was nigh-impossible to break her fixated gaze.

You approach cautiously, leery to make any sudden movements as the Duchess smiles with her razor-sharp teeth and syringe-like canines; you set the rag into your apron pocket and assume a position beside her table. In proper manner, you bow your head and place your hands at your lap, as the tavern-owners had shown you so many times before in excruciating, personal detail. With a black-nailed hand she gingerly grips the flute of her glass, swirling the deep red liquid within and watching it with  intense interest.

“Thrall, I know I’ve spoken to you before about this,” says the Duchess, her voice sickly-sweet like poisoned vin santo, “but you know I am a woman of taste, yes?”

She still hasn’t told you what you’ve done, but you nod your head quickly. “Y-Yes, Duchess, I’m well-aware.”

Without hesitation she grips you by the throat with a powerful hand, pulling you closer. Her skin is frigid, almost clammy.

“And I believe I specifically asked you for a Barbaresco with my meal, yes?

Every hair on the back of your neck stands at full attention. The tavern-keepers – they must’ve moved the bottles when they were cleaning, and…

She forces the glass to your lips and forces your neck back, the still-swirling liquid within rushing through your lips. It’s rich, dry, decadent, coating your tongue in stinging alcohol; you’d tried to explain before that the tavern-keepers don’t let you drink for free but she didn’t listen.

“This is Montefalco Rosso.”

She can clearly feel how hard you shiver and responds with a cruel expression.

“Oh, sad that I hold you to standards? Please, save me the tears – you know what you did and you’ve done it before.”

You rub your thighs together in a mix of anticipation and fear, opening your mouth to speak before your lips are silenced by the glass again. She forces down another sip before rising from her seat, delighting your terrified eyes with her bosom, leering dominantly above you. God, she was tall – a full head above you left your eyes tit-height with her, adding to the humiliation you can already feel burning your cheeks.

“I’m really not the kind of woman who should be putting up with repeatedly-disappointing servants. Honestly, I’ll have to have a word with your employers about you,” she spat, forcing the last of the wine down your gullet and dropping the glass to the floor with a loud shatter, “because I would’ve assumed women of their pedigree would know how to properly train their thralls.”

You make a move to apologize and grovel but she tightens her grip. She’s… never done that before – typically she was happy with warning you and getting her long-desired praise and submission, but now she seemed… hungrier. Her eyes regarded you like a lamb lured to the slaughter, inspecting you carnally with a cold hand. In your stupor you notice that three of her fingers lack claws – cut to a smooth, flawless size.

“And to tell you the truth, I’ve had enough lackluster service.”

Still gripping your throat she begins to pull you away, off of the tavern floor and down to her side. She holds you like a limp ragdoll, your neck straining; she begins to walk a moment later, wide hips swaying with every high-heeled footstep she takes across the marble floor and towards the dimly-lit corner concealing the washrooms.

You hit the ground with a slam and choke up instantly. Wind enters your lungs for seconds at a time, your hyperventilation keeping it away while the Duchess looms above your crumpled, uniformed body. Colors spin in your vision, all swirling into the pale white glow emanating from her skin in the overhead light.

“I should’ve done this a long time ago, honestly. Look at you – like a little piece of refuse! How long have you worked here, again? Three years? Five? So many hours sold for no gain – you lack drive!”

She grabs you by the throat off the floor once again and slaps you firmly across the cheek. The squeal you make only pisses her off further, enticing her to follow it with a second on the opposite side. By now, you feel the wine; the warmth clouds your higher judgment and makes your arms sluggish. The Duchess lifts your drunken form with little effort and pins you to the wall – throwing your skirt up and her free hand, the one which lacked three of her claws, beneath it.

You could put up little resistance, melting in her frozen grip; your hot legs continue to writhe in anticipation as her digits crawl up and between your thighs, brushing your locked-up cock and eliciting a twitch. They dive between your cheeks a moment later as she fucks you open with her hand. They’re long, powerful, clearly trained in hundreds of other, equally-pathetic holes; your mewling is silenced by her lips in turn, the muffled sounds barely trickling out between you.

Her tongue is long, forked, and as cold as the rest of her. It presses between your lips and probes even deeper, practically throat-fucking you like the knobbiest, angriest cock you’ve ever taken. There’s little in her eyes save for malice and a hunger far deeper than her dinnertime peckishness; her fingers work in tandem, mirroring her inner animal now breaking out before you, ruining the hole your superiors so graciously demand you keep clean and lubed every shift.

She’s filling you up and there’s little room in your wine-soaked mind for thought. Whenever you feel an opening in your mental haze it fogs right back over, clouded by your prostate being hammered or a tongue triggering your gag reflex. Everything’s… swimming – it’s like you’re underwater, a feeling made all the more intense pressed into the warmth and unreal plushness of her breasts. You fall into them head-first, mind drowning in her cleavage while your body refused to move – she breaks the kiss, a carmine glow in her eyes.

“You’d do better without agency, anyways – not like that stupid little brain of yours does much, does it?”

And with a cackle she slams her mouth against your throat. Instantly the haze is shattered, rended, obliterated like targets at a firing range before your very mind itself follows the same fate. Her fangs slide into your jugular like oversized needles, the unnerving feeling of slurping almost overriding the mind-shattering pain. You thrash, writhe, twitch into her bosom, grabbing her voluptuous body with panicked movements in a vain effort to find purchase, to find escape – but it never comes.

Stars flood your vision and the world begins to fade. Everything feels cool, empty, hollow; you barely notice her soft lips and ravenous tongue retracting from your throat, fangs gouging dime-thick holes in your neck as she releases them with a meaty pop. The last of your blood gushes out of the holes, coating both of you; it spatters against her pale cheek, prompting her to lick it up and smear it even further. Your mind can take precious little more; with a final triumphant thrust, you cum all over her fingers, clenching up like a whore around them and feeling her shove them deeper, ramming your vulnerable g-spot with the same lack of mercy she gave your throat. Translucent slick dribbles from the tip and gets smeared all over the white frills of your skirt.

You hit the ground a second later with a thump, head as drained as your undead heart. None of your limbs respond, your eyes fading to black and your ears ringing and ringing until, finally, you give out.

She leaves you there to wallow in it. Cum, blood, and sweat stick to your skin as the color rapidly fades. It’s impossible to say for how long she left you there, but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.

A snap, and a firm command.

“Up, poppet, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

Suddenly your eyes pop open, and as if compelled, you begin to rise; trembling arms support trembling legs as you re-learn how to move, but eventually you manage to stand, with considerable help from the wall behind you – it’s good enough for the Duchess, thankfully, and she lifts your chin up with a clawed nail.

You aren’t thinking. You… can’t think, actually – whatever thought is still inside you was put there by her, instructed by her, and supported by her. It’s all in service of making you stand up, the command echoeing in your head infinitely. Everything… tingles? It’s not painful, not unpleasant – you begin to wonder if you actually kind of like it.

“Much better. Now, my thrall, I assume you won’t disappoint me any further. Is that correct?”

You try to speak and find it difficult to do much beyond moaning whorishly, so you nod your head instead. It brings you instant relief, like the release of orgasm but entirely within your mind – and out of all of your senses it remains the least-dulled, enticing you like nothing else would anymore. The Duchess’s eyes fade to the low light of a reddish campfire, yet remain the most vibrant thing your undead vision can detect.

“Then fetch me my Barbaresco.” says the Duchess, a coy smile on her bloodstained lips. “We’ll see how you’ve improved.”

You nod your head with rapt enthusiasm and begin your shuffle back to the wine cellar.

#subscriber stories

[aj-artjunkyard]

Trials Of Apollo Oneshot Series CHAPTER SIX

Takes place after the burning maze. Spoilers!

Meg propped her red high-tops up on the wooden table, engorging herself in a greasy chicken wing. I myself reclined on the sofa next to her, chewing on the best tasting fish I’d come across in a long time. The aurae brought whatever food the demigod, legacy or ex-god would like best. In my case, it was a typical ancient greek dinner - grilled fish with a small side dish of olives and olive oil. It reminded me of the old days, the heavenly smell wafting from my mother’s kitchen (minus the olives of course, as they had not yet been invented) while young Artemis and I played with nymphs, climbed trees and held archery competitions. Granted, my mother usually added a garnish of ground ambrosia, but that was slightly too impossible for me in my current state. Still, the thought brought tears to my eyes. I missed my sister and mother, more than words could describe. I managed to blink back the moisture welling up, but I was still glad we dined alone.

Our table looked pathetically desolate compared to the tables around us, which held fifteen demigods each. No one really wanted to talk to those who had pulled their respected leader into a quest which had gotten him killed. So, with our backs to the crowd, we ate in thoughtful silence (at least on my part) until Meg stirred me from my nostalgic reverie.

“You think Ella will finish the book thing in time?” Meg asked, pulling a chicken bone from her mouth and flicking it across the table.

“The Sibylline Books.” I corrected.

“Same difference.” 

“That’s my line.”

“Will they be ready or not?”

I sighed with exasperation at the impatience of my master. 

“I do not know.”

Meg rolled her eyes. 

“You never know anything.”

“Hey! I know as much as my father has left intact in my memories, and that is not my fault.”

Meg ignored my defence, and leaned over to my plate to prod my fish in the eye. 

“That’s gross,” she said, screwing up her face.

“Yes,” I agreed. “It is in fact disgusting to poke someone else’s food when they know you haven’t washed your hands.”

“Not that, dummy.” She pointed at my forkful of fish, which was halfway to my mouth. “That.”

I rolled my eyes and took another bite. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s hardly cooked.”

“It’s grilled.” 

Meg stuffed her face with another few bites. Her mouth was so full I was surprised she could still breathe. “Aren’t you supposed to put batter on it or something?” She asked, spraying my face with spit and bits of chicken. I grudgingly wiped it off. 

“Is there anything you Americans don’t deep fry?” 

In response, Meg lifted her feet off the low table, swivelled around and dropped them heavily onto my legs. She was now lying the length of the sofa while half-draped over me, pinning me to the soft cushioning. “Ow.”

She snorted at my discomfort, then continued to inhale her meat. 

My mind wandered around the possibilities of ever seeing my family again. My uncle Poseidon, who had always been my favourite uncle (although my only other uncles are either titans or Hades, so I guess that doesn’t come across as much of a compliment, but it is). My good friends, Hermes and Dionysus, who were always up for a good prank on Ares or ready with a bottle of wine after an awful day (but remember, alcohol is bad, kids. We only drink it because we are each over 3000 years old. Do not attempt until you are the same age, no matter what Dionysus tells you). My sister, the sharp huntress whom I would defend to the death. My mother. Sacred Sibyl, I missed my mother. I missed her warm hugs, her sweet honeysuckle scent, her soft, caring voice. I couldn’t stand the thought of never feeling her comforting presence again. I had to get home.

…

I woke, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for breath. ‘Blasted nightmares,’ I thought, desperately trying to rip the sheets off myself with shaking hands. My legs were still partially entangled when I attempted to stand, resulting in me thumping loudly to the floor. I grasped around in the dark for the small bedside table to help me stand. When I found the edge, I began to pull myself up, but the table tipped, sending me back to the hard floor and spilling its contents onto my head. The digital clock that clattered beside me read 01:38. I growled at it and stood, despite my quaking limbs. My nightmares had wildly unsettled me in ways I wouldn’t tolerate. ‘You’ll never hang onto those memories’, they taunted. ‘Give it a week and you won’t even remember their names’. 

