#trading pelt for fabric?

[blackbackedjackal]

What are some actual problems in the animal product industry?

I'm mostly familiar with fur farming so that's what I'll comment on.

A big concern of mine is that because ARA campaigns against people using or farming fur there's been a decline in the public's trust of fur products in countries that traditionally had good animal welfare standards. This has caused an uptick in fur being farmed in places where the animal welfare laws aren't as regulated, so you're seeing many more unethical farms being able to sell furs cheaply to markets that buy fur for textile. The quality of the fur doesn't matter as much as in the clothing market, so the animals are raised to be as big as possible, exceeding thier healthy sizes and weights to produce as much fur on one animal as possible.

Simultaneously, these unethical farms and businesses are aware of the bad press that ARA groups have spread about the industry, and will sell off other byproducts that aren't as heavily scrutinized or regulated as fur. Many mislabeled blue fox skulls are being sold worldwide (often illegally) by oddities dealers that come from these farms as well as oils and fertilizers and other byproducts of fur farming. It's easy to tell if an animal was unhealthy due to the condition of the pelt, but when the fur is processes as wool or part of the animal people may not recognize came from a fur farm is distributed, it still funds these poorly regulated places.

Meanwhile, the farmers and workers who are being harassed are ones who are generally compliant with WelFur standards, meaning that their farms are up to the current welfare codes in place. It's causing many good farms to go out of business or in some cases close down due to entire states or countries banning fur farming or the use of fur products.

So now good farms are being held accountable for bad practices done at other farms, and it's becoming more and more difficult to find places that do hold up to ethical animal husbandry standards. It's also promoting the use of plastics to make faux fur products which are far worse for the environment then just using fur. And due to the scrutiny many farmers face, it's becoming less worth it for them to sell thier animals as pelts and instead sell them to the exotic pet trade (i.e. people like saveafox who buys foxes directly from an unethical fur farm with bad breeding practices).

It's bad because it feels like there's very little room for changes and improvements to the fur industry because of the chokehold ARA groups have on the public's understanding of fur farming. For example, I'd like to see more ethical breeding practices done based on studying certain color generics and how they effect the health of certain species (we know some color mutations also cause genetic issues with certain species and I would like to have more information as to why that happens and how it can be avoided). However, it's difficult to discuss topics like that and push for change within the industry because most fur farms have to be extremely cautious with who they discuss thier practices to. ARAs will often lie to them to infiltrate thier farms to "expose" them by fabricating lies or stealing and releasing thier animals.

#and that's just the tip of the iceberg #fur farming #don't even get me started on the meat industry #ask

[starlightrows]

Better Late Than Never

Chapter 2

Masterlist

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Pairing: Alpha!Boba x Omega!reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: processing past trauma

The drizzling rain showers come and go but eventually transitions into silent snowfall after a few weeks. The tall evergreen trees that make up the Seelyia forest get a light dusting of snow that eventually gets heavier and heavier until the bows become weighed down and the snow slips off and falls to the ground.

You’ve only seen snow a handful of times in your life. Usually you can see snow dusting on the mountains from your village and on the far off eastern ridge line of the valley. Maybe it had snowed on the valley floor in the past, but not during your lifetime.

Ahni helped you make a new dress better suited to the climate, made of thick fabric that keeps you warm even without a cloak. She helps you make a new cloak as well, trimmed with soft fur. Ahni has been a wonderful friend these last few weeks. She’s introduced you to everyone in the pack, helped you settle into a community tent with other omegas your age, and taught you how this pack functions together.

Hunting groups go out every few days to bring back wild game. Mostly alphas and betas go on the hunting trips, but any are welcome to join if they wish to participate. Those who don’t go out to hunt process the meat to be eaten soon or preserve it for later, its is hide tanned to make leather and its pelt is used to make clothing and blankets.

She also explains to you that this pack is nomadic, traveling when and where the council decides. Usually for trade, or hunting, or gatherings of their allied packs. They use wooly bantha to help transport their belongings and to ride, but they aren’t kept in camp. Bantha camp is always a few miles away and they are attended by a few members of the pack that stay with them full time.

You’ve also learned that this pack, and apparently most other packs beyond Lyra Valley, have a very different way of life when it comes to sex and mating. In your village alphas, betas and omegas were kept separate from each other for the most part. The concept of bonding with a mate must have been done away with at some point by generations above you. Who you mated with was designated and assigned by the reigning alphas. Children were raised by the community and placed into their designated biological group when they began presenting usually at about four years of age.

“So, no one is allowed to mate or have sex?” Ahni has asked you.

“No. Mating without express permission from the reigning council was forbidden in my village…. I thought it was normal”

“I have never heard of a pack operating that way” she admits “What do the alphas do when they are in rut? And you, poor omega, how have you survived your heat without a knot to cope with the pain?”

“The alphas would go to the north woods when their rut was approaching… I never thought to ask where they went or what they did” you shrug “Omegas were sent west to the deep water pools… we were taught from a young age to tread water in the freezing ponds during our heats”

Ahni looked horrified. “That’s…. That’s awful. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“Why is that bad?” Her alarmed state scared you, you never questioned how things were done in your pack. You were born and raised there and knew nothing else.

“Because! Your heat is your biology telling you what it needs. You’re an omega. Omegas need care and comfort during their heat, either from other omegas or from a partner that can provide the release for you…. not a frozen pond to numb their needs away” She explained

You had many discussions like this with Ahni all through the winter months. You learned a lot about the social dynamics between the three presentations. Different packs treat the dynamic differently, but some things are the same across the spectrum.

The more you learned, the more you resented your pack. You found yourself hoping that you would not have to return to them in the spring. You wanted to live in this world that allowed omegas to embrace their instinctual needs, and gave betas equality in their social structure of the pack, and enforced healthy balance for alphas to embrace their own needs without exerting undue power over omegas and betas.

By the time the snow melted away the pack had already moved several times since you joined them. The pack was now camped near a large river that had many smaller creeks and streams shooting off from it. You had no idea where this river was located in relation to Lyra Valley, and you hoped to never find out.

The sun shone down bright and warm, every member of the pack was in the creek that day. Pups laughed and screamed and splashed in the water, the youngest getting their first swimming lessons from the older children or their parents. Most people were washing their clothes and their bodies alike. Some had no shame and were completely naked. Others chose to wear undergarments or simple shifts to cover themselves while they bathed.

You were swimming with Ahni and some of the other omegas you’ve become close to, laughing with them and enjoying the warmth of the sun on your shoulders. Some of them were naked under the water but you weren’t quite ready to cross that boundary yet, so you wore a linen shift.

After a while you went ashore to dry off and hang your freshly washed clothes on a line. You pinned your winter dress to the line and suddenly got the feeling you were being observed. A familiar scent prickled at your nose, dark mahogany wood, sharp pepper, and sweet blackberries. You turned and looked over your shoulder and saw Boba Fett, Alpha of the pack, looking at you from across the meadow. He catches your eye and stands from where he had been leaning against a tree and starts making his way towards you.

“My lord alpha” you give your head a little bow when his feet stop before you.

“Omega” he address you kindly “As you know, the winter snows and our packs movements have made accessing Lyra Valley difficult. But I have finally gotten word back from the riders I sent out. Your village survived, smaller in number I’m afraid, but surviving all the same. If you wish to return home, I will give you a bantha and guards to escort you now that the weather has improved”

You swallow the lump that formed in your throat the moment he mentioned Lyra Valley. You can’t help the frown that settles on your face “Your pack has shown me unparalleled kindness and acceptance that I will never be able to repay” you start “I… I would ask that you let me stay with your pack if it’s not too much trouble my lord alpha”

Boba reaches out towards your face, lifting your chin up to look at him with two gentle fingers “You have done well learning our ways, if you wish to stay I will gladly accept you as a permanent member of my pack”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you my lord” Your cheeks are so warm and flushed as your heart surges with joy. You feel an immense pull in your chest towards him, like your gratitude and relief at being welcome to stay wants to jump out of you and take physical form to offer thanks.

As if this day could not get any better! You dismiss yourself from Boba and run to find your friends and share the good news. The pull you felt spreads from your chest down into your belly when you move away from him. It grows stronger and more powerful. Putting distance between you and him felt something like separating magnets. But you rationalized it as being nervous energy and forced it out of your mind so you could continue running to find Ahni.

——

The warm days of spring brought more light each day and new growth to the fields and forests you and your new pack traversed. The pack traveled much more frequently and much greater distances in the spring and would even more in the summer, you’ve been told.

Every day you seemed to learn something new. New lands meant new wild fruits to gather, mushrooms to find, grasses to weave, animals to hunt. Ahni told you that more omegas in the pack would be having heat cycles now that spring was here. She taught you about nesting, self soothing that didn’t involve soaking in cold water, and she told you that the best solution to deal with your heat is an alpha to knot you.

“I don’t think I could do that” you shied away from that thought. Your newfound freedom excited you, but you still found yourself running back to old habits and ways of thinking when you felt overwhelmed.

“Oh, you don’t have to! No no, biologically that’s what your body wants during heat, so it’s the best relief you can get. But no one will expect you do anything if you don’t want to” she explained “Some omegas help each other during their heats, getting each other off to ease the pain, but not everyone wants that. There is no shame in building a nest for yourself and handling it however you feel comfortable”

That made you feel better. You were so grateful for Ahni’s seemingly endless patience and acceptance for you. Sometimes you feel like an overgrown pup, needing to be taught everything about the world at such a late age. Ahni never let you get far with those thoughts, better to learn now and live free than never learn at all.

