Dwarf fortress blinking name
The Strange Log
2018.04.15 18:44 silentclowd The Strange Log
A subreddit for sharing funny, strange, and notable patch notes from the changelogs of games.
2023.06.05 02:20 JohnWarrenDailey Full review of Prehistoric Planet
Follow-up to my last post:
An Attenborough documentary on dinosaurs with the same CGI that made The Jungle Book so lifelike? I couldn't think of a greater sell. But was it worth it? Would it give me the same sense of wonder that I felt when Walking with Dinosaurs came out 22 years earlier?
The first episode, "Coasts", is overall the strongest episode of season 1. Starting immediately with a swimming t-rex (Tyrannosaurus rex) leading his children to an island where he smelled a dead archelon (species unknown, as no Maastrichtian-age archelon was ever found in the fossil record), that first scene showed the promise of the show as a whole. Seeing CG baby t-rexes interacting with live-action baby turtles is both concerning (as sea turtles are currently endangered) and entertaining, as they are demonstrated pretty goofily. But after that, we are done with dinosaurs for the rest of the episode.
We cut to the one scene that, while endearing with a riveting soundtrack by power couple Anže Rozman and Kara Talve, does give me pause. The pterosaurs featured in that episode were based on bones so fragmentary that they couldn't be diagnosed. How can we be sure that Barbaridactylus was a member of the antlerwing family, Phosphatodraco a member of the simurgh family, or even Tethydraco a member of the pteranodon family? How do we even know what Alcione even looked like? Also, the score doesn't really match the slower, less urgent movements of the pterosaurs.
The next scene was described as "the sunken continent of Zealandia", which is a refresher to see the lost continent bearing recognition for a change. Here, a family of plesiosaurs (Tuarangisaurus keyesi) comes to the coast to gulp themselves on anti-buoyant rocks, while the males ceremoniously poke their long, heavy necks up to the surface, the only good moment in an otherwise generic sequence.
After a quick focus on coral, we get treated to a Hoffmann's mosasaur (Mosasaurus hoffmanni) relying on fish and shrimp to give him a good, proper scratch, only to be pushed out of turn by a younger male. This sequence sticks out to me because it shows mosasaurs being portrayed as animals, not as monsters to shadow Nigel Marven or kaijuified Blackfish bootlegs.
The next scene shows a dazzling, mesmerizing mating ceremony of ammonites ("scaphitids", they were called, but that doesn't determine specific species, as it was a very huge family). They glow in the dark and mate very particularly. If the male's flashes don't sync with those of the female, he'd be rejected. Complimenting this alien but still soothing scene is Rozman and Talve's equally alien and soothing score.
Back in Zealandia, we end with plesiosaur pod mentality, as the whole group defends a pregnant mother from a kaika taniwha (Kaikaifilu hervei). As with the previous plesiosaur scene, it wasn't a scene that I got too crazy about.
The next episode, "Deserts", isn't really as impactful as the Planet Earth episode of the same name, both in regards to execution and the musical score, and it was riddled with confusing scene decisions. The first scene demonstrates a lek of dreadnoughts (Dreadnoughtus schrani) acting like a combination of elephant seals and frigatebirds, right down to the pops on their necks. The score in that sequence is definitely memorable, as it (literally) highlights the weights that the males take to demonstrate their fitness to attract the gaggle of girls in the audience. Though I'm left wondering--did the upstart beat the veteran because he was stronger, or because he popped one of the veteran's neck balloons, as male frigatebirds would do to ditch the competish?
Once the sauropod show is over, we now move to what was presumed to be Nemegtia, but it was portrayed to be as dry as Djadochta, which leads to the next problem. While there was evidence of Maastrichtian-age velos in Central Asia, calling them "Velociraptor" is just wrong. I grew up watching Walking with Dinosaurs, which means I watched "Giant of the Skies", which featured Utahraptor in the wrong place at the wrong time. And while the American cut justifies this with a demonstration of a land bridge that connected North America to Europe, I don't know how much water that holds, and that doesn't seem to be relevant anyway, for the damage has already been done. So having in Velociraptor, a genus of velos that went extinct 71 million years ago, in Nemegtia, which was set 66 million years ago, is just a rehash of that previous mistake. In short, Prehistoric Planet has Utahraptor'd the Velociraptor. And besides, hasn't the picture of pack-hunting raptors already been discarded?
The next scene, the one with the Nemegtian mononych (Mononykus olecranus), is cute but not top-notch memorable, and its color choice is teetering way close to the point of plagiarism.
Afterwards, the brief but violent rains have created a watering hole in the middle of the desert, luring in dinosaurs and pterosaurs from miles around, including a wandering khan (Tarbosaurus bataar). The reason that scene is so low was that it was just a near-identical rotoscope of the Water Truce sequence from The Jungle Book, right down to the herbivores making a clearing for the khan.
Then we go high up to see more Barbaridactylus. This scene I wasn't aware was a problem until Unnatural History Channel brought it up in his video, but the females were shown to be oddly consensual towards the similar-looking sneaky males, who use their feminine appearances to sneak past the larger, more impressive males. This is a problem, apparently, because the more extreme the sexual dimorphism, the more likely the sneaky male will be rejected and therefore resort to assaulting the females.
The last scene is an interesting one, albeit one that suffered an unmemorable score in the soundtrack. Apparently, salty southern duckbills (Secernosaurus koerneri) can thrive on dunes of gypsum, but when rains hit the coast, they rely on both their tenacity and their know-how of the sky to get to more productive grazing. This scene stands out to me because I question why any large animal would choose to thrive on such a taxing environment. It'd make sense for an animal as small as the cryptile, the scrofa and the gryken from The Future is Wild, but not for a duckbill bigger than 16 feet long.
It is unanimously agreed upon that "Freshwater" is the weakest episode in the first season. Apart from the humpbacked false duckbill (Deinocheirus mirificus) getting a scratch in the swamps of a more accurate Nemegtia and the devil frog (Beelzebufo ampinga) making a snack out of a baby whacktooth (Masiaksaurus knoplferi), the habitat itself has been relegated to the backseat, which is why the mating scene of the t-rex and the laying magnificent simurgh (Quetzalcoatlus northropi) are on the C tier, good scenes that have been damaged by simply being in the wrong episode. Speaking of the latter, memes have popped up in which the faces of dinosaurs have been pasted over two shots of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, with either Masiakasaurus or the Planet Dinosaur model of Majungasaurus being Galahad and the Quetzalcoatlus being the French taunter ("What are you doing in Africa?" "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!") when, really, that meme is more applicable to Velociraptor being in the Maastrichtian. On that topic, not only is it STILL in the wrong time, there is another problem, one I didn't pay attention to until Unnatural History Channel brought it up on his video. Instead of showing audiences raptor prey restraint (or "RPR"), the storytellers relied instead on mountain cats to show the velos hunting the pterosaurs (species unknown). Like the Deserts episode, Planet Earth has a far stronger "Freshwater" episode.
"Ice Worlds" didn't excite me as much as "Spirits of the Ice Forest" did, which is a shame, because dinosaurs in the snow is a refresher by default. We start at Prince Creek, which I couldn't ask for a worse place to start because the cast list is very fragmentary. In the opening scene, a pack of raptors (species unknown, though modeled after the pitbull raptor), shadows a herd of ugrunaaluk (Edmontosaurus sp.) for a long-delayed meal. Again, the picture of raptors hunting in packs has been debunked for a very long time now. Why insist on resorting to old cliches?
The Ornithomimus scene (can't think of a vernacular for them), while the designs look cool and add distinction to overall character, is still just a rotoscope of the Adelie penguin sequence from "Frozen Planet". Next.
The sequence with the swanneck (Olorotitan arharensis) is even less impressive. Are horsetails really more nutritious than grass? If so, then why have grasslands been the dominant plains since the Miocene?
The reason the scene with the tro-o is relatively low on the tier list is that it should have been longer, because a dinosaur with the intellect of a fire hawk is a very interesting prospect. But the final scene was just too short and too bland to show off any real gold.
We have spent so much time in the north that I question the necessity of a quick detour to Antarctica, rendering the scene with the polar macahutiul (Antarctopelta oliveroi) my least favorite of the series.
The final scene demonstrates the predator-prey dynamic between the northern boss (Pachyrhinosaurus perotorum) and the nanook (Nanuqsaurus hoglundi). The scene is great, the score has some very rhythmic moments, but what puts it low on the B tier are the nanooks themselves. From a distance, they look as good as most of the others. But in closeup, they look kind of fake, especially when they're running. Which brings up to the next problem--the story is based on fossil footprints of different lines pointing in the same direction. But how do we know that those parallel tracks were made at the same time and not separated within hours, days or even weeks of each other? And while it is true that nanooks were smaller than t-rexes, their portrayals in the show were just too small. More recent consensus shows that one nanook could easily match a boss in size, if not overtop it.
"Forests" is an everywhere kind of episode. The opening scene with the austroposeidon (Austroposeidon magnificus) is not long enough to get me invested.
Then a herd of trikes (Triceratops, species unknown) visits a cave to visit a clay lick to neutralize the poisons from their plant food. But why clay? Why not salt? Herbivores can clearly deal with poisonous plants without problem, but plants lack sodium, which is why the elephants of Mount Elgon (the inspiration behind that scene) scrape the caves not for clay, but for salt.
This next scene has gotten everyone talking. A male minotaur (Carnotaurus sastrei) clears the stage to wave his arms around to impress an impossibly stoic female. Everything about that scene--from the choreography to the score--is very goofy, and that is what makes it work so well.
While it is nice to finally see the Pinocchio-rex (Qianzhousaurus sinensis) in the flesh, its hunt for bright blue corythoraptors (Corythoraptor jacobsi) is not a scene I'd be in a hurry to revisit.
The fire scene is oddly slow, the only memorable moment in the whole sequence being my first official introduction to Atrociraptor marshalli...literally just one short week before Jurassic World: Dominion predictably ruined it.
The scene with the baby Therizinosaurus is passable. While it is cute to imagine babies having a taste for honey, it just wasn't executed memorably.
The final scene, the one set on Hateg Island, slogs on in pace, with the greatest focus being a bunch of odd-looking baby zalmos (Zalmoxes robustus) running and hiding from the real star of the episode, the robust simurgh (Hatzegopteryx thambena), looking more proper than how it looked in Planet Dinosaur. One question, though--weren't pterosaur wings supposed to be rounded at the tip? Sure, they've got the hands pointing backwards, but the pointed wingtips is now believed to be an outdated picture.
So it goes without saying that years of watching a moderate quantity of Attenborough documentaries has made the watching experience of Prehistoric Planet, at least in comparison to the original Walking with Dinosaurs, a bit numb. The creature designs are good, the CGI has not faltered in its photorealism from The Jungle Book, and even the soundtrack has enough of a score to make it memorable. But it's the stories that amount to the overall numbness of the first season. They hadn't opened my eyes in the way that Walking with Dinosaurs did.
When season 2 was announced literally one year after season 1, I had my doubts. Planet Earth 2 came out literally a decade after the first Planet Earth, and the differences in filming technology and musical score clearly show that. Same for the 16 years that separate The Blue Planet from Blue Planet 2. Dynasties 2, by contrast, came way too soon after the first Dynasties, and the end result is sloppy, from the stories being set at the tedious start rather than at the steady prime to the score from the first Dynasties being reused so often that the only episode to have any new music was "Meerkat". So to find Prehistoric Planet 2 come out literally one year after Prehistoric Planet, I was concerned that it'd be as shorthanded as Dynasties 2 was. The opening episode, "Islands", kind of suffered that, but it thankfully wasn't as severe a problem.
The first segment of that episode struck me as odd because the adult zalmo looks weirdly identical to the baby model from last episode.
While it is cool to see the robust simurgh being expanded upon, I personally wish we'd stayed at Hateg Island, where they'd hunt the Transylvanian dwarf duckbill (Telmatosaurus transylvanicus) and not the funky combbill (Tethyshadros insularis).
One of season 1's most recurring complaints is "no crocodiles", which is pretty apt when you consider how diverse they were during the Cretaceous period. So to see the Malagasy armadillo (Simosuchus clarki) at all, let alone stand up against a mahjong (Majungasaurus crenatissimus), is one to remember for the ages.
This next scene is actually pretty interesting, in which we see Adalatherium, which wasn't a true mammal, but rather something hovering closely outside the taxonomic boundaries. It's a long sequence, which is just as well, because this is as new a clade to me now as the cynodont was when Walking with Dinosaurs came out.
As with in "Ice Worlds", a quick detour to Antarctica doesn't seem necessary to me, as the hunt between the Imperobator and the Morrosaurus feels more like a skim.
The last scene in the episode is my personal favorite, in which a male robust simugh stands on a sandbar to do whatever it takes to impress a mate.
"Badlands" stands out in that there are only two settings. The first one is the strongest because of how the Deccan Traps, long reputed to be the co-culprit to the fall of the dinosaur empire, has been repurposed into prime nesting estate for a herd of sauropods (Isisaurus colberti). The journey seems reckless, but volcanic sand is hot and toasty, something that a modern species of dinosaur, the megapode, also exploits as it lays its egg in the hot volcanic sand of the Solomons.
The next scene hasn't fixed on last year's problems, in which Velociraptor is still there and it still hasn't performed RPR--it just kicks an herbivore off a cliff, and that was that.
The nesting Corythoraptor scene didn't interest me, but what really bugged me was that the antagonist of that sequence was a kuru (Kuru kulla), a raptor who, like the pterosaurs on the "Coasts" episode, was based on incomplete, fragmentary specimens.
The sequence with the tarchias (Tarchia, species unknown), is a refreshing detour from the previous sequence because we have a better idea as to what they would have looked like. And to see them slog around for an oasis is a second highlight (next to the Deccan nursery).
This next scene has nothing new added from either "Time of the Titans" or "Alpha's Egg", in which a herd of baby sauropods gets picked on by larger predators on their way to the safety of the forest.
The majority of the "Freshwater" sequences I feel fit better in "Swamps". The same unnamed pterosaurs from "Freshwater" have reappeared, this time trying to fly past an approaching population of alligators (Shamosuchus djadochtaensis).
The next episode features a grizzly bear gathering of austroraptors (Austroraptor cabazai) hunting gar. It stands out as highly as it does because it shows a species of raptor that looks and acts differently from the usual velo or nych. Plus, we know many miles more about austroraptors than we do about Spinosaurus, so that is a relieving plus.
The devil frog stands out in this episode, and to see a grumpy male try to fight off a herd of goavambe (Rapetosaurus krausei) is humorous. It also deviates from the usual picture of "the frog that eats dinosaurs".
This next sequence I was very concerned the moment I saw it in the ads. Thanks to Jack Horner, the poorly-known family Pachycephalosauridae has been under very hot fire with the notion of bone sponginess being a taxonomically viable method of identification, which it really isn't because all amniotes have spongy bones in their teens. But very thankfully, this sequence does not resort to Hornerism. It shows that older males do get longer horns on the backs of their heads, not the other way around. Also, new evidence has shown that the domes may have been covered in shiny skin, so this has me asking--is the dome a boys-only trait? Could that dracorex (Pachycephalosaurus hogwartsia) skull that I saw at the Black Hills Museum just be a girl entering her sweet 16 when she died? Could those stygimoloch (Pachycephalosaurus spinifer) skulls just be those of high school footballers?
"Swamps" ended on a high note with a couple of t-rexes hunting an anatotitan (Edmontosaurus annectens) in the dark. One just walks to the duckbill, and the animal, in its panic, goes right in the direction of the other t-rex in hiding. This perfectly reflects the current understanding that t-rexes exchanged fast running for better walking. Now can we see some duckbills fighting back, please?
On May 26, The Little Mermaid came out in theaters. A day earlier, "Oceans" came out. If I were to choose, I'd stick to the latter, simply because we're treated to fresh new stories with a wider variety of mosasaurs and ammonites than any of the Walking with programs ever did. The scene with the hesperorns chasing bait fish only to have themselves be chased by bulldog fish (Xiphactinus) is a classic, but a good one. However, "X-fish"? What's wrong with "bulldog fish"? But the highlight, no doubt, is the final sequence, in which a Hoffmann's mosasaur killed a juvenile plesiosaur simply by ramming it great white style.
"Freshwater" was weak due to being sorely unfocused. "North America", by contrast, is even weaker for being too rushed. Also, the "scars make the man" narrative with the trikes bugs me the most. What justification is there for that?
This has been a very exhaustive review of Prehistoric Planet, and it's way too early for me to worry about a season 3 coming out, if there is going to be one.
submitted by JohnWarrenDailey to Dinosaurs [link] [comments]
An Attenborough documentary on dinosaurs with the same CGI that made The Jungle Book so lifelike? I couldn't think of a greater sell. But was it worth it? Would it give me the same sense of wonder that I felt when Walking with Dinosaurs came out 22 years earlier?
The first episode, "Coasts", is overall the strongest episode of season 1. Starting immediately with a swimming t-rex (Tyrannosaurus rex) leading his children to an island where he smelled a dead archelon (species unknown, as no Maastrichtian-age archelon was ever found in the fossil record), that first scene showed the promise of the show as a whole. Seeing CG baby t-rexes interacting with live-action baby turtles is both concerning (as sea turtles are currently endangered) and entertaining, as they are demonstrated pretty goofily. But after that, we are done with dinosaurs for the rest of the episode.
We cut to the one scene that, while endearing with a riveting soundtrack by power couple Anže Rozman and Kara Talve, does give me pause. The pterosaurs featured in that episode were based on bones so fragmentary that they couldn't be diagnosed. How can we be sure that Barbaridactylus was a member of the antlerwing family, Phosphatodraco a member of the simurgh family, or even Tethydraco a member of the pteranodon family? How do we even know what Alcione even looked like? Also, the score doesn't really match the slower, less urgent movements of the pterosaurs.
The next scene was described as "the sunken continent of Zealandia", which is a refresher to see the lost continent bearing recognition for a change. Here, a family of plesiosaurs (Tuarangisaurus keyesi) comes to the coast to gulp themselves on anti-buoyant rocks, while the males ceremoniously poke their long, heavy necks up to the surface, the only good moment in an otherwise generic sequence.
After a quick focus on coral, we get treated to a Hoffmann's mosasaur (Mosasaurus hoffmanni) relying on fish and shrimp to give him a good, proper scratch, only to be pushed out of turn by a younger male. This sequence sticks out to me because it shows mosasaurs being portrayed as animals, not as monsters to shadow Nigel Marven or kaijuified Blackfish bootlegs.
The next scene shows a dazzling, mesmerizing mating ceremony of ammonites ("scaphitids", they were called, but that doesn't determine specific species, as it was a very huge family). They glow in the dark and mate very particularly. If the male's flashes don't sync with those of the female, he'd be rejected. Complimenting this alien but still soothing scene is Rozman and Talve's equally alien and soothing score.
Back in Zealandia, we end with plesiosaur pod mentality, as the whole group defends a pregnant mother from a kaika taniwha (Kaikaifilu hervei). As with the previous plesiosaur scene, it wasn't a scene that I got too crazy about.
The next episode, "Deserts", isn't really as impactful as the Planet Earth episode of the same name, both in regards to execution and the musical score, and it was riddled with confusing scene decisions. The first scene demonstrates a lek of dreadnoughts (Dreadnoughtus schrani) acting like a combination of elephant seals and frigatebirds, right down to the pops on their necks. The score in that sequence is definitely memorable, as it (literally) highlights the weights that the males take to demonstrate their fitness to attract the gaggle of girls in the audience. Though I'm left wondering--did the upstart beat the veteran because he was stronger, or because he popped one of the veteran's neck balloons, as male frigatebirds would do to ditch the competish?