“Shut up, shut up!” I hissed to myself. I began wondering, stumbling towards to bookshelf at the end of the long room. ‘What kind of brother forgets a sibling?’ “Stop.” ‘What kind of son?’ “Stop it!”

I began to yank old, dusty, leather bound books from the shelf, looking for anything with my name on the front. I needed to remember me. Anything. Anything at all. Finally, a large black book with the emboldened golden letters ‘APOLLŌ’ printed on the spine caught my attention. It was a few inches thick and the cover was almost as wide as my chest. Eyes widening, I harshly ripped the book out from its place, the sudden weight bearing down on my weak arms almost causing me to drop it. I did not wish to make any more noise than I already had. I wrapped it in my gangly human arms and lugged it out the door. 

I cannot say I knew where I was headed. I simply needed to get somewhere, to feel the crisp night wind sting my skin into feeling anything but numbness. I found myself marching up a hill. The extra muscle exertion distracted me from my troubles, so I kept climbing. A good way up the hill, I started to feel the pull of the familiar. Temple Hill. I scanned the assorted statues and . There was no particular order, other than ‘most important at the top’. Further on, a massive red crypt loomed, decorated with flames and human skulls. The name Mars Ultor came to me, but I overlooked it. My mind was so busy with rushing thoughts and doubts that I feared any more information might make my brain explode.

My fingers fidgeted with the tears and rough leather texture of the book in my grasp. I felt as if a band composed of nothing but timpani were performing a drumroll in my mind, getting more and more intense with each passing second. Unable to stand still for much longer, I bolted to my right, keeping my head down and following whatever path was under my feet. 

Maybe the last scraps of my godly essence guided me to the place it felt most at home. My mind was caught in such a flurry of panic that I barely noticed I was climbing marble steps until the steely cold shocked my unprotected soles. I was in an circular, open room held up by bronze pillars that were rimmed with gold. A golden dome sat over my head, and an array of my favourite items littered the right side of the room - a golden bow, a quiver stocked with arrows, an elegant grand piano. In the middle of the temple, an altar sat, waiting for sacrifices. I padded to the back of the room, my bare feet echoing on the smooth marble. Sliding my back down a pillar, I sat and heaved the book open. I was too flustered  to have possibly read a word, but the pictures soothed me. There were a few century-old ink sketches of the 'Apollo Belvedere’ in Rome, next to a modern Polaroid marked ‘Latona and Her Children, Apollo and Diana, carved 1874’ I smiled at the tranquil scene. Mother rarely appeared as such now, certainly not after the invention of many modern braid styles (she got me to teach her how to use Instagram so she can ‘see the videos all those pretty young ladies post’ and learn new hairstyles. She’s admittedly very talented. We tied on our self-held Let’s See Who Can Braid Their Hair The Fastest completion). A tear dripped onto the picture. I turned the page.

This one showed the ‘Diana as Huntress’  statue in Berlin. Artie always huffed about her statues, said they were ‘Too dramatic’. She questioned why she, a seasoned hunter, would ever stand around and wait around for the wind to blow the right direction just so she could look cool to the monsters charging at her and her girls. She can say what she likes, but I know that she prefers it when sculptors include her dogs. Just a thought for any artists out there, looking to gain Diana’s favour *wink*. I grinned at the thought of her thirteen year old form pouting up at me. The memory was fuzzy, but still clearer than usual. I turned the page again.

Again and again I flicked through photos of my relatives, skimming over the paragraphs just enough that it reminded me of their names and their relationships with me. Hermes/Mercury was my impish best friend, who I’d vowed to love for eternity. Hera/Juno was my stepmother who caused my mother and siblings nothing but pain, but somehow we respected each other enough to eat cabbage together and compliment each other’s hair. Dionysus/Bacchus was the ultimate party-man, often inviting me to play for his revelries. 

I turned the page once more. This time, I was met with an image that spanned the length of the two pages. At the top of the page, black threatening letters spelled out ‘JUPITER, FATHER OF APOLLO’ and in smaller writing ‘St Petersburg, Hermitage Museum’. Even from glancing into those blank, marble eyes, my anger spiked. ‘There he is’, I thought, ‘sitting all smug on his little stupid throne-’ I admit, my thoughts turned to bitter toddler-like insults. But looking at the god responsible for my misery made me want to throw the book across the temple and storm away. So I did just that. The book smacked into the alter (which tipped) and thumped open onto the floor cover side up, the crusty pages wrinkling under the force. I left the hook where the golden bow had hung empty as I went.

…

Twang!

The arrow just inside the red circle of the target, and I mentally awarded myself seven points. Not that it mattered. Judging by the moon’s position in the inky sky, it was now 3am - I had been at Camp Jupiter’s open-air archery range for almost two hours. No one else had been here when I arrived, and I was glad it had stayed that way. I needed time alone. To stew. I had first come out with the intention to ‘practice’ (still an alien concept to ex-flawless archers such as myself), but now, this long into the session, I was only blowing off steam. Channeling my frustration into every loose of an arrow, imagining the target as everyone who had wronged me over the course of this forsaken punishment. My knuckles tightened. My eyes narrowed. My shoulders tensed. 

Twang! An arrow buried itself deep in the flesh of Commodus’ shoulder.

Twang! A wooden shaft protruded from Caligula’s throat.

Twang! Blood seeped through the mauve suit surrounding Nero’s manipulating, insensitive heart.

Twang! Zeus howled in pain at the arrow embedded in his sternum.

Twang! Python writhed in agony, agony he deserved-

“Apollo!”

I yelped and my shot went wildly off course, flying high with no power or distance, and landing in the grass in front of the target with a thud. Whipping around, I was about to tell whoever it was to GO AWAY when I was met with an equally startled young man, dressed in pyjama bottoms and the signature purple Camp Jupiter t-shirt, with the gold letters SPQR emblazoned boldly on the front. He quickly raised his hands in a placid manner, showing that he meant no harm. Nevertheless, I remained on guard. There had been a few who had not exactly welcomed the bearers of Jason’s coffin warmly, and this had been a close friend of the son of Jupiter. I feared I could not take this particular demigod in a fight. Even though he looked to be not much older than myself, he towered above me - perhaps a few inches beyond six foot tall, which made my lanky 5”6 feel minuscule. He had handsome asian features and soft brown eyes that I wagered could shift from kindness to anger in moments. He wore jet black hair in a military cut, making him seem like the world’s youngest army general.

“Frank Zhang.” I nodded to him once before turning back to my anger outlet. I was in no mood to talk. Not after loosing any way to contact my family. Not after loosing my memories to oblivion. Not after loosing Jason. Not when I knew he could react violently, as some already had. And if his heritage and blessing from Mars went against my mortal pathetic self, I doubted I would last more than ten seconds. Thankfully, he did not look like he came to pick a fight. He came forward and stood beside me silently, watching as I drew back the bowstring. I felt his eyes bore into me, assessing my posture, my strength, my balance. It was off-putting. That, dear readers, is why my arrow went rogue. It wasn’t my fault. It thunked into the wooden leg that held up the target. I felt my cheeks redden. I glared at the stupid arrow, willing it to pick itself up and hover over to the bullseye. Unsurprisingly, this did not happen. It stubbornly stayed where it was, planted in the wood. 

I really hated having an audience for my failures, especially if the audience was a child who had once hoped and prayed for me, the Great Golden Archer, to be his father. I doubted Frank felt such a longing anymore. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. He was smiling sympathetically at me, having witnessed my disgraceful excuse for a shot for the first time. I decided that Gaia coming back and swallowing me whole at that exact moment would not have been protested against.

“Here,” Frank said calmly, reaching towards me and adjusting my grip on the bowstring. “You’re gripping the string too far up your fingers. You don’t want to make a fist around it.” He peered down at my feet. “And you’re too tense. Relax your stance a little.” I obliged, already seeing my stupid mistakes. My cheeks seemed to heat up even more, and I found myself resisting the urge to bury my acne-ridden face in my hoodie. Frank seemed to notice, and backed off, instead ambling over to a small supply shed where he scooped up a bow and a fistful of arrows. I kept myself occupied from the daunting future that would have Frank humiliating me by nocking another arrow. This time, I tried to take on board what advice I’d been given.

I angled my left foot closer to the direction of the target, so I took on a more open stance, then checked my fingering was correct. Taking a deep breath, I used my back muscles to push my shoulder blades together as to take the strain off my arm and shoulder muscles - an unforgotten golden rule of archery. I drew back the bowstring until I reached my anchor point (the index finger touching the corner of my mouth), and fired. Twang! Not a bullseye, but well within the first yellow circle. I grinned in delight. Success was a rare feeling nowadays.

“Good job.” He congratulated quietly, grinning and turning to his own target. We both drew our bows.

After about ten more shots, and four bullseyes on my part (how many frank got is not relevant, moving on), Frank suggested we go back inside.

“It’s early,” he said, rubbing his eyes and letting out a yawn. He started walking down towards the fifth cohort’s barracks, so I followed. “We should get back. Jason’s funeral is later, and you’ve barely been to sleep.”

“How did you know?”

Frank scratched the back of his neck and smiled awkwardly.

“Well, you made a bit of a racket when you were leaving the barracks. What with the whole…falling and throwing books and stuff…”

Yup. The ground was more than welcome to swallow me now. I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I felt my acne-riddled face turn tomato coloured for the umpteenth time that morning, and glared at the grass.

“Apologies.” I muttered. “I panicked.”

“Yeah, you seemed upset so I told the others to leave you alone. I thought maybe you wanted some peace and quiet. But you were gone for ages, so I came to find you.”

I shot him a questioning look. ‘Why?’ He read my mind. 

“It’s my job as Praetor to make sure everyone’s safe,” he explained, his chest puffing out slightly at the little self-reminder of his recently increased status. “And, it sucks. To loose people, I mean.”

I looked up at the Roman. His eyes were shimmering with tears, but he looked me in the eye anyway. He wasn’t afraid to show emotion, which was a rare trait, especially in the legion, but one I had always admired. 

“I only knew him for a few hours. Why do I feel so awful?”

“Because Jason was a great demigod. The greatest. He made an impact on everyone he talked to.” -Frank gestured around the camp- “He really made an impact here. Especially with the loser fifth cohort.”

“He-he told me to fulfil his promise. To build temples for every god in the pantheon.”

“Yeah. He could be like that. Noble, even at the worst of times. But that’s not the reason you’ve been drilling holes into the archery equipment for an a few hours straight.”

I answered with all the intelligence of someone who hadn’t slept since 1am. 

“Huh?”

“I didn’t think to check here first,” he said. “I went up to your temple.”

I got flashbacks to my toddler-esque temper tantrum.

“Ooh. Yeah…”

“Yeah.” He responded in a tone that said ‘been there, done that, got the t-shirt’. “Families are messy.” 

“I miss them.”

“That’s normal. Bitterness is normal. You aren’t being overdramatic.” 

I smiled at the confirmation. 

“Thanks. It means a lot.”