In late spring, when the days started turning from warm to hot, Ahni went into heat. She had spent the winter and all of spring “fooling around” with a beta she liked. When her heat started she went to his tent and didn’t come out for five days. The other omegas you shared your tent with told you that they all knew this was going to happen.

“What do you mean?” You asked

“His name is Litus, he and Ahni have been pining for each other since they were pups” Samara explained

“She goes with him when he ruts and he stays with her while she’s in heat” says Addam

“This isn’t just her heat this time” Ginny smiles “This time it’s for good”

“What’s for good?” You ask “He’s not hurting her is he?”

“Of course not!” Addam assures you “They’re bonding. Mating for life”

“Ohh” you nod in understanding. “So they’ll never be with anyone else now?”

“That’s the idea. Obviously not everyone follows that vow unfortunately” Samara shakes her head “But we take bonding seriously in this pack. You can have sex and mate with whoever you like so long as they’re consenting, but a bond is a promise”

“Do bonded pairs raise their own pups?” You ask

“Oh yes. Not all parents are bonded, but it is expected that anyone who had a hand in creating a life help raise it” Ginny says

“What was it like being raised with no parents?” Addam asked. Samara elbowed him in the ribs and shook her head at him.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to” she frowns at Addam

“No no, it’s alright” you assure them “I didn’t feel like I was missing out because no one had specific parents. I was raised by the generation that was about ten years older than me. By the time we were ten our mentors were twenty and were done raising us. Then it was our turn to raise the young that came after”

“Pups raising other pups” Ginny mused “What do they do after 20?”

“Maintaining the pack. Hunting, farming, tending the livestock, doing whatever the reigning council told you do to” you shrugged

“But you didn’t get to choose. Say if you loved tending the animals, but they made you hunt instead?” Samara asked

“Then you would do it. We were taught to always obey the reigning council… I never wanted to find what would happen if I didn’t do as I was told” you admit

The three omegas share glances between them “Submission is valued and earned by pack leading alphas. I’m so sorry you grew up in a place that forced your submission” Ginny says sadly

“I never even thought about it growing up. But when I think about it, when Ahni found me and brought me here — I didn’t even think about going home. I don’t really miss anyone. I’m sure everyone thinks that I died in the raid, and I’m kind of okay with it”

“You have a place with us now. You’re part of this pack and this family” Addam smiles at you

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #Alpha Boba Fett #a/b/o dynamics #Alpha!Boba #Omega!Reader #Better Late Than Never

[bonefall]

Is there any materials that could be made into clothes? Do the cats wear clothes as fashion or for winter or is it seen as pointless or wasteful? Armor even?

There are three major materials that can be made into wearables!

Clan cats don't usually wear clothes though, simply because there's not much need. Their winter coats come in when the weather gets cold and they return to camp when it gets too cold to stand, but they do make belts and accessorize.

LEATHER

Warm, durable, heavy, and abundant thanks to their carnivorous diet. ThunderClan in particular is a little obsessed with their leather, heavily valuing the pelts of moles and red squirrels.

Every time there's ever been a border dispute about squirrels involving ThunderClan, it's because they were angry that another Clan was killing reds (Clanmew: Pishkaf) instead of grays (Chakchak). For one, they don't want anyone else having the brilliant orange pelts of red squirrels without trading for them, and for two, grays are invasive, aggressive, and the unauthorized killing of reds gives them another advantage they don't need.

WindClan also has plenty of leather because of the majority of their diet being rabbits.

FLAX

This is a big one, flax is light and flexible, making for excellent belts and canvases. Flax processing is intensive and takes a long time, but it's completely worth it.

The war over the Mothermouth Moorland was largely over its flax. It's a floodplain, and this plant grows best there, even better than it does in RiverClan. Besides also hunting frogs and crayfish, controlling this area was the primary way that ShadowClan had access to good fabric.

This material is usually saved for Clerics and travelers, since it's so lightweight.

FUR/HAIR/WOOL

Longhaired cats can have their fur collected and turned into felt, helpful for simple little accessories and crafting soft little figurines. But, it's also possible to steal wool from sheep in WindClan.

That's rare though, because WindClan tries to leave sheep alone. They're usually guarded by dogs, or defended by their twolegs in some way.

#As for armor I'm just not super interested in it #I spoke about it a while back through #It's around if you want to go digging #Clan Culture

[hermitdrabbles56]

Four and Legend doing blacksmithy things and dealing with everyone's gear. Grumbling and griping about how bad everyone is about taking care of their shit on their own.

They get to Wilds gear expecting a nightmare and are floored by how well mended and patched up it is. Questions where he learned insue and Wild just stares blankly at them before slowly pointing over his shoulder at Twilight who's been off in the corner for the past hour fixing his and Wilds chainmail. "He did it"

Because he probably doesn't mention it much because he's not as tied to it as Legend and Four are. But he was also mentored/raised by a man who was a blacksmith!

Rusl made the sword that Twilight uses and was a master swords man who taught Twilight everything he knew before meeting the heroes shade. So proper weapon and gear care was drilled into him already and Rusl made sure he knew what was necessary for sharpening swords and fixing chainmail when Twilight became a hero so he'd be safe.

Needless to say he starts helping Four and Legend more and more especially when one or both of them is down for the count.

In a similar sense, I feel him and Legend are the best at sewing and patching clothes boots and other things as well. Legend has the fashion sense. But Twilight is perfectly capable of recreating the Chains clothing pieces if he has the fabric, and at the very least can professionally patch tears and seams and anything else needing fixing.

Ordon village is a small community that thrives off of hand made items with the products they produce. All of their clothes being made from the spin fur/wool of the Ordon goats. I have no doubt that Uli made his clothes for him but also taught him everything she knows. So he can spin/sew/knit do just about anything if he has the supplies.

He's also very resourceful because of this just like Wild is, and any of the others that pick up gear wherever they can.

Twilight will gather up arrows with Wild after a battle weather intact or broken as long as the heads are still good so that they can use the heads to make more arrows. Because of this he'll also take over with the hunting if they haven't seen or won't see a village in a while because Wild isn't used to gathering pelts and feathers. So if Twilight does it he can get leather/bones/fletching anything that the group can use for gear maintenance or even trade the next time they do go to a village.

#hunter/gatherer twilight #linked universe #lu twilight #twilight princess #lu wild #lu legend #lu four #Im sorry I just think hes neat okay?

[cutthroatcarnival]

Revered Deity, Unknown Hero (5/10)

Halfway there!

Read chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

Find it on AO3 here!

A Twilit Challenge

Twilight laughed as the kids tugged him to a small clearing in Ordon Village, the hope and glee loud in their voices as they begged him to show them moves.

“Link! Link! Show us something cool!” Malo was tugging on the wolf pelt, trying to get Twilight’s sole attention. Smothered laughs were heard behind him, and he rolled his eyes; if his fellow heroes were trying to be subtle, they were failing miserably.

“Well,” he loosened Malo’s grasp on his pelt and swung the kid up onto his shoulder, “I’ll need a partner to help me.” Cheers rose up from the kids.

A scheming smile slipped onto his face.

“Why don’t you all help me choose?”

A dirty tactic? Maybe, but he knew who the kids would choose- they had been staring at him in awe for most of the day- and it would help further his plan.

Twilight had noticed how wound-up Warriors had been throughout the day; his eyes and ears were constantly alert, and his body never seemed to relax, even while in the safety of the village. But he knew it wasn’t because of an outside threat.

The dragon inside the captain was stirring- the wolf had made that clear, the same feeling when he had first met the captain. A warning, even if he knew no harm would come to him.

So, what better way than to blow off some steam and stress than a sparring session?

“Scarf guy!” The captain squawked. Twilight turned to see the three kids yanking at his scarf, and snorted at the lost look on the other's face. As the kids walked backwards, Warriors followed- probably didn’t want to be choked out by his own scarf.

“You want Wars here to be my sparring partner?” A chorus of excited ‘yes’ answered him. Malo started to wiggle, so he let the kid down- watching him run over to his brother and join in on scarf yanking party.

The rest of the heroes were in quiet hysterics over the spectacle- Sky and Legend were leaning against each other, barely audible wheezing laughter falling from their lips.

A sharp whistle caught the kids’ attention, “If you want us to show anything, you have to let him go.” They proceeded to drop the royal blue fabric and rushed to the nearest fences, either climbing on top of or sitting on the ground against them.

Warriors unwound his scarf and folded it, passing it off to Time. He walked over to Twilight and followed the rancher to their sparring spot. The rancher handed off one of the wooden swords to him, and made his way to his side of the area, Warriors mirroring his actions.

“One minute, or until one yields.” Time had assumed the role of referee.

Rules laid out, the two bowed, and began circling, body’s low; two predators prowling and calculating. It wasn’t until their third circle around that Twilight noticed Warriors had not dropped his gaze. He could sense the wolf’s hackles raising- if Warriors knew the implication of meeting Twilight’s gaze and holding it steady, he made no show of it.

The challenge was on.

Twilight took the first move, and the spar truly began. He had the advantage of raw strength, but the captain was professionally trained to a high degree, which he displayed as he redirected his slash with a fluid movement. They traded blow after blow, wooden swords smacking together as they went, clashing and pushing against the other, dodging and swinging.

“Thirty seconds!”

With a grunt, Twilight broke their current clash, catching Warriors off guard enough to make him stumble. Not exactly a shield attack, but it would work just the same. Quickly shifting his stance, he pushed off and jumped, aiming to attempt the Helm Splitter.