Once the sauropod show is over, we now move to what was presumed to be Nemegtia, but it was portrayed to be as dry as Djadochta, which leads to the next problem. While there was evidence of Maastrichtian-age velos in Central Asia, calling them "Velociraptor" is just wrong. I grew up watching Walking with Dinosaurs, which means I watched "Giant of the Skies", which featured Utahraptor in the wrong place at the wrong time. And while the American cut justifies this with a demonstration of a land bridge that connected North America to Europe, I don't know how much water that holds, and that doesn't seem to be relevant anyway, for the damage has already been done. So having in Velociraptor, a genus of velos that went extinct 71 million years ago, in Nemegtia, which was set 66 million years ago, is just a rehash of that previous mistake. In short, Prehistoric Planet has Utahraptor'd the Velociraptor. And besides, hasn't the picture of pack-hunting raptors already been discarded?
The next scene, the one with the Nemegtian mononych (Mononykus olecranus), is cute but not top-notch memorable, and its color choice is teetering way close to the point of plagiarism.
Afterwards, the brief but violent rains have created a watering hole in the middle of the desert, luring in dinosaurs and pterosaurs from miles around, including a wandering khan (Tarbosaurus bataar). The reason that scene is so low was that it was just a near-identical rotoscope of the Water Truce sequence from The Jungle Book, right down to the herbivores making a clearing for the khan.
Then we go high up to see more Barbaridactylus. This scene I wasn't aware was a problem until Unnatural History Channel brought it up in his video, but the females were shown to be oddly consensual towards the similar-looking sneaky males, who use their feminine appearances to sneak past the larger, more impressive males. This is a problem, apparently, because the more extreme the sexual dimorphism, the more likely the sneaky male will be rejected and therefore resort to assaulting the females.
The last scene is an interesting one, albeit one that suffered an unmemorable score in the soundtrack. Apparently, salty southern duckbills (Secernosaurus koerneri) can thrive on dunes of gypsum, but when rains hit the coast, they rely on both their tenacity and their know-how of the sky to get to more productive grazing. This scene stands out to me because I question why any large animal would choose to thrive on such a taxing environment. It'd make sense for an animal as small as the cryptile, the scrofa and the gryken from The Future is Wild, but not for a duckbill bigger than 16 feet long.
It is unanimously agreed upon that "Freshwater" is the weakest episode in the first season. Apart from the humpbacked false duckbill (Deinocheirus mirificus) getting a scratch in the swamps of a more accurate Nemegtia and the devil frog (Beelzebufo ampinga) making a snack out of a baby whacktooth (Masiaksaurus knoplferi), the habitat itself has been relegated to the backseat, which is why the mating scene of the t-rex and the laying magnificent simurgh (Quetzalcoatlus northropi) are on the C tier, good scenes that have been damaged by simply being in the wrong episode. Speaking of the latter, memes have popped up in which the faces of dinosaurs have been pasted over two shots of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, with either Masiakasaurus or the Planet Dinosaur model of Majungasaurus being Galahad and the Quetzalcoatlus being the French taunter ("What are you doing in Africa?" "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!") when, really, that meme is more applicable to Velociraptor being in the Maastrichtian. On that topic, not only is it STILL in the wrong time, there is another problem, one I didn't pay attention to until Unnatural History Channel brought it up on his video. Instead of showing audiences raptor prey restraint (or "RPR"), the storytellers relied instead on mountain cats to show the velos hunting the pterosaurs (species unknown). Like the Deserts episode, Planet Earth has a far stronger "Freshwater" episode.
"Ice Worlds" didn't excite me as much as "Spirits of the Ice Forest" did, which is a shame, because dinosaurs in the snow is a refresher by default. We start at Prince Creek, which I couldn't ask for a worse place to start because the cast list is very fragmentary. In the opening scene, a pack of raptors (species unknown, though modeled after the pitbull raptor), shadows a herd of ugrunaaluk (Edmontosaurus sp.) for a long-delayed meal. Again, the picture of raptors hunting in packs has been debunked for a very long time now. Why insist on resorting to old cliches?
The Ornithomimus scene (can't think of a vernacular for them), while the designs look cool and add distinction to overall character, is still just a rotoscope of the Adelie penguin sequence from "Frozen Planet". Next.
The sequence with the swanneck (Olorotitan arharensis) is even less impressive. Are horsetails really more nutritious than grass? If so, then why have grasslands been the dominant plains since the Miocene?
The reason the scene with the tro-o is relatively low on the tier list is that it should have been longer, because a dinosaur with the intellect of a fire hawk is a very interesting prospect. But the final scene was just too short and too bland to show off any real gold.
We have spent so much time in the north that I question the necessity of a quick detour to Antarctica, rendering the scene with the polar macahutiul (Antarctopelta oliveroi) my least favorite of the series.
The final scene demonstrates the predator-prey dynamic between the northern boss (Pachyrhinosaurus perotorum) and the nanook (Nanuqsaurus hoglundi). The scene is great, the score has some very rhythmic moments, but what puts it low on the B tier are the nanooks themselves. From a distance, they look as good as most of the others. But in closeup, they look kind of fake, especially when they're running. Which brings up to the next problem--the story is based on fossil footprints of different lines pointing in the same direction. But how do we know that those parallel tracks were made at the same time and not separated within hours, days or even weeks of each other? And while it is true that nanooks were smaller than t-rexes, their portrayals in the show were just too small. More recent consensus shows that one nanook could easily match a boss in size, if not overtop it.
"Forests" is an everywhere kind of episode. The opening scene with the austroposeidon (Austroposeidon magnificus) is not long enough to get me invested.
Then a herd of trikes (Triceratops, species unknown) visits a cave to visit a clay lick to neutralize the poisons from their plant food. But why clay? Why not salt? Herbivores can clearly deal with poisonous plants without problem, but plants lack sodium, which is why the elephants of Mount Elgon (the inspiration behind that scene) scrape the caves not for clay, but for salt.
This next scene has gotten everyone talking. A male minotaur (Carnotaurus sastrei) clears the stage to wave his arms around to impress an impossibly stoic female. Everything about that scene--from the choreography to the score--is very goofy, and that is what makes it work so well.
While it is nice to finally see the Pinocchio-rex (Qianzhousaurus sinensis) in the flesh, its hunt for bright blue corythoraptors (Corythoraptor jacobsi) is not a scene I'd be in a hurry to revisit.
The fire scene is oddly slow, the only memorable moment in the whole sequence being my first official introduction to Atrociraptor marshalli...literally just one short week before Jurassic World: Dominion predictably ruined it.
The scene with the baby Therizinosaurus is passable. While it is cute to imagine babies having a taste for honey, it just wasn't executed memorably.
The final scene, the one set on Hateg Island, slogs on in pace, with the greatest focus being a bunch of odd-looking baby zalmos (Zalmoxes robustus) running and hiding from the real star of the episode, the robust simurgh (Hatzegopteryx thambena), looking more proper than how it looked in Planet Dinosaur. One question, though--weren't pterosaur wings supposed to be rounded at the tip? Sure, they've got the hands pointing backwards, but the pointed wingtips is now believed to be an outdated picture.
So it goes without saying that years of watching a moderate quantity of Attenborough documentaries has made the watching experience of Prehistoric Planet, at least in comparison to the original Walking with Dinosaurs, a bit numb. The creature designs are good, the CGI has not faltered in its photorealism from The Jungle Book, and even the soundtrack has enough of a score to make it memorable. But it's the stories that amount to the overall numbness of the first season. They hadn't opened my eyes in the way that Walking with Dinosaurs did.
When season 2 was announced literally one year after season 1, I had my doubts. Planet Earth 2 came out literally a decade after the first Planet Earth, and the differences in filming technology and musical score clearly show that. Same for the 16 years that separate The Blue Planet from Blue Planet 2. Dynasties 2, by contrast, came way too soon after the first Dynasties, and the end result is sloppy, from the stories being set at the tedious start rather than at the steady prime to the score from the first Dynasties being reused so often that the only episode to have any new music was "Meerkat". So to find Prehistoric Planet 2 come out literally one year after Prehistoric Planet, I was concerned that it'd be as shorthanded as Dynasties 2 was. The opening episode, "Islands", kind of suffered that, but it thankfully wasn't as severe a problem.
The first segment of that episode struck me as odd because the adult zalmo looks weirdly identical to the baby model from last episode.
While it is cool to see the robust simurgh being expanded upon, I personally wish we'd stayed at Hateg Island, where they'd hunt the Transylvanian dwarf duckbill (Telmatosaurus transylvanicus) and not the funky combbill (Tethyshadros insularis).
One of season 1's most recurring complaints is "no crocodiles", which is pretty apt when you consider how diverse they were during the Cretaceous period. So to see the Malagasy armadillo (Simosuchus clarki) at all, let alone stand up against a mahjong (Majungasaurus crenatissimus), is one to remember for the ages.
This next scene is actually pretty interesting, in which we see Adalatherium, which wasn't a true mammal, but rather something hovering closely outside the taxonomic boundaries. It's a long sequence, which is just as well, because this is as new a clade to me now as the cynodont was when Walking with Dinosaurs came out.
As with in "Ice Worlds", a quick detour to Antarctica doesn't seem necessary to me, as the hunt between the Imperobator and the Morrosaurus feels more like a skim.
The last scene in the episode is my personal favorite, in which a male robust simugh stands on a sandbar to do whatever it takes to impress a mate.
"Badlands" stands out in that there are only two settings. The first one is the strongest because of how the Deccan Traps, long reputed to be the co-culprit to the fall of the dinosaur empire, has been repurposed into prime nesting estate for a herd of sauropods (Isisaurus colberti). The journey seems reckless, but volcanic sand is hot and toasty, something that a modern species of dinosaur, the megapode, also exploits as it lays its egg in the hot volcanic sand of the Solomons.
The next scene hasn't fixed on last year's problems, in which Velociraptor is still there and it still hasn't performed RPR--it just kicks an herbivore off a cliff, and that was that.
The nesting Corythoraptor scene didn't interest me, but what really bugged me was that the antagonist of that sequence was a kuru (Kuru kulla), a raptor who, like the pterosaurs on the "Coasts" episode, was based on incomplete, fragmentary specimens.
The sequence with the tarchias (Tarchia, species unknown), is a refreshing detour from the previous sequence because we have a better idea as to what they would have looked like. And to see them slog around for an oasis is a second highlight (next to the Deccan nursery).
This next scene has nothing new added from either "Time of the Titans" or "Alpha's Egg", in which a herd of baby sauropods gets picked on by larger predators on their way to the safety of the forest.
The majority of the "Freshwater" sequences I feel fit better in "Swamps". The same unnamed pterosaurs from "Freshwater" have reappeared, this time trying to fly past an approaching population of alligators (Shamosuchus djadochtaensis).
The next episode features a grizzly bear gathering of austroraptors (Austroraptor cabazai) hunting gar. It stands out as highly as it does because it shows a species of raptor that looks and acts differently from the usual velo or nych. Plus, we know many miles more about austroraptors than we do about Spinosaurus, so that is a relieving plus.
The devil frog stands out in this episode, and to see a grumpy male try to fight off a herd of goavambe (Rapetosaurus krausei) is humorous. It also deviates from the usual picture of "the frog that eats dinosaurs".
This next sequence I was very concerned the moment I saw it in the ads. Thanks to Jack Horner, the poorly-known family Pachycephalosauridae has been under very hot fire with the notion of bone sponginess being a taxonomically viable method of identification, which it really isn't because all amniotes have spongy bones in their teens. But very thankfully, this sequence does not resort to Hornerism. It shows that older males do get longer horns on the backs of their heads, not the other way around. Also, new evidence has shown that the domes may have been covered in shiny skin, so this has me asking--is the dome a boys-only trait? Could that dracorex (Pachycephalosaurus hogwartsia) skull that I saw at the Black Hills Museum just be a girl entering her sweet 16 when she died? Could those stygimoloch (Pachycephalosaurus spinifer) skulls just be those of high school footballers?
"Swamps" ended on a high note with a couple of t-rexes hunting an anatotitan (Edmontosaurus annectens) in the dark. One just walks to the duckbill, and the animal, in its panic, goes right in the direction of the other t-rex in hiding. This perfectly reflects the current understanding that t-rexes exchanged fast running for better walking. Now can we see some duckbills fighting back, please?
On May 26, The Little Mermaid came out in theaters. A day earlier, "Oceans" came out. If I were to choose, I'd stick to the latter, simply because we're treated to fresh new stories with a wider variety of mosasaurs and ammonites than any of the Walking with programs ever did. The scene with the hesperorns chasing bait fish only to have themselves be chased by bulldog fish (Xiphactinus) is a classic, but a good one. However, "X-fish"? What's wrong with "bulldog fish"? But the highlight, no doubt, is the final sequence, in which a Hoffmann's mosasaur killed a juvenile plesiosaur simply by ramming it great white style.
"Freshwater" was weak due to being sorely unfocused. "North America", by contrast, is even weaker for being too rushed. Also, the "scars make the man" narrative with the trikes bugs me the most. What justification is there for that?
This has been a very exhaustive review of Prehistoric Planet, and it's way too early for me to worry about a season 3 coming out, if there is going to be one.
2023.06.05 02:03 JonathanS223 I Faced a Bone Walker and Lived
Hey all, it’s me Frank Jones again. I wrote that post a while ago about why you shouldn’t be a paranormal investigator and a lot of you liked it. Since settling into my hideaway in the mountains, life has become quiet and I thought about checking in. The plague hit us like nothing and now that everyone is wanting to travel again, I thought to say hi. I want to say thanks to all of you who commented and gave me those weird pointy thingies this social media does. Some of you even figured out my post office box address and sent me letters. I appreciate it (and don’t do it again).
The common strain among your posts was wanting to know if I had ever encountered other things as an auditor. Of course I have but I have been reluctant to tell you because I don’t want to shine some sort of light on all of it or make it sound like some romantic adventure. It’s “pissing yourself” fear all wrapped up in a waking nightmare with a side of gory terror. I am one of the few who actually made it to retirement…if that’s what you could call this life I’m living now.
But, I have nothing else to do really. Carl only visits once in a while when he’s passing through and I cannot risk any other sort of company knowing I’ve pissed off a lot of people…and things. So, I’m back on this internet board and sharing. So many are curious, I thought maybe another story can scare you all straight. This was the first time complacency almost got me and another killed.
This story takes place somewhere in the 90s in a small New England town. It was one of those places nestled along the banks of a serene river, historic brick buildings line the winding streets, their facades adorned with weathered signs that hint at the town's seafaring heritage. A place where everything smelled like either the ocean or decaying fish. I’m not going to specifically name the town to protect the young lady that may still be living there but in the heart of the town, there’s a renowned drawbridge which stands as a testament to the place’s affinity for water. Its ancient mechanisms creak and groan when allowing vessels to pass through the calm waterway. It also had some of the best outdoor markets I had a chance to stop and check out.
I didn’t pass through this part of the country that often as my boss preferred me to do the long hauls across the country but there was a dead haul nobody wanted.I took it cause I wanted a change of scenery. I was already working as an auditor and part of a loose alliance of others who investigated and dealt with any weird things. I actually had a few monsters under my belt. I honestly had the foolhardy idea that I could handle anything out there. God, I was an idiot.
The supernatural never crossed my mind until that evening, stopping to fuel up my red 1992 Peterbilt 379 and paying for the gas with the attendant and restocking up on those beef jerky sticks and coffee.
That was when I noticed her. She was a young woman about in her mid 30s looking like one of the corporate types with the short hair cut and business suit. I would have not paid her any mind if it wasn’t for the touch of apprehension on her face as she talked on one of those new fangled bright yellow Nokia cellphones. Soft strands of chestnut hair framed her face, their gentle sway moving as she glanced around while talking on the phone. As I observed her, I couldn't help but notice the way her fingers trembled slightly, when trying to get money out of her pocket. I’ve seen that type of fear before. So, like a creep, I eavesdropped on her call.
“Yes, it happened again,” she had said as the nickels finally made it to the counter to pay for her snacks. “I could have sworn there was something outside the window near the edge of the forest….no, of course the security cameras didn’t pick up anything. They’re cheap. Ronald was a skinflint when it came to things like this. Hope he’s rotting in hell wherever he is.”
My mind began to drift away, more annoyed I couldn’t get a move on it. It sounded like a problem for the police and if anything, I was gonna tell her that. It was what she said next that made me stop and brought back the reality of the world.
“Yeah. like nine or ten feet tall. I’m thinking kids are playing around with scarecrows or something. Won’t come from the edge of the forest and when I check, I can see foot impressions and stuff. I already put in a call to the cops. They found nothing.“
“Did it sway a bit and its eyes seem to glint like a cats or owl?” I asked without thinking.
The look I got from both her and the gas attendant made me realize what I had done. Well, too late now.
“I’ll call you back,” she said quickly, eyeing me as she hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
“You need me to walk you to your car, ma’am?” the attendant asked, staring at me.
Of course, I forgot that The Truck Stop Killer had only been arrested a few years before.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, quickly gathering her stuff and making for the door. I slapped the one hundred and seventy bucks on the counter to pay for my diesel guzzler ignoring the change and followed her out but making sure to not move in a way that caused the teenager in the station to call the cops.
“Ma’am,” I called out to her and she turned to me while hurrying up her pace.
“I’ve got pepper spray. Stay away from me.”
“The thing in the woods. You could have sworn you smelled fresh dirt like mulch and it seemed to sway back and forth like it could not keep its balance.” I threw it out there in desperation.
She froze and turned to look at me. Eying me up and down as I kept my distance and angled to head towards my truck.
“How do you know?”
“I…uh…dealt with something like that before. On a job in Canada.”
“Who are you?” she asked, looking at my faded shirt and company logo. “A trucker?”
“I moonlight as a problem solver. Like an auditor of sorts.”
“Who is it?” she demanded, eyes still affixed to me and hand in her purse.
“Better question is ‘what is it?’,” I answered.
I have learned to pick up on the contempt and disbelief from people who hadn’t seen what I have. I was already being dismissed as a whack job.
“You have tracks on your porch you have written off as animals, especially if you own a dog. If you did own a dog, it’s missing. Cops told you it ran away. You got a garden?”
“Yes,” the certainty had started to leave her voice. “A walled garden.”
“And anytime you’re in there, you feel like you’re being watched.”
At that, her hand came out of her purse empty and she approached me with the fear I had seen in her eyes now on her face.
“How did you know?”
“I’d rather not explain out here,” I said sheepishly running my hand through my sandy brown hair that only started getting flecks of gray. “But you got a…pest problem.”
“And you can do something about it? I’ve had exterminators, cops, nature lovers…even a priest.”
“None of those won’t do you any good and I don’t want to scare ya but it’s more active which is not a good sign.”
For a few moments, I could see the indecision in her eyes. The desperate want to dismiss me as a lunatic but whatever she had heard or seen won over.
“Fine. You can follow me to the house.”
“Mind if I hitch a ride?”
The woman started but then looked at my truck. “Promise. I mean you no harm. I really think you’re in danger.”
That was when I found her name was Isabelle Walker.
We left my truck in long-term parking after she told the attendant that I was a long lost relative and that’s why the change of demeanor. I don’t know if he believed her but at that point, I don’t think he cared. I left my truck with its metallic frame standing tall and proud amidst the rows of other vehicles.