We were back at the barracks. Frank smiled at me one last time and patted me on the back, before lumbering in. I followed. 

I slept soundly the rest of the night.

…

I walked, lead-legged, up Temple Hill. The whole camp was eerily quiet. Jason’s body had been given proper honours, and the legion had been given the day off from duties. I couldn’t stand the prying eyes of 200 kids for much longer, so, even while I had only gotten four hours of sleep and was weighed down with grief, I travelled to the only place in the camp that was truly ‘mine’. 

Tired and weary, I plopped down on the seat of the sleek, white grand piano. I ran my fingers across the smooth fallboard for a solid minute of distracted silence, before lifting it to reveal the ivory keys. They were chipped and yellowed and seemingly out of place compared to the stark white of the piano itself, were inevitably out of tune. I played a short scale, opened up the lid and tightened the loose turning pins I had hit, then continued with my scales. I repeated until I was positive that every key was in perfect harmony, which took all of ten minutes.

Satisfied with the tuning, I took a deep breath and splayed my fingers out on the keyboard, and played a tune that inspired grace and felt to me like a ballerina daintily dancing on water. After a second, the fingering flowed into my memory, allowing my hands to glide elegantly across the piano while I stared over the rim and through the gaps between the temple’s pillars, and into the distance. The sky was clear and perfect blue, and the warm breeze swept gently through my hair. I remembered sitting with my mother on Delos, our shoulders touching as together, we played two parts of the same harmony. Like two streams running down a mountain, weaving around each other and sometimes intersecting to make one stronger melody. My heartbeat calmed from the stress of what was now everyday life to me. Peril, danger and death.

A jarring dissonance of notes jolted me back to unwelcome reality. I rolled my eyes glared at the pudgy young demigod beside me.

“You know, there are ways to make your presence known without scaring flocks of birds away.”

“Yeah I know,” Meg replied shrugging. “But it’s not as fun as watching you jump ten feet in the air.”

“I wasn’t scared! I knew you were beside me!”

“Uh huh,” she grunted, turning her attention to the keys and banging a few more notes without mercy.

“I just tuned those, you monster.”

Meg smirked. Then she ordered me to shift over on the bench, and practically bounced down in the middle, leaving me with one leg hanging off the side.

“Teach me that one. The one you were playing.”

I was too taken aback to argue it’s difficulty, especially for a beginner. I thought we had long since given up on the piano lessons (Meg was not very good), and even if we hadn’t, this tune was graceful and elegant - not words commonly used to describe Meg McCaffrey. But I admit, I missed playing with someone. And so we began.

“Why don’t you watch me first, try to absorb as much of the tune as possible before I teach you the left hand.”

Meg tried to hide her smile.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Bit of a shorter chapter this time. Sorry for the long wait, I started writing out several completely different chapters and never finished them because they just weren’t good enough. Also, the point about ‘No romance’ in these chapters still stand. Frank and Apollo were written as a kid and an adult becoming good friends, NOT BOYFRIENDS. 

#toa #trials of apollo #lester papadopoulos #meg mccaffrey #TOA oneshot #story #fanfiction #fanfic #my fanfic stuff #fanfics

[creampuffqueen]

Worlds of Fire and Darkness | Chapter Eight (Winnie)

Read this on AO3! (Here) I love receiving asks and comments, don’t be afraid!

Winnie is having dinner with the Inner Circle, but something seems to be upsetting her cousin...

"The meeting of the High Lords is in a week's time, you know." I turned my eyes from my cousins to my Uncle Rhysand, my High Lord, as he spoke. "And I know how you all feel about the meeting. I'm not asking any of you to go, if you don't want to."

From beside me, Cirrus opened his mouth, but was quickly cut off, "That does not include you. As the Heir, you are required to go." Cirrus jokingly stuck his tongue out at his father before turning back to me and Tess.

Forks and knives began to clink as dinner resumed, as did the chatter. I could hear my siblings from all the way across the table. I lounged back in my seat as I chewed, stretching my wings casually behind me. But even the conversation my cousins were pulling me into couldn't drive the incessant chatter of shadows from the back of my mind. I'd discovered the power when I was about three, back when it was a good thing my father's shadows stuck to me as well. I suppose it wasn't bad now, per se, but fairly annoying. I most certainly did not want to hear about the sexual innuendo Cirrus's parents just made to each other. No thanks.

"Winnie, are you going to the meeting?" Pulling me back to the present, Cirrus's blue-gray eyes bored into my own eyes of hazel.

"Cool it with the eye contact, first of all." I snorted, "And yes, I'm going. Not excited about it, but I'm going."

"Same here," Tess said. "I'm going, but I don't plan on enjoying it."

"Then why go at all?" Cirrus inquired. "If you won't enjoy it, which I already know you two don't, why are you going?"

Tess leaned back in her chair and put her hands behind her head. "Simple. Spite and also to not disappoint our parents."

"Spite?"

"Are you stupid?" Tess groaned. "What High Lord's son doesn't know what spite is?"

"I know what spite is-" Cirrus snapped, but I interrupted him before he and Tess could start a brawl. Tess was on edge tonight, I could tell. Why, I couldn't say. And as much as Cirrus, Tess, and I loved each other, you can only stick three adolescent Illyrians in a room together for so long before someone gets antsy and starts a fight.

"As in, we're spiting the other High Lords. They insult us and tell us not to come back, so we go back just to prove them wrong. Were you asleep the whole last meeting?"

"No, I've just tried to block the whole experience from mind." Cirrus muttered. I supposed that was reasonable. Out of all three of us, Cirrus was picked on the most at the meetings. Usually by the same certain High Lords, who I didn't even dare to say aloud lest I summoned them. Utter bastards, they were.

"Well, we're all going." I said. "But when I say all, I mean not Arlen and Larall. Mother doesn't want either of them exposed to the nastiness of the other Courts." Cirrus nodded his agreement and took a sip from his drink.

"Cali's going, which is okay. She's just an even smaller Amren." I had to cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. That was absolutely true. If Caliphe cut her hair shorter and had grayer eyes, she'd look almost exactly like Amren. I hoped the little girl would make the stupid High Lords quake in their boots. It was the least they deserved, as I'd been informed burying them alive was rude.

"Enough about the damn High Lords." Tess groaned. "I'm starving, but you two are going to make me keep talking until I wither away from hunger."

"That was the plan, cousin dear." I purred. Tess snorted and chugged her drink, which I was almost positive was just pure liquor. Tess could hold her alcohol better than any of us, which she claimed came from her father and not a slight drinking problem. I was more into wine myself.

We all started eating, but got distracted again. Cirrus jokingly asked if I could identify all the spices on the roasted lamb chops, and I was knee-deep in one of the strangest competitions ever when we got distracted by commotion further up the table. I glanced back to see Tess all but crawling under the table, wings tucked in close to her body. Another look as to what was going on explained my cousin's unusual actions. It was her mother, my Aunt Nesta, causing the drama.

"I don't want to drink tonight. I'm not in the mood." Nesta snapped at Aunt Mor. Mor narrowed her eyes, not letting go of the wine glass she held in Nesta's face. Nesta looked ready to shove the glass back at Mor, but my Uncle Cassian stepped in.

"Mor, let it go. I'll drink the wine, it won't go to waste."

"Yes, but why don't you want any, you're usually fond of wine." Mor protested. Everyone around them looked like they wanted to be somewhere else. Tess had disappeared, likely winnowed away to spare herself the embarrassment.

"I don't want any, and that's all. I just don't feel like it tonight." Nesta growled. She pushed the glass back to Mor with a glare. The golden-haired female rolled her eyes and downed the drink instead, shooting my Aunt Nesta a look the whole time. Nesta just ignored her and attempted to return to her conversation. With that problem over, I went back to my dinner, and I saw Cirrus doing the same out of the corner of my eye.

Wait. Tess. Where the hell had my cousin disappeared to?

"Cirrus, where's Tess?" I hissed softly, making sure nobody else at the table could hear. We didn't want to cause more drama. Cirrus looked around, confused, like he hadn't realized the person closest in age to him had just disappeared. By the mother, males are stupid.

"Not sure," He said at last. "She probably winnowed somewhere else."

"No shit, she winnowed." I snarled, trying not to shout. "Have you got any other incredible observations? Her name is Tess, she has black hair and wings-"

"I'm not stupid, Winnie." Those blue-gray eyes of his had a dangerous glaze on them, making me realize I was egging him on, which may have not been the best idea.

"Could have fooled me." I said. Cirrus glared back at me with all the might of a High Lord's son. His wings were spreading behind him, as if he was subconsciously trying to threaten me by making himself look bigger. My own wings would have been doing the same, but I'd learned when I was younger how to keep them from appeasing my Illyrian instincts. Cirrus, it seemed, had not.

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" His voice was strained, the pointed tips of his ears red with anger and frustration. Oh, he was pissed. "I can't very well just stand up and announce that she's missing, can I? She left for a reason, Winnie, she'll be back."

"But what if someone notices before she's back?" I tried to make my voice calmer, tried to calm down my cousin a bit so he wouldn't accidentally demolish the House of Wind because of my words. I'd certainly made males break things before, but I didn't want to add my cousin to that list.

"So what?" He asked. "If they notice she's gone, we go on offence and tell them it was because they embarrassed her." It seemed like we'd had this conversation a million times. We'd been covering for each other since we could speak, and I felt like we covered for Tess the most.

"I feel like we should bring her back, though," I argued. "So she's not alone out there with her emotions. Tess isn't good with emotions." If I was being honest, none of us were good with emotions, but whatever blood ran in Tess made her feel more strongly than either of us. I resisted the urge to turn to Aunt Nesta when I thought about Tess's emotional blood.

"Finish dinner. If she's not back, we go find her. There's only so many places she could be."

"Fine." I could live with that. I looked down at my plate, but squabbling with Cirrus about spices on the lamb didn't feel as fun as it had minutes prior. I resigned myself to simply eating, and Cirrus did the same.

The light slowly left the sky, and the true beauty of the Night Court was revealed. From so high up we could see the stars so clearly it felt as though I could touch them. Even after my whole life under those stars, it still awed me every time they came out at night. The little ones grew quiet, and I saw my little brother Larall asleep on my mother's lap, a thumb stuck in his mouth. Looking at my little brother I wished, just a bit, to be that small again. Life as the oldest child wasn't easy.

To my side, I saw Cirrus looking with the same fondness at his own younger sister, who was dozing on her father's lap. I wondered if he ever wished like I did, to be little again. The look was gone again the next second, but I think that sometimes he did.

The arrival of the stars had me distracted, but I soon noticed the absence of my older cousin. Tess was still gone. After all her complaining about being starving, I would have expected her to be back to finish her dinner, but there was no sign of her. I looked to Cirrus, and he nodded. Time to go find Tess.

"Winnie and I are headed back to the house!" My cousin cheerfully called. Before anyone could protest, he grabbed my hand and winnowed us.

I hated winnowing. The feeling of weightlessness wasn't like flying, not at all. It felt like a free-fall in complete darkness, and all I wanted to do was flare my wings and fly back to the light. But the feeling was only for a few heartbeats, because as soon as the feeling was there, it was gone. We were on the roof of the Riverside House, where Cirrus and his family usually lived.