Instead of his sword meeting its mark, Twilight felt a hand wrap around his ankle and pull. He stopped short in the air and fell, the hand swiftly releasing him, allowing him to roll to absorb the shock. Before he could get his bearings, a weight slammed into him with a snarl and pinned him on his back, a knee sharply digging into his stomach.

Above him was Warriors, yet his blue eyes were no longer filled with friendly competition, instead hardened with power and divine light, making them glow brightly as the man’s feature twisted in a fanged snarl. Twilight bared his own fangs and growled in response with his ears pinned back, eyes narrowing dangerously, readying himself to buck the captain off.

The dragon had challenged the wolf on his own territory, after all.

Applause broke the challenge between the two, shocking them both out of their stupor, and Warriors clambered off of Twilight, offering him a hand that he graciously took.

The kids came flooding back to them, rushing around their legs and yanking on any article of clothing within their reach, yelling excitedly at the spectacle they were shown.

“Alright, alright, let’s get you guys back to your parents.” Twilight gently herded the kids back towards the houses, the other hero at his shoulder. He chewed on his lip nervously; had the spar been too much?

Warriors bumped his shoulder, simultaneously a silent thanks and to tell him that everything was okay. Twilight returned the bump, releasing his now bleeding lip from his teeth as his nerves were soothed.

Inside, the wolf snuffled contentedly, for the “danger” had dissipated; the dragon within the captain was satiated, curling around itself and fading to the back, settling far below the surface.

The dragon would rear its head again one day, he was sure, but for now it rested.

#linked universe #linked universe chain #lu chain #lu warriors #lu time #lu sky #lu twilight #lu legend #lu wind #lu wild #lu four #lu hyrule #god of war warriors #mars writes #cross posted on ao3 #lu fanfiction #linked universe fanfic #lu fic #linked universe fic #revered deity unknown hero

[containatrocity]

HC; The Last Crossroads Rockstar

"Oh, no... these are just... the tools of my trade, baby. Now. Who're you takin' your chances on?"

It is a testament to his ego that October Roulette's kit of death has been on grand display since the early days of his fame. The custom engraved .45 Colt Buntline gifted to him at 17 years old depicting honeysuckle flowers, dead trees and runes along the barrel with a red-stained cherrywood handle is where his nickname "Roulette" came from- the gamble a deadly one, not a monetary one, and this side-arm has featured prominently on the cover of every cover his band and solo career saw released, and is a commonly tattooed reference for fans of Autumn's Gamblers or Odd Revolver. It's regarded fondly, an old friend- the one thing that has never left him high and dry, and despite it's age, nearly 31 years old, it functions like new, and the black tarnish on silver barrel only serves to intensify the silvery engraving and citrine stone inlays along the handle- glittering, bright orange eyes staring from the carved-in face of a fanged goat. But it is not typically a .45 round that ends the lives of those who fall to the Gambler, that honor is attached to the 9-inch blade of the skinning knife similarly customized to October's strenuous wants and desires. Intentionally made to be difficult to place as anything other than a standard hunter's kit and therefore easy enough for any party to get their hands on to perform any host of cruelty with, October's favored blade depicts a nightscape between the handle and business end, and is kept sharp enough he could shave with it. It sits hidden in a holster against his side just the same as its partner in crime, prepared to kill at a moment's notice, and it's blood spilled with this knife that imparts it's clinging, coppery smell to the heavy, custom made jacket that hangs around his massive frame. The coat, intentionally made to further bolster an imposing, towering frame, is more threat than fashion, worn even through hot weather over typical crustpunk fare. Heavy metal fasteners reinforce dirty, stained leather and run through matted brown, black, and red fur, strips of fabric and bits of metal fastened to sleeves to further customize something that even those familiar with his celebrity assumed was a simple costume piece. A wolf's pelt lends itself to the collar, thick grey and black not dissimilar from October's own mohawk and Vitiligo dotted, age-marked beard. It has seen as much suffering as its owner, and in the fabric, fur, and leather, it carries the blood spilled from every offering made to that which handed over his success- bodies made and laid to rest at crossroads with surgeon's precision and an artist's madness.

#o.headcanons #o.musings #violence mention tw #tw gun mention #tw knives

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Costube AU - Supercorp

After Kara and Lena become friends, they do a collab series where they arrange to go to a destination together for a long weekend and trade styles.

Not only do they have to wear each other's styles, they have to first MAKE each other's styles. In the process they have to research each other's respective eras, and they share that process in the weeks before they travel, sharing the info they find with their audiences.

Then they do the bulk of their sewing while facetiming each other. Kara tries to stumble her way through making a corset, and more than once has to call out a question to Lena, who provides the answer without breaking her concentration-- which is very intense.

Kara would have thought her style would be easy for Lena, but more than once she hears a groan or a curse as Lena realizes she's either a) done something wrong or b) made something way more complicated than it needed to be. But Lena looks so cute when she has her nose buried in a sewing maching, her face half hidden behind large eyeglasses.

Likewise Lena gets a kick out of listening to Kara singing to herself as she cuts patterns, and muttering to her boning to 'just stay there!' She breaks into a belly laugh when Kara ultimately groans and glares at her with a 'I hate you' when the corset goes badly.

They do the finishing touches together in their air bnb, handsewing either in front of a cozy fire or out on the balcony, depending on the season. It's quiet and intimate, punctuated only by the quiet prick of needles in fabric and the draw of thread pulling through fabric.

The morning of the official swap-- to be enjoyed out on the town, complete with montage footage and instagram photos both separate and together-- Lena emerges from her bedroom in trousers and vest, complete with Kara's trademark braid crown and a newsboy hat. She looks jaunty and uncharacteristically casual.

Kara's jaw drops, and it takes a long moment for her to think to close.

Lena notices that Kara's Gibson Girl hairdo is starting to sag, so she bids Kara to turn around so she can help pin up the bun more securely.

On camera, they comment on each other's construction and patterning, and overall execution. They also reflect on what they like and dislike about the style they're wearing. (Kara likes the swish of the long skirt, and the posture the corset gives her; Lena dislikes wearing pants, but admits that she isn't uncomfortable in them.)

Overall, they both agree that either way, they both prefer the style on the other person more. They then go into detail about the staples of their styles and how tos of the makeup and hair they do for themselves.

In and among all this official content are snippets of them just enjoying themselves, including sharing bites of meals and giggling together on scenic streets and pelting each other with popcorn during a movie night (both in their respective nightwear).

It drives the fans nuts with speculation.

#supercorp #costube au #sewtube au

[pinkysberg]

my Charles joining the gang hc: I hc that that little strip of fabric he had tied around his knee relates to a knee injury he had. he was hunting on his own and jumped down from a ledge and blew out his knee (it's always stupid mistakes that cause these injuries- I know bc I've had it) and he couldn't walk on it so he traded some pelts he already had for shelter in the gang for a few weeks until he was back on his feet. but he liked it sm he stayed hehe.

oo i love this!! also love the idea of charles being accident prone

#capable but clumsy <3 #rdr2 #ask #charles smith

[inquisitorius-sin-bin]

So, with Chapter 3 of Ride or Die coming out last night, I kind of wanted to give a little no-spoilers outlook into some of my worldbuilding process. I feel really passionately about using this story to create an alien culture which feels rich, tangible, and unique enough to be its own separate entity. I especially want to avoid any sort of cultural appropriation or cheap indigenous stereotypes, which would be easy to fall into when you're creating groups of nomadic grassland peoples.

So why even do plains nomads at all? The surface of Utapau is described as an uninhabitable plain, wrought with hyperwind storms and dangerous wildlife, yet there are canonically groups of people that live there such as the Amani, and it is said to be the origin of the Pau'an species. So, I reasoned it wouldn't be impossible there were groups of Pau'an that actively chose to retain their cultural heritage and stay on the surface of the planet. And to avoid dangerous natural catastrophies such as hyperwind storms or wildlife, they would need to be mobile and not utilize permanent settlements.

Of course, there are going to be certain elements that are common to nearly every indigenous group of grassland nomads. Like your shelter is going to need to be some tent-like structure you can take down and carry with you. You're probably going to rely on some kind of animal mount to carry you and your possessions from place to place. But I can add little touches to make them unique, and not quite like anything we see on Earth.

In this post, I want to focus on one micro-element from the story: floor cushions. So far in this work, we've only met one particular clan. There are ten, and I describe in short detail some of the differences between them, but we'll see more when we meet other groups. This particular group has a lifestyle based on falconry, using birds to catch small game, fletching arrows, etc.. The leader of this group is married to a former member of a different group whose focus was on textile making in a process called "stitch-weaving". In addition, the closeness of the two groups is reinforced, because the protagonist was going out to trade with this weaving group when we contacted them in the story.

So these characters' particular environment is full of mostly textile furnishings and clothes, with a few leathers and furs mixed in. Specifically, there is a floor cushion, which is described as a "woven mat, stuffed with down feathers and grass". In my head, I'm thinking, these characters need to pack efficiently so they can live life on the move, so when they need to pick up, they simply empty their cushions, roll the mats into a compact shape for travel, and when they reach their destination, they fill them full of whatever material they have on hand. For this group, their falcons would catch other birds, giving them access to down, and obviously grass is abundant everywhere and gives structure to the cushion.

In contrast, we have a different character who comes from a group that specializes in big game hunting and functions as a standing army. We haven't met them yet, but their environment would be nearly the opposite, less woven fabrics and more emphasis on animal pelts, because that is what they have in abundance. It also makes sense, because big animals are dangerous and if you're fighting, you're going to need the protection that layers of leather offer. Their floor cushions would be more likely to be made of fur, and stuffed with material like Jamel wool and hair.