I did not realize how desperate this woman was until we got going on the road. I had loaded myself in the passenger seat after pulling out my military backpack from the war which I also used for my auditing services and tried to look as harmless as a man of my stature could.
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, her focus was on the lonely road, those beautiful eyes darting to me anytime I shifted my weight. I didn’t want to scare her so it was her that spoke first.
“What is it?”
“I really don’t know but the people in my profession call it a Bone Walker.”
The nose crinkled in disbelief.
“Halloween is not for a few more months, Mister…”
“Jones. Frank Jones.”
The James Bond reference caused her to snort in amusement.
“I don’t know what to tell ya, ma’am, except I’ve dealt with some pretty scary things out there. Normally I’m never this forward as most people try to call the cops on me or dismiss me as a lunatic. I mean, I could be a lunatic but I know what I’ve seen.”
“And that is…?”
“You know. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves. They’re real. They’re not common but real nevertheless.”
“Really?”
There was still the disbelief in Isabelle’s voice but I grew to ignore things like this.
“Sure. I mean, think of all the things you experienced and be open to alternate answers.”
Isabelle was quiet for a few minutes and then sighed. “Either you are telling the truth or you're the biggest liar and I’m a fool that’s not going to live through this night.”
“I promise,” I tried to reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
After a few more minutes and off the main highway, we approached her home. The large house stood resolute amidst the dense, ancient forest, its weathered exterior a testament to the passing of time. It was a grand structure, its imposing presence commanding attention. The sprawling estate exuded an air of mystery and faded grandeur, as if it held stories whispered through generations.
As we pulled in, the main house loomed before me, its facade adorned with intricate woodwork and worn stone. Ivy crept along the walls, weaving an emerald tapestry that hinted at the passage of years. The windows, framed by elegant yet slightly cracked panes, stared out into the world with a mixture of curiosity and melancholy.
To the side, a large shed stood detached from the main house, its weathered boards echoing tales of forgotten tools and lost endeavors. The wooden structure sagged under the weight of time, its roof covered in a patchwork quilt of moss. Inside, shadows danced amidst remnants of a bygone era, rusty equipment and dusty shelves attesting to the once-bustling activity that had long since ceased.
Not far from the shed, a family cemetery nestled amongst the ancient trees. Tombstones, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered inscriptions, dotted the landscape. The hallowed ground exuded a solemn tranquility, as if time stood still in reverence for those who rested eternally in its embrace. Wisps of fog clung to the grassy knolls, lending an ethereal quality to the sacred space.
At the far end of the property, an old walled garden stood as a testament to the house's former splendor. Once vibrant and lush, the garden now appeared overgrown and untamed. Stone paths meandered through a sea of tangled foliage, leading to hidden nooks and forgotten corners. Dilapidated stone benches, adorned with intricate carvings, sat scattered throughout the garden, silent witnesses to a time when laughter and conversation filled the air.
As I stood amidst the silence of the forest, the house, shed, cemetery, and walled garden formed a tapestry of history and mystery. They were a testament to the ebb and flow of life, the remnants of a bygone era that clung to the present. Within their weathered walls, secrets whispered and memories danced, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to venture into their enigmatic embrace.
“Great place to be haunted, huh?” she said with sarcasm. “My ex left it to me in the divorce. Was only going to be here long enough to sell it but no one wants it and my job wants me to move to this state anyway.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“California.”
“So, this is definitely a change of scenery for you,”
Isabelle only hummed back at me as she fumbled for her keys in the dying light of evening. I pulled my backpack closer to me as my eyes scanned the treeline where the shadows had begun to deepen. Nothing stood out against the silhouettes of ancient trees which was a good sign. I wasn’t too late.
Stepping through the weathered front door, I entered the interior of the old house, greeted by a mix of nostalgia and faded elegance. The air carried a hint of mustiness, a reminder of the countless years the house had to have witnessed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows, I could make out the clash between old decor and the modern furniture Isabelle had bought.
The foyer, adorned with a worn, threadbare rug. The walls, once adorned with portraits and intricate wallpaper, now bore the markings of time's passage. The wooden banister of the grand staircase, polished with use, creaked softly under my touch as we made our way towards the living room.
Moving further into the house, I found myself in a spacious living room. Large, ornate windows which would have allowed slivers of daylight to filter through the heavy velvet curtains. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper. An aged fireplace, its stone mantle adorned with trinkets and old photographs, served as the heart of the room.
“You want some coffee?” Isabelle asked, throwing her keys on to the coffee table. I sat down on her couch and dropped my backpack on it with a clunk.
“Sure.”
“Sugar?”
“A lot.”
The kitchen light clicked on and I heard her moving about setting up the coffee pot. The adrenalin was now pumping through me as my mind raced. I’m not going to go into a lot of detail on what a Bone Walker is but it’s a creature that usually haunts the western coast. It being so far out east was strange. I pulled out my old gun bag and unrolled it. My Stevens Model 520-30 “Trench” shotgun was the first thing I reached for as I popped open the internal pouch holding he high flash shells I was glad I packed. It was the startled sound from Isabelle that made me quickly look up.
She stood there with my coffee, eyes locked on the shotgun in my hand. I slowly held up one of the cartridges I was planning to load.
“Flash powder shotgun shells. No load. Just makes a loud noise and a bright white light. What we’re facing lives in the shadows and hates light…normally,” I had heard stories that they could strike in the day but it was extremely rare. She didn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” was her quiet response. “Do…do I need a gun?”
“You know how to use one?”
“No.”
“Then it’ll do more harm than good. You got any flashlights?”
Isabelle nodded mutely, the gravity of the situation sinking in at the array of weapons and items in my pack laid out in front of her.
“Go get them.”
While she was gone, I quickly unloaded the silver bullets out of my Makarov pistol (a gift from a Viet Cong officer and a story for another time) and placed normal 9mm rounds in the clip. I had it holstered under my jacket with the two back up clips when she returned with three cheap flashlights.
“One in your hand and one in your pocket.”
“Why?”
“In case you drop the one you are holding.”
The woman obeyed silently.
As night fell quickly around us, I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and with Isabelle close, we made our way upstairs. There were tell tale signs I needed to check as the only advantage I had over this thing was the fact it stuck to a pattern. If it was at the stage I thought it was, there would be signs.
“Which room is yours?” I asked.
Isabelle pointed to a door down the hallway across from a large window. Approaching it, I quickly shined my flashlight at the mahogany door frame. It was the glint that caught my eye. Deep gouges in the wood.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Claw marks,” I responded. There was no use sugar coating anything now.
“This thing was in my house?” Isabelle said horrified.
“For the last few weeks now,” I said, my nose picking up the faint odor of dirt and mud.
“Why didn’t it attack me then?”
“It wasn’t time.”
“What?”
Talking was going to be the only thing to keep her focused. I had felt the world shift a bit as night fell and I needed her not to panic.
“Bone Walkers are ritualistic creatures. They are very choosy over their prey. It can take a month or two before they move in. That’s why they are so hard to catch.”
“Criteria? Like what?”
“We don’t know.”
That was the honest truth. The only reason we knew their existence and patterns was thanks to blind luck and people surviving their encounters. I showed my light around looking for other signs. Discolored stains in the corners where shadows would naturally form, healthy moss and mold that shouldn’t be there. I found a patch around her bed. She did not notice and I did not want to tell her that it probably stood over her through the night watching her sleep. The sooner I buried this thing, the better.
“Frank!”
There was a trill of terror in Isabelle’s voice and I immediately looked to where she was. The woman was standing by her bedroom window staring out at something. I quickly moved and spotted what she saw. In the forest, at the edge of the shadow cast by the moonlight was an almost, imperceptible form. It stood nine feet, hunched over like a broken scarecrow, its owl like eyes staring back at us.
“Shit,” I muttered. Thank god we had turned on the lights as we went.
It was the flash of light and the crack of thunder that heralded the arrival of the storm. The lights of this old houses flickered which caused my belly to flop a few times. My brain was on fire as I glanced back from the lightbulb to where the creature was and found it had vanished.
“Where did it go?”
I did not have time to explain as another crack of lightning caused the lights to dim. I grabbed Isabelle roughly by the arm and yanked her back down the hallway towards the living room where I had left my stuff. We barely made it to the living room when the lights dimmed low. I grasped the glow sticks out of the bag, cracked a handful and scattered them about, their bright yellow light beginning to glow. The power then went out bathing us only in the eerie glow of the emergency lighting.
As we waited in breathless anticipation, the storm struck, its wrath manifesting in torrential rain. The mansion seemed to respond, succumbing to a power outage that plunged us into an abyss of blackness only moments before.
A trill of terror coursed through me. I knew this Bone Walker thrived in darkness, using it as a cloak to conceal its malevolence. We auditors were not sure if it actually teleported or it preferred to move in pitch darkness. I just knew that the black was our biggest threat.
For a few moments, we could only hear the ragged breathing of the two of us being drowned out by the pounding rain against shingle and glass. Isabelle had wound her hand into my jacket pocket and was gripping it tightly, I could feel her shaking with terror. I kept my shotgun gripped tightly in my hand listening for the tell tale sound of its arrival.
It was the movement out of the corner of my eye and the fact her grip got tighter on my jacket. I swiftly turned on my high-powered flashlight as I spun around and the brilliant beam pierced the obscure corner of the room. No matter what I had read or seen before did not prepare me for what I saw.
It stood there in the corner, its eight foot height engulfing that section of the house. My eyes strained as it appeared the thing was struggling to stay in focus. Its arms were too long for its body, spindly and almost to the floor while the legs appeared backwards giving it a strange forward leaning look. It wore a hunter’s long coat and trousers but through the rips and tears I could make out something squirming and moving underneath. The air filled with the stench of decaying plants and diseased vegetation. Its face was covered with what looked like the remnants of a cheap bandanna but its owl-like eyes gleaned back with malevolence.
Isabelle whimpered, her fear palpable in the room and the Bone Walker lunged toward us. Even though my fear was ripping through me like an unstoppable train, I had the sense to pull the trigger of my shotgun aimed in its direction. The flash and resounding roar painted the entire room in a brilliant black and white shadow causing every corner and edge to appear thick and vivid. The creature screamed and fell to the side into the shadow not illuminated by the weapon’s fire.
Isabelle had thrown herself on the couch and was huddled there, trembling with terror, while I moved quickly to crack a few more glow sticks and toss them into the dark corners of the room. In one, I saw its foot recoil back into the kitchen where it was darker than night itself. This was quicker than I had anticipated. The plans I had been formulating on the drive were no longer viable. I wanted to lure it to where I controlled the battlefield but that was not an option anymore. This had become a cat and mouse game and I knew this was with a predator I could not even hope to understand and had years to hone.
Out of the kitchen again this thing charged forward, relentless in its pursuit, it was trying to find a way around my light barrier which only appeared to slow it down. With shaking hands, I fired several more rounds, each blast forcing the creature to retreat and the girl to scream in terror. As soon as it retreated to a dark part of the house, I turned to where the woman of the house had been. To my horror, Isabelle's fear had gotten the best of her. In that moment of panic, she darted from the safety of the light, towards the hallway and the door outside.
“Isabelle! Stop!” I yelled trying to command her back with my voice but I doubted she heard me. Between the abject horror and the relentless rain, she was going to take her chance. A chance I knew she did not have.
I only took a step when I sensed it. The musty smell of an organic landfill overwhelmed me as the form silently darted past me, its long arm clobbering me up the side of the head. The world spun as pain burst through my brain. I felt the world tilt and fall heavily to the ground, flashlight and shotgun falling away.
As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I knew I was a sitting duck for this thing. There was no way for me to stop it from ripping me to shreds like some of the corpses I had seen. As I blinked, I came to my senses and realized I was alone. How long I had actually been on the ground, I did not know.
I sat up, my head pounding and I could see the door hanging open, the wind slamming the door on its hinges and the rain soaking the hallway floor. Struggling, I found my flashlight and gun and pulled myself together.
There was a slim chance that Isabelle was still alive. I had to think. Where would it go? I ran all the stories I could think of and then it hit me. The garden. The walled garden.
I charged into the rain-soaked night. I sprinted toward the enclosed garden at the edge of the property. As I grew closer, I saw that the rusted door was open and hope flickered in my soul. As I came to a stop, I brought my flashlight up again with my shotgun and saw it.
This creature stood there in the middle of the overgrown garden, its massive clawed hand wrapped around Isabelle’s chest and holding her up. Out from under its bandanna mask, putrid vines had appeared and led up to Isabelle’s face where they were forcing their way down her throat and up her nose. I could see the wide terror in her eyes as vines were snaking their way around her waist and I did not want to think about what they were planning to do.
I brought up the shotgun again and fired. Knowing that I had distance, the flash of light caught the creature by surprise. It shrieked as it fell back. Trying desperately not to release its prey. I did not hesitate to grab the machete at my side and hack at its arm until Isabelle fell down free of it.
It’s claw swiped at me striking me on the leg and easily tearing through my pants leaving bloody lacerations but I put the weapon point blank and fired another round. I do not know if it was the flash, the combination of the creature, or that the almighty above was looking out for me, but the creature caught ablaze from the spark.
It fell back swinging wildly as the fire spread unnaturally fast catching the plants around it on fire. Within a matter of seconds, the walled garden had become ablaze with the bone walker in the center. As I ripped the vines out of Isabelle’s mouth and dragged her towards the door, I looked up to see those owl-like eyes looking at me with such abject hatred that the look stick with me today.
I honestly don’t know how we survived. I had helped Isabelle to her porch and we both passed out against our will from the sheer terror and exhaustion. We were awoken by the sound of a siren. The lights had come back on sometime in our sleep and the rain had drifted off to a comforting drizzle. The fire was still raging in the garden but contained by the ancient walls. At least two fire trucks, an ambulance and cops were flying up the private road towards us.
This entire hunt had been ill-planned and stupid. I knew it. As the cops approached with their hand on their pistols, I knew that I had allowed my own ego to get in the way. I should have taken Isabelle somewhere else until I had done a proper reconnaissance. I shouldn’t have taken her home where it was waiting. And now, the cops were looking at two thoroughly soaked humans, one a trucker with a wound and a gun and a young lady in distress. I was pretty sure I was going to go to jail.
“Isabelle?” One of the cops and his voice caused her to sit up, relief washing over her.
“Derek!” she wailed. “We were attacked! In the garden!”
Another two cops that had arrived had taken off in that direction while Derek helped the girl up and took her towards the ambulance. The other cop with a comically large mustache looked at me with keen eyes, his hand still on his pistol, sergeant stripes glowing in the light.
“Attacked?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting up slowly and keeping my hand away from the shotgun and trying not to show the one under my jacket. “Someone came after Mrs. Walker. They were in the garden.”
The cop watched me closely but there seemed to be a recognition in his eyes.
“You by any chance Frank Jones?”
My heart jumped and I must have looked startled as the cop’s face broke into a smile. To my relief, his hand fell away from his holstered sidearm.
“I’ll take that for a yes. My guess is you don’t remember me. Clay Wilson. Santa Fe PD, about six years ago. You helped my partner with a...problem. Nellie Nelson?”
I knew the name but the face escaped me.
“She told me you helped her audit a police union building.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, remembering dealing with the wraith and the twinge in my right arm from it’s bite.
The cop looked towards the fire that was slowly being put out by the fire fighters.
“Any chance this will be one of your audits?”
“Yeah.”
He seemed to think for a few minutes and then nodded.
“Then I think you need to grab that shotgun of yours and hitch a ride with me before too many people ask questions. Whatcha think?”
I nodded. I was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I collected my stuff quickly from the living room and made my way back out where he was waiting. As I limped with the cop to his car, I looked towards Isabelle who was being held by the other. She gave me a look of thankfulness as the cop looked at his partner with confusion.
“Her brother’s got her,” Clay said, opening the back door for me. I was not gonna argue or fight. If he took me to jail or not.
And that was it. My leg was not as bad off as I thought and wrapped it in the back of the police car. Clay only asked where I wanted to go and he took me back to my truck. With that time, I was back on the road with that small town in the rear view mirror.
I never did find out what happened to Isabelle after that, if another creature came looking for her or if she had a chance to live in peace. I just knew that we both barely made it out alive and that was due to my own stupidity. I was furious with myself for weeks after that and told myself I wouldn’t put another person in jeopardy like that again. At least, despite my idiocy, another life was saved and another monster was put in the ground...I hoped. I never did find out if they found a body.
submitted by JonathanS223 to joinmeatthecampfire [link] [comments]
The common strain among your posts was wanting to know if I had ever encountered other things as an auditor. Of course I have but I have been reluctant to tell you because I don’t want to shine some sort of light on all of it or make it sound like some romantic adventure. It’s “pissing yourself” fear all wrapped up in a waking nightmare with a side of gory terror. I am one of the few who actually made it to retirement…if that’s what you could call this life I’m living now.
But, I have nothing else to do really. Carl only visits once in a while when he’s passing through and I cannot risk any other sort of company knowing I’ve pissed off a lot of people…and things. So, I’m back on this internet board and sharing. So many are curious, I thought maybe another story can scare you all straight. This was the first time complacency almost got me and another killed.
This story takes place somewhere in the 90s in a small New England town. It was one of those places nestled along the banks of a serene river, historic brick buildings line the winding streets, their facades adorned with weathered signs that hint at the town's seafaring heritage. A place where everything smelled like either the ocean or decaying fish. I’m not going to specifically name the town to protect the young lady that may still be living there but in the heart of the town, there’s a renowned drawbridge which stands as a testament to the place’s affinity for water. Its ancient mechanisms creak and groan when allowing vessels to pass through the calm waterway. It also had some of the best outdoor markets I had a chance to stop and check out.
I didn’t pass through this part of the country that often as my boss preferred me to do the long hauls across the country but there was a dead haul nobody wanted.I took it cause I wanted a change of scenery. I was already working as an auditor and part of a loose alliance of others who investigated and dealt with any weird things. I actually had a few monsters under my belt. I honestly had the foolhardy idea that I could handle anything out there. God, I was an idiot.
The supernatural never crossed my mind until that evening, stopping to fuel up my red 1992 Peterbilt 379 and paying for the gas with the attendant and restocking up on those beef jerky sticks and coffee.
That was when I noticed her. She was a young woman about in her mid 30s looking like one of the corporate types with the short hair cut and business suit. I would have not paid her any mind if it wasn’t for the touch of apprehension on her face as she talked on one of those new fangled bright yellow Nokia cellphones. Soft strands of chestnut hair framed her face, their gentle sway moving as she glanced around while talking on the phone. As I observed her, I couldn't help but notice the way her fingers trembled slightly, when trying to get money out of her pocket. I’ve seen that type of fear before. So, like a creep, I eavesdropped on her call.
“Yes, it happened again,” she had said as the nickels finally made it to the counter to pay for her snacks. “I could have sworn there was something outside the window near the edge of the forest….no, of course the security cameras didn’t pick up anything. They’re cheap. Ronald was a skinflint when it came to things like this. Hope he’s rotting in hell wherever he is.”
My mind began to drift away, more annoyed I couldn’t get a move on it. It sounded like a problem for the police and if anything, I was gonna tell her that. It was what she said next that made me stop and brought back the reality of the world.
“Yeah. like nine or ten feet tall. I’m thinking kids are playing around with scarecrows or something. Won’t come from the edge of the forest and when I check, I can see foot impressions and stuff. I already put in a call to the cops. They found nothing.“
“Did it sway a bit and its eyes seem to glint like a cats or owl?” I asked without thinking.
The look I got from both her and the gas attendant made me realize what I had done. Well, too late now.