I had expected Tess to be somewhere obscure, but I was wrong about her. I supposed that was the theme of tonight. My cousin was sitting on one of the iron chairs and looking over the Sidra, her wings flared casually behind her. Cirrus tucked his hands into his pockets and walked over to her. Cauldron, he looked so much like Uncle Rhys when he did that. Realizing I was being left behind, I quickly followed him over to our cousin.

Tess said nothing as we claimed the seats beside her. She just kept looking at the river. Her face was splotchy, her eyes were red and puffy. She'd been crying. Now I was confused. Tess hardly ever cried, and although she was embarrassed easily and hated her family making a scene, I'd never seen her cry over it. The argument had hardly lasted three minutes.

"Do you want to be alone or do you want us to stay?" Cirrus asked gently. Cirrus always had a gentler soul than me. I was inclined to start grilling my cousin, why was she crying, why did she leave, what was going on. But here Cirrus was, not getting worked up and offering our cousin space if she needed it. Cirrus was his father, through and through.

"Please stay." Tess's voice was barely a whisper on the night-kissed wind, so soft that only Fae ears could hear. "I want you to stay."

Cirrus nodded and sat back, though he kept his eyes on her. It was so odd to see Tess like this, so openly upset. I'd seen her angry, I'd seen her screaming and slamming her fists, but I'd never, not in my whole life, seen her cry like this. She didn't hide the tears, no, she let them fall, and I watched as one wove a path down her face and dripped off the tip of her nose. When she swallowed, I heard it clearly, and could practically feel the lump in her throat myself. But she took a deep breath, and spoke.

"I'm going to need a drink for this." I cocked my head curiously, but said nothing. Tess shook her head with a chuckle, though I could tell it was forced. Another tear leaked out of her silver-lined eyes.

Cirrus nodded, and snapped his fingers. I could have sworn it echoed over the river. A tall bottle of whiskey appeared on the small table that was next to the chairs. It was unopened, and a moment later three glasses appeared and the bottle popped open.

"How do you do that?" I asked softly as Cirrus poured the drink. My dark-haired cousin shrugged.

"High Lord Heir powers, Winnie dear." I grinned as he handed me a glass. I sipped at it, and could hardly hold back the face I made. By the Mother, that was strong. Cirrus offered Tess a glass, but she ignored him and drank straight from the bottle. She didn't even cringe. Cirrus's eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and I practically had to pick up my jaw from the floor. Tess either pretended not to notice or simply couldn't bring herself to care anymore. When she set the bottle the whole table rattled. My older cousin stared off into space for a bit, long enough that I worried she'd forgotten what she was going to say. But then she took a deep breath.

"My mother is pregnant."

I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. The sentence Tess had just dropped on us like a sack of potatoes contained world-altering information, at least for me. Pregnancy and my Aunt Nesta were two things I never expected to hear together. It had happened before, duh, but still...

I could hardly believe it. But at the same time I could. All the pieces seemed to fit together right then. Up in the Illyrian camps, I practically lived with Tess. My own family was there, but it was nice to escape that chaos. Aunt Nesta had been ill lately, but I didn't bother to notice it. Or the fact she requested certain meals from Uncle Cassian when she was usually not a picky eater. And tonight, her refusal to drink alcohol. That should have set me off immediately; Aunt Nesta loved a good glass of wine.

But I suppose I was busy with my own things. Too busy to notice the signs that I would soon be having a new little cousin.

I realized I'd been staring. As had Cirrus. Tess's jaw was set, and she grabbed the bottle of whiskey again. The silence was deafening.

Cirrus spoke first, coming to his senses first, as always. "Congratulations. That's a good thing, right?"

"Yes, because I run away crying and drink straight from the bottle when it's a good thing!" Tess shrieked. "No, it's not a good thing, you dimwit!" Tears ran anew down her face and she looked to the sky.

"Why is that not good?" I ventured. Tess was silent. A nagging in the back of my head told the answers, and I fought the urge to yell at the damn shadows. Normally they were less bothersome, but they'd been hounding me more and more lately.

"It's dumb, really." Tess muttered. "I should be happy, I know."

"You don't have to be happy about it." Cirrus murmured. "You have a right to feel whatever you want about it."

"You give me too much credit," Tess sighed. "Because the reason I'm unhappy is a stupid reason."

"Well we can't tell you if you're being dumb or not if you don't tell us." I reasoned. I leaned closer and took her hand. Tess's hazel eyes found my own and she cracked a tiny smile.

"I'm upset because I like being an only child. I've had twenty years being the center of attention, but I don't want to share it. And neither of you count because you don't really live with me." I nodded sagely. Understandable.

"When my mother told me I was getting a baby brother or sister, I threw a huge fit, I'll have you remember." I said. Tess sighed.

"But you were five, Winnie. That's an appropriate response for a five-year-old, not a female who's twenty years old and commands an entire flank of warriors," She shot back.

"So what?" I said. "You're upset, and that's okay. We won't tell anyone, promise." From beside me, Cirrus nodded his agreement.

"You guys are the closest I've always had to siblings." Tess admitted. "But seeing all of your siblings makes me not want any. It's not that I don't like kids and babies, because I do, but..."

"You don't have to say anything else. We understand." Cirrus grinned and grabbed her other hand. "It's not the end of the world, I promise."

"It feels like it, sure, but it's not the end." I pulled Tess into a hug. She must have been surprised, because she was stiff as a board, but she hugged me back a moment later. Cirrus wrapped his arms around us both, and his wings covered our heads. I laughed as I inhaled the scents of my cousins, Tess's whiskey-and-mist, Cirrus's jasmine-and-wind. These were some of my favorite people in the whole world, more favorite than even my own siblings and parents, dare I say. They made my heart swell until I had to pull away or I'd start crying myself.

This time Tess poured herself a glass and sipped it with us, leaving the bottle on the far side of the table. Her eyes were still silver-lined, and her face was still puffy, but she was smiling. That was all that mattered.

Tess held up her glass for a toast, and Cirrus and I raised ours as well.

"It's not the end." She said gently. We clinked, and drank.

"It's not the end." I repeated with a smile.

#throne of glass #a court of thorns and roses #tog #acotar #feysand #nessian #elriel #generation 2 #legacies #children #pregnancy

[sevens-evan]

pride month day 7

author: daisys-quake

rated: t

ship: natasha romanoff/wanda maximoff

word count: 1387

prompt: Natasha gets hurt on a mission and comes home to Wanda.

a/n: i wish this wasn’t such a rarepair tbh because i love writing these two. i’m writing a fic a day for pride month; see my post with details here. enjoy.

Wanda is making dinner when she gets the call.

She likes cooking. Pietro had done most of it after their parents had died, and it’s…calming, in a way, going through the same motions she had watched him do a thousand times. Although none of her food is ever quite the same as his was, and, in Wanda’s opinion, not as good, Natasha seems to enjoy her cooking, and that alone would be motivation for Wanda to make a habit of it. Natasha enjoys it when she’s home, at least, which is…more often than Wanda had anticipated, but not nearly as often as she’d like. She had been under no illusions when they’d moved in together. She understands that Natasha has duties, things that she feels she has to atone for, and Wanda would never try to drag her away from that, but that doesn’t mean Wanda doesn’t miss Natasha’s presence in the living room, drinking wine and watching Wanda cook from the couch.

“Hello?” she says after pausing her music, setting the phone to speaker and putting it down on a clear patch of counter. She returns to chopping scallions, her movements quick and practiced.

“Hey, Wanda, it’s Steve,” Steve’s voice says, sounding vaguely robotic over the speakers.

“I know,” Wanda says, smiling slightly. In many ways, Steve has adapted to the twenty-first century flawlessly, but he still doesn’t seem to quite grasp the idea of caller ID.

“Right,” Steve says. “Anyway, I’m just calling to let you that the mission is over.” Wanda’s steady chopping pauses for a moment. Normally, Natasha is the one to do this. She’ll find a quiet moment on the flight home from wherever she happens to be, and she’ll call Wanda, voice low and secretive even though everyone is fully aware of their relationship, aware enough that Steve is calling her in Natasha’s place.

“Is Natasha alright?” Wanda asks, resuming her chopping somewhat less neatly, anxiety sparking in her chest.

“Yeah,” Steve says immediately. “Well, kind of.” The knife slips, and Wanda hisses in pain, a thin red line appearing on her finger.

“What do you mean, kind of?” she asks, using her uninjured hand to raise the volume on the phone before stepping over to the sink and rinsing her cut. The water stings, but Wanda has long since stopped worrying over such things. Pain is a tool, Natasha likes to tell her. Don’t ignore it, but don’t let it control you, either.

“She’s going to be fine,” Steve says in a reassuring tone. Wanda turns the water off, wrapping her finger in the nearest clean towel and stepping back over to the counter.

“Is she not fine right now?” Wanda asks, quickly losing patience with Steve’s reluctance to say what he means. Steve sighs, the noise coming through the phone as a rush of static.

“Wanda—“

“Steve.” Steve sighs again.

“She was shot.” Wanda bites her lip hard, catching the sudden tempest of concern and fear in her chest and pushing it down.

“Explain,” she snaps.

“Everything was going fine,” Steve says. “But just before we got out, she got hit in the arm. But she’s going to be fine, Wanda. Alright? It’s just a surface wound. She saw a doctor and got some stitches. There’ll be no permanent damage. She’ll be just fine in six weeks.” Wanda leans against the counter, exhaling slowly, quietly enough that Steve won’t hear.

“Alright,” she says. “Alright. When will she be home?”

“In an hour so,” Steve says. “She’s gonna be alright, Wanda. I promise.” Wanda picks the phone up with her uninjured hand.

“I know,” she says. “Thank you for calling, Steve.”

“Of course.” There’s a rustle of background noise, and Steve says something unintelligible to someone on the other end. “Have a good night,” he says to her.

“You too,” Wanda says, clicking the phone off. She sets it back down, unwrapping her finger now that she’s no longer distracted and eyeing the cut. It’s shallow, not long, with only a small trickle of blood still dripping out. She quickly mops up the bit of blood on the counter and tosses the offending knife in the sink before wrapping her finger up again and leaning against the counter, gaze tilted up to the ceiling. She takes several deep, slow breaths, closing her eyes.

Natasha has been shot. Natasha will be fine. Wanda shakes her head, trying to force herself to stop thinking. She turns her music back on, the sound pumping through a Bluetooth speaker on the counter, and she turns it up before she goes to the bathroom to bandage her finger, the sound drowning out the insistent, buzzing anxiety in her ears.

By the time the door to the apartment opens just under an hour later, Wanda is moving still-cooling pans to the sink. The food is on serving plates on the counter, waiting.

“Hey,” Natasha says as she closes the door behind herself. Wanda turns to greet her girlfriend, blinking in surprise when she sees that Natasha’s arm is in a sling. “I don’t need the sling,” Natasha says, catching Wanda’s look. “I told them I didn’t need the sling.”