Maybe other groups would use a blend, or maybe there's a plant fiber available similar to cotton, but I like to put effort into making each group distinct from one another, and how those differences play into their political relationships. To me, it makes for a rich world that feels realistic, but not exactly like "space Mongolia" or "space Great Plains". And if you like this idea, I hope you'll give my work a read! I haven't gotten spicy just yet, so if that x reader fics aren't your jam, you don't have to worry about that just yet.

Anyways, happy reading!

#ride or die fic #pau'an headcanons

[kursed-curtain]

Sealing the Deal

A @threeadventurers AU Fic

(Sea Adventurers, feat. Sea Monster!Guybrush, Zora!Link, and Selkie!Graham)

Chapter 2

First - Prev - Next

~=~

Graham gripped at the wrists of his bracers, picking at the loose fabric mindlessly. He bubbled inside, like a geyser ready to burst. Yet that geyser couldn't come out, even if he wanted it to.

It's gone.

His eyes darted around, scanning the area - the ground, the windows, the rooftops. He was still moving, but he felt frozen in place. He should be looking. He should be moving around, searching.

It's gone, his pelt is gone.

Link and Guybrush caught up to Graham. After realizing he ran off, they assumed he went back in the opposite direction, though they weren't sure why.

Link tapped Graham's shoulder, asking, "Graham, what's going-"

And Graham lunged, snapping his teeth. Thankfully, Link was deft and dodged the attack. "Hey, what gives?"

Then Link noticed Graham's glazed-over eyes. Link's expression softened, and he waved over Guybrush. Guybrush observed it too, and nodded.

Guybrush made sure to be in Graham's sight when he stepped forward. He held out a hand (hoping the suckers didn't get in the way). Graham bared his teeth, but Guybrush stayed there, patient.

After a lingering amount of hesitation, Graham took Guybrush's hand, squeezing and unsqueezing it, like a stress ball. Guybrush led Graham and Link to the beach - away from the crowds. The shoreline was a comfort spot for the three of them. They sat in the sand, listening to the waves. The sun was setting, and it was as if the sun was going for a swim.

Graham breathed in the cool, salty air, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He still squeezed and unsqueezed Guy's hand - the repetitive motion was comforting, amongst all the unfamiliarities. Guybrush hummed, gurgling in his strange sea creature language.

Link knelt on the opposite side of Guybrush, so as not to disturb Graham. "Hm… hey, Guy," Link whispered, "I think we forgot something."

"Yeah…" Guybrush pondered. His ear fins perked up. "Cloak."

"Hm?"

"Graham doesn't have his cloak."

"Oh, Hylia, that's what it is!" Link tapped his fingers. "Want me to start searching for it? You two can stay here."

"That would be great, thanks." Guybrush smiled. As Link turned, Guybrush tapped him on the leg. "Make sure to be back here before it gets dark. We can check into an inn then."

Link saluted, then ran off. With a sigh, Guybrush turned back to Graham. "How's it going, Graham?"

Graham leaned his head on his knees. "I'm… scared."

"Of… your cloak being lost?"

Graham nodded. "I've only lost it once, in Daventry, and I promised myself I would never make the same mistake again," Graham rubbed his shoulders. They felt lighter. Empty.

Graham soon found a weight on his shoulders. He looked up to find Guy had draped some of his tentacles over Graham. It had the same sort of grounding, comforting feeling as Graham's cloak did. Graham choked up a few tears.

Guybrush held out another tentacle for Graham to hold. Immediately, Graham clung to it, with the same sort of endearment he had with the tail on his pelt. They sat there, on the beach, hugging each other as the tide rolled in and out.

The sun eventually sunk beneath the sea, and Link huffed back to the beach.

Unfortunately, he came back empty-handed.

"Any sign of where it might have gone? Who might have taken it, maybe?" Guybrush inquired, searching for even a glint of hope.

"I asked a few of the tradespeople and apparently they heard about a seal pelt being bartered for around the marketplace," Link recalled. He turned to Graham. "Apparently your pelt has been sold off to someone. A few people, actually. It was traded for a bunch of other items. I tried to follow the trail of who it had been sold off to, but the market stands are closing."

Link kneeled next to Graham. "I wish I could have done better… I'm sorry."

Graham pulled Link into a hug. "You did the best you could." Graham's voice quavered.

The three of them checked into an inn for the night. The solemn silence between the three of them was deafening. The bedroom had a false emptiness to it. They tucked into bed, with Graham opting to sleep on the floor.

…Though, sleep wasn't coming for him. He tossed and turned, worries like ping-pong balls filled his mind with restlessness. When he slept on the floor, his pelt was usually his sleeping bag.

He shot up. The longer he spent doing nothing, the further his pelt would go. He had to do something.

Graham set out for the chilling, barren market streets. It felt like a ghost town, now that all the stands were closed. He didn't know where to look first.

"Hey, you there!"

Graham snapped to attention. His eyes darted to a person on the ocean pier. He wandered over.

"Hello," Graham waved, "What are you doing out here?"

"Can't you see?" They gestured to their fishing rod, resting on one of the pier's raised supports.

Graham rapidly tapped his foot. "Um, okay?"

"Why do you do that?" They asked, bluntly. The fisher rapidly slapped their knees to demonstrate, and Graham mimicked the motion. The fisher pointed at him. "See? That thing. Why do you do that?"

Graham paused his slapping. He rubbed his bracers, then shrugged.

The fisher paused, then smiled. "Ah, you're one of them seal folks, arent'cha?"

"How did you know?" Graham gasped, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I spent a few years of my life on the shores of Llewdor. Them seals are most prominent there. I've grown to know their mannerisms." The fisher spun their bucket hat on their finger, then caught it. "Also, I heard about a seal skin being passed around, with a pretty hefty price on it too. Seal skins aren't as valuable as, say… a selkie skin."

"Do you know who it went to??" Graham was practically hopping in place.

The fisher snapped their fingers. "I do. Better yet, I can show you where it went. C'mon."

The two winded through the streets, under the shaded skies, through the darkened alleyways...

And disappeared.

#sea adventurers au #fanfic #kings quest #selkie au #graham kq #legend of zelda #link legend of zelda #link loz #zora link au #guybrush threepwood #monkey island #sea monster au

[flowersbythebridge]

A Chance Meeting

Kana and Sugi starter for @bubblymilkgalaxy​~

The day is pleasantly warm - a nice change from the chill of early spring. Up above, her husband’s murkrow caws down to her, swooping in to land on Kana’s pack. She breaks off a piece of the bean cake in her hands and holds it out for him, smiling as he takes it delicately, cawing in thanks.

“You’re going to have to move, you know,” Kana chuckles as she pops the last of the bean cake into her mouth. “I have to get unpacking.”

Buddy squawks - a sound similar to a human laughing - which earns them both some strange looks from the nearby villagers, but Kana pays them no mind. (She’s used to strange looks; they stopped getting to her after the first few years.) She just shoo’s the pokemon down off her pack as though there’s no one around, and sets to work pulling out the bi-weekly stock of things the Diamond Clan has given her to trade and sell.

She doesn’t have a proper stall in the marketplace to sell from; rather, she unfolds a large, lightweight square of fabric and hikes it up on makeshift tent poles to act as an awning. Then, laying a longer, thicker cloth along the ground, Kana spreads out the various goods stored within her pack, her side satchel, and even wrapped around her back and arms.

There is... quite a lot today.

By the time she’s mostly set up, a thin layer of sweat has started to form beneath her tunic. Kana pauses in placing her own embroidery samples and handmade hair ribbons out for display and takes a small vial from her pocket. Uncorking it, she lets a few droplets fall across her fingers before wiping the sweet-smelling oil along her neck. She breathes deeply, sighing the lungful back out at the scent of wildflowers and oran berries. 

A moment later, after eyeing the trade goods dubiously, she splashes a bit more of the perfume overtop the display items as well. Can’t have the things she’s trying to sell smelling like sweat either, after all.

(Unbeknownst to both Kana and her murkrow, however, a nimble little stowaway creeps out from a short pile of pelts, where it had been hiding for the last few hours. As quietly as its tiny legs can carry it, the strange, dark blue sneasle kit darts away to go explore…)

#alt muse: Kana #((uhhhhh tags tags let's see here...)) #pretty things

[faolan-red-eagle]

Hey, would you be willing to answer any of the in-depth tes oc questions? If so, i'm curious about 3, 11, 17, and 20. Not pressure of course!!! 🥰

ooh okay!!

3. Does your oc have any kind of crafting skills that either aren’t in-game or don’t have as much importance in-game as they would in real life? (For example, can your oc sew or weave, etc? Are they skilled in any kind of art? Can they make jewelry or work glass? Are they musicians? etc)

Ru can sew, basic sewing both for fabric and skin is something that's taught to every Reachfolk child regardless of their adult profession. He can sing very well, but is utterly hopeless with string instruments. He also does woodcarvings! They're very highly detailed and painted, and he likes just giving them out to whoever wants one, no payment required. (Lydia despairs of this, because he will spend many hours getting a raven's wing the right shape and then just give it to a random kid, lmao. He mostly just does it to have something to do with his hands when he's bored or anxious.)

11. What is your oc’s main source of income, if they have one besides plundering tombs and adventuring? If they’re mercenaries, are they part of a company? Does your oc own their own business, and if so, what is it?