“I’ll call you back,” she said quickly, eyeing me as she hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
“You need me to walk you to your car, ma’am?” the attendant asked, staring at me.
Of course, I forgot that The Truck Stop Killer had only been arrested a few years before.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, quickly gathering her stuff and making for the door. I slapped the one hundred and seventy bucks on the counter to pay for my diesel guzzler ignoring the change and followed her out but making sure to not move in a way that caused the teenager in the station to call the cops.
“Ma’am,” I called out to her and she turned to me while hurrying up her pace.
“I’ve got pepper spray. Stay away from me.”
“The thing in the woods. You could have sworn you smelled fresh dirt like mulch and it seemed to sway back and forth like it could not keep its balance.” I threw it out there in desperation.
She froze and turned to look at me. Eying me up and down as I kept my distance and angled to head towards my truck.
“How do you know?”
“I…uh…dealt with something like that before. On a job in Canada.”
“Who are you?” she asked, looking at my faded shirt and company logo. “A trucker?”
“I moonlight as a problem solver. Like an auditor of sorts.”
“Who is it?” she demanded, eyes still affixed to me and hand in her purse.
“Better question is ‘what is it?’,” I answered.
I have learned to pick up on the contempt and disbelief from people who hadn’t seen what I have. I was already being dismissed as a whack job.
“You have tracks on your porch you have written off as animals, especially if you own a dog. If you did own a dog, it’s missing. Cops told you it ran away. You got a garden?”
“Yes,” the certainty had started to leave her voice. “A walled garden.”
“And anytime you’re in there, you feel like you’re being watched.”
At that, her hand came out of her purse empty and she approached me with the fear I had seen in her eyes now on her face.
“How did you know?”
“I’d rather not explain out here,” I said sheepishly running my hand through my sandy brown hair that only started getting flecks of gray. “But you got a…pest problem.”
“And you can do something about it? I’ve had exterminators, cops, nature lovers…even a priest.”
“None of those won’t do you any good and I don’t want to scare ya but it’s more active which is not a good sign.”
For a few moments, I could see the indecision in her eyes. The desperate want to dismiss me as a lunatic but whatever she had heard or seen won over.
“Fine. You can follow me to the house.”
“Mind if I hitch a ride?”
The woman started but then looked at my truck. “Promise. I mean you no harm. I really think you’re in danger.”
That was when I found her name was Isabelle Walker.
We left my truck in long-term parking after she told the attendant that I was a long lost relative and that’s why the change of demeanor. I don’t know if he believed her but at that point, I don’t think he cared. I left my truck with its metallic frame standing tall and proud amidst the rows of other vehicles.
I did not realize how desperate this woman was until we got going on the road. I had loaded myself in the passenger seat after pulling out my military backpack from the war which I also used for my auditing services and tried to look as harmless as a man of my stature could.
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, her focus was on the lonely road, those beautiful eyes darting to me anytime I shifted my weight. I didn’t want to scare her so it was her that spoke first.
“What is it?”
“I really don’t know but the people in my profession call it a Bone Walker.”
The nose crinkled in disbelief.
“Halloween is not for a few more months, Mister…”
“Jones. Frank Jones.”
The James Bond reference caused her to snort in amusement.
“I don’t know what to tell ya, ma’am, except I’ve dealt with some pretty scary things out there. Normally I’m never this forward as most people try to call the cops on me or dismiss me as a lunatic. I mean, I could be a lunatic but I know what I’ve seen.”
“And that is…?”
“You know. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves. They’re real. They’re not common but real nevertheless.”
“Really?”
There was still the disbelief in Isabelle’s voice but I grew to ignore things like this.
“Sure. I mean, think of all the things you experienced and be open to alternate answers.”
Isabelle was quiet for a few minutes and then sighed. “Either you are telling the truth or you're the biggest liar and I’m a fool that’s not going to live through this night.”
“I promise,” I tried to reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
After a few more minutes and off the main highway, we approached her home. The large house stood resolute amidst the dense, ancient forest, its weathered exterior a testament to the passing of time. It was a grand structure, its imposing presence commanding attention. The sprawling estate exuded an air of mystery and faded grandeur, as if it held stories whispered through generations.
As we pulled in, the main house loomed before me, its facade adorned with intricate woodwork and worn stone. Ivy crept along the walls, weaving an emerald tapestry that hinted at the passage of years. The windows, framed by elegant yet slightly cracked panes, stared out into the world with a mixture of curiosity and melancholy.
To the side, a large shed stood detached from the main house, its weathered boards echoing tales of forgotten tools and lost endeavors. The wooden structure sagged under the weight of time, its roof covered in a patchwork quilt of moss. Inside, shadows danced amidst remnants of a bygone era, rusty equipment and dusty shelves attesting to the once-bustling activity that had long since ceased.
Not far from the shed, a family cemetery nestled amongst the ancient trees. Tombstones, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered inscriptions, dotted the landscape. The hallowed ground exuded a solemn tranquility, as if time stood still in reverence for those who rested eternally in its embrace. Wisps of fog clung to the grassy knolls, lending an ethereal quality to the sacred space.
At the far end of the property, an old walled garden stood as a testament to the house's former splendor. Once vibrant and lush, the garden now appeared overgrown and untamed. Stone paths meandered through a sea of tangled foliage, leading to hidden nooks and forgotten corners. Dilapidated stone benches, adorned with intricate carvings, sat scattered throughout the garden, silent witnesses to a time when laughter and conversation filled the air.
As I stood amidst the silence of the forest, the house, shed, cemetery, and walled garden formed a tapestry of history and mystery. They were a testament to the ebb and flow of life, the remnants of a bygone era that clung to the present. Within their weathered walls, secrets whispered and memories danced, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to venture into their enigmatic embrace.
“Great place to be haunted, huh?” she said with sarcasm. “My ex left it to me in the divorce. Was only going to be here long enough to sell it but no one wants it and my job wants me to move to this state anyway.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“California.”
“So, this is definitely a change of scenery for you,”
Isabelle only hummed back at me as she fumbled for her keys in the dying light of evening. I pulled my backpack closer to me as my eyes scanned the treeline where the shadows had begun to deepen. Nothing stood out against the silhouettes of ancient trees which was a good sign. I wasn’t too late.
Stepping through the weathered front door, I entered the interior of the old house, greeted by a mix of nostalgia and faded elegance. The air carried a hint of mustiness, a reminder of the countless years the house had to have witnessed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows, I could make out the clash between old decor and the modern furniture Isabelle had bought.
The foyer, adorned with a worn, threadbare rug. The walls, once adorned with portraits and intricate wallpaper, now bore the markings of time's passage. The wooden banister of the grand staircase, polished with use, creaked softly under my touch as we made our way towards the living room.
Moving further into the house, I found myself in a spacious living room. Large, ornate windows which would have allowed slivers of daylight to filter through the heavy velvet curtains. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper. An aged fireplace, its stone mantle adorned with trinkets and old photographs, served as the heart of the room.
“You want some coffee?” Isabelle asked, throwing her keys on to the coffee table. I sat down on her couch and dropped my backpack on it with a clunk.
“Sure.”
“Sugar?”
“A lot.”
The kitchen light clicked on and I heard her moving about setting up the coffee pot. The adrenalin was now pumping through me as my mind raced. I’m not going to go into a lot of detail on what a Bone Walker is but it’s a creature that usually haunts the western coast. It being so far out east was strange. I pulled out my old gun bag and unrolled it. My Stevens Model 520-30 “Trench” shotgun was the first thing I reached for as I popped open the internal pouch holding he high flash shells I was glad I packed. It was the startled sound from Isabelle that made me quickly look up.
She stood there with my coffee, eyes locked on the shotgun in my hand. I slowly held up one of the cartridges I was planning to load.
“Flash powder shotgun shells. No load. Just makes a loud noise and a bright white light. What we’re facing lives in the shadows and hates light…normally,” I had heard stories that they could strike in the day but it was extremely rare. She didn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” was her quiet response. “Do…do I need a gun?”
“You know how to use one?”
“No.”
“Then it’ll do more harm than good. You got any flashlights?”
Isabelle nodded mutely, the gravity of the situation sinking in at the array of weapons and items in my pack laid out in front of her.
“Go get them.”
While she was gone, I quickly unloaded the silver bullets out of my Makarov pistol (a gift from a Viet Cong officer and a story for another time) and placed normal 9mm rounds in the clip. I had it holstered under my jacket with the two back up clips when she returned with three cheap flashlights.
“One in your hand and one in your pocket.”
“Why?”
“In case you drop the one you are holding.”
The woman obeyed silently.
As night fell quickly around us, I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and with Isabelle close, we made our way upstairs. There were tell tale signs I needed to check as the only advantage I had over this thing was the fact it stuck to a pattern. If it was at the stage I thought it was, there would be signs.
“Which room is yours?” I asked.
Isabelle pointed to a door down the hallway across from a large window. Approaching it, I quickly shined my flashlight at the mahogany door frame. It was the glint that caught my eye. Deep gouges in the wood.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Claw marks,” I responded. There was no use sugar coating anything now.
“This thing was in my house?” Isabelle said horrified.
“For the last few weeks now,” I said, my nose picking up the faint odor of dirt and mud.
“Why didn’t it attack me then?”
“It wasn’t time.”
“What?”
Talking was going to be the only thing to keep her focused. I had felt the world shift a bit as night fell and I needed her not to panic.
“Bone Walkers are ritualistic creatures. They are very choosy over their prey. It can take a month or two before they move in. That’s why they are so hard to catch.”
“Criteria? Like what?”
“We don’t know.”
That was the honest truth. The only reason we knew their existence and patterns was thanks to blind luck and people surviving their encounters. I showed my light around looking for other signs. Discolored stains in the corners where shadows would naturally form, healthy moss and mold that shouldn’t be there. I found a patch around her bed. She did not notice and I did not want to tell her that it probably stood over her through the night watching her sleep. The sooner I buried this thing, the better.
“Frank!”
There was a trill of terror in Isabelle’s voice and I immediately looked to where she was. The woman was standing by her bedroom window staring out at something. I quickly moved and spotted what she saw. In the forest, at the edge of the shadow cast by the moonlight was an almost, imperceptible form. It stood nine feet, hunched over like a broken scarecrow, its owl like eyes staring back at us.
“Shit,” I muttered. Thank god we had turned on the lights as we went.
It was the flash of light and the crack of thunder that heralded the arrival of the storm. The lights of this old houses flickered which caused my belly to flop a few times. My brain was on fire as I glanced back from the lightbulb to where the creature was and found it had vanished.
“Where did it go?”
I did not have time to explain as another crack of lightning caused the lights to dim. I grabbed Isabelle roughly by the arm and yanked her back down the hallway towards the living room where I had left my stuff. We barely made it to the living room when the lights dimmed low. I grasped the glow sticks out of the bag, cracked a handful and scattered them about, their bright yellow light beginning to glow. The power then went out bathing us only in the eerie glow of the emergency lighting.
As we waited in breathless anticipation, the storm struck, its wrath manifesting in torrential rain. The mansion seemed to respond, succumbing to a power outage that plunged us into an abyss of blackness only moments before.
A trill of terror coursed through me. I knew this Bone Walker thrived in darkness, using it as a cloak to conceal its malevolence. We auditors were not sure if it actually teleported or it preferred to move in pitch darkness. I just knew that the black was our biggest threat.
For a few moments, we could only hear the ragged breathing of the two of us being drowned out by the pounding rain against shingle and glass. Isabelle had wound her hand into my jacket pocket and was gripping it tightly, I could feel her shaking with terror. I kept my shotgun gripped tightly in my hand listening for the tell tale sound of its arrival.
It was the movement out of the corner of my eye and the fact her grip got tighter on my jacket. I swiftly turned on my high-powered flashlight as I spun around and the brilliant beam pierced the obscure corner of the room. No matter what I had read or seen before did not prepare me for what I saw.
It stood there in the corner, its eight foot height engulfing that section of the house. My eyes strained as it appeared the thing was struggling to stay in focus. Its arms were too long for its body, spindly and almost to the floor while the legs appeared backwards giving it a strange forward leaning look. It wore a hunter’s long coat and trousers but through the rips and tears I could make out something squirming and moving underneath. The air filled with the stench of decaying plants and diseased vegetation. Its face was covered with what looked like the remnants of a cheap bandanna but its owl-like eyes gleaned back with malevolence.
Isabelle whimpered, her fear palpable in the room and the Bone Walker lunged toward us. Even though my fear was ripping through me like an unstoppable train, I had the sense to pull the trigger of my shotgun aimed in its direction. The flash and resounding roar painted the entire room in a brilliant black and white shadow causing every corner and edge to appear thick and vivid. The creature screamed and fell to the side into the shadow not illuminated by the weapon’s fire.
Isabelle had thrown herself on the couch and was huddled there, trembling with terror, while I moved quickly to crack a few more glow sticks and toss them into the dark corners of the room. In one, I saw its foot recoil back into the kitchen where it was darker than night itself. This was quicker than I had anticipated. The plans I had been formulating on the drive were no longer viable. I wanted to lure it to where I controlled the battlefield but that was not an option anymore. This had become a cat and mouse game and I knew this was with a predator I could not even hope to understand and had years to hone.
Out of the kitchen again this thing charged forward, relentless in its pursuit, it was trying to find a way around my light barrier which only appeared to slow it down. With shaking hands, I fired several more rounds, each blast forcing the creature to retreat and the girl to scream in terror. As soon as it retreated to a dark part of the house, I turned to where the woman of the house had been. To my horror, Isabelle's fear had gotten the best of her. In that moment of panic, she darted from the safety of the light, towards the hallway and the door outside.
“Isabelle! Stop!” I yelled trying to command her back with my voice but I doubted she heard me. Between the abject horror and the relentless rain, she was going to take her chance. A chance I knew she did not have.
I only took a step when I sensed it. The musty smell of an organic landfill overwhelmed me as the form silently darted past me, its long arm clobbering me up the side of the head. The world spun as pain burst through my brain. I felt the world tilt and fall heavily to the ground, flashlight and shotgun falling away.
As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I knew I was a sitting duck for this thing. There was no way for me to stop it from ripping me to shreds like some of the corpses I had seen. As I blinked, I came to my senses and realized I was alone. How long I had actually been on the ground, I did not know.
I sat up, my head pounding and I could see the door hanging open, the wind slamming the door on its hinges and the rain soaking the hallway floor. Struggling, I found my flashlight and gun and pulled myself together.
There was a slim chance that Isabelle was still alive. I had to think. Where would it go? I ran all the stories I could think of and then it hit me. The garden. The walled garden.
I charged into the rain-soaked night. I sprinted toward the enclosed garden at the edge of the property. As I grew closer, I saw that the rusted door was open and hope flickered in my soul. As I came to a stop, I brought my flashlight up again with my shotgun and saw it.
This creature stood there in the middle of the overgrown garden, its massive clawed hand wrapped around Isabelle’s chest and holding her up. Out from under its bandanna mask, putrid vines had appeared and led up to Isabelle’s face where they were forcing their way down her throat and up her nose. I could see the wide terror in her eyes as vines were snaking their way around her waist and I did not want to think about what they were planning to do.
I brought up the shotgun again and fired. Knowing that I had distance, the flash of light caught the creature by surprise. It shrieked as it fell back. Trying desperately not to release its prey. I did not hesitate to grab the machete at my side and hack at its arm until Isabelle fell down free of it.
It’s claw swiped at me striking me on the leg and easily tearing through my pants leaving bloody lacerations but I put the weapon point blank and fired another round. I do not know if it was the flash, the combination of the creature, or that the almighty above was looking out for me, but the creature caught ablaze from the spark.
It fell back swinging wildly as the fire spread unnaturally fast catching the plants around it on fire. Within a matter of seconds, the walled garden had become ablaze with the bone walker in the center. As I ripped the vines out of Isabelle’s mouth and dragged her towards the door, I looked up to see those owl-like eyes looking at me with such abject hatred that the look stick with me today.
I honestly don’t know how we survived. I had helped Isabelle to her porch and we both passed out against our will from the sheer terror and exhaustion. We were awoken by the sound of a siren. The lights had come back on sometime in our sleep and the rain had drifted off to a comforting drizzle. The fire was still raging in the garden but contained by the ancient walls. At least two fire trucks, an ambulance and cops were flying up the private road towards us.
This entire hunt had been ill-planned and stupid. I knew it. As the cops approached with their hand on their pistols, I knew that I had allowed my own ego to get in the way. I should have taken Isabelle somewhere else until I had done a proper reconnaissance. I shouldn’t have taken her home where it was waiting. And now, the cops were looking at two thoroughly soaked humans, one a trucker with a wound and a gun and a young lady in distress. I was pretty sure I was going to go to jail.
“Isabelle?” One of the cops and his voice caused her to sit up, relief washing over her.
“Derek!” she wailed. “We were attacked! In the garden!”
Another two cops that had arrived had taken off in that direction while Derek helped the girl up and took her towards the ambulance. The other cop with a comically large mustache looked at me with keen eyes, his hand still on his pistol, sergeant stripes glowing in the light.
“Attacked?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting up slowly and keeping my hand away from the shotgun and trying not to show the one under my jacket. “Someone came after Mrs. Walker. They were in the garden.”
The cop watched me closely but there seemed to be a recognition in his eyes.
“You by any chance Frank Jones?”
My heart jumped and I must have looked startled as the cop’s face broke into a smile. To my relief, his hand fell away from his holstered sidearm.
“I’ll take that for a yes. My guess is you don’t remember me. Clay Wilson. Santa Fe PD, about six years ago. You helped my partner with a...problem. Nellie Nelson?”
I knew the name but the face escaped me.
“She told me you helped her audit a police union building.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, remembering dealing with the wraith and the twinge in my right arm from it’s bite.
The cop looked towards the fire that was slowly being put out by the fire fighters.
“Any chance this will be one of your audits?”
“Yeah.”
He seemed to think for a few minutes and then nodded.
“Then I think you need to grab that shotgun of yours and hitch a ride with me before too many people ask questions. Whatcha think?”
I nodded. I was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I collected my stuff quickly from the living room and made my way back out where he was waiting. As I limped with the cop to his car, I looked towards Isabelle who was being held by the other. She gave me a look of thankfulness as the cop looked at his partner with confusion.
“Her brother’s got her,” Clay said, opening the back door for me. I was not gonna argue or fight. If he took me to jail or not.
And that was it. My leg was not as bad off as I thought and wrapped it in the back of the police car. Clay only asked where I wanted to go and he took me back to my truck. With that time, I was back on the road with that small town in the rear view mirror.
I never did find out what happened to Isabelle after that, if another creature came looking for her or if she had a chance to live in peace. I just knew that we both barely made it out alive and that was due to my own stupidity. I was furious with myself for weeks after that and told myself I wouldn’t put another person in jeopardy like that again. At least, despite my idiocy, another life was saved and another monster was put in the ground...I hoped. I never did find out if they found a body.