“Natasha,” Wanda says, surprising herself with how calm her voice is. “Be quiet and come kiss me.” Natasha smiles, dropping her duffel bag on the floor and stepping forward. She’s wearing heeled boots, making her the same height as Wanda. She doesn’t wear such things as often as she used to, and Wanda rather likes being taller than her, but she’s not going to complain about the way Natasha leans into her, pressing their bodies together, fingers winding into Wanda’s hair. Natasha presses their foreheads together for a moment after pulling away from the kiss, closing her eyes. She looks exhausted, Wanda realizes. Whatever the mission was, it was hard on her, and not just because she got shot.

“Alright?” Wanda asks quietly. Natasha’s eyes open, and she allows her hand to slip out of Wanda’s hair, although it immediately falls to her waist.

“Fine,” Natasha answers automatically. Wanda raises a skeptical eyebrow at her, waiting for a real answer. Natasha smiles just a bit at the expression. “Tired,” she amends. “And hungry.”

“Well, you’re just in time for dinner,” Wanda says, moving far enough away to make eye contact without going cross-eyed, though not so far that she can’t feel Natasha’s warmth beside her. “Do you want to go change while I set the table?”

“Sure.” Natasha kisses her forehead lightly before walking away, her motions lacking their usual deadly grace, instead made slow and heavy with exhaustion. Wanda watches her go with concern before turning back to the meal.

By the time Natasha returns, Wanda is waiting at the table, two plates full of food set out. Natasha is back to the way Wanda prefers seeing her; her face is clear of makeup, her feet are bare, and she’s dressed in leggings and an oversized t-shirt that may have been Steve’s at one point. Natasha sets a hand on Wanda’s shoulder as she steps up behind her, kissing the top of her head.

“Thank you for cooking,” she says, as she says every time Wanda cooks. It never sounds any less sincere, and it never fails to make Wanda smile. Wanda covers the hand on her shoulder with one of her own, and is about to respond when Natasha’s hand flips over, catching hers and holding it up. “What happened to your finger?” she asks, concerned.

“I cut myself cooking,” Wanda says dismissively. “What happened to your arm?” Natasha lets go of Wanda’s hand, stepping around to the other side of the table and settling into her chair.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. Wanda’s eyebrow raises again. “I’d rather not talk about it,” Natasha corrects herself.

“Okay,” Wanda says, smiling at her. “But there will be no training or fighting or missions during your recovery.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Shh,” Wanda says, pointing her fork at Natasha. “You will heal faster this way. Besides, a few weeks stuck in this apartment with me? It won’t be so bad.”

“Sounds terrible,” Natasha says, any effect the comment may have had ruined by the wide smile on her face.

“A nightmare.”

“Hell on Earth.”

“Eat your dinner, you child.” Natasha laughs before making a show of obediently eating her meal, and Wanda smiles in satisfaction.

Natasha is home. A little worse for wear, but home, and things are right. Things are good.

my ao3

#scarletwidow #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #black widow #scarlet witch #marvel #my fics #fic: scarletwidow #pride month 2018

[papersandkeyboards]

6/6-12 (1): Spend Your First Day of Fasting Effectively (i.e. Canoeing Under the Summer Sun and Count Tree Rings)

37th WEEK, JUNE 6-12, 2016.

“...you’ll get, what, eighteen hours of Ramadan?”

“No way. How will I survive?”

“You can do it. If you do it, you’ll get bragging rights.”

Main Topic #1: Ramadan 1437 Hijriyah (the Islamic calendar) fell in June 2016, which was in the summer. According to basic rules of fasting, one must fast—refrain from all kinds of food and drink and bad deeds—from dawn until dusk. That being said, in the beautiful summer of North America, fast will last from around 3am to 9pm. That’s 18 hours. Compared to equatorial countries—such as Indonesia—which has constant daylight of 12-13 hours, I’ve lived Ramadan my whole life only from 5am to 6.30pm. That’s 12,5 hours.

Main Topic #2: According to Brian, albeit fasting way more hours that I normally should is hard, at least if I survive 18 hours of Ramadan, I can brag to people back in Indo that I’ve fasted longer than them. Meanwhile, according to Islamic and—I’m sure—any other normative laws, boasting is not such a good thing to do. But still. Hehe.

That was a conversation from my first months in Seattle, when the sun rose at 7.30am and set at 4pm. I used to be able to wake up at 7am and still can do my morning prayer, but as time goes and summer approaches, the sun rises earlier and earlier that at one point it legit scared me how early it was. It scared me even more to realize that the shortest day of the year, the summer solstice, would be right in the middle of Ramadan.

Anyway, if any of you don’t get the concept of Ramadan yet, here it is: Ramadan is a month in the Islamic calendar where us Muslims are obligated to fast (the term has been explained above) for the whole month. Many reasons stand behind the ritual, mainly religious observance. However, other accompanying and underlying reasons also claim that fasting acts as a detox to your body from toxins due to food and drink you may have been gluttonously consuming, a method of a healthy diet (if you do it right), and an act of sympathy and self-reflection by putting ourselves in the shoes of those who have none to eat every single day.

The idea of eating and drinking nothing for 18 hours shocks many people (“not even water??????” they would exclaim), even Karen (and many of my fellow Indonesian exchange students’ host parents) was worried and suggested to skip fast instead and make up for it outside of Ramadan. Even though Karen’s background as a Public Health person is more than convincing, but despite the dreadful waking-up-at-2-am-to-eat and waiting-until-9-pm-to-eat-again, I was excited and was totally up for it. No joke, I prepared what I would eat for pre-fast meal to make sure I will survive the day (this surprises both sides of the globe: my parents and Indo friends would say “but how will you survive without RICE??????” implying the stereotypical Indonesian who cannot survive without eating rice; whereas my own host parents were surprised seeing my shopping list for Ramadan pre-fast meals: “Why do you plan this kind of diet only when Ramadan is coming?” implying a commentary to my not-so-healthy eating habits and why I didn’t try to be this healthy from before).

And some people even advised to go with the Arab schedule—following the dawn and dusk time in Saudi Arabia where it was shorter than in Seattle—but all I had in mind was, it’s not every Ramadan you can fast for 18 hours. So why not try? Hehe. hehehe.

One day, an email came from Brian, telling me that he was going to go on a trip with an English photographer Stephen Vaughan, who was doing a research and shots regarding the big Pacific quake in the 1700s (also well-known as the Cascadia earthquake), which was totally in Brian’s expertise. Knowing my interest in photography, he asked if I would like to come with him.

One catch: the trip, of course, was going to be a fully outdoor one, and it would be hours from Seattle, so we would have to leave early in the morning and would arrive back in Seattle at night. The catch was, it would be on Monday, June 6, 2016, which coincides with—you guess it—the first day of Ramadan.

Here’s the only consideration: I would take the offer, no doubt. But will I be able to survive the day while fasting?

Nope, don’t think I would. Plus, the location is like 280 kilometers away from Seattle (do your own math if you do miles). According to Ramadan Fasting 101, if you travel beyond a certain pre-determined range, you will be considered a ‘traveler’ and thus, a ‘traveler’ can omit from fasting (assuming back then in Prophet Muhammad’s times people had to travel by camel or foot across hot hot desert, so no way anyone could survive that without a drink), as long as one makes up for the fast they’ve ‘lost’ during Ramadan at other times, because the fast is nonetheless obligatory.

So, yay. My first day of Ramadan and I skipped fasting already.

I woke up earlier than I usually do and was picked up by Brian. Then we stopped by this coffee shop Zoka, which was right across the bus stop I usually took to get to Rainier Beach when I still lived in Brian’s, and got a taste of, for the first time, its delicious bagel and (a little way too hot) hot chocolate. Then we drove into another coffee shop in (what I inferred as) the middle of nowhere where we met Stephen the photographer, who would then hitched shotgun for our long long ride to Willapa Bay.

It’s not an often occasion that I spent a whole day immersed in nature. We parked by a bridge across a river, and we took out boots down the river delta—

—nope. Didn’t take my boots. All I did was tighten it and hoped for the best that it didn’t come off whenever I stepped because of the extremely thick mud. I got a few close calls, though. And this happened within the first hour we started our work. (well, Brian and Stephen’s work)

Throughout the trip, doing what I should be doing and what I do best—observing and enjoying, I realized that the area of focus Stephen conveyed on this trip was—well, how do I say this without me sounding stupid—layers of soil and rings of tree. You know, those circles you see on a cross section of a tree. I do know people read tree rings to figure out the age of a tree—the more rings, the older. There is even a whole field of study regarding this (Dendrochronology—the scientific method of dating tree rings to the exact year they were formed, Wikipedia). With what Stephen was taking pictures of and Brian’s fiels of expert, layers of soil and tree rings supposedly makes you look back in time and figuring out history.

After shoveling quite a fair part of the river bank, and if you pay close attention to the exposed soil, you can see layers distinguished by various color, from different shades of brown, black, or even dark yellow. Very much like brownies—layered brownies, if that’s a thing. These layers supposedly can tell you the events that happened in this exact location—what made these different colors of soil—like a drought, a huge flood, or a tsunami. If you ask what event caused what type of soil layer—beats me, Brian’s explanation was so thorough and it would’ve been good if not for my brain capacity voluntarily rejects knowledge to some extent, but maybe at the time I was just not paying full attention. At least I got the gist.

He told me, though, the events that happened here was somewhat related to the aforementioned huge Cascadia quake, because Willapa Bay rests at the edge of the Pacific Ocean along the American west coast, that some ocean waves impact affected this area. Correct me if I’m wrong, though.

(picture courtesy of Stephen Vaughan, 2016)

Uh... yeah. Don’t ask me what this picture meant. Brian and Stephen could probably tell a story by looking at this, but nothing came to my head.

From the river bank, we went back to the car and drove some distance to another part of the river. We set our boat, a small one that fit three people with two rowers. Brian packed snacks and told Stephen and me to put our gears in dry bags (dry bags are cool. I like dry bags). Then, off we went along the South Fork Palix River.

It was a nice day in the beginning of summer. The sky was stark blue, showing ever so little signs of clouds. That left us with nothing but our hats to shelter us from the strong ray and heat (given just getting out of a cold season, so to speak, a temp of 20 degrees Celcius was enough to make me sweat on a stroll down Capitol Hill. Even though I didn’t know the temp when we were in Willapa Bay, I dare to bet that as hot as it got, it didn’t even come close to what my home sweet home town Duri has to offer). The breeze blew slow, the water—though not a clear one—so calm it almost seemed like it was staying still, only disturbed by our boat. The surroundings was exquisitely tranquil, the sole obvious sound was the splash of the rowers against the water. I took a deep breath as I rowed on the left side and Brian on the right, three of us taking turns rowing. I was lucky to be offered the front seat. Probably Brian and Stephen had done this kind of thing a lot and decided to give a little poor town girl a chance to enjoy nature.

[source]

Every once in a while, we would stop by a river bank where Brian would dig out a part of the soil to expose the layers within, Stephen would take pictures, all while both of them discussing the meaning of the layers and what story lay behind them. I, understanding jack, took pictures of anything else but the soil layers.

[pic courtesy of Stephen Vaughan]

After a while of rowing, we pulled over. This time not digging out soil, though. We climbed out of the boat and sit by a small meadow to have snacks. Then we walked some more into the forest that surrounds the river. I remembered something Brian said about this forest being a ‘ghost forest’.

Nope. It was definitely not a forest of ghosts. Or maybe it was. Idk.