Ruaidri's main income is actually fur trading, he'll hunt deer or foxes or the odd sabretooth and sell the pelts to merchants. He'll also occasionally sell "bloodstones" that are found in large quantity in the Reach to traders. (These are actually carnelians and red agates, highly prized by Imperial jewelers for the deep red color. The Reach doesn't have much use for such "bloodstones" because they're not useful for alchemical purposes and aren't very popular for use in talismans or other jewelry, either.)

17. What does your oc like to eat? How much food do they eat? Can your oc cook, and can they do it well?

Ohohoho, okay so! Due to growing up as a refugee, this man Will eat whatever is put in front of him; he doesn't really have a preference for a long time (when he gets older and settles down and there's peace, he does actually discover a love of lemon pie). Because of his Dragonborn nature, he needs to eat a lot more protein and red meat than the average human, however, he doesn't often do that because he tends to unintentionally skip meals especially when he's focused on something (or just when no one reminds him that Food Is A Thing You Need, What Do You Mean You Have To Earn It?) Ru doesn't have the uh... healthiest relationship with food, unfortunately.

He can cook very well, he's very good at campfire food-type of cooking. He can also bake passably fine, it's not like The Best Ever and it probably won't look great but it tastes delicious. He can't do anything too fancy that requires fine motor control however, due to the nerve damage and stiffness from the scar tissue on his hands.

20. What does your oc wear in the city/settlements? In the house? When travelling, but not adventuring or expecting combat? Do they vary their clothes depending on what hold/city they’re in? If they don’t, why not (e.g., if your oc wears the same outfit to tend their garden or lounge around the house as they did to meet Ulfric or Elisif, why?) Does your oc have a good or bad sense of fashion? How many clothes does your oc have?

He tends to wear his Reachfolk leathers for everything, mostly out of a constant fear of attack due to his Obvious Reachfolk-ness, though in the safety of his home in Karthruud (and later, Markarth) he does "dress down" by just wearing the underlayer of clothing for his armor. The only times he's worn fancier clothes are for Reach ceremonies that he participated in, and the Thalmor party he went undercover as a Bruman merchant to. He flatly refused to wear the outfit Taarie offered for him to meet Elisif in, as the cut was tight and restricted his range of motion, and he felt it would be dishonest, to dress up like a nobleman just to get an audience with the Nords' Ard that much faster. (Lucien had a lot of fun wearing the outfit, though, which was kind of nice.) Ru doesn't really have a sense of fashion beyond "these colors look nice together", lol, the big thing he's concerned with for any outfit is "can i move/fight in this?" and if the answer is no then he will be disgusted with the clothing and possibly the tailor. He owns three pairs of trousers, four shirts, two pairs of boots, several pairs of socks and undergarments, as well as carries about a full yard of treated leather to fix his armor/boots as needed. (Ru is also guilty of cannibalizing one or two of his older sister's tunics once to repair an old shirt that he really liked because it was "broken in in all the right places" which Eithne has still not forgiven him for, lmao.)

#thanks for the ask bestie 💕 #ruaidri ap cynwrig #my ocs

[battlelitanys]

verb: cross; 1. go or extend across or to the other side of (an area, stretch of water, etc.). "he crosses the Rhotano Sea"

this was written for the first prompt of the FFXIV Write 2022 challenge! i'll be crossposting on ao3 and teasing extras on twitter! plz come make mutuals with me if you're doing this challenge too, would love to support other creators. enjoy! :3

*

It’s two stretches until his twentieth summer when he brings it up again. 

“So? Have you thought about it?”

He’s under an awning, aiding Vel with repairing the weaving to certain hunting tools. This is work they were supposed to contend with under the light of the day, tasked it in the morning. Now they’re huddled around a cloying log fire with sore fingers from all the mistakes under firelight.

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Vel offers back, gnawing his lip raw as he tries to thread some more fabric in to reinforce the staff. He very decidedly doesn’t look up. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll do it.”

“Well, why not?” Hawu asks, indignant. He gives up on his tool, letting it clatter to the ground beneath them and fixes his kithood friend with a frown.

“Hmm,” Vel deadpans back, “maybe the small factor of our wardling initiation in mere moons?”

“But if it wasn’t—“

“—but it is—“

“—would you?”

“Leave?” Vel hisses, looking around furtively before finally catching his gaze with cast gold eyes. 

Hawu huffs out a sigh, falling back to lie down and stare up at the glittering night sky. There’s a stray rock trapped against the pelt material of his top, desperate to scratch at his skin, but he ignores it. He’s quiet for a moment, before he speaks again:

“You’ve seen what there is out there on trading routes… so much more than our forest. Don’t we deserve the chance to explore? To learn?”

Every time they venture into Yedlihmad, Hawu stares longingly at the open sea routes, and the boats that are waiting for adventure to sail them, before he’s ushered along by his partner for the day. One boat in particular remains in his mind, the stocky captain selling his wares from a world away.

“And leave our mothers behind in the process.” 

Hawu falters at that, brows furrowing over amber eyes, and finds he has nothing else to say. Vel stares at him, before putting his own tool down and reaching over to smooth the frown out of his forehead placatingly. 

“Two moons. Two moons and you’ll see something more than this village. Just… stick around.”

*

(He doesn’t quite last.)

The night the woodwarders trickle into the village is when he disappears, spooked. The thought of being stagnant, tethered to this watchful clan for an eternity grabbed at his heart and twisted enough to abscond with only a single look back. 

By the time he gets to Yedlihmad, the sun is cresting over the oceanline, and the same fisherman he’s seen pawning off goods to the water market is packing his wares at the end of the dock.

“Are you leaving?” Hawu asks when he reaches him, through panting breaths and a heaving chest. 

“I am,” the skipper responds, suspicious look on his face as he pauses slightly, brief recognition flittering over weathered features.

“Take me with you, then!” He jumps at the chance to impose, surprising the boatrider with his passion. “I’ll do anything you need over the trip.” 

There’s a couple of gil left over he’d stuffed away from old trading exerts, and he shoves it in the mans hand without a chance for him to decline.

Hawu waits in baited breath for the response, and a relieved sigh escapes him when the fisherman beckons him onto the vessel with a jerk of the head.

*

Salt sticks to his skin like the moss-based paint he’d attempted at scrubbing away the night before as he crosses over the waters to new territory. 

The boat is smaller than the vessels he saw docking in the harbour each day whilst on trading routes, and yet it’s perfect. It’s a fisherman’s vessel with colourful streamers tied at the mast that cast down beautiful colour through beams of skylight into the waters below. Perfect distractions for fish, he’s told. 

Helmed by a large man who isn’t used to the sheer heat of the Thavnairian isles, or so he keeps saying time and time again, he has the outer main section of the boat to himself for the majority of the trial, just him and the open blue.

“Now Limsa, that’s a nicer climate. Balmy,” The skipper calls from the driver’s seat. His voice almost gets lost over the spray of the sea, but Hawu just about catches the words. “You’ll like it more.”

Hawu wants to defend Ilsabard, that the southern climate has always agreed with him, but the words die in his throat the further away the landmass grows from him. This is a chance for something new, and to begin anew, that meant looking forward.

“Tell me about Limsa!” He shouts over the wind picking up, a stray storm encroaching that they should be able to miss. It’s far enough away, anyway, and hours pass to where he forgets about it entirely.

They discuss Limsa Lominsa and it’s apparent rebirth for the first hour, and his other impressive travels for the next, and Hawu is so wrapped up in distracted awe that he doesn’t realise the storm has encroached a bit too close for comfort until it’s too late. 

Waves wrack at the edge of the boat, wind whipping the vessel this way and that, and his heart drops. He yelps as the boat jerks to the side, water swelling up and drenching them. 

The captain staggers to the side out of his chair, but immediately falls back into it, well accustomed to rocky waters it seemed. 

“Hold on, boy!” He calls out, but it’s drowned out by the crash of the waves. Hawu’s knuckles are lily white, clenched around a hanging rope so tight his palm is burning. 

The fisherman tries to wrangle them free, but ultimately fails, resigned to letting the waters and the storm carry them off-kilter and overboard. 

“Boy—!“

He swallows salted water first, when he’s plunged into the ocean below, and chokes. The waves make it so he’s dragged this way and that, rag dolled in currents that seem so unnatural he has no choice but to be pulled around. He surfaces from time to time, gulping in water and air as little and as much as possible, until a particularly nasty undercurrent pulls him under the waters for the last time. His consciousness falters and fades.

*

He wakes up, spluttering out water, sprawled out on a beach.

For a brief moment, there’s fear etched into his bones that he surfaced all the way back in Thavnair, but at a cursory look around, he finds an environment he’s not used to.

“Oh,” an amused voice calls out, and he turns his head to find sun glinting against gold and blue metal-plated armour and summarily blinding him, “he’s awake!” 

He squints and shakes his head, dislodging some seaweed that had woven itself into his hair, and when he looks again, there’s a hand outstretched to him. That hand is attached to a large man with gray hair and a wry smile, small despite himself, and Hawu finds himself reaching out before he realises.

“Welcome to Thanalan, boy. Now, how in seven hells did you land yourself here?”

#ffxiv #ffxiv write #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv write 2022 #final fantasy xiv #hawu #mine #xivwrite #xiv #fic #it begins!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[rusteddreamsstories]

Stitches

​

[Image ID: Illustration for the story below. A photograph of pale military-green cloth.  A spool of black thread and a threaded needle rest atop it. The word “Stitches” is at bottom in black Flat Earth Scribe font. / End Image ID.]  Short Story Sci-Fi / Post-Apocalyptic Based on a dream a relative related to me of viewing a world that had gone disaster so hard that even common commodities such as ink and paper were in short supply.  He saw a hawkish teacher looming over a child, instructing the boy as he sewed mathematical sums into a tough green cloth.  Done in January, 2020.