2023.06.05 01:27 PrasadBharadhwaj 🌹 05, JUNE 2023 SUNDAY ALL MESSAGES సోమవారం, ఇందు వాసర సందేశాలు 🌹
 | 🍀🌹 05, JUNE 2023 SUNDAY ALL MESSAGES సోమవారం, ఇందు వాసర సందేశాలు 🌹🍀 submitted by PrasadBharadhwaj to u/PrasadBharadhwaj [link] [comments] 1) 🌹 05, JUNE 2023 SUNDAY సోమవారం, ఇందు వాసరే - నిత్య పంచాంగము Daily Panchangam🌹 2) 🌹 కపిల గీత - 188 / Kapila Gita - 188🌹 🌴 4. భక్తి యోగ లక్షణములు మరియు సాధనలు - 42 / 4. Features of Bhakti Yoga and Practices - 42 🌴 3) 🌹. విష్ణు సహస్ర నామ తత్వ విచారణ - 780 / Vishnu Sahasranama Contemplation - 780 🌹 🌻780. దురావాసః, दुरावासः, Durāvāsaḥ🌻 4) 🌹 . శ్రీ శివ మహా పురాణము - 739 / Sri Siva Maha Purana - 739 🌹 🌻. మయస్తుతి - 4 / The Gods go back to their abodes (Maya’s prayer) - 4 🌻 5) 🌹. ఓషో రోజువారీ ధ్యానాలు - 360 / Osho Daily Meditations - 360 🌹 🍀 360. అవగాహన / 360. UNDERSTANDING 🍀 6) 🌹. శ్రీ లలితా చైతన్య విజ్ఞానము - 459 -1 / Sri Lalitha Chaitanya Vijnanam - 459 - 1 🌹 🌻 459. ‘నళినీ’ - 1 / 459. 'Nalini' - 1 🌻 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/5sgmxkcb534b1.png?width=900&format=png&auto=webp&s=d575df52129011d8a26655be7f59143e76d16c99 *🌹 05, జూన్, JUNE 2023 పంచాగము - Panchagam 🌹\* *శుభ సోమవారం, Monday, ఇందు వాసరే\* *మనందరికి ఈ రోజు కాలము, ప్రకృతి అనుకూలించాలి అని పరమాత్మని స్మరిస్తూ - ప్రసాద్ భరద్వాజ\* *🌻. పండుగలు మరియు పర్వదినాలు : లేవు 🌻\* *🍀. శ్రీ శివ సహస్రనామ స్తోత్రం - 34 🍀\* *69. పరశ్వధాయుధో దేవః హ్యనుకారీ సుబాంధవః తుంబ వీణో మహాక్రోధ ఊర్ధ్వరేతా జలేశయః\* *70. ఉగ్రో వంశకరో వంశో వంశనాదో హ్యనిందితః సర్వాంగ రూపో మాయావీ సుహృదో హ్యనిలోఽనలః\* 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 *🍀. నేటి సూక్తి : ప్రాణప్రతిష్ఠ - ప్రాణప్రతిష్ట మూలమున శక్తిమంతమైన దివ్యసన్నిధి కల్పించ బడినప్పుడు, ఆ దివ్యసన్నిధి కల్పించిన వాని శరీర త్యాగానంతరం కూడా చాలాకాలం వరకూ ఉండవచ్చును. సామాన్యంగా అది, అర్చకుల భక్తి విశేషం చేత, దేవాలయానికి వచ్చే ఆస్తిక జనుల విశ్వాసబలం చేత పోషించ బడుతూ, అవి లోపించినప్పుడు తిరోహితం కావడం కద్దు. 🍀\* 🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷 విక్రమ: 2080 నల, శఖ: 1945 శోభన కలియుగాబ్ది : 5124, శోభకృత్, గ్రీష్మ ఋతువు, ఉత్తరాయణం, జ్యేష్ఠ మాసం తిథి: కృష్ణ పాడ్యమి 06:40:07 వరకు తదుపరి కృష్ణ విదియ నక్షత్రం: మూల 25:24:04 వరకు తదుపరి పూర్వాషాఢ యోగం: సద్య 08:49:29 వరకు తదుపరి శుభ కరణం: కౌలవ 06:39:07 వరకు వర్జ్యం: 10:44:00 - 12:12:00 దుర్ముహూర్తం: 12:40:46 - 13:33:16 మరియు 15:18:16 - 16:10:45 రాహు కాలం: 07:19:14 - 08:57:40 గుళిక కాలం: 13:52:57 - 15:31:23 యమ గండం: 10:36:06 - 12:14:32 అభిజిత్ ముహూర్తం: 11:48 - 12:40 అమృత కాలం: 19:32:00 - 21:00:00 సూర్యోదయం: 05:40:49 సూర్యాస్తమయం: 18:48:15 చంద్రోదయం: 20:19:48 చంద్రాస్తమయం: 06:27:11 సూర్య సంచార రాశి: వృషభం చంద్ర సంచార రాశి: ధనుస్సు యోగాలు: లంబ యోగం -చికాకులు, అపశకునం 25:24:04 వరకు తదుపరి ఉత్పాద యోగం - కష్టములు, ద్రవ్య నాశనం దిశ శూల: తూర్పు ✍️. శ్రీ వక్కంతం చంద్రమౌళి 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 *🍀. నిత్య ప్రార్థన 🍀\* *వక్రతుండ మహాకాయ సూర్యకోటి సమప్రభ\* *నిర్విఘ్నంకురుమేదేవ సర్వకార్యేషు సర్వదా\* *యశ్శివో నామ రూపాభ్యాం యాదేవీ సర్వ మంగళా\* *తయో సంస్మరణాత్పుంసాం సర్వతో జయ మంగళం\* *తదేవ లగ్నం సుదినం తదేవ తారాబలం చంద్రబలం తదేవ\* *విద్యాబలం దైవబలం తదేవ లక్ష్మీపతే తేంఘ్రి యుగం స్మరామి.\* 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/kfvdfe2c534b1.png?width=786&format=png&auto=webp&s=b228a00aea6dbe5516e47345ab92ea63199b5b86 *🌹. కపిల గీత - 188 / Kapila Gita - 188 🌹\* *🍀. కపిల దేవహూతి సంవాదం 🍀\* *📚. ప్రసాద్ భరధ్వాజ\* *🌴 4. భక్తి యోగ లక్షణములు మరియు సాధనలు - 42 🌴\* *42. సర్వభూతేషు చాత్మానం సర్వభూతాని చాత్మని\* *ఈక్షేతానన్యభావేన భూతేష్వివ తదాత్మతామ్॥\* *తాత్పర్యము : జరాయుజములు, అండజములు, స్వేదజములు, ఉద్భిజములు అను నాలుగు విధములగు ప్రాణులను వేర్వేరుగా తోచుచున్నను వాటి దేహములన్నియు పంచభూత నిర్మితములే. ఐనను, వాటిలో చైతన్యరూపమున విలసిల్లుచున్న ఆత్మ ఒక్కటే అనియు, ఆత్మయందు సకలజీవులను అనన్యభావముతో అనుగతమై యున్నవని ఆత్మజ్ఞాని తెలిసికొనును.\* *వ్యాఖ్య : సర్వభూతేషు చాత్మానం - దేవ మనుష్య తిర్యక్కులూ స్థావరాలు ఈ నాలుగు రకముల ప్రాణులూ ఒకటా వేరా? వీటన్నింటిలో ఉన్న ఆత్మలు ఒకటే. అనేకమంది జీవులలో ఉన్న ఆత్మలన్నీ జ్ఞ్యానస్వరూపాలే. అన్ని ప్రాణులలో ఆత్మ ఒకటే. ఆన్ని ఆత్మలలో ఉన్న ప్రాణులు (శరీరాలు) కూడా ఒకటే. ఎలాగంటే దేవ తిర్యక్ మనుష్య స్థావరాలు కూడా వారి వారి పాప పుణ్యాలతో జన్మించినా, అన్ని శరీరాలు పాంచభౌతికములే. ప్రతీ ఆత్మ ధరించే శరీరాలన్నీ పాంచభౌతికములే. ఆ శరీరాలు ధరించే ఆత్మలు జ్ఞ్యానాధికరణములే. వీటన్నింటిలో ఉన్న పరమాత్మ ఒక్కడే (ఏకమేవ అద్వితీయం బ్రహ్మ) . ఆత్మలకు ధారకమైన అన్ని శరీరాలు పంచభౌతికములే, అన్ని ఆత్మలు జ్ఞ్యానాకారములే, అన్ని ఆత్మలకు ఆత్మ అయిన పరమాత్మ ఒకడే. మనకు వేరు వేరు అనిపించేవి ఏవీ వేరు కాదు. అన్నీ పాంచ భౌతికములే. ఇలా చూడగలిన వాడే యోగి. అన్ని ప్రాణులలో పరమాత్మ ఆత్మగా ఉన్నాడని చూడాలి\* *సశేషం..\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 *🌹 Kapila Gita - 188 🌹\* *🍀 Conversation of Kapila and Devahuti 🍀\* *📚 Prasad Bharadwaj\* *🌴 4. Features of Bhakti Yoga and Practices - 42 🌴\* *42. sarva-bhūteṣu cātmānaṁ sarva-bhūtāni cātmani\* *īkṣetānanya-bhāvena bhūteṣv iva tad-ātmatām\* *MEANING : A yogi should see the same soul in all manifestations, for all that exists is a manifestation of different energies of the Supreme. In this way the devotee should see all living entities without distinction. That is realization of the Supreme Soul.\* *PURPORT : As stated in the Brahma-saṁhitā, not only does the Supreme Soul enter each and every universe, but He enters even the atoms. The Supreme Soul is present everywhere in the dormant stage, and when one can see the presence of the Supreme Soul everywhere, one is liberated from material designations.\* *The word sarva-bhūteṣu is to be understood as follows. There are four different divisions of species-living entities which sprout from the earth, living entities born of fermentation or germination, living entities which come from eggs and living entities which come from the embryo. These four divisions of living entities are expanded in 8,400,000 species of life. A person who is freed from material designations can see the same quality of spirit present everywhere or in every manifested living entity. Less intelligent men think that plants and grass grow out of the earth automatically, but one who is actually intelligent and has realized the self can see that this growth is not automatic; the cause is the soul, and the forms come out in material bodies under different conditions. By fermentation in the laboratory many germs are born, but this is due to the presence of the soul. The material scientist thinks that eggs are lifeless, but that is not a fact. From Vedic scripture we can understand that living entities in different forms are generated under different conditions. Birds evolve from eggs, and beasts and human beings are born from the embryo. The perfect vision of the yogī or devotee is that he sees the presence of the living entity everywhere.\* *Continues...\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/1a7bggpc534b1.png?width=828&format=png&auto=webp&s=8fa493c397da1109d32503146f21eccc0db69058 *🌹. విష్ణు సహస్ర నామ తత్వ విచారణ - 780 / Vishnu Sahasranama Contemplation - 780🌹\* *🌻780. దురావాసః, दुरावासः, Durāvāsaḥ🌻\* *ఓం దురావాసాయ నమః ॐ दुरावासाय नमः OM Durāvāsāya namaḥ\* *దుఃఖేనా వాస్యతే చిత్తే సమధౌ యోగిభిర్హరిః ।\* *ఇతి విష్ణుర్దురావాస ఇతి సఙ్కీర్త్యతే బుధైః ॥\* *యోగులచే తమ చిత్తములయందు సమాధి స్థితియందు ఎంతయో శ్రమచే నిలుపుకొనబడువాడు కనుక దురావాసః.\* సశేషం... 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 *🌹. VISHNU SAHASRANAMA CONTEMPLATION- 780🌹\* *🌻780. Durāvāsaḥ🌻\* *OM Durāvāsāya namaḥ\* दुःखेना वास्यते चित्ते समधौ योगिभिर्हरिः । इति विष्णुर्दुरावास इति सङ्कीर्त्यते बुधैः ॥ *Duḥkhenā vāsyate citte samadhau yogibhirhariḥ,\* *Iti viṣṇurdurāvāsa iti saṅkīrtyate budhaiḥ.\* *In samādhi He is retained in the mind by yogis with difficulty.\* 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 🌻 Source Sloka समावर्तोऽनिवृत्तात्मा दुर्जयो दुरतिक्रमः ।दुर्लभो दुर्गमो दुर्गो दुरावासो दुरारिहा ॥ ८३ ॥ సమావర్తోఽనివృత్తాత్మా దుర్జయో దురతిక్రమః ।దుర్లభో దుర్గమో దుర్గో దురావాసో దురారిహా ॥ 83 ॥ Samāvarto’nivrttātmā durjayo duratikramaḥ,Durlabho durgamo durgo durāvāso durārihā ॥ 83 ॥ Continues.... 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/mw0pd0ad534b1.png?width=659&format=png&auto=webp&s=c0e5eaa58e0f6f312426cf38ca4b92fcd2e42e7a *🌹 . శ్రీ శివ మహా పురాణము - 741 / Sri Siva Maha Purana - 741 🌹\* *✍️. స్వామి తత్త్వ విదానంద సరస్వతి 📚. ప్రసాద్ భరద్వాజ\* *🌴. రుద్రసంహితా-యుద్ద ఖండః - అధ్యాయము - 12 🌴\* *🌻. మయస్తుతి - 4 🌻\* ఈనాటి నుండియూ కలియుగములో ఈ మతములో ప్రవేశించిన మానవులకు దుర్గతి కలుగును. మేము సత్యమును పలుకుచున్నాము. దీనిలో సందేహము లేదు (30). ధీరులగు ఓ సన్న్యాసులారా! మీరు నా ఆజ్ఞచే కలి వచ్చువరకు ఎడారి ప్రదేశమును ఆశ్రయించి రహస్యముగా ఉండుడు (31). కలి ప్రవేశించగానే మీరు మీ మతమును స్థాపించుడు. మూర్ఖులు అజ్ఞానమునకు వశులై కలియుగములో మీ మతమును స్వీకరించగలరు (32). ఓ మహర్షి! దేవోత్తములు ఇట్లు ఆజ్ఞాపించగా, ఆ సన్న్యాసులు నమస్కరించి, తమకు నిర్దేశంపబడిన నివాస స్థానమునకు వెళ్లిరి (33). మహాయోగియగు ఆ రుద్రబగవానుడు త్రిపురవాసులను భస్మము చేసి కృతకృత్యుడై బ్రహ్మాదులచే పూజింపబడెను (34). సర్వగణములతో, పార్వతీ దేవితో మరియు పుత్రులతో కూడియున్న ఆ ప్రభుడు దేవతలకొరకై ఆ మహాకార్యమును నిర్వర్తించి అంతర్థానమును చెందెను (35). శివదేవుడు పరివారముతో గూడి అంతర్థానము కాగానే, థనస్సు, బాణము, రథము మొదలగు సామగ్రి కూడ అంతర్ధానమయ్యెను (36). అపుడు బ్రహ్మ, విష్ణువు, దేవతలు, మునులు, గంధర్వులు, కిన్నరులు, నాగులు, సర్పములు, అప్సరసలు మరియు మానవులు మిక్కిలి సంతసించినవారై (37). శివుని యశస్సును ఆనందముతో గానము చేయుచూ, తమ తమ నెలవులకు బయలుదేరిరి. వారు తమ తమ నెలవులకు చేరి పరమానందమును పొందిరి (38). త్రిపురాసుర సంహారము అనే గొప్ప లీలతో గూడియున్న, చంద్రశేఖరుని మహాచరిత్రమునంతనూ నీకీ తీరున వివరించితిని (39). ఈ ధన్యమగు వృత్తాంతము కీర్తిని, ఆయుర్దాయమును ఇచ్చి ధనధాన్యములను వృద్ధి పొందించుటయే గాక, స్వర్గమును మోక్షమును కూడ ఇచ్చును. నీవు ఇంకనూ ఏమి వినగోరుచున్నావు? (40) ఈ గొప్ప వృత్తాంతమును నిత్యము పఠించువాడు, మరియు వినువాడు ఇహలోకములో సమస్త భోగముల ననుభవించి, దేహత్యాగానంతరము మోక్షమును పొందును (41). శ్రీ శివ మహాపురాణములో రుద్ర సంహితయందలి యుద్ధఖండములో మయస్తుతివర్ణనమనే పన్నెండవ అధ్యాయము ముగిసినది (12). సశేషం.... 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 *🌹 SRI SIVA MAHA PURANA - 741🌹\* *✍️ J.L. SHASTRI, 📚. Prasad Bharadwaj \* *🌴 Rudra-saṃhitā (4): Yuddha-khaṇḍa - CHAPTER 12 🌴\* *🌻 The Gods go back to their abodes (Maya’s prayer) - 4 🌻\* 30. From now onwards in the Kali age those who follow this cult will be faced with disastrous results. We tell you the truth. There is no doubt about it. 31. O brave tonsured heads, till the advent of the Kali age, you shall stay incognito in the desert region.[2] That is my behest. 32. When the Kali age begins, you can propagate your cult. In the Kali age deluded fools will follow your cult. 33. Thus bidden by the great gods, O great sage, the tonsured heads bowed to them and went to their allotted abode. 34-35. Then lord Śiva, the great Yogin after burning the residents of the three cities felt contented. He was duly worshipped by Brahmā and others. Then the lord, after completing the task of the gods, vanished from the scene accompanied by his Gaṇas, goddess Pārvatī and the sons. 36. When lord Śiva had vanished with his followers, the fortress too vanished along with the bow, arrows, chariot and other things. 37-38. Then Brahmā, Viṣṇu, the gods, sages, Gandharvas, Kinnaras, Nāgas, serpents, celestial damsels and the delighted men went to their abodes praising the glory of Śiva. After reaching their abodes they were highly delighted. 39. Thus the exalted narrative of the moon-crested lord indicative of the annihilation of Tripuras coupled with the great divine sports has been narrated to you. 40. It is conducive to wealth, fame, and longevity. It increases prosperity and possession of food-grains. It yields heavenly pleasure and salvation. What else do you wish to hear? 41. He who reads and hears the exalted narrative will enjoy all pleasures here and attain salvation hereafter. Continues.... 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/mlm1f3mf534b1.png?width=950&format=png&auto=webp&s=b40670196159a391000627008c594184c58de319 https://preview.redd.it/xinzw57e534b1.png?width=1280&format=png&auto=webp&s=d1ccac1f8e60716ebf67b4fd08389663995f4256 *🌹. ఓషో రోజువారీ ధ్యానాలు - 360 / Osho Daily Meditations - 360 🌹\* *✍️. ప్రసాద్ భరద్వాజ\* *🍀 360. అవగాహన 🍀\* *🕉. ప్రేమికులు విడిపోవచ్చు, కానీ ఒకరి సాన్నిహిత్యంలో పొందిన అవగాహన ఎప్పటికీ ఒక బహుమతిగా మిగిలిపోతుంది- మీరు ఒక వ్యక్తిని ప్రేమిస్తే, అతనికి లేదా ఆమెకు మీరు ఇవ్వగల విలువైన బహుమతి కొంత అవగాహన మాత్రమే. 🕉\* *ఒకరితో ఒకరు మాట్లాడుకోండి కానీ కొన్నిసార్లు మీ భాగస్వామికి ఏకాంతత అవసరమని అర్థం చేసుకోండి. ఇదే సమస్య: ఈ అవసరం మీ ఇద్దరికీ ఒకేసారి రాకపోవచ్చు. కొన్నిసార్లు మీరు ఆమెతో ఉండాలని కోరుకుంటారు, ఆమేమో ఒంటరిగా ఉండాలని కోరుకుంటుంది-దాని గురించి ఏమీ చేయలేము. అప్పుడు మీరు అర్థం చేసుకుని ఆమెను ఒంటరిగా వదిలేయాలి. కొన్నిసార్లు మీరు ఒంటరిగా ఉండాలని కోరుకుంటారు, కానీ అతను మీ వద్దకు రావాలని కోరుకుంటాడు-అప్పుడు మీరు నిస్సహాయంగా ఉన్నారని అతనికి చెప్పండి! కేవలం మరింతగా అవగాహనను సృష్టించండి. ప్రేమికులలో లోపించేది ఇదే: వారికి తగినంత ప్రేమ ఉంది, కానీ అవగాహన, అస్సలు లేదు. అందుకే వారి ప్రేమ అపార్థం అనే రాళ్లపై పడి చనిపోతుంది. అవగాహన లేకుండా ప్రేమ జీవించదు.\* *ఒంటరిగా, ప్రేమ చాలా మూర్ఖమైనది; అవగాహనతో, ప్రేమ సుదీర్ఘ జీవితాన్ని గడపగలదు, అనేక ఆనందాలను పంచుకునే గొప్ప జీవితం, అనేక అందమైన క్షణాలు పంచుకోవడం, గొప్ప కవితా అనుభవాలు. కానీ అది అవగాహన ద్వారా మాత్రమే జరుగుతుంది. ప్రేమ మీకు చిన్న హనీమూన్ ఇవ్వగలదు, కానీ అంతే. అవగాహన మాత్రమే మీకు లోతైన సాన్నిహిత్యాన్ని ఇస్తుంది. మరియు ప్రతి హనీమూన్ తర్వాత డిప్రెషన్, కోపం, నిరాశ. మీరు అవగాహన పెంచుకుంటే తప్ప, ఏ హనీమూన్ సహాయం చేయదు; అది ఒక మందు లాగా ఉంటుంది. కాబట్టి మరింత అవగాహన పెంచుకోవడానికి ప్రయత్నించండి. మరియు ఏదో ఒక రోజు మీరు విడిపోయినా, అవగాహన మీతో ఉంటుంది, అది ఒకరికొకరికి మీ ప్రేమ యొక్క బహుమతిగా ఉంటుంది.\* *కొనసాగుతుంది...\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 *🌹 Osho Daily Meditations - 360 🌹\* *📚. Prasad Bharadwaj\* *🍀 360. UNDERSTANDING 🍀\* *🕉. Lovers can separate, but the understanding that has been gained in the company if the other will always remain as a gift- if you love a person, the only valuable gift that you can give to him or her is some quantity of understanding. 🕉\* *Talk to each other, and understand that sometimes your partner will need to be alone. And this is the problem: This need may not happen at the same time to both of you. Sometimes you want to be with her, and she wants to be alone-nothing can be done about it. Then you have to understand and leave her alone. Sometimes you want to be alone, but he wants to come to you-then tell him that you are helpless! Just create more and more understanding. That's what lovers miss: They have enough love, but understanding, none, none at all. That's why on the rocks of misunderstanding their love dies. Love cannot live without understanding.\* *Alone, love is very foolish; with understanding, love can live a long life, a great life-of many joys shared, of many beautiful moments shared, of great poetic experiences. But that happens only through understanding. Love can give you a small honeymoon, but that's all. Only understanding can give you deep intimacy. And each honeymoon is followed by depression, anger, frustration. Unless you grow in understanding, no honeymoon is going to be of any help; it will be just like a drug. So try to create more understanding. And even some day if you separate, the understanding will be with you, that will be a gift of your love to each other.\* *Continues...\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 https://preview.redd.it/9zv2xste534b1.png?width=820&format=png&auto=webp&s=0404639f379287be07652af12daaa6150573dff8 *🌹. శ్రీ లలితా చైతన్య విజ్ఞానము - 459 -1 / Sri Lalitha Chaitanya Vijnanam - 459 - 1 🌹\* *🌻. లలితా సహస్ర నామముల తత్వ విచారణ 🌻\* *✍️. సద్గురు శ్రీ కంభంపాటి పార్వతీ కుమార్\* *సేకరణ : ప్రసాద్ భరద్వాజ\* *🍁. మూల మంత్రము : ఓం ఐం హ్రీం శ్రీం శ్రీమాత్రే నమః 🍁\* *🍀 96. సుముఖీ, నళినీ, సుభ్రూః, శోభనా, సురనాయికా । కాలకంఠీ, కాంతిమతీ, క్షోభిణీ, సూక్ష్మరూపిణీ ॥ 96 ॥ 🍀\* *🌻 459. ‘నళినీ’ - 1 🌻\* *శ్రీమాత పద్మ రూపము కలదని అర్థము. శ్రీమాత పాదములను పాదపద్మము లందురు. హస్తములను హస్త పద్మము లందురు (పద్మహస్త). శ్రీమాత ముఖమును పద్మముతో పోల్చుచూ పద్మముఖి అందురు. కన్నులను పద్మములతో పోల్చుచూ పద్మాక్షీ అందురు. చేతుల యందు పద్మమును ధరించి యుండుట చేతను, అరచేతులు పద్మము వలె కోమలముగ నుండుట వలననూ పద్మ హస్త అందురు. ఆమె పద్మము నుండియే ఉద్భవించినది గనుక పద్మజ అందురు. పద్మమునందే కూర్చుని యుండును గనుక పద్మాసనా అందురు. ఆమెకు పద్మములయందు ప్రియత్వ మెక్కువ కనుక పద్మప్రియ అందురు. ఆమె యుండు ప్రదేశము కూడ పద్మముల నిలయము. అందువలన పద్మాలయా అందురు. ఇన్ని రకములుగ పద్మముతో శ్రీమాతను పోల్చి చెప్పుదురు. అందువలన ఏకముగ పద్మినీ అందురు. నళినీ అనిననూ అదే అర్థము. నాళముతో కూడిన పుష్పమైనది గనుక 'నళినీ' అందురు.\* *సశేషం...\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 *🌹 Sri Lalitha Chaitanya Vijnanam - 459 - 1 🌹\* *Contemplation of 1000 Names of Sri Lalitha Devi\* *✍️ Prasad Bharadwaj\* *🌻 96. Sumukhi nalini subhru shobhana suranaeika Karikanti kantimati kshobhini sukshmarupini ॥ 96 ॥ 🌻\* *🌻 459. 'Nalini' - 1 🌻\* *It means that Srimata Padma is in form of a Lotus. The feet of Srimata are called The lotus feet. The palms are called the Lotus palms. Padmamukhi means comparing Srimata's face to Lotus. Padmakshi means comparison of eyes to lotuses. She is called Padma hasta is due to the fact that the hands are holding lotus and the palms are tender like lotus. She is called Padmaja as she sprang from Lotus itself. She is called Padmasana because she is sitting in a Lotus. She is called Padma Priya because she is fond of Lotuses. Her place is also the abode of lotuses. And so she is called Padmalaya. Thus Sri Mata is compared to lotuses in many ways. Thus, she is called Padmini. Nalini also means the same. It is called 'Nalini' because it is a tubular flower.\* *Continues...\* 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹🍀🌹 |