(brb googling)

Ghost forest. So, uh, from what I could infer at the least is that when the Cascadia earthquake happened, the shift of the tectonic plates caused the land to drop, and that made seawater came in, so the forest was ‘flooded’ with seawater and killed the trees.

So, what gave the forest the nickname ‘ghost forest’ was because it was occupied by a lot of dead tree stumps. How the knowledge of counting tree rings interpret history regarding this specifically, I do not know. I only came to understand as far as these dead tree stumps were victims/witnesses during the Cascadia earthquake, and that could tell us something, supposedly.

That was our next agenda: taking pictures of dead tree stumps and their rings. I wandered around, took pictures myself and played around the marshes while cleaning my shoes (they were soaking with mud to begin with, so why not finish it off by soaking them wet wih fresh, clean water).

[pic courtesy of Stephen Vaughan]

After successfully burning my hand by the power of the sun and Brian’s small-but-super-powerful magnifying glass he used to count tree rings (but somehow had been left to me for this trip) out of sheer curiosity, Stephen was done with his tree stumps and we paddled back to the car. It was late afternoon and was starting to get dark. We prepped the boat back on top of the car and drove to another forest. This one, I think, was not quite ghostly.

It was a dense forest, like any other ordinary forest. We parked by an open path, and walked in until we found this huuuuuuuuge tree. This one, I think, was very much alive and well, unlike the previous models which were practically tree corpses. This alive one, Stephen called a “witness-survivor”, indicated this tree was also a witness to the Cascadia earthquake, but it survived until the day we paid a visit. How they found out this tree was a survivor I had no idea. Maybe because it was huge and thus very old and old enough that it was alive when the quake happened.

It was really huge, though. Why I said it three times, it is because I’m not kidding. I could have gathered a dozen people and we could’ve joined our hands together to hug the tree.

[picture courtesy of Stephen Vaughan, 2016. BTW I don’t have the any comparison pics, but just believe me it was huge]

Well, since the tree was alive we couldn’t have very much slice it open to take a peep at its rings, so Stephen took a picture of its trunk instead. He whipped out this antique-looking camera and set a timer for a slow-shutter shot. The camera used a film, so he made us sure he was going to take every shot with care (and of course, that served as a warning to NOT mess with it—stay out of frame, don’t even move or else you might shake the camera and the picture could come out imperfect).

ALMOST FORGOT. If you wish to see the kinds of pictures Stephen takes, and his end result of this project he worked on with Brian, do check them out here, as I already inserted as courtesy for the pics I use in this post. Cool guy.

It was really getting darker, and by the time we went back to our car it was time to turn on the car headlights. We arrived in Seattle quite late at night.

---

Phew.

So much for the first day of Ramadan. Unforgettable experience, especially coming from me, who is not a huge fan of nature outing, but this one sure was fun.

Alhamdulillah hehe.

Udah, udah gaada alesan bolos puasa lagi. Besoknya udah harus puasa beneran. Dan besok sekolah.

Marhaban ya Ramadan, the holy month which all Muslims are excited about, come at me, bro.

#langkahanakbangsa #willapa bay #ramadan #stephen vaughan

[tsgjacksonholewyoming]

12 REASONS TO SUMMER IN A SKI TOWN

Jackson Hole, Aspen, and Park City are widely regarded as the perfect playgrounds for those seeking a winter getaway. But the summer season is as good a time as any to pay a visit to these dynamic mountain towns. Recently, we sat down with The Scout Guide Aspen co-editors Erin Jones and Amy Groom, The Scout Guide Jackson Hole editor Jill King, and editor of the forthcoming The Scout Guide Park City Suzanne Dildy to discuss the top reasons to book a summer getaway out west. From extreme beauty and stellar shopping to outdoor activities galore, our insiders share why you should consider ditching the beach in favor of some clean mountain air.

WHY TO SUMMER IN JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING

The snow falls deep in Jackson Hole, and while this makes for a skier’s paradise in the winter, come the thaw, naturalists delight in the warm weather splendor. Here’s why The Scout Guide Jackson Hole editor Jill King recommends visiting during the summer months.

Take in an abundance of wildflowers. “After the winter depths of snow, the wildflowers are amazing,” King says. “I think they’re best viewed from my number-one favorite 12+ mile hike: Sleeping Indian in the Gros Ventre Wilderness, which can take you up over 5,800 vertical feet.” King notes that you can only view the wildflowers from May through September because of these are the only 60 continuous frost-free days per year—all the more reason to book a plane ticket now. On display will be Indian paintbrush, larkspur, columbine, rare calypso orchid, fireweed, and over 1,000 varieties only seen in high altitude.  

Two words: wildlife babies. “The truncated summers here mean baby animals only have a short window to grow and put on fat reserves to survive the winter,” King says. In May and June, you have an opportunity to view elk and deer calving, grizzly and black bear cubs, moose and bison babies, as well as birds such as eagles, raven, great gray owls, and cranes. The best viewing, according to King, is near the Craig Thomas Discovery and Visitor Center in Grand Teton National Park.

It’s the best place for a wild ride. Due to the abundance of snow runoff, the lakes and rivers are full and ready for wild and scenic rafting, fly fishing, boating, kayaking, and canoeing. “My favorite spot is Goodwin Lake, found only after a six-mile hike,” King says. “It’s worth the effort, as fishing will bring cutthroat trout, or you can enjoy a chilly but crystal-clear dip in the lake.”

Instagram-worthy sunrise and sunset moments. With a visit to Grand Teton Park, you will be rewarded with views of glaciers, mountains, rivers, and lakes as your backdrop. One of King’s  favorite spots is just inside the park at Oxbow Bend. This is one of the most photographed areas, offering views of the Tetons and a plethora of critters against the backdrop of a stunning park sunrise or sunset.

WHY TO SUMMER IN ASPEN, COLORADO

This once-sleepy Colorado town was put on the map as a ski getaway. But here, The Scout Guide Aspen co-editors Jones and Groom share why Aspen and the Roaring Fork Valley should be a top summer destination.

The most gorgeous hiking, fishing, and horseback riding around. “One must-do is to visit the Maroon Bells, the most photographed peaks in North America,” Jones shares. And for good reason: there are stunning views and great hiking trails. As if that weren’t enticing enough, Groom adds, “In Aspen, you can hike through wildflowers, fish in Gold Medal waters, horseback ride through the aspens, and bike on and around our mountains.

Become acquainted with all things crafted. “Craft spirits, craft beers, and handcrafted food make this a culinary destination, no matter your palate,” Jones says. For the ultimate foodie experience, visit in mid-June, when the Food & Wine Classic makes Aspen a top destination for culinary talent.

Experience arts and culture all summer long. Kicking off with the Food & Wine Classic, the area continues to celebrate throughout the season with the Aspen Ideas Festival (mid-June), the annual Fourth of July parade, Aspen Arts Festival (late-July), and JAS Labor Day music. The town comes alive surrounding these happenings, Jones says, drawing big thinkers and cultural icons alike.  

Enjoy a perfect summer stroll. The Aspen climate could not be more ideal for those who like to be out and about all day long. “With daytime highs in the 80s and evenings in the 60s, Aspen is neither too hot or too cold,” Groom says. Whether you’re taking in the Saturday Market or visitings the dozens of boutiques in town and in the valley, you’ll enjoy every comfortable second of your visit.

WHY TO SUMMER IN PARK CITY, UTAH

From extreme beauty and outdoor activities galore to the best in live music, Park City should top your list of must-visit summer locations, says The Scout Guide Park City editor Suzanne Dildy. Here’s why.

Jaw-dropping beauty abounds. “Park City is home to  glorious views of the Wasatch Range Mountains everywhere you turn,” Dildy says. “The vibrant colors of the flowers, quaking aspens, and pine trees will take your breath away.” Plus, the weather is warm and sunny in the daytime, but cool enough at night to wear a sweater when the sun goes down, so you can enjoy all of nature’s splendor in comfort.  

Outdoor enthusiasts rejoice. If you enjoy getting your heart rate up while on vacation, Park City is the ideal destination. Dildy says that you can choose from biking, fly fishing, camping, and many other summer activities while visiting the area. And if thrills are what you’re after, there are even zip lines and mountain coasters.  

Listen to the music. “My absolute favorite thing about summer in Park City is that you can hear live music outdoors almost every night,” Dildy says. Her favorites places to enjoy the outdoor entertainment are at Deer Valley, where you can order a gourmet picnic, sip wine with friends, and enjoy world-class music while taking in the breathtaking mountain landscape around you.

Enjoy outdoor markets. A local favorite, The Park City Farmers Market, held every Wednesday from 12 to 5 p.m., is the perfect spot to load up on amazing local products ranging from produce and gourmet delicacies to handmade Native American jewelry. In addition, “The Park City Silly Market is a must on Sundays,” Dildy says. “Local vendors sell hand-made crafts, and you can enjoy lunch or a beverage from gourmet food trucks while listening to live local music.”

Learn more about The Scout Guide Aspen here, The Scout Guide Jackson Hole here, and The Scout Guide Park City here. | Follow instagram

*This article was featured in THE SCOUT GUIDE.

*Tetons and wildflowers in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, photographed by Gray Cane Studios (image 1), Maroon Bells in Aspen, Colorado. Courtesy Aspen Chamber, Photographer C2 Photography (image 2), and The Kimball Arts Festival in Park City, Utah, photographed by Carla Boecklin (image 3).

#jackson hole wyoming #jackson hole summer #jackson hole summer vacation #wyoming vacation

[click2watch]

Enough with the ICO-Me-So-Horny-Get-Rich-Quick-Lambo ‘Crypto’

CoinDesk asked cypherpunk legend Timothy May, author of the “Crypto Anarchist Manifesto,” to write his thoughts on the bitcoin white paper on its 10th anniversary. What he sent back was a sprawling 30-page evisceration of a technology industry he feels is untethered from reality.

The original message is presented here as a fictional Q&A for clarity. The message remains otherwise unchanged. Read more in our White Paper Reflections series.

CoinDesk: Now that bitcoin has entered the history books, how do you feel the white paper fits in the pantheon of financial cryptography advances?

Tim: First, I’ll say I’ve been following, with some interest, some amusement and a lot of frustration for the past 10 years, the public situation with bitcoin and all of the related variants.

In the pantheon, it deserves a front-rank place, perhaps the most important development since the invention of double-entry book-keeping.

I can’t speak for what Satoshi intended, but I sure don’t think it involved bitcoin exchanges that have draconian rules about KYC, AML, passports, freezes on accounts and laws about reporting “suspicious activity” to the local secret police. There’s a real possibility that all the noise about “governance,” “regulation” and “blockchain” will effectively create a surveillance state, a dossier society.

I think Satoshi would barf. Or at least work on a replacement for bitcoin as he first described it in 2008-2009. I cannot give a ringing endorsement to where we are, or generate a puff-piece about the great things already done.

Sure, bitcoin and its variants – a couple of forks and many altcoin variants – more or less work the way it was originally intended. Bitcoin can be bought or mined, can be sent in various fast ways, small fees paid and recipients get bitcoin and it can be sold in tens of minutes, sometimes even faster.

No permission is needed for this, no centralized agents, not even any trust amongst the parties. And bitcoin can be acquired and then saved for many years.