Stitches

Little Prescott Williams pricked his finger – again.  Why was the number eight so difficult to sew?  It should have been one of easiest, in his opinion, due to the combination of straight backstitches involved.   “This cloth is too tough! Why does this have to be done on an old duffle-bag?”

“Because it needs to last,” responded Mr. Hopewell.  “You will need a handy reference until these equations are committed to your memory.”

The boy already had to rip up stitches from failed answers when Mr. Hopewell shook his head and made that “tsk-tsk” sound through his chapped lips.  This had been the best way the teacher found to get his students to learn – better for the memory than simple drawing upon the ground with a stick. He sometimes employed a slate and chalk in his lessons, but chalk was precious, nearly as much so as ink and paper. Somehow the threads of old clothing were just plentiful enough to afford lasting lessons.  

He’d had to trade a lot of squirrels to get that weatherproof scrap of fabric that his young charge was busily trying to feed a needle through.  He’d had to trade ten good coyote-pelts to get the set of steel needles – but they would serve well, not only for this task, but for sewing up leather, clothing…saddles…better than the cheaper ones crafted from bone. That, and he didn’t like to think what bones those models had been made from – moreover whose bones.

“After you finish your addition tables in the black thread, I shall start you on the multiplication tables in the white thread,” Hopewell said, standing behind the boy on the worn wooden bench.  

“At this rate, the white stitches will be red stitches!” the boy complained.  Already there were tiny bloodstains upon the duffle-bag fabric from the eleven-year-old child’s misaimed stitches.  

“Either learn from it or develop calluses,” his teacher intoned.  “The fabric may be heavy, but it is lighter than skin.”

“It isn’t lighter than MY skin” Prescott complained.  

“If you want to gain an education that will force your betters to respect you, this is the price you must pay. I am afraid that this is the world you have been given.”  

“Hmm-hmm,” the boy said. “I wish I could write with light, like the people in the old days did.”  

“One day, you may write with ink and paper,” the teacher answered.  “Keep at it, and you may rise to status.  Slack off and you’ll be condemned to the life of a scavenger.”

Spencer Hopewell sighed. Education didn’t actually make much of a difference, all-told.  He was a teacher, yet survived the same way Prescott’s parents did – through hunting and trapping, trading with the caravans that braved the wasteland and scavenging what a previous society had left behind.  He remembered paper – its smell and its feel.  He even remembered the tablets where one could hit a few plastic keys and write with photons and code… and how easy it was made for people who knew little to nothing of the codes behind the letters and the numbers. Hopewell spoke and wrote in a few languages – including HTML… a long ago, faraway skill that was useless now; and his knowledge of that particular code was a matter of studying a dead language for his own entertainment.  At least the Spanish was still useful, along with his primary English. Of course, the language of mathematics was universal.

He taught the living children and grandchildren of the survivors of his generation more out of passion to keep intelligence alive than out of it affording him a good living. Some of the parents of his wealthier clients were the reason, however, why he’d gotten to taste beef, milk and cheese every once in a while.  It was enough – for now.  

He peered over his pupil’s work – another equation.  “No,” he said.  “That is wrong.  Remember the lessons in the sand.”  

Hopewell took the trimmed-down tree-branch (a rarity that he was lucky to have) that rested against a wall of the shack and drew in the dirt at the boy’s feet – two straight lines, a plus sign and two other straight lines, followed by an equation-sign.  He pointed to each straight line in turn.

“Remember.  One…”

“Two,” Prescott said as the man rested his stick over the other lines. “Three… Four!”

“Yes. And you do remember the symbol for Four.” “Silly me,” the boy said to himself with a small giggle.  “I don’t know why I was stitching a five! I must have zoned out there!”  He took his needle and started loosening the errant threads.  

“There was a time in my childhood when the Leaders tried to make the populace believe that two-plus-two-equaled five, or, at the very least, other falsehoods that were just as grave.”  

“Why would they do that?” Prescott asked.  He knew, vaguely, that the fabled “Leaders” of The World Before were the ones responsible for the world that he knew.  The World Before was, according to the legends, a world of plenty – a world where people read books, a world with many trees and a world where people didn’t have to worry about their teeth falling out if they wandered into certain “zones.”

“They wished to control people,” Hopewell said simply.  “Getting people to repeat the lies by-wrote was a way to assess loyalty. Those that ignored what was right in front of their faces to repeat the words they were given had their place within the tribe.  Those that continued to speak the truth had to pay a terrible price for their refusal to be controlled.  This is why you must learn to think critically, my young friend.  What I wish for you is what I wish for all my students – to keep the truth no matter what.”

“I think it would be dumb of me to lie all the time.  Playing pretend is one thing, but…”

“You must care for the truth enough to be willing to die for it, if need be.”  

“You didn’t die for it.”

“I was only a child, younger than you, in The World Before,” the teacher answered.  “My voice meant nothing.  It was my parents that suffered for the truth.  I have only survived thus far by luck.  Tell me, child, do you know anyone else as old as I am?”

“No, Mr. Hopewell.”  

“You probably never will,” he replied.  

The elderly man continued his hawkish glare over his student.  The dust in the shack made him cough.  He often held his lessons in outbuildings like this one – a shed adjacent to a barn.  Enough sunlight came through the slats the walls were composed of to make for easy reading and writing on the dirt-floor and for the sewing-work on guides that were meant to last.  The shed kept the wind out as well as the threat of sunburn. Lessons outside were few and far-between given the blighted landscape – a hot flat in the summer and blistering tundra in the winter.  The winters had a later onset than they’d had in Hopewell’s childhood, but had grown more brutal given the lack of windbreaks that the forests used to provide.  One considered oneself lucky to even find a grove of trees anymore – hence why paper had become a commodity used only by the upper classes.  

People tried their best to scrape out a living from the land.  It was, on a basic level, better for one to know how to work a hand-plow and a donkey than it was to learn mathematics tables, but both the Williams Family and Spencer Hopewell knew that education was the key to young Prescott possibly getting a future career within one of the remaining cities.  Basic addition and subtraction were, of course, in use among the countryside for trading purposes – except for those places that insisted that two-plus-two equaled five.  More advanced lessons would hopefully bring the child to impress his betters enough to be granted access to more than an old scavenger’s knowledge of the world and to a longer life than the rest of his family would be living.  

The Williamses decided that Prescott was the smartest among their remaining brood of ten births, with five-survivors past the age of three.  He was also the eldest among the living.  Hopewell was, thus far, concentrating his lesson-plan upon the boy.  The others, perhaps, in time, would benefit.  Given the increase in his cough, the teacher wondered if the boy would be teaching his siblings in his stead soon enough.  He would be lucky to live long enough to train up the youngest, and, of course, that depended upon what resources the Williams clan was able to share to keep a mentor in their employ.

After the lesson in numbers for the day, Spencer Hopewell had a treat for Prescott:  A book for the boy to read – an honest-to-God paper-book he’d managed to find in his travels. It was not a short-story sewn into a cloth scrap, some by-memory thing written upon the earth, something inscribed hastily in a heavy clay tablet or a tale told orally, but a rare piece that he’d come upon by chance that someone of a higher station hadn’t managed to snatch up. It was possibly too advanced for the child’s reading-level thus far with his work with scripts written in dust, but nothing was “too advanced” in this age, especially for someone who needed to learn quickly and with any scrawl of letters one could come by.  The piece was fiction – a long-ago, faraway tale of mythical races and a little man given the task to destroy a piece of jewelry endowed with the power of an evil entity.  Hopewell did not know how well the story would sit with his charge, given that the blighted lands that were ruled by Evil did not bear too dissimilar a description from the world of everyday life that the boy had lived in since his birth.

“Mom and Dad say that if I do really well, that maybe I’ll get to be rich someday,” Prescott said.  “You know a lot, but you aren’t rich.  Why should I even want to be rich? My family grows and hunts enough to keep ourselves alive. I’d rather be chasing rabbits with Sparks than doing this, or tanning hides with Dad.  Ow!”

“Watch yourself,” Hopewell cautioned.  “You want your food to be reliable, don’t you?” he added.  “You don’t like the days when you have to go without.”

“I don’t like it when Sally cries,” Prescott said with a nod.  “She cries at night if we don’t have supper.  It’s annoying – I can’t sleep.”  

“Now, now, she is little,” said Hopewell, “still a baby – not a little baby, but still new.”

“Yeah,” Prescott sighed, taking up some white thread and starting on the multiplication tables he was supposed to memorize. One-times-one equaled one – so the first part would be the easiest to sew…    

The boy paused and gave his mentor a quizzical look.  “Mom and Dad say that the Leaders used to be called the Big Babies.  Why is that?”

“Hmmm,” Hopewell muttered as he paced about the shed and scratched his thin beard.  “The Leaders in The World Before fought with each other – a lot like you do with your little brother and sisters.  They also wanted everything for themselves and didn’t like it when people disagreed with them.  They were unable to handle facts and so suppressed them.”

“And they eventually made the world like it is because of the lies and the fighting?” Prescott said.

Hopewell nodded.  “A child’s tantrums are a normal part of the development of a young person – so you should not fault your youngest sister for crying when she doesn’t get enough food or when you take a dangerous thing that she thinks is a toy away from her.  I will not fault you if you become frustrated and stamp your feet and yell.  Some of your upcoming lessons are going to be quite difficult, so I expect it.  However, with adults… things are supposed to be different.”

“Adults are supposed to act like ‘dults.” Prescott hummed.