2023.06.05 01:23 TheKrauserlols Opinions on my First "Completed" DnD OC?
By Completed I mean a character who is more than an idea, it has backstory, goals and a design already. But also, like many OCs, its still Open for changes.
I wanted something who is mechanically simple, no fancy guimmicks, no multiclassing shenanigans, just baseline class and focus primarely on the Roleplaying side and how that informs the gameplay.
Core Idea: Deathdrinker Fanatic
Here she is:
You may not like it but this is what Peak performance looks like
Full CHaracter Sheet if interested: https://ddb.ac/characters/101702761/4On0Sd
Name: Meronoi (Last name pending)
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Class: Oathbreaker Paladin
Alignment: Lawful Evil
LORE basics
Other Character details
This is What i got so far
Looking for tips and suggestions on anything about her, her appearance, backstory or even her passion for the Deathdrinker.
One tip i am interrested in is looking through Paladin groups or gods they usually follow, would be cool to write more on her previous Temple so maybe a few of their members may appear down the line, could they recognize her? would she seek them out to silence them or avoid them?
Could open some cool in game story moments.
submitted by TheKrauserlols to DnD [link] [comments]
I wanted something who is mechanically simple, no fancy guimmicks, no multiclassing shenanigans, just baseline class and focus primarely on the Roleplaying side and how that informs the gameplay.
Core Idea: Deathdrinker Fanatic
Here she is:
You may not like it but this is what Peak performance looks like
Full CHaracter Sheet if interested: https://ddb.ac/characters/101702761/4On0Sd
Name: Meronoi (Last name pending)
Race: Mountain Dwarf
Class: Oathbreaker Paladin
Alignment: Lawful Evil
LORE basics
- Born in a family of Paladins, she took the Oaths and teachings but was always more interested In the fighting than anything
- Curious about the undead and the idea of immortality
- One of the few survivors of a Death Drinker attack, amazed at the creature’s display of power she confirmed her goal to one day be strong enough to join this creature in combat.
- Since most of the army died or ran away she took the chance to escape and make a new life.
- Joins the party seeking for more knowledge to further her goals
Other Character details
- Follows her own twisted Chivalry code (thats why she is Lawful)
- She prefers to fight, not slaughter. Willing to let weakeInnocents go since they usually don't pose a proper challenge. (She doesn't care about collateral though)
- Wants to learn more about the Undead, to find a way to become one while keeping her sentience and free will. So she can bask in the Deathdrinker’s death Aura
- Despite her merciless fighting style she maintains a chivalrous and cheerful demeanor
- While not one to start a fight without good reason she is always open to prove her skills.
- Really likes salty food
- Decent mason, often makes tiny wood carved visages of the Deathdrinker during rests to share with teammates, as a good luck charm
This is What i got so far
Looking for tips and suggestions on anything about her, her appearance, backstory or even her passion for the Deathdrinker.
One tip i am interrested in is looking through Paladin groups or gods they usually follow, would be cool to write more on her previous Temple so maybe a few of their members may appear down the line, could they recognize her? would she seek them out to silence them or avoid them?
Could open some cool in game story moments.
2023.06.05 00:53 ZeppoJR [TotK] Missed opportunity boss fight based on one of the memories.
So with the memory that’s a callback to Ganondorf faking loyalty to Hyrule in OOT, there was a blink and you miss it detail of the two Gerudo right behind him are the ones that form Twinrova (I think their real names are Koume and Kotake?), I felt like it would have been nice if they explored a different take on the two Gerudo most loyal to Ganondorf in some way. Like tie them in with Mineru some way, maybe they also had latent spirit-body separation powers that Mineru wanted to keep an eye on, or Ganondorf “rewarded” their loyalty by making them eternal servants like a Ringwraith so Twinrova was a haunted spirit that eventually took over the Construct boss you had to fight in the Spirit Temple and not being able to relieve the spirits of their suffering during the Imprisoning War was one of the things Mineru had time to feel guilty about in the time since?
submitted by ZeppoJR to zelda [link] [comments]
2023.06.05 00:46 GWindborn In the latest Best Bits, what game was Zoey playing?
She was making a character and accidentally named them "zoeyp" and the character blinked during an ID photo. Any idea what game that was?
submitted by GWindborn to Yogscast [link] [comments]
2023.06.05 00:45 Draculin Lang Jack
On first glance, Whickham appears to be a typical former pit village, a place of no consequence in the north east of England. But should you look closer, you would reveal a long and interesting folkloric history. And at the heart of that history, is Lang Jack.
Should you ever visit Whickham and ask about Lang Jack, you’d hear all the standard stuff. They’d tell you that he was incredibly tall, and inhumanly strong. They’d say he heaved stones from a quarry the next town over on his back and up the hill that Whickham sits atop in order to build his house. And lastly they’d tell you that you can visit him yourself, his monument is at the centre of the village, a great towering pillar holding up a bust of the man himself.
All of this is true, or so they say, but there’s more.
What they won’t tell you is that he was almost as famous for his anger as he was for his height. In fact, in a fit of rage he is reported to have tipped an entire cart of stones, horse and all, down an embankment, killing the poor animal and destroying the cart.
They also won’t tell you about his alcoholism, which destroyed his family, career, and liver, leading to his untimely death. He would often get so drunk that he would jump up and down on the spot, one part party trick, two parts act of vandalism when his heavy frame crashed through the wooden floorboards and he flopped into the cowshed beneath him.
But most importantly, they won’t tell you to visit his monument at midnight. They’ll never tell you this because they know the story of Ye Olde Lang Jack’s monument, they know the games they would play as children, and they know the fear that creeps into their chest when they remember the look on that contorted, dissolving stone face.
To tell the full story we have to go back in time, back to a time long after Lang Jack’s death, and long before his monument was moved. You see, the monument once sat in a very different part of Whickham, a place called Woodhouse Lane in Fellside. This area is much more rural, with sprawling fields around it in almost all directions. It sat beside a cottage, Jack’s cottage, the one he built with his bare hands.
The monument was first placed there in 1860, the same year of Lang Jack’s death. There has long been speculation that Jack was buried beneath the monument rather than in the churchyard like many other notable Whickham villagers. Peculiar for the time, Jack rejected the church, instead spending much of his time drinking and working as ‘hired help’ for businessmen who sought to intimidate and punish unruly workers, especially unionmen.
As a result of this speculation, the site of Lang Jack’s monument was a popular one among children and teenagers looking to spook themselves.
They would arrive, rocks in hand to hurl at the monument of Olde Lang Jack. Each child would take turns trying to strike the stone giant in the face as it smiled down at them from its 18 foot plinth. And if they missed, Ye Olde Lang Jack might just reach up with those long arms of his and snatch them deep down into the dirt.
Children played this game for years, and the stories of Jack’s grave spread like wildfire. Generation after generation the game was modified to fit the modern day, and as it was, so too did the stories of Jack mutate, and finally, with each stone throw, Jack’s face became more mutilated.
The years of wind, rain, sleet, and stones twisted Jack’s once charming and chiselled face into something much more unsettling. Corrosion took away his smug smile and replaced it with a sneer. Then it took his eyes, once kind, now they stare piercingly outward, as if a single glance could turn you to the very same stained and mossy stone.
This new face, and in particular the eyes, is what drew the children back. They gawked and pointed and groaned out chants they’d received from their parent’s childhoods. There were many variations, but most went something like this:
"Gangly Lang Jack, The Giant of Whickham
Who stood eighteen feet tall but that’s not all
So mighty and strong that they wrote this song
To tell all of Ye Olde Lang Jack.
He built our home with only his hands
The most beautiful village in all of the lands
Now he lies cold and dead underfoot
Hands grasping at nothing, his purpose kaput.
So chuck him a stone and give him a wink
Stare into his eyes and see if they blink
But watch where you step, the giant is sleeping
And listen carefully to Olde Lang Jack’s weeping."
They would dance around the monument to Lang Jack and sing this song, then dare each other to stare into his eyes. After that they’d throw their stones and more often than not be chased off by a local, giggling into the distance, off to tell their friends about their bravery under the stony gaze of Lang Jack.
This bravery didn’t last long. Soon the very sight of Lang Jack would strike fear into the hearts of the children of Whickham. No longer would children sing the song of The Giant of Whickham, they wouldn’t visit his grave or throw their stones, but most of all, no one would dare stare into Olde Jack’s eyes.
Fear like this was not the type that crept into the heads of sleeping children as they dreamt of the fun they’d had at Jack’s grave. Instead it was a very unnatural fear, a fear that came at a cost, and that cost was the life of a young girl named Mary.
Mary was brave, braver than most, and she wore that bravery like a badge of honour. So when some of the older girls dared her to go up to Lang Jack’s grave alone, she didn’t hesitate before agreeing. She even upped the stakes and decided that she would venture up in the evening, just as the sun was starting to set.
The night she chose was particularly blustery, the wind howled through the treetops as she made her way to meet Lang Jack. Polaroid camera in hand she pushed hard against the gale that saw fit to blow her back down the hill. But she was persistent, and so brave, so with each gust she only quickened her pace.
Mary rushed to the top of the hill, triumphant over the weather and ready to take on The Giant.
What happened next will forever be between Mary and Jack, and the two of them alone. A passerby claims to have seen a flash atop the hill before hearing a mighty crash. Thinking it was lightning they hurried back to their home. But beyond that, no one truly knows what happened that night.
Mary was found the next day, still clutching her camera. A single polaroid is said to have been found at the scene. Those who have seen it have described it as the frozen eyes of the devil himself. Although it is much more likely to have been a snapshot of Lang Jack’s face as the bust fell from atop the plinth and onto poor, brave Mary.
After that night the monument was moved to where it remains today. It was shortened to reduce the risk of another fatal accident, and placed where all of Whickham could see it, where there would always be someone to chase away the children.
The children who knew Mary, or knew her story, grew up fearing the statue. They forgot his song and denied ever throwing their stones. Time weathered their memories and before long they forgot why they were even scared in the first place. But their children remained curious, and some still met at the statue.
And so this brings us back to what they won’t tell you. They’ll never tell you to make the same mistake that so many have before. They won’t tell you to meet at Olde Lang Jack’s gravestone at midnight and stare into his eyes. And they won’t tell you to listen for his weeping and look for the tears streaming down his scarred face. But you’ll do it anyway, because how could you resist?
So the cycle goes on, and the stories continue to be told for years and years. All the while Jack cries on his plinth. Why does he cry? Nobody knows. Does he feel guilty for what happened to little Mary? Perhaps, or perhaps he mourns the man he once was. Before folklore changed him into the gibbering spector locked in the stone tower. Feared by many and ignored by most, only noticed by those who wish to see him weep.
submitted by Draculin to ChillingApp [link] [comments]
Should you ever visit Whickham and ask about Lang Jack, you’d hear all the standard stuff. They’d tell you that he was incredibly tall, and inhumanly strong. They’d say he heaved stones from a quarry the next town over on his back and up the hill that Whickham sits atop in order to build his house. And lastly they’d tell you that you can visit him yourself, his monument is at the centre of the village, a great towering pillar holding up a bust of the man himself.
All of this is true, or so they say, but there’s more.
What they won’t tell you is that he was almost as famous for his anger as he was for his height. In fact, in a fit of rage he is reported to have tipped an entire cart of stones, horse and all, down an embankment, killing the poor animal and destroying the cart.
They also won’t tell you about his alcoholism, which destroyed his family, career, and liver, leading to his untimely death. He would often get so drunk that he would jump up and down on the spot, one part party trick, two parts act of vandalism when his heavy frame crashed through the wooden floorboards and he flopped into the cowshed beneath him.
But most importantly, they won’t tell you to visit his monument at midnight. They’ll never tell you this because they know the story of Ye Olde Lang Jack’s monument, they know the games they would play as children, and they know the fear that creeps into their chest when they remember the look on that contorted, dissolving stone face.
To tell the full story we have to go back in time, back to a time long after Lang Jack’s death, and long before his monument was moved. You see, the monument once sat in a very different part of Whickham, a place called Woodhouse Lane in Fellside. This area is much more rural, with sprawling fields around it in almost all directions. It sat beside a cottage, Jack’s cottage, the one he built with his bare hands.
The monument was first placed there in 1860, the same year of Lang Jack’s death. There has long been speculation that Jack was buried beneath the monument rather than in the churchyard like many other notable Whickham villagers. Peculiar for the time, Jack rejected the church, instead spending much of his time drinking and working as ‘hired help’ for businessmen who sought to intimidate and punish unruly workers, especially unionmen.
As a result of this speculation, the site of Lang Jack’s monument was a popular one among children and teenagers looking to spook themselves.
They would arrive, rocks in hand to hurl at the monument of Olde Lang Jack. Each child would take turns trying to strike the stone giant in the face as it smiled down at them from its 18 foot plinth. And if they missed, Ye Olde Lang Jack might just reach up with those long arms of his and snatch them deep down into the dirt.
Children played this game for years, and the stories of Jack’s grave spread like wildfire. Generation after generation the game was modified to fit the modern day, and as it was, so too did the stories of Jack mutate, and finally, with each stone throw, Jack’s face became more mutilated.