But this tsunami that swept the financial world has also left a lot of confusion and carnage behind. Detritus of the knowledge-quake, failed experiments, Schumpeter’s “creative destructionism.” It’s not really ready for primetime. Would anyone expect their mother to “download the latest client from Github, compile on one of these platforms, use the Terminal to reset these parameters?”

What I see is losses of hundred of millions in some programming screw-ups, thefts, frauds, initial coin offerings (ICOs) based on flaky ideas, flaky programming and too few talented people to pull off ambitious plans.

Sorry if this ruins the narrative, but I think the narrative is fucked. Satoshi did a brilliant thing, but the story is far from over. She/he/it even acknowledged this, that the bitcoin version in 2008 was not some final answer received from the gods..

CoinDesk: Do you think others in the cypherpunk community share your views? What do you think is creating interest in the industry, or killing it off?

Tim: Frankly, the newness in the Satoshi white paper (and then the early uses for things like Silk Road) is what drew many to the bitcoin world. If the project had been about a “regulatory-compliant,” “banking-friendly” thing, then interest would’ve been small. (In fact, there were some yawn-inducing electronic transfer projects going back a long time. “SET,” for Secure Electronic Transfer, was one such mind-numbingly-boring projects.)

It had no interesting innovations and was 99 percent legalese. Cypherpunks ignored it.

It’s true that some of us were there when things in the “financial cryptography” arena really started to get rolling. Except for some of the work by David Chaum, Stu Haber, Scott Stornetta, and a few others, most academic cryptographers were mainly focused on the mathematics of cryptology: their gaze had not turned much toward the “financial” aspects.

This has of course changed in the past decade. Tens of thousands of people, at least, have flocked into bitcoin, blockchain, with major conferences nearly every week. Probably most people are interested in the “Bitcoin Era,” starting roughly around 2008-2010, but with some important history leading up to it.

History is a natural way people understand things… it tells a story, a linear narrative.

About the future I won’t speculate much. I was vocal about some “obvious” consequences from 1988 to 1998, starting with “The Crypto Anarchist Manifesto” in 1988 and the Cypherpunks group and list starting in 1992.

CoinDesk: It sounds like you don’t think that bitcoin is particularly living up to its ethos, or that the community around it hasn’t really stuck to its cypherpunk roots.

Tim: Yes, I think the greed and hype and nattering about “to the Moon!” and “HODL” is the biggest hype wagon I’ve ever seen.

Not so much in the “Dutch Tulip” sense of enormous price increases, but in the sense of hundred of companies, thousands of participants, and the breathless reporting. And the hero worship. This is much more hype than we saw during the dot-com era. I think far too much publicity is being given to talks at conferences, white papers and press releases. A whole lot of “selling” is going on.

People and companies are trying to stake-out claims. Some are even filing for dozens or hundreds of patents in fairly-obvious variants of the basic ideas, even for topics that were extensively-discussed in the 1990s. Let’s hope the patent system dismisses some of these (though probably only when the juggernauts enter the legal fray).

The tension between privacy (or anonymity) and “know your customer” approaches is a core issue. It’s “decentralized, anarchic and peer-to-peer” versus “centralized, permissioned and back door.” Understand that the vision of many in the privacy community — cypherpunks, Satoshi, other pioneers — was explicitly of a permission-less, peer-to-peer system for money transfers. Some had visions of a replacement for “fiat” currency.

David Chaum, a principal pioneer, was very forward-thinking on issues of “buyer anonymity.” Where, for example, a large store could receive payments for goods without knowing the identity of a buyer. (Which is most definitely not the case today, where stores like Walmart and Costco and everybody else compiled detailed records on what customers buy. And where police investigators can buy the records or access them via subpoenas. And in more nefarious ways in some countries.)

Remember, there are many reasons a buyer does not wish to disclose buying preferences. But buyers and sellers BOTH need protections against tracking: a seller of birth control information is probably even more at risk than some mere buyer of such information (in many countries). Then there’s blasphemy, sacrilege and political activism. Approaches like Digicash which concentrated on *buyer* anonymity (as with shoppers at a store or drivers on a toll-road), but were missing a key ingredient: that most people are hunted-down for their speech or their politics on the *seller* side.

Fortunately, buyers and sellers are essentially isomorphic, just with some changes in a few arrow directions (“first-class objects”).

What Satoshi did essentially was to solve the “buyer”/”seller” track-ability tension by providing both buyer AND seller untraceability. Not perfectly, it appears. Which is why so much activity continues.

CoinDesk: So, you’re saying bitcoin and crypto innovators need to fight the powers that be, essentially, not align with them to achieve true innovation?

Tim: Yes, there is not much of interest to many of us if cryptocurrencies just become Yet Another PayPal, just another bank transfer system. What’s exciting is the bypassing of gatekeepers, of exorbitant fee collectors, of middlemen who decide whether Wikileaks — to pick a timely example — can have donations reach it. And to allow people to send money abroad.

Attempts to be “regulatory-friendly” will likely kill the main uses for cryptocurrencies, which are NOT just “another form of PayPal or Visa.”

More general uses of “blockchain” technology are another kettle of fish. Many uses may be compliance-friendly. Of course, a lot of the proposed uses — like putting supply chain records — on various public or private blockchains are not very interesting. Many point that these “distributed ledgers” are not even new inventions, just variants of databases with backups. As well, the idea that corporations want public visibility into contracts, materials purchases, shipping dates, and so on, is naive.

Remember, the excitement about bitcoin was mostly about bypassing controls, to enable exotic new uses like Silk Road. It was some cool and edgy stuff, not just another PayPal.

CoinDesk: So, you’re saying that we should think outside the box, try to think about ways to apply the technology in novel ways, not just remake what we know?

Tim: People should do what interests them. This was how most of the innovative stuff like BitTorrent, mix-nets, bitcoin, etc. happened. So, I’m not sure that “try to think about ways” is the best way to put it. My hunch is that ideologically-driven people will do what is interesting. Corporate people will probably not do well in “thinking about ways.”

Money is speech. Checks, IOUs, delivery contracts, Hawallah banks, all are used as forms of money. Nick Szabo has pointed out that bitcoin and some other cryptocurrencies have most if not all of the features of gold except it also has more features: it weighs nothing, it’s difficult to steal or seize and it can be sent over the crudest of wires. And in minutes, not on long cargo flights as when gold bars are moved from place to another.

But, nothing is sacred about either banknotes, coins or even official-looking checks. These are “centralized” systems dependent on “trusted third parties” like banks or nation-states to make some legal or royal guaranty.

Sending bitcoin, in contrast, is equivalent to “saying” a number (math is more complicated than this, but this is the general idea). To ban saying a number is equivalent to a ban on some speech. That doesn’t mean the tech can’t be stopped. There was the “printing out PGP code,” or the Cody Wilson, Defense Distributed case, where a circuit court ruled this way,

Printed words are very seldom outside the scope of the First Amendment.

CoinDesk: Isn’t this a good example of where you, arguably, want some censorship (the ability to force laws), if we’re going to rebuild the whole economy, or even partial economies, on top of this stuff?

Tim: There will inevitably be some contact with the legal systems of the U.S., or the rest of the world. Slogans like “the code is the law” are mainly aspirational, not actually true.

Bitcoin, qua bitcoin, is mostly independent of law. Payments are, by the nature of bitcoin, independent of charge-backs, “I want to cancel that transaction,” and other legal issues. This may change. But in the current scheme, it’s generally not know who the parties are, which jurisdictions the parties live in, even which laws apply.

This said, I think nearly all new technologies have had uses some would not like. Gutenberg’s printing press was certainly not liked by the Catholic Church. Examples abound. But does this mean printing presses should be licensed or regulated?

There have usually been some unsavory or worse uses of new technologies (what’s unsavory to, say, the U.S.S.R. may not be unsavory to Americans). Birth control information was banned in Ireland, Saudi Arabia, etc. Examples abound: weapons, fire, printing press, telephones, copier machines, computers, tape recorders.

CoinDesk: Is there a blockchain or cryptocurrency that’s doing it right? Is bitcoin, in your opinion, getting its own vision right?

Tim: As I said, bitcoin is basically doing what it was planned to do. Money can be transferred, saved (as bitcoin), even used as a speculative vehicle. The same cannot be said for dozens of major variants and hundreds of minor variants where a clear-cut, understandable “use case” is difficult to find.

Talk of “reputation tokens,” “attention tokens,” “charitable giving tokens,” these all seem way premature to me. And none have taken off the way bitcoin did. Even ethereum, a majorly different approach, has yet to see interest uses (at least that I have seen, and I admit I don’t the time or will to spend hours every day following the Reddit and Twitter comments.)

“Blockchain,” now its own rapidly-developing industry, is proceeding on several paths: private blockchains, bank-controlled blockchains, pubic blockchains, even using the bitcoin blockchain itself. Some uses may turn out to be useful, but some appear to be speculative, toy-like. Really, marriage proposals on the blockchain?

The sheer number of small companies, large consortiums, alternative cryptocurrencies, initial coin offerings (ICOs), conferences, expos, forks, new protocols, is causing great confusion and yet there are new conferences nearly every week.

People jetting from Tokyo to Kiev to Cancun for the latest 3-5 days rolling party. The smallest only attract hundreds of fanboys, the largest apparently have drawn crowds of 8,000. You can contrast that with the straightforward roll-out of credit cards, or even the relatively clean roll-out of bitcoin. People cannot spend mental energy reading technical papers, following the weekly announcements, the contentious debates. The mental transaction costs are too high, for too little.

The people I hear about who are reportedly transferring “interesting” amounts of money are using basic forms of bitcoin or bitcoin cash, not exotics new things like Lightning, Avalanche, or the 30 to 100 other things.

CoinDesk: It sounds like you’re optimistic about the value transfer use case for cryptocurrencies, at least then.

Tim: Well, it will be a tragic error if the race to develop (and profit from) the things that are confusingly called “cryptocurrencies” end up developing dossiers or surveillance societies such as the world has never seen. I’m just saying there’s a danger.

With “know your customer” regulations, crypto monetary transfers won’t be like what we have now with ordinary cash transactions, or even with wire transfers, checks, etc. Things will be _worse_ than what we have now if a system of “is-a-person” credentialing and “know your customer” governance is ever established. Some countries already want this to happen.

The “Internet driver’s license” is something we need to fight against.

CoinDesk: That’s possible, but you could make a similar claim about the internet today isn’t exactly the same as the original idea, yet it’s still be useful in driving human progress.

Tim: I’m just saying we could end up with a regulation of money and transfers that is much the same as regulating speech. Is this a reach? If Alice can be forbidden from saying “I will gladly pay you a dollar next week for a cheeseburger today,” is this not a speech restriction? “Know your customer” could just as easily be applied to books and publishing: “Know your reader.” Gaaack!

I’m saying there are two paths: freedom vs. permissioned and centralized systems.

This fork in the road in the road was widely discussed some 25 years ago. Government and law enforcement types didn’t even really disagree: they saw the fork approaching. Today, we have tracking, the wide use of scanners (at elevators, chokepoints), tools for encryption, cash, privacy, tools for tracking, scanning, forced decryption, backdoors, escrow.