“Yes, but they often act like dolts,” the teacher intoned.  “Do not be too quick to trust someone just because they are an adult. You trust me because I have earned your trust, have I not?”

“You’re the most boring guy I know,” Prescott agreed.  “I don’t think you’re gonna blow up nothin’.”  

“Good, good,” Hopewell laughed.  “We started calling the old leaders the Leaders rather than the Big Babies after a while… when babies started becoming extra-precious.”  

Prescott winced a little as he tried to concentrate on his sewing.  His father had been stoic whenever he’d had to dig a tiny grave out on the edge of the family’s land but his mother had cried a lot every time one of the little ones didn’t make it. All of the graves had names on the markers.  When Prescott had been among the neighbors some space down the road, he’d learned that some folk had stopped naming their children until they’d turned two because it wasn’t expected that most of them would survive that long.  People were starting to grow un-attached to youth until youths proved their strength.

Life was going to be better for him, Prescott decided.  Maybe he would rather be chasing down rabbits with the family dog or helping his father with leathers because he found these things far more interesting than schooling, but if he could go to one of the cities and get a job where he could use paper, any children he had would have enough food and good shelter.  They would be warm and would get clothes woven from new cloth rather than cobbled together from remains.  Prescott’s mother was good at weaving, but she had to do a lot of gathering and scavenging to make the blankets she made and his father had yet to find a good stock of un-diseased sheep to raise wool from – he was trying, though.  

“If you are able to impress people with your literacy,” Hopewell said, taking a seat on the bench next to him to rest his aching knees, “You may very well get to a position where you can do what you want all the time.”

“Like the rich people do?” the boy asked.  “Like I said, I don’t really care unless I can keep any kids I have from cryin’ all the time.  I hear tell that if you’re rich and you get to use paper and stuff, you can get any kind of girl you want.”  

“You can get more than one,” Hopewell said.  “The world needs children, so if you can support more than one wife, you’ll be given that.”

“The rich people were like that before, though, weren’t they?” Prescott asked.  “Back when everyone had lots of stuff?  The Big Babies?”

“Yes, but they tried to hide it,” Hopewell said with a smirk.  “That was part of the problem, I suppose.  The Leaders thought they could do whatever they wanted because they had all of the paper they could ever hope for and could keep it locked away from everyone else. If I remember correctly, the most important paper was green then.”  

“Didn’t they wonder what God would think?” the child asked.  “Mom and Dad say we’re supposed to share - and that I’m supposed to share with the family even when I don’t want to ‘cause God is watching.”  

“You are still young, so I will forgive you,” Hopewell said with a rueful smile.  “Your parents are sincere when they talk of a belief in the higher laws of Heaven,” he said.  “I know them well enough to know that, but you should know one hard truth – if there is one thing I can leave you aside from reading and simple math, it is this:  Don’t trust people who talk about God too much.  Like the rest of us and like human beings since time immemorial, they worship money.  Some of the ones who crow the most about God are the ones that worship coin and paper the most.”  

“That’s stupid,” Prescott groused.  “I got to hold a copper coin in my hand once and it didn’t have any powers.”

“That is because you gave little thought to spending or hoarding it,” Hopewell responded.  “You will know the power of such things after your first trip into the city.  Also, if you catch the attention of your betters and they let you have an in-road to becoming one of them, you’ll receive some of your own worship.”

“I don’t wanna be worshipped.”  

“On some level, we all worship the rich, hoping that good fortune will fall down to us.  We pray for their generosity… or their business, whether they give it or withhold it.”

“And you’re supposed to nod and smile when they lie to you?”

“Maybe in the old world, but not now… not anymore – Remember, boy, what I told you about the truth. Don’t ever compromise it – and be willing to die for it if need be.  The world isn’t as it was, but it can always get worse.”  

“Hmmm,” Prescott said.  He bit his lip as he poked a needle through the tough fabric he was working, hoping that this memory-scrap would be worth the time, trouble and pricked fingers.  

“What if I don’t make it, Mr. Hopewell?” the child asked.  “In getting the right peoples’ attention and getting rich, I mean?  You never got rich… will I just wind up like you, teaching people and hoping?”

“There is nothing wrong with that, boy,” the teacher answered.  “Giving you an inroad to becoming wealthy is but a secondary goal of mine.  My first goal is far more important.”

“And what is that, Mr. Hopewell?”  

“To make Amu-Iqua smart again.”  

#original writing #short story #post-apocalyptic #I know that the specific kinds of scarcities do not make sense #ink is fairly easy to make from almost any material #however I had to adhere to the rules of the dream-prompt

[littleapocalypsekitten]

Stitches

Short Story  Sci-Fi / Post-Apocalyptic  Based on a dream a relative related to me of viewing a world that had gone disaster so hard that even common commodities such as ink and paper were in short supply.  He saw a hawkish teacher looming over a child, instructing the boy as he sewed mathematical sums into a tough green cloth.  Done in January, 2020. 

Stitches

  Little Prescott Williams pricked his finger – again.  Why was the number eight so difficult to sew?  It should have been one of easiest, in his opinion, due to the combination of straight backstitches involved.   “This cloth is too tough! Why does this have to be done on an old duffle-bag?”

 “Because it needs to last,” responded Mr. Hopewell.  “You will need a handy reference until these equations are committed to your memory.”

 The boy already had to rip up stitches from failed answers when Mr. Hopewell shook his head and made that “tsk-tsk” sound through his chapped lips.  This had been the best way the teacher found to get his students to learn – better for the memory than simple drawing upon the ground with a stick. He sometimes employed a slate and chalk in his lessons, but chalk was precious, nearly as much so as ink and paper. Somehow the threads of old clothing were just plentiful enough to afford lasting lessons.  

 He’d had to trade a lot of squirrels to get that weatherproof scrap of fabric that his young charge was busily trying to feed a needle through.  He’d had to trade ten good coyote-pelts to get the set of steel needles – but they would serve well, not only for this task, but for sewing up leather, clothing…saddles…better than the cheaper ones crafted from bone. That, and he didn’t like to think what bones those models had been made from – moreover whose bones.

 “After you finish your addition tables in the black thread, I shall start you on the multiplication tables in the white thread,” Hopewell said, standing behind the boy on the worn wooden bench.  

 “At this rate, the white stitches will be red stitches!” the boy complained.  Already there were tiny bloodstains upon the duffle-bag fabric from the eleven-year-old child’s misaimed stitches.  

 “Either learn from it or develop calluses,” his teacher intoned.  “The fabric may be heavy, but it is lighter than skin.”

 “It isn’t lighter than MY skin” Prescott complained.  

 “If you want to gain an education that will force your betters to respect you, this is the price you must pay. I am afraid that this is the world you have been given.”  

 “Hmm-hmm,” the boy said. “I wish I could write with light, like the people in the old days did.”  

 “One day, you may write with ink and paper,” the teacher answered.  “Keep at it, and you may rise to status.  Slack off and you’ll be condemned to the life of a scavenger.”

 Spencer Hopewell sighed. Education didn’t actually make much of a difference, all-told.  He was a teacher, yet survived the same way Prescott’s parents did – through hunting and trapping, trading with the caravans that braved the wasteland and scavenging what a previous society had left behind.  He remembered paper – its smell and its feel.  He even remembered the tablets where one could hit a few plastic keys and write with photons and code… and how easy it was made for people who knew little to nothing of the codes behind the letters and the numbers. Hopewell spoke and wrote in a few languages – including HTML… a long ago, faraway skill that was useless now; and his knowledge of that particular code was a matter of studying a dead language for his own entertainment.  At least the Spanish was still useful, along with his primary English. Of course, the language of mathematics was universal.

 He taught the living children and grandchildren of the survivors of his generation more out of passion to keep intelligence alive than out of it affording him a good living. Some of the parents of his wealthier clients were the reason, however, why he’d gotten to taste beef, milk and cheese every once in a while.  It was enough – for now.  

 He peered over his pupil’s work – another equation.  “No,” he said.  “That is wrong.  Remember the lessons in the sand.”  

 Hopewell took the trimmed-down tree-branch (a rarity that he was lucky to have) that rested against a wall of the shack and drew in the dirt at the boy’s feet – two straight lines, a plus sign and two other straight lines, followed by an equation-sign.  He pointed to each straight line in turn.

 “Remember.  One…”

 “Two,” Prescott said as the man rested his stick over the other lines. “Three… Four!”

 “Yes. And you do remember the symbol for Four.” “Silly me,” the boy said to himself with a small giggle.  “I don’t know why I was stitching a five! I must have zoned out there!”  He took his needle and started loosening the errant threads.  

 “There was a time in my childhood when the Leaders tried to make the populace believe that two-plus-two-equaled five, or, at the very least, other falsehoods that were just as grave.”  

 “Why would they do that?” Prescott asked.  He knew, vaguely, that the fabled “Leaders” of The World Before were the ones responsible for the world that he knew.  The World Before was, according to the legends, a world of plenty – a world where people read books, a world with many trees and a world where people didn’t have to worry about their teeth falling out if they wandered into certain “zones.”

 “They wished to control people,” Hopewell said simply.  “Getting people to repeat the lies by-wrote was a way to assess loyalty. Those that ignored what was right in front of their faces to repeat the words they were given had their place within the tribe.  Those that continued to speak the truth had to pay a terrible price for their refusal to be controlled.  This is why you must learn to think critically, my young friend.  What I wish for you is what I wish for all my students – to keep the truth no matter what.”

 “I think it would be dumb of me to lie all the time.  Playing pretend is one thing, but…”

 “You must care for the truth enough to be willing to die for it, if need be.”  