The years of wind, rain, sleet, and stones twisted Jack’s once charming and chiselled face into something much more unsettling. Corrosion took away his smug smile and replaced it with a sneer. Then it took his eyes, once kind, now they stare piercingly outward, as if a single glance could turn you to the very same stained and mossy stone.
This new face, and in particular the eyes, is what drew the children back. They gawked and pointed and groaned out chants they’d received from their parent’s childhoods. There were many variations, but most went something like this:
"Gangly Lang Jack, The Giant of Whickham
Who stood eighteen feet tall but that’s not all
So mighty and strong that they wrote this song
To tell all of Ye Olde Lang Jack.
He built our home with only his hands
The most beautiful village in all of the lands
Now he lies cold and dead underfoot
Hands grasping at nothing, his purpose kaput.
So chuck him a stone and give him a wink
Stare into his eyes and see if they blink
But watch where you step, the giant is sleeping
And listen carefully to Olde Lang Jack’s weeping."
They would dance around the monument to Lang Jack and sing this song, then dare each other to stare into his eyes. After that they’d throw their stones and more often than not be chased off by a local, giggling into the distance, off to tell their friends about their bravery under the stony gaze of Lang Jack.
This bravery didn’t last long. Soon the very sight of Lang Jack would strike fear into the hearts of the children of Whickham. No longer would children sing the song of The Giant of Whickham, they wouldn’t visit his grave or throw their stones, but most of all, no one would dare stare into Olde Jack’s eyes.
Fear like this was not the type that crept into the heads of sleeping children as they dreamt of the fun they’d had at Jack’s grave. Instead it was a very unnatural fear, a fear that came at a cost, and that cost was the life of a young girl named Mary.
Mary was brave, braver than most, and she wore that bravery like a badge of honour. So when some of the older girls dared her to go up to Lang Jack’s grave alone, she didn’t hesitate before agreeing. She even upped the stakes and decided that she would venture up in the evening, just as the sun was starting to set.
The night she chose was particularly blustery, the wind howled through the treetops as she made her way to meet Lang Jack. Polaroid camera in hand she pushed hard against the gale that saw fit to blow her back down the hill. But she was persistent, and so brave, so with each gust she only quickened her pace.
Mary rushed to the top of the hill, triumphant over the weather and ready to take on The Giant.
What happened next will forever be between Mary and Jack, and the two of them alone. A passerby claims to have seen a flash atop the hill before hearing a mighty crash. Thinking it was lightning they hurried back to their home. But beyond that, no one truly knows what happened that night.
Mary was found the next day, still clutching her camera. A single polaroid is said to have been found at the scene. Those who have seen it have described it as the frozen eyes of the devil himself. Although it is much more likely to have been a snapshot of Lang Jack’s face as the bust fell from atop the plinth and onto poor, brave Mary.
After that night the monument was moved to where it remains today. It was shortened to reduce the risk of another fatal accident, and placed where all of Whickham could see it, where there would always be someone to chase away the children.
The children who knew Mary, or knew her story, grew up fearing the statue. They forgot his song and denied ever throwing their stones. Time weathered their memories and before long they forgot why they were even scared in the first place. But their children remained curious, and some still met at the statue.
And so this brings us back to what they won’t tell you. They’ll never tell you to make the same mistake that so many have before. They won’t tell you to meet at Olde Lang Jack’s gravestone at midnight and stare into his eyes. And they won’t tell you to listen for his weeping and look for the tears streaming down his scarred face. But you’ll do it anyway, because how could you resist?
So the cycle goes on, and the stories continue to be told for years and years. All the while Jack cries on his plinth. Why does he cry? Nobody knows. Does he feel guilty for what happened to little Mary? Perhaps, or perhaps he mourns the man he once was. Before folklore changed him into the gibbering spector locked in the stone tower. Feared by many and ignored by most, only noticed by those who wish to see him weep.
2023.06.05 00:38 LilithRose428 Ethos Reforged! Open World Fantasy RP!!
"Greetings, and Welcome Traveler to Ethos Reforged. A open world text based rp on Discord. Here at Ethos we play daily around the clock as our custom ocs. Built around the many fantasy classes, and races to choose from. With a track time of 3+ years we are one of the most long running, and active rps around. With a track record of being in the top 100 disboard rps all of 2021.
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
submitted by LilithRose428 to roleplaygroup [link] [comments]
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
2023.06.05 00:38 LilithRose428 Ethos Reforged! Open World Fantasy RP!!
"Greetings, and Welcome Traveler to Ethos Reforged. A open world text based rp on Discord. Here at Ethos we play daily around the clock as our custom ocs. Built around the many fantasy classes, and races to choose from. With a track time of 3+ years we are one of the most long running, and active rps around. With a track record of being in the top 100 disboard rps all of 2021.
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
submitted by LilithRose428 to RoleplayGroups [link] [comments]
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
2023.06.05 00:38 LilithRose428 Ethos Reforged! Open World Fantasy RP!!
"Greetings, and Welcome Traveler to Ethos Reforged. A open world text based rp on Discord. Here at Ethos we play daily around the clock as our custom ocs. Built around the many fantasy classes, and races to choose from. With a track time of 3+ years we are one of the most long running, and active rps around. With a track record of being in the top 100 disboard rps all of 2021.
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
submitted by LilithRose428 to Group_Roleplay [link] [comments]
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
2023.06.05 00:38 LilithRose428 Ethos Reforged! Open World Fantasy RP!!
"Greetings, and Welcome Traveler to Ethos Reforged. A open world text based rp on Discord. Here at Ethos we play daily around the clock as our custom ocs. Built around the many fantasy classes, and races to choose from. With a track time of 3+ years we are one of the most long running, and active rps around. With a track record of being in the top 100 disboard rps all of 2021.
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
submitted by LilithRose428 to DiscordRP [link] [comments]
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
2023.06.05 00:38 LilithRose428 Ethos Reforged! Open World Fantasy RP!!
"Greetings, and Welcome Traveler to Ethos Reforged. A open world text based rp on Discord. Here at Ethos we play daily around the clock as our custom ocs. Built around the many fantasy classes, and races to choose from. With a track time of 3+ years we are one of the most long running, and active rps around. With a track record of being in the top 100 disboard rps all of 2021.
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
submitted by LilithRose428 to discordroleplay [link] [comments]
Ethos itself is a custom open world Fantasy Rp with both combative, and non-combative elements.
Play whatever you want. From a human ranger with a dark backstory that has lead him to alcoholism to a dwarf trying to make a smithing business. As long as it fits into our world, it is yours.
Understand that Ethos is a tough environment. It is not meant for light roleplayers. Our serious, and fun player base have grown to respect the hardship. And, we hope you do too.
For a invitation, please message me here or on Discord.
Discord Name: LilithRosé#3781
Thanks, Lilith
• Dice System ? Situational/Probability system • Age Requirement? 15+ • Writing Requirements? No • General Premise and Setting: Medieval Fantasy • Fandom or OC?: OC • General Restrictions: No ERP
2023.06.05 00:30 Trash_Tia Camp Redwood are running out of counselors! These children ARE NOT CHILDREN. Update: our counsellors are not who they say they are.
Welcome to Camp Redwood! The feel-good camp for ALL AGES.
We toast marshmallows around the fire, tell spooky ghost stories, and hide in random secret military bunkers under the campgrounds! Because SOMETHING IS HERE WITH US.
Camp Redwood is the PERFECT PLACE for a summer getaway where we start EVERY DAY with a CAMP REDWOOD SMILE. Where our counselors disappear every five minutes, and our campers disembowel us for funsies! Did I forget to mention our littles aren’t actually eight years old, but fully grown adults?
We hope you enjoy your fucking stay!
We are also not responsible for any counselors revealing they are not who they said they are—and not who they appear to be.
...
So. There’s a LOT to tell you and not a lot of time to tell it.
Right now, I suppose you could say we are under lockdown—if that is the word. I want to go over the last several days to get you up to date. That’s all I can do right now. I can hope and pray the thing with Teddy’s voice does not get in here, and once again cry out for help—that I know is not coming. Not from the authorities, at least. But hey, if any of you fancy coming to rescue us, we’re in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. The closest rest-stop is maybe three fucking hours away. So have fun. Has it really almost been a week since I posted? Well, we’re still here!
And surprise, surprise, help is not coming. So, please excuse the salt. I am seventeen years old and I have been abandoned by the adults who were supposed to be looking after us.
Who were supposed to act under protocol if something like this happened. I know they were waiting for it—there are specific fucking guidelines on an emergency evacuation for counselors if this ever happened. But then the little shits took over before we could do anything. I guess I’ll start by letting you know that there are two of us left. (three, if we count Rowan, but I’m not). What I thought was going to be a quiet summer getaway with kids my age has turned into a nightmare.
For one, we have been cornered inside the head counselor’s underground secret bunker. If you want to know why she has a secret military bunker, I guess you should keep reading.
Because shit gets weirder than animal crackers having the power to turn adults into kids, and vice versa. When I made my first post, I thought that was it for us. I thought for sure there must have been a self-destruct somewhere—which meant whoever was running this camp was waiting for something like this. I was sure we were going to die, so after making the post, I have to admit with ya’ll—I just slept. I curled up, tried to ignore Harry and Carmel calling our names through childish laugher, and went to sleep with the thought in my head that I was completely at peace with what I had done with my life.
Sure, I was young. Seventeen years old is too young to be ripped apart by littles who are in fact grown adults. But as I was falling into slumber and allowing myself to fall, with my head resting in my lap, my head turned towards a separate pile of files on the other side of the room—I realized I really wanted to know how this was possible. There was so much I needed to know. Why did eight-year-old Eleanor Summers have a file where here birthday dated back to 1979? Why had supposedly innocent sugary snacks turned our adorable littles into mini psychopaths?
These kids were not kids, somehow. But how? How was that even possible? Could it be that the files were wrong?
1979 was definitely 45.
But Eleanor Summers couldn’t be 45 years old. I knew what 45 looked like. I knew that they thought like. They spent half of their time on Facebook laughing at outdated memes, and the other half… I don’t know, working? They have job’s! They’re happily married with kids, maybe soon grandkids! That was not Eleanor Summers. Because Eleanor Summers was most definitely eight years old. I had played several rounds of teddy-bears picnic, and spent hours reassuring her that Harry's ghost stories were in fact not real, enough times for me to know that this little kid was little—and a kid.
But something was bothering me. More than the secret military bunker, and magic age-regressing animal crackers. When I first signed up to Camp Redwood, one of the tag-lines to gain attraction had been, “Solve mysteries in the woods in the dead of night, with nothing but a flashlight and your fellow campers!” I had no idea I would be solving this thing on my own, trapped inside a bunker.
“What are you doing?” Rowan, who was still looking through Allison’s dinosaur laptop, turned to me with half lidded eyes, when I slowly got to my feet, careful not to make too much noise, and crept over to the pile of separate files which seemed to be crumbling apart from age. He kept his voice low, but it sounded almost like a whine. He could have been scared, but from the way he was sitting, cross-legged with a frowny face, I figured something must have been going on with him. The guy looked tired. More tired than normal.
The bags under his eyes were practically shadowing his face, and were an odd contrast to unusually ashy colored cheeks and slightly dilated eyes. Still though, Rowan refused to look vulnerable. I caught glimpse of Harry’s raybans sitting on his head, pinning back thick dark brown curls from falling in front of sleepy eyes. Maybe he was finally losing his cool and breaking out of the well-constructed façade he had been hiding behind since Teddy disappeared.
We had just narrowly escaped a crowd of psycho littles high on age-regressing sugary snacks who were doing who-the-fuck knows to the other counselors who had been captured, so I didn’t blame him looking like that. I guess he couldn’t look me in the eye, because in Rowan’s mind, he was the reason why this happened. He was the leader, and the camp had fallen to psychopathic little eight year olds who had taken half of the counselors hostage, and the other half—most likely taken apart in the physical sense, after what we had witnessed in Cassie’s cabin. Still though, it wasn’t Rowan’s fault. He could sit there and pull a face all he wanted, it’s not like I was going to blow up at him for getting us stuck down here. He actually saved us.
And trapped us, judging from the footsteps upstairs, Carmel and Harry still bouncing around looking for us.
It was a game in their heads. The little’s thought it was cat and mouse. Harry and Carmel were the oblivious cats prowling, while we were the mice, hoping to fucking GOD we weren’t caught and eaten. Ignoring Rowan, I glimpsed what looked like a box full of DVD’S—all of which were labelled with dates and names. I saw familiar ones, my heart racing into my throat. Phoebe. Eli. Cassandra.
Each DVD had one of the kid’s names scribbled on the front, as well as a date.
I found Eleanor’s right at the back of the box.
Eleanor Summers.
08/05/2021. (PM)
Before I could hesitate and think what I was doing, I slid the DVD into the portable player attached to the MacBook. Rowan, to my surprise, didn’t move. But he did make an acknowledging noise when the screen flickered to what looked like video footage. Peering at the screen, I found myself staring at a small white room. There was no door. Only a wooden desk and a chair, and sitting on it was a middle aged woman with dark blonde curls tied into a strict ponytail. She was wearing what looked like a prison jumpsuit.
Her eyes were eerily glued to the camera, unblinking. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her. Though from the look on her face, she saw the restraints as a game. Her eyes lit up with intrigue and I could practically see the cogs in her mind starting to turn as she struggled with them.
As soon as I saw this woman, I felt all of my nerve endings set alight. I wanted to turn the screen off, or look away. But once I was looking at the screen, I couldn’t bring myself to tear my eyes away. “Let’s try this again.” There was a woman offscreen. She sounded young. Too young to be in that kind of authority. I figured there was no way teenagers were being hired as special ops agents, but I guessed I was wrong. She cleared her throat. “It is 4:35 exactly. August 5th 2021. My name is Agent Lemrac,” she stated. “I am asking once again for you to comply with us. As I have said several times, the court are willing to lessen your sentence if you plead guilty with insanity.”
The woman surprised me with a snorting laugh. She seemed to come alive, leaning forward with animated features, her brow reaching her hairline. She was acting like a child, bouncing up and down in the seat, her lips stretching into a wider grin. “What did you just say?”
There was a pause. I could tell the woman was intentionally antagonising the interviewer.
“It means you have been legally declared insane,” the interviewer stumbled over her words slightly. “Mrs Summers, it would be in your best interest to work with us to lessen your current sentence which at the moment is standing at,” the sounds of shuffling paper crackled through the speakers. The interviewer cleared her throat again rustling paper. “Thirty six years. Without parole.”
The woman didn’t speak, only continued to smile—and the interviewer delved further into the sentence. “If you do in fact plead guilty with declared insanity, you will be sentenced to a program which is in the process of supporting and rehabilitating people with your…” she caught herself for a moment. I could tell this interviewer had a biased opinion and it was definitely showing through her interviewing style. I could hear the rapid intakes of her breath as she hurried through what seemed to be a script she was reading from. “Conditions.” She finished. “The Redwood program aims to help people exactly like you.”
Redwood? I thought.
Like… Camp Redwood?
Rowan whistled behind me. I guess I could call that a reaction. The guy was probably still in shock after seeing Café de Teddy splattered all over little Cassie’s cabin floor. I should have known those little bitches weren’t playing Operation for eight hours straight. Turning my attention from Rowan and back to the screen, the woman in the jumpsuit appeared to have changed tactics. Her expression twisted into nonchalance. She leaned back in her chair. “I am not pleading insane because I am not insane.”
“Mrs Summers—”
The woman cut her off. “I am not crazy.” She raised her hands “I am doing what needs to be done.” She leaned forward. “Humanity suffers in the skin. We age and die— and how is that fair? What if we want to see the next millennium? And the next two millennia after that? Why should our bodies dictate our lifespan? Why should we sit here and wait to rot and wither and die when we have the intelligence and mindset to do it? If nobody else is willing to throw ethics aside to take a step forwards in human evolution, I should do it myself.” She folded her arms across her chest, again, like a child. “I did what was to be done.”
“Dr. Summers.” The interviewer’s tone grew stiff. “You and your colleagues conducted illegal and unethical procedures on your family and friends—as well as four other victims.”
The woman inclined her head. “You have a daughter, am I correct? I have a son.”
“A child you killed, Dr Summers.” The interviewer retorted in a hiss which was definitely expressing emotion. She ignored the mention of her daughter, but I could tell it had rattled her to her core. Her voice had cracked. This case was close to her.
That was obvious. Without seeing the interviewer herself, I could sense how uncomfortable she was, shuffling in the chair. Every so often I would hear the sound of her rubbing her hands on her knees and tapping her shoe against the chair leg. She oozed anxiety, not just from her tone of voice, but the way the frame seemed to move with her. “Dr. Summers, you used your son in your research, along with several of his friends. This was not science.” Her voice shook. I heard her sharp inhale. Unprofessional, but very human. Instead of staying stoic and keeping to script, this agent was cracking apart. “It was murder.”
“Agent Lemrac, concentrate on the interview only.” An official voice crackled through what sounded like an intercom on screen.
“Got it.” She spoke through her teeth.
The woman was finding wounds and pressing on them. She was scanning the interviewer for vulnerabilities and preying on every insecurity. She leaned back speaking through a sigh. “Without my son’s sacrifice we wouldn’t have created an answer to death. To growing old and dying, and leaving loved ones behind.” Her voice softened into a murmur, but I didn’t trust it.
After identifying the shattering pieces of this interviewer which were very clear visible in her view, the woman was taking advantage.
“Agent Lemrac, you have a daughter. Am I correct in saying her name is Mari?
“That… that is not relevant.”
“Glioblastoma.” Dr. Summers lips curved into a sickening smile hidden behind mocking sympathy. “A sickness of the brain--which, unfortunately, I cannot fix. If your daughter’s brain was in my hands, I would try. However, not even a brand new body would help her. One which would never age or grow sick. And for that, I am deeply, deeply sorry.” She reached her cuffed hands forwards. “My condolences, Agent Lemrac. Honestly. I have to hand it to you. You are incredibly brave for coming here today and talking to me while abandoning your sick child.” She shook her head.
“Your daughter is dying of an incurable illness, suffering inside fragile skin which will break and fall apart and be unable to keep her standing for much longer. While my son will live on forever. He will see every millennia, a planet which will crumble and build itself back together. And maybe the end of the universe itself.” There was a twitch in her expression and a glitter in her eye I did not recognise. Insanity.
She was fucking insane. I was seeing the pure of it, the depraved and disgusting gleam in eyes empty of remorse and regret. This woman did not care what she had done. I could tell from the look on her face. If she had the chance, she would do this again.
But there was no way they were trying to say her cruelty and complete disregard for her son’s life was due to insanity.
“You are sick, Dr. Summers.” The interviewer said after a moment of gathering herself.
The woman shook her head with a chuckle. “I told you. I am not sick--”
“Sick in the head!” The interviewer’s voice exploded through the speakers in a shriek—a terrified cry she had been trying to hold in. I finally saw her—or at least the back of her. She was a young woman with light blonde hair falling loose on her shoulders. She was trembling. Slamming her hands down on the table, she screamed at the orange jumpsuit woman.
“You are psychologically fucked in the head! You psycho bitch! That is my sister!” She spoke through strangled sobs rattling her whole body. “Mari is my little sister. She is not my child.”
Her breaths were strangled and harboured. I noticed figures looming in the background, but she was continuing. “You killed your own fucking son,” she spat. “You are not legally insane, you are sick!” she shrieked. “You planned and put this together! You sit there and you talk about your son like he’s a… like he’s a tool! You deserve to rot. Do you hear me?” I noticed the orange jumpsuit woman was still smiling, satisfied with the interview’s reaction. Her words were spoken in a vicious poison as she leaned forward and spat directly in orange jumpsuit’s face.