In a age where a person’s smartphone or computer may carry gigabytes of photos, correspondence, business information – much more than an entire house carried back when the Bill of Rights was written – the casual interception of phones and computers is worrisome. A lot of countries are even worse than the U.S. New tools to secure data are needed, and lawmakers need to be educated.

Corporations are showing signs of corporatizing the blockchain: there are several large consortiums, even cartels who want “regulatory compliance.”

It is tempting for some to think that legal protections and judicial supervision will stop excesses… at least in the US and some other countries. Yet, we know that even the US has engaged in draconian behavior (purges of Mormons, killings and death marches for Native Americans, lynchings, illegal imprisonment of those of suspected Japanese ancestry).

What will China and Iran do with the powerful “know your writers” (to extend “know your customer” in the inevitable way)?

CoinDesk: Are we even talking about technology anymore though? Isn’t this just power and the balance of power. Isn’t there good that has come from the internet even if it’s become more centralized?

Tim: Of course, there’s been much good coming out of the Internet tsunami.

But, China already uses massive databases – with the aid of search engine companies – to compile “citizen trustworthiness” ratings that can be used to deny access to banking, hotels, travel. Social media corporate giants are eagerly moving to help build the machinery of the Dossier Society (they claim otherwise, but their actions speak for themselves).

Not to sound like a Leftist ranting about Big Brother, but any civil libertarian or actual libertarian has reason to be afraid. In fact, many authors decades ago predicted this dossier society, and the tools have jumped in quantum leaps since then

In thermodynamics, and in mechanical systems, with moving parts, there are “degrees of freedom.” A piston can move up or down, a rotor can turn, etc. I believe social systems and economies can be characterized in similar ways. Some things increase degrees of freedom, some things “lock it down.”

CoinDesk: Have you thought about writing something definitive on the current crypto times, sort of a new spin on your old works?

Tim: No, not really. I spent a lot of time in the 1992-95 period writing for many hours a day. I don’t have it in me to do this again. That a real book did not come out of this is mildly regrettable, but I’m stoical about it.

CoinDesk: Let’s step back and look at your history. Knowing what you know about the early cypherpunk days, do you see any analogies to what’s happening in crypto now?

Tim: About 30 years ago, I got interested in the implications of strong cryptography. Not so much about the “sending secret messages” part, but the implications for money, bypassing borders, letting people transact without government control, voluntary associations.

I came to call it “crypto anarchy” and in 1988 I wrote “The Crypto Anarchist Manifesto,” loosely-based in form on another famous manifesto. And based on “anarcho-capitalism,” a well-known variant of anarchism. (Nothing to do with Russian anarchists or syndicalists, just free trade and voluntary transactions.)

At the time, there was one main conference – Crypto – and two less-popular conferences – EuroCrypt and AsiaCrypt. The academic conferences had few if any papers on any links to economics and institutions (politics, if you will). Some game theory-related papers were very important, like the mind-blowing “Zero Knowledge Interactive Proof Systems” work of Micali, Goldwasser and Rackoff.

I explored the ideas for several years. In my retirement from Intel in 1986 (thank you, 100-fold increase in the stock price!), I spent many hours a day reading crypto papers, thinking about new structures that were about to become possible.

Things like data havens in cyberspace, new financial institutions, timed-release crypto, digital dead drops through steganography, and, of course, digital money.

Around that time, I met Eric Hughes and he visited my place near Santa Cruz. We hatched a plan to call together some of the brightest people we knew to talk about this stuff. We met in his newly-rented house in the Oakland Hills in the late summer of 1992.

CoinDesk: You mentioned implications for money… Were there any inclinations then that something like bitcoin or cryptocurrency would come along?

Tim: Ironically, at that first meeting, I passed out some Monopoly money I bought at a toy store. (I say ironically because years later, when bitcoin was first being exchanged in around 2009-2011 it looked like play money to most people – cue the pizza story!)

I apportioned it out and we used it to simulate what a world of strong crypto, with data havens and black markets and remailers (Chaum’s “mixes”) might look like. Systems like what later became “Silk Road” were a hoot. (More than one journalist has asked me why I did not widely-distribute my “BlackNet” proof of concept. My answer is generally “Because I didn’t want to be arrested and imprisoned.” Proposing ideas and writing is protected speech, at least in the U.S. at present.)

We started to meet monthly, if not more often at times, and a mailing list rapidly formed. John Gilmore and Hugh Daniel hosted the mailing list. There was no moderation, no screening, no “censorship” (in the loose sense, not referring to government censorship, of which of course there was none.) The “no moderation” policy went along with “no leaders.”

While a handful of maybe 20 people wrote 80 percent of the essays and messages, there was no real structure. (We also thought this would provide better protection against government prosecution).

And of course this fits with a polycentric, distributed, permission-less, peer to peer structure. A form of anarchy, in the “an arch,” or “no top” true meaning of the word anarchy. This had been previously explored by David Friedman, in his influential mid-70s book “The Machinery of Freedom.” And by Bruce Benson, in “The Enterprise of Law.

He studied the role of legal systems absent some ruling top authority. And of course anarchy is the default and preferred mode of most people—to choose what they eat, who they associate with, what the read and watch. And whenever some government or tyrant tries to restrict their choices they often finds way to route around the restrictions: birth control, underground literature, illegal radio reception, copied cassette tapes, thumb drives ….

This probably influenced the form of bitcoin that Satoshi Nakamoto later formulated.

CoinDesk: What was your first reaction to Satoshi’s messages, do you remember how you felt about the ideas?

Tim: I was actually doing some other things and wasn’t following the debates. My friend Nick Szabo mentioned some of the topics in around 2006-2008. And like a lot of people I think my reaction to hearing about the Satoshi white paper and then the earliest “toy” transactions was only mild interest. It just didn’t seem likely to become as big as it did.

He/she/they debated aspects of how a digital currency might work, what it needed to make it interesting. Then, in 2008, Satoshi Nakamoto released “their” white paper. A lot of debate ensued, but also a lot of skepticism.

In early 2009 an alpha release of “bitcoin” appeared. Hal Finney had the first bitcoin transaction with Satoshi. A few others. Satoshi himself (themselves?) even said that bitcoin would likely either go to zero in value or to a “lot.” I think many were either not following it or expected it would go to zero, just another bit of wreckage on the Information Superhighway.

The infamous pizza purchase shows that most thought of it as basically toy money.

CoinDesk: Do you still think it’s toy money? Or has the slowly increasing value sort of put that argument to rest, in your mind?

Tim: No, it’s no longer just toy money. Hasn’t been for the past several years. But it’s also not yet a replacement for money, for folding money. For bank transfers, for Hawallah banks, sure. It’s functioning as a money transfer system, and for black markets and the like.]

I’ve never seen such hype, such mania. Not even during the dot.com bubble, the era of Pets.com and people talking about how much money they made by buying stocks in “JDS Uniphase.” (After the bubble burst, the joke around Silicon Valley was “What’s this new start-up called “Space Available”?” Empty buildings all around.)

I still think cryptocurrency is too complicated…coins, forks, sharding, off-chain networks, DAGs, proof-of-work vs. proof-of-stake, the average person cannot plausibly follow all of this. What use cases, really? There’s talk about the eventual replacement of the banking system, or credit cards, PayPal, etc. is nice, but what does it do NOW?

The most compelling cases I hear about are when someone transfers money to a party that has been blocked by PayPal, Visa (etc), or banks and wire transfers. The rest is hype, evangelizing, HODL, get-rich lambo garbage.

CoinDesk: So, you see that as bad. You don’t buy the argument that that’s how things get built though, over time, somewhat sloppily…

Tim: Things sometimes get built in sloppy ways. Planes crash, dams fail, engineers learn. But there are many glaring flaws in the whole ecology. Programming errors, conceptual errors, poor security methods. Hundreds of millions of dollars have been lost, stolen, locked in time-vault errors.

If banks were to lose this kind of my money in “Oops. My bad!” situations there’d be bloody screams. When safes were broken into, the manufacturers studied the faults — what we now call “the attack surface” — and changes were made. It’s not just that customers — the banks — were encouraged to upgrade, it’s that their insurance rates were lower with newer safes. We desperately need something like this with cryptocurrencies and exchanges.

Universities can’t train even basic “cryptocurrency engineers” fast enough, let alone researchers. Cryptocurrency requires a lot of unusual areas: game theory, probability theory, finance, programming.

Any child understands what a coin like a quarter “does,” He sees others using quarters and dollar bills and the way it works is clear.

When I got my first credit card I did not spend a lot of time reading manuals, let alone downloading wallets, cold storage tools or keeping myself current on the protocols. “It just worked, and money didn’t just vanish.

CoinDesk: It sounds like you don’t like how innovation and speculation have become intertwined in the industry…

Tim: Innovation is fine. I saw a lot of it in the chip industry. But we didn’t have conferences EVERY WEEK! And we didn’t announce new products that had only the sketchiest ideas about. And we didn’t form new companies with such abandon. And we didn’t fund by “floating an ICO” and raising $100 million from what are, bluntly put, naive speculators who hope to catch the next bitcoin.

Amongst my friends, some of whom work at cryptocurrency companies and exchanges, the main interest seems to be in the speculative stuff. Which is why they often keep their cryptocurrency at the exchanges: for rapid trading, shorting, hedging, but NOT for buying stuff or transferring assets outside of the normal channels.

CoinDesk: Yet, you seem pretty knowledgeable on the whole about the subject area… Sounds like you might have a specific idea of what it “should” be.

Tim: I probably spend way too much time following the Reddit and Twitter threads (I don’t have an actual Twitter account).

What “should” it be? As the saying goes, the street will find its own uses for technology. For a while, Silk Road and its variants drove wide use. Recently, it’s been HODLing, aka speculating. I hear that online gambling is one of the main uses of ethereum. Let the fools blow their money.

Is the fluff and hype worth it? Will cryptocurrency change the world? Probably. The future is no doubt online, electronic, paperless.

But bottom line, there’s way too much hype, way too much publicity and not very many people who understand the ideas. It’s almost as if people realize there’s a whole world out there and thousands start building boats in their backyards.

Some will make, but most will either stop building their boats or will sink at sea.

We were once big on manifestos, These were ways not of enforcing compliance, but of suggesting ways to proceed. A bit like advising a cat… one does not command a cat, one merely suggests ideas, which sometimes they go with.

Final Thoughts:

Don’t use something just because it sounds cool…only use it if actually solves some problem (To date, cryptocurrency solves problems for few people, at least in the First World).

Most things we think of as problems are not solvable with crypto or any other such technology (crap like “better donation systems” are not something most people are interested in).

If one is involved in dangerous transactions – drugs, birth control information – practice intensive “operational security”….look at how Ross Ulbricht was caught.

Mathematics is not the law

Crypto remains very far from being usable by average people (even technical people)

Be interested in liberty and the freedom to transact and speak to get back to the original motivations. Don’t spend time trying to make government-friendly financial alternatives.

Remember, there are a lot tyrants out there.

Image via Consensus archives 

The leader in blockchain news, CoinDesk is a media outlet that strives for the highest journalistic standards and abides by a strict set of editorial policies. CoinDesk is an independent operating subsidiary of Digital Currency Group, which invests in cryptocurrencies and blockchain startups.

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