 “You didn’t die for it.”

 “I was only a child, younger than you, in The World Before,” the teacher answered.  “My voice meant nothing.  It was my parents that suffered for the truth.  I have only survived thus far by luck.  Tell me, child, do you know anyone else as old as I am?”

 “No, Mr. Hopewell.”  

 “You probably never will,” he replied.  

 The elderly man continued his hawkish glare over his student.  The dust in the shack made him cough.  He often held his lessons in outbuildings like this one – a shed adjacent to a barn.  Enough sunlight came through the slats the walls were composed of to make for easy reading and writing on the dirt-floor and for the sewing-work on guides that were meant to last.  The shed kept the wind out as well as the threat of sunburn. Lessons outside were few and far-between given the blighted landscape – a hot flat in the summer and blistering tundra in the winter.  The winters had a later onset than they’d had in Hopewell’s childhood, but had grown more brutal given the lack of windbreaks that the forests used to provide.  One considered oneself lucky to even find a grove of trees anymore – hence why paper had become a commodity used only by the upper classes.  

 People tried their best to scrape out a living from the land.  It was, on a basic level, better for one to know how to work a hand-plow and a donkey than it was to learn mathematics tables, but both the Williams Family and Spencer Hopewell knew that education was the key to young Prescott possibly getting a future career within one of the remaining cities.  Basic addition and subtraction were, of course, in use among the countryside for trading purposes – except for those places that insisted that two-plus-two equaled five.  More advanced lessons would hopefully bring the child to impress his betters enough to be granted access to more than an old scavenger’s knowledge of the world and to a longer life than the rest of his family would be living.  

 The Williamses decided that Prescott was the smartest among their remaining brood of ten births, with five-survivors past the age of three.  He was also the eldest among the living.  Hopewell was, thus far, concentrating his lesson-plan upon the boy.  The others, perhaps, in time, would benefit.  Given the increase in his cough, the teacher wondered if the boy would be teaching his siblings in his stead soon enough.  He would be lucky to live long enough to train up the youngest, and, of course, that depended upon what resources the Williams clan was able to share to keep a mentor in their employ.

 After the lesson in numbers for the day, Spencer Hopewell had a treat for Prescott:  A book for the boy to read – an honest-to-God paper-book he’d managed to find in his travels. It was not a short-story sewn into a cloth scrap, some by-memory thing written upon the earth, something inscribed hastily in a heavy clay tablet or a tale told orally, but a rare piece that he’d come upon by chance that someone of a higher station hadn’t managed to snatch up. It was possibly too advanced for the child’s reading-level thus far with his work with scripts written in dust, but nothing was “too advanced” in this age, especially for someone who needed to learn quickly and with any scrawl of letters one could come by.  The piece was fiction – a long-ago, faraway tale of mythical races and a little man given the task to destroy a piece of jewelry endowed with the power of an evil entity.  Hopewell did not know how well the story would sit with his charge, given that the blighted lands that were ruled by Evil did not bear too dissimilar a description from the world of everyday life that the boy had lived in since his birth.

 “Mom and Dad say that if I do really well, that maybe I’ll get to be rich someday,” Prescott said.  “You know a lot, but you aren’t rich.  Why should I even want to be rich? My family grows and hunts enough to keep ourselves alive. I’d rather be chasing rabbits with Sparks than doing this, or tanning hides with Dad.  Ow!”

 “Watch yourself,” Hopewell cautioned.  “You want your food to be reliable, don’t you?” he added.  “You don’t like the days when you have to go without.”

 “I don’t like it when Sally cries,” Prescott said with a nod.  “She cries at night if we don’t have supper.  It’s annoying – I can’t sleep.”  

 “Now, now, she is little,” said Hopewell, “still a baby – not a little baby, but still new.”

 “Yeah,” Prescott sighed, taking up some white thread and starting on the multiplication tables he was supposed to memorize. One-times-one equaled one – so the first part would be the easiest to sew…    

 The boy paused and gave his mentor a quizzical look.  “Mom and Dad say that the Leaders used to be called the Big Babies.  Why is that?”

 “Hmmm,” Hopewell muttered as he paced about the shed and scratched his thin beard.  “The Leaders in The World Before fought with each other – a lot like you do with your little brother and sisters.  They also wanted everything for themselves and didn’t like it when people disagreed with them.  They were unable to handle facts and so suppressed them.”

 “And they eventually made the world like it is because of the lies and the fighting?” Prescott said.

 Hopewell nodded.  “A child’s tantrums are a normal part of the development of a young person – so you should not fault your youngest sister for crying when she doesn’t get enough food or when you take a dangerous thing that she thinks is a toy away from her.  I will not fault you if you become frustrated and stamp your feet and yell.  Some of your upcoming lessons are going to be quite difficult, so I expect it.  However, with adults… things are supposed to be different.”

 “Adults are supposed to act like ‘dults.” Prescott hummed.

 “Yes, but they often act like dolts,” the teacher intoned.  “Do not be too quick to trust someone just because they are an adult. You trust me because I have earned your trust, have I not?”

 “You’re the most boring guy I know,” Prescott agreed.  “I don’t think you’re gonna blow up nothin’.”  

 “Good, good,” Hopewell laughed.  “We started calling the old leaders the Leaders rather than the Big Babies after a while… when babies started becoming extra-precious.”  

 Prescott winced a little as he tried to concentrate on his sewing.  His father had been stoic whenever he’d had to dig a tiny grave out on the edge of the family’s land but his mother had cried a lot every time one of the little ones didn’t make it. All of the graves had names on the markers.  When Prescott had been among the neighbors some space down the road, he’d learned that some folk had stopped naming their children until they’d turned two because it wasn’t expected that most of them would survive that long.  People were starting to grow un-attached to youth until youths proved their strength.

 Life was going to be better for him, Prescott decided.  Maybe he would rather be chasing down rabbits with the family dog or helping his father with leathers because he found these things far more interesting than schooling, but if he could go to one of the cities and get a job where he could use paper, any children he had would have enough food and good shelter.  They would be warm and would get clothes woven from new cloth rather than cobbled together from remains.  Prescott’s mother was good at weaving, but she had to do a lot of gathering and scavenging to make the blankets she made and his father had yet to find a good stock of un-diseased sheep to raise wool from – he was trying, though.  

 “If you are able to impress people with your literacy,” Hopewell said, taking a seat on the bench next to him to rest his aching knees, “You may very well get to a position where you can do what you want all the time.”

 “Like the rich people do?” the boy asked.  “Like I said, I don’t really care unless I can keep any kids I have from cryin’ all the time.  I hear tell that if you’re rich and you get to use paper and stuff, you can get any kind of girl you want.”  

 “You can get more than one,” Hopewell said.  “The world needs children, so if you can support more than one wife, you’ll be given that.”

 “The rich people were like that before, though, weren’t they?” Prescott asked.  “Back when everyone had lots of stuff?  The Big Babies?”

 “Yes, but they tried to hide it,” Hopewell said with a smirk.  “That was part of the problem, I suppose.  The Leaders thought they could do whatever they wanted because they had all of the paper they could ever hope for and could keep it locked away from everyone else. If I remember correctly, the most important paper was green then.”  

 “Didn’t they wonder what God would think?” the child asked.  “Mom and Dad say we’re supposed to share - and that I’m supposed to share with the family even when I don’t want to ‘cause God is watching.”  

 “You are still young, so I will forgive you,” Hopewell said with a rueful smile.  “Your parents are sincere when they talk of a belief in the higher laws of Heaven,” he said.  “I know them well enough to know that, but you should know one hard truth – if there is one thing I can leave you aside from reading and simple math, it is this:  Don’t trust people who talk about God too much.  Like the rest of us and like human beings since time immemorial, they worship money.  Some of the ones who crow the most about God are the ones that worship coin and paper the most.”  

 “That’s stupid,” Prescott groused.  “I got to hold a copper coin in my hand once and it didn’t have any powers.”

 “That is because you gave little thought to spending or hoarding it,” Hopewell responded.  “You will know the power of such things after your first trip into the city.  Also, if you catch the attention of your betters and they let you have an in-road to becoming one of them, you’ll receive some of your own worship.”

 “I don’t wanna be worshipped.”  

 “On some level, we all worship the rich, hoping that good fortune will fall down to us.  We pray for their generosity… or their business, whether they give it or withhold it.”

 “And you’re supposed to nod and smile when they lie to you?”

 “Maybe in the old world, but not now… not anymore – Remember, boy, what I told you about the truth. Don’t ever compromise it – and be willing to die for it if need be.  The world isn’t as it was, but it can always get worse.”  

 “Hmmm,” Prescott said.  He bit his lip as he poked a needle through the tough fabric he was working, hoping that this memory-scrap would be worth the time, trouble and pricked fingers.  

 “What if I don’t make it, Mr. Hopewell?” the child asked.  “In getting the right peoples’ attention and getting rich, I mean?  You never got rich… will I just wind up like you, teaching people and hoping?”

 “There is nothing wrong with that, boy,” the teacher answered.  “Giving you an inroad to becoming wealthy is but a secondary goal of mine.  My first goal is far more important.”

 “And what is that, Mr. Hopewell?”  

 “To make Amu-Iqua smart again.”  

#short story #post-apocalypse #I know that the scarcities are unrealistic #as ink can be made of almost anything #paper too #or something quite like it #but my challenge was to base a story on someone's dream #and so I went with the parameters #it should be obvious which Big Baby I thought ruined the world at the time

[tessin22]

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