“Agent Lemrac!” Whoever her superiors were—were panicking. “I told you not to turn it off. I knew this was going to happen. Can we stop the demonstration, please? Human emotions present inside an Aceville soldier are too powerful—"
Voices were murmuring in the background, and Agent Lemrac raised her hands. “I want to stop.” She choked out, her hands trembling. She spoke like she still had control over the situation and wasn’t being apprehended. “I want to stop. Do you hear me?” The interviewer was crying, I realized. “Stop the recording! I can’t do this. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick—”
When the footage ended in a burst of static, I found myself backing away, something slimy creeping its way up my throat.
The woman in the orange jumpsuit who had murdered her son and countless others in what sounded like an attempt at playing god, was Eleanor Summers. I thought back to Teddy’s corpse, and the surgical precision of every organ’s removal. The young interviewer had mentioned colleagues of Eleanor.
Was it possible that Camp Redwood was in fact nothing more than a rehabilitation camp for murderous criminals? There was a loud bang from above, and I was torn from my thoughts.
I turned to Rowan, who had been unusually quiet. And I realized why, when I twisted around to find him three inches from my face, his laboured breath tickling my cheek.
The boy jumped back with a chuckle—like me noticing him was some kind of game, before diving back into the chair. I did notice something odd, as my thoughts spiralled. Rowan couldn’t sit still. Slumped in the leather spinning chair, he fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrests while his feet jumped up and down. In the dim light of the bunker, I glimpsed a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and the flesh of his neck. He looked to be… feverish—and now that I was looking at him properly, all of my attention on the boy, I noticed small things which seemed… off about him.
For one, he wasn’t coming up with a plan. Rowan always had a plan. Even if he wasn’t completely sure of it, or was completely winging it. This time though, he was strangely quiet. I found my voice when he stuck out his tongue at me. “What are you looking at?”
“Rowan.” I spoke softly, careful not to garner attention from above us where Harry and Carmel were still clamouring around, playing games. “Are you… feeling okay?” I asked, when he turned back to the laptop, manically biting his fingernails.
“I dunnnooooo, Josie! Am I feeeeeeling okaaaaaayyyyy?” He surprised me with an uncharacteristic laugh.
But I did know it.
I knew it from earlier when he reacted to Allison’s bunker and I had been too freaked out to realize that I was dragging along the enemy with me.
Because the fucking idiot had consumed animal crackers. I had seen him for myself earlier, pouring a pack into his mouth for a snack. Which meant either the ‘kids’ had intentionally dosed him with mind altering sugary snacks, or the more likely, he could not resist those preservatives which was the equivalent of caffeine. It’s not like I could blame him when he harboured the weight of an entire camp, but come on, did he really have to sacrifice his own fucking mind to keep himself awake?
Rowan wasn’t just biting. His nails. He was gnawing. Which he previously thought was a filthy habit. He had yelled at a camper for chewing on her nails a few days earlier.
Now that I was noticing it, I couldn’t… stop noticing it. The boy’s whole demeanour had changed; the way he was sinking into the chair, instead of sitting up straight like usual—- I used to call it having a stick up his ass. The boy started typing on the laptop, ignoring me. But when I watched the pattern of his fingers, he was just typing gibberish. Footsteps pounded above us, Harry and Carmel acting as the kid’s’ brainwashed foot-soldiers. Or, more likely somehow, if the animal crackers had caused the littles, or I guess, the fully grown forty year old criminals, to relapse in age-- then maybe it was possible for the same thing to happen to us. To Rowan.
I could feel myself starting to back away, but there was nowhere to run. I just slammed into a cupboard. My gaze flicked to Rowan again, who was tapping a beat on the laptop tracking pad, swaying back and forth, his eyes elsewhere before his gaze found mine. “Marcoooooo!” Harry shouted from above, giggling with Carmel.
I had to guess their mental age had to be at least 8-10 years old. Which meant I wasn’t just dealing with a camp full of forty-year-old psycho’s, I was also dealing with mentally relapsed counselors acting like toddlers.
Rowan seemed to jolt in the chair, twisting his head around, his eyes suddenly incredibly childlike and playful, and very Un-Rowan, were finding the ceiling, his mouth stretching into a smile, like he was seeing butterflies. His eyes flashed to me, and I caught a twitch in his lip. I knew that look. It was the look on my seven year old sister, who knew mom was mad at me, and wanted to make it even worse.
His cheeks were starting to blossom scarlet from what must have been the overwhelming urge to laugh. Rowan pressed his lips together and held in a breath like a hamster, and the asshole was fucking with me. Waiting for me to beat him to it by accident. Kids were fucking ruthless, but there was something terrifying about an 18 year old with a little kid’s mind.
I lifted my index to my lips, miming for him not to even try, but the boy just mimicked me, bugging out his eyes and pressing his finger to his grinning mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.” I managed to whisper. The boy was definitely playing his own game, moving in twitching movements, baiting me. When he cupped his mouth, I almost let out a cry, but then he dropped his arms with a giggle, as if to say, “I’m just kidding!”
Slowly, I turned around, grabbed the salt I’d found in Allison’s cupboard, and a flat can of soda. Without making too much movement, I poured a handful of salt into the can. But Rowan seemed to know exactly what I was doing. Because in the time it was taking me to advance towards him with the can of salty soda, one arm shakily ready to grab hold of him, and put him into a headlock, he was cupping his mouth, all logic and everything adult, everything he had been as our leader, igniting in playful eyes, leaving me the last one standing.
“Pollloooooo!”
By the time Rowan had managed to reveal our hiding place in a spluttered laugh, I had hold of the squirming boy, one arm wrapped around his neck, my other forcing the can of soda into his mouth. I had definitely miscalculated his strength. During camp Redwood activities, he was always the last one to come back from the trail, holding his knees and panting. I figured he was unfit. However, I was wrong. Underneath his shirt, the guy had some serious muscles.
It was like attacking a brick wall. However, Rowan was mentally a kid. So, I had my intelligence and logic on my side. When it became obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with brute strength, I resorted to tickling him, which made him squirm, squeaking out a laugh. When he opened his mouth to yell at me to stop, I took my chance, thrusting the can into his lips and holding his nose so he swallowed it down.
“No!” His laughter turned into muffled yelling, as he batted his fists at my chest. “No, no, no! Get off, get off!”
His body convulsed as the salt did its job, causing the boy to lurch to his knees and choke up forbidden animal crackers in a gooish sludge which turned my stomach. By the time Rowan seemed half himself and half not, still kneeling, his head pressed against the floor, Harry was poking his head through the door with a goonish grin. “Found you!” He giggled, before forcing the door open, allowing Carmel and Callen, freshly caught and mentally turned into littles, to advance down the stairs with equally terrifying grins. There was something wrong with Harry’s face, and I only realized it when the guy himself was hauling me from the bunker, Carmel dragging a barely responsive Rowan. There was nothing in Harry’s expression, only blind childish excitement at winning the game. When he dragged me out of Allison’s cabin and threw me to the ground, I realized he too had insane strength I had not been expecting. But that thought quickly retracted when I was seeing his face in the light of a crescent moon lighting up the sky an eerie glow. Harry’s cheeks were puffy and swollen, his right eye way bigger than it should have been.
When he spoke, his voice was more of a lisp. This was something far more realistic than magical animal crackers fucking with his brain.
“He needs help!” I managed to choke out when Carmel wrapped jump-rope around my wrists. Next to me, Rowan was refusing to get up, still choking up salty soda, groaning into his hands. Every time Callen tried to restrain him, he hissed out like an animal.
“Do you hear me?!” I struggled violently. “Harry needs—”
BANG.
Is what it felt like. The feeling of something—what felt and sounded like a toy car—colliding with my temples, sent me onto the ground, my head spinning itself off of its axis. I remember lying on my back and frowning at the moon which almost looked like it was getting closer to me, blurring into a white ball of light—before reality sunk in, and it was in fact Carmel’s converse coming down to finish me off. I didn’t stay knocked out for long. But I did dream.
I think you can call it a dream? I was lying in bed at home; my room drowned in the dark. I was cosy, curled up in my blankets, when a clammy hand slammed over my mouth, rousing me from slumber. There were two figures in my room. They didn’t have faces. They just existed as shadows, silhouettes. Before one of them raised something above their head, and… impact.
It was the same impact as the toy car hitting me, snapping me back to that night. It wasn’t a dream. Because I remembered his clammy fingers over my mouth, and his hisses for me to shut up as he dragged me from my room.
My parents stood in front of me with expressions of sympathy. Basked in warm light, my mom and dad looked almost otherworldly. “For the best.” Was what they mouthed when my own phantom screams slammed into me. I asked them why, and they didn’t reply, allowing him to pull me further and further from what I knew, from my life as I knew it. But.. that couldn’t be real. I had memories of getting on the bus to camp Redwood. I could recall the whole journey. So, why… why was my tangled mind saying otherwise?
When I gathered myself, the first thing I realized was I was sitting down. I was outside, cool night air grazing my bare arms. There was something attached to me, jerking violently, And it took me several disorientating blinks to understand that I was tied back to back with Rowan. My head pounded, and something wet and warm dripped down my temple. Great. I could add head injury to the long list of things to worry about.
“Let me go you little fucking witch.”
Rowan was back to himself, though from the muffled hissing and the sound of choking—I had to guess he was being force-fed animal crackers.
“Let me—mpphmmm. little…. fucking… mphmmphhmhppmm!”
“Rowan.” I managed to get out in a croak. Through flickering eyes, I caught glimpse of a familiar figure dancing around us. Shivers rocketed down my spine, and I wrenched at the jump-rope restraints, but they did a surprisingly job of restraining my arms behind my back.
Eleanor was with Rowan, while Eli was knelt in front of me. Looking at him, the boy had definitely aged in the face—and I couldn’t help wondering what exactly he had done as a forty something year old to be sent to this place.
“Josie!” Rowan responded in a wail. “Josie. Wake the FUCK up.”
“Stop swearing.”
Eleanor spoke with the cold tone of her actual age.
“Oh, yeah?” Rowan spluttered. “Fuck you.” The boy’s laugh was still rough from almost vomiting his insides out from too much salt intake. “I’m sorry, you were a fucking boomer all along?!” He wriggled in the restraints, lunging forwards, which sent me backwards.
“Stop swearing, Rowan.” Was all the girl responded with calmly.
“Like I’m going to listen to you!” He sneered. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fucking fuck!” What are you going to do, huh? Bite me with your false teeth?” The sound of saliva hitting skin made me wince. He was pissed. I had no doubt his completely rational anger was going to get us killed. Rowan was also somehow getting mixed up between forty and eighty. Though he was unwillingly snacking on mind bending sugary goodness.
“Fudge, Rowan.” Eleanor spoke in a giggle.
“What?!”
“Say fudge. Not fuck.”
“No.”
His hiss of pain caught me off guard. I don’t know what she was doing to him, but it was hurting him.
“You fudging fudge! I’m going to fudging kill you when I get out of these fudging ropes—“ his manic cursing became a muffled yell.
“Say fudge,” Eleanor hummed, followed by his hiss when the palm of her hand skinned his cheek. “Fuck is a bad word. You even said so yourself and you’re my favourite counselor.”
He heaved out a breath.
“You fudge,” Rowan spat. “When I get out of this, I am going to fudging kill you, you fudging—” His manic ranting morphed, once again, into muffled yelling, after another fistful of animal crackers were forced into his mouth. When I risked twisting around, I could see his rebellion slowly starting to simmer out as he relaxed slightly. I wanted to yell at him to keep a clear head before cold fingers were dipping under my chin and forcing my head around where I found myself face to face with Eli.
“I like you, Josie,” he said, before untying me and pulling me to my feet. Now at the age of nine or ten, he was a lot stronger. When I tried to pull away, the cruel blade of a knife grazed my gut. I caught his grin. “But we don’t need you.” Eli pointed to Rowan.
“We just want them.”
I followed his pointer finger which went from Rowan to Harry and Carmel, who were just standing there like fucking idiots, probably awaiting the next game. Harry’s face was getting redder. It looked like he was suffocating, and yet his grin was growing wider and wider, splitting his lips apart. “Rowan Atlas.” Eleanor said, dragging him to his feet. Something was stapled to his forehead head, which caused him to howl in pain, hissing another strangled line of “Fudge”. but I couldn’t read what it was.
“Camp leader. Intelligent, and problem solving skills.”
“Harry Carlisle.” Eli nodded his head with a smile. “Quick thinker. Strong minded.”
“Carmel Locke.” Cassie spoke behind me. She had her arms folded, a wry smile on her lips. “Smarter than she makes out—- an independent learner, and can work well under pressure.”
Looking at these kids, I felt sick to my stomach. They were planning something—and had the intelligence of renowned scientists, which was what I gathered from the footage on the MacBook. “What?” was all I could hiss out, as Eli prodded the blade of the knife into my back, ushering me to walk. “What are you talking about?”
“Duh.” He spoke in a more tweeny giggle. “Like I said, Miss Josie. You’re my favorite counselor but we don’t need you, so I’m going to use you for parts.” He laughed when a shiver spiderwebbed down my spine. “See! I told you I was going to show you my collection!”
“But… what do you need them for?”
Eli pressed his index finger to his lips with a laugh before forcing me to face forwards. “That’s a secret!”
When I didn’t, or couldn’t move, he shoved me into a stumbling power-walk, and I managed to turn my head quickly, making feverish eye contact with Rowan.
“Rowan.” I said calmly through the gutter in my throat. “Get…. Get help.”
If I was going to die, I needed him to get a hold of himself and somehow alert the outside world what was going on.
“From whom, Josie?!” He wailed back—and as I was dragged away, I could once again sense the childish undertones in his voice.
I had no choice but to obey Eli’s orders. If I didn’t want a knife in my back. He took me to the main lunch cabin, which, when I set foot inside, almost sent me to my knees.
Something lurched inside me, and I was screaming with no voice, staggering backwards, only to be shoved onto my face. In front of me was what had been the lunch hall, fully converted into the beginning of a laboratory.
What had been cafeteria tables were fashioned into makeshift gurney’s and beds, and I was looking at all of the missing counselors. Yuri and Noah had been skinned completely, their faces laid out on a makeshift surgical table. Joey had been ripped open, his heart and brain removed, a glittering metallic substance creeping its way across his forehead. It was then when I remembered Eleanor Summers words.
She wanted to prevent death and preserve the human mind. Looking at what was in front of me, this was the start of it. There was equipment I had never seen before. Lily’s body was empty, carved out completely, tubes forced inside her. When I glimpsed her fingers move and begin to ball into a fist, I saw red. I saw fucking red. The exit was so close and yet Eli, fucking Eli, wielded his knife. I think that is when part of me gave up. My brain just stopped. It short circuited. Seeing my friends murdered and yet somehow being kept alive through playing god, my body slumped to the ground. I was numb. Completely numb.
I’m not sure what would have happened if those bloody saws and instruments which had been used on my friends were used on me too.
Luckily, that did not happen. Before Eli could get his slimy hands on me, he crumpled to the ground in an almost cartoon-like fashion, and standing over me was Harry. Who was looking better. When he grasped hold of me and helped me up, I only had one word. “Out.” And he was nodding, his eyes glistening as he drunk in our friends’ fate.
“How?” I managed to sputter out, when we made it out of the cabin, ducking behind a tree. Harry turned to me, motioning for me to shut up. There was a group of now ten to eleven year olds already running around, searching for what I guessed was him.
“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Harry murmured, his grasp tightening on my wrist as he led me across the camp, the two of us stumbling.
“What, and you just magically healed?”
He didn’t respond to that, which bothered me.
“The bunker is our best shot,” I hissed out. “I think we can get in contact with someone down there.” I paused, unable to stop myself. “What makes you so important?”
“Dunno. Maybe I’m their favorite.”
When we found Allison’s cabin, which was more of a safehouse (an exposed safehouse) I found Rowan sitting on the wooden porch with his legs swinging over the side. “Rowan!” Harry groaned. I found it hard to believe their roles had been switched. Now he was the one yelling at the camp-leader. “I told you to stay inside!”
He ushered the boy inside, before barricading the door with some hefty looking equipment. I could tell from the grin on his face that our so-called leader was once again no longer himself.
I had to bite back a groan. “You’re kidding.” I said, pointing to Rowan, who buried his head in his knees and blew a raspberry. “Does he look and act like our leader right now?!”
“It’s Rowan, Josie.”
“He’s a liability.”
“He’s our friend! Wouldn’t Rowan do the same?”
Yes, he would. But. He would also realize we’re lost causes.
“Gag him with something.” I said. “If he makes any more noise, we’re dumping him.”
“He’s a kid!”
“Just the mind of one.”
I don’t know how animal crackers worked, but his age seemed to be progressively younger. This time he just sat with wide eyes watching us.
Harry almost tore apart the place looking for means of communication, before an old fashioned ringing sound made me jump.
“What was that?” Harry turned to me with his lip curled.
“How am I supposed to know?!” I hissed. “Keep looking!” But when I ducked under the table, my hands crawled under the desk, finding a wire—and attached to that, an ancient looking phone which looked straight out of a 1940’s movie, a bright green rotary phone.
Hesitantly, I answered it, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Did you awaken the subjects, Agent Salta?"
The voice on the other end was a woman, an oldish sounding woman with the tinge of a British accent.
“What?” I shot a look at Harry before shaking my head. “No. My name is Josie Greenfield. We’re at Camp Redwood, and we need help.”
The woman paused.
“Where is Agent Salta?” She cleared her throat. “This line is reserved for communication with agents only.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about!" I squeaked out. “My name is Josie, and whatever is happening here, we need help!”
“Josie. Did you awaken the subjects?”
I paused after a moment, shooting Harry a look when he tried to take the phone off of me. “Yes.”
“And… are our agents unavailable?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a health and safety breach is activated, our agents are awakened to deal with the Project Spearhead subjects if they were to ever go rogue, or become conscious enough to think. Josie, can you tell me what is in front of you? Describe it to me.”
I held my breath. Next to the hidden phone under the desk was what looked like mismatched wires, all of which had been severed. I lowered myself slowly, poking at mess. “Wires. I see… cut up wires.” I whispered. “Does this mean they know about you?”
She hummed. “Ah…That makes sense. The only way to activate our sleeper handlers would be to send out the signal. You appear to have been sabotaged. Unless activated manually, our agents cannot help you. I am sorry. They are your problem now.” The woman paused.
“If I were you, I would hope and pray they have not sabotaged the self-destruct. If you find that, then you may be able to save yourselves and find peace.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for your service, Josie Greenfield.”
“Wait.” I managed to get out. “Wait, no! You can’t just… you can’t leave us! We need help!”
I found myself yelling at nothing when the phone went dead. The dull tone of the dead ringtone was clanging in my ears before footsteps from up above. “Fuck this.” Harry picked up a lead pipe. “They’re still little kids, right? I mean, their head must still be partly kids—- so let’s fucking beat their heads in.”
He noticed something, then, starting forwards towards the mess of files I had left earlier. Harry knelt on the ground and picked up Eli’s file, his eyes wide. But he wasn’t staring at the dates confirming the little boy’s age.
Instead, Harry pointed at the bottom of the file. “I don’t want to freak you out, Josie,” he whispered. Initially, I didn’t know what he was trying to show before I glimpsed notes scrawled at the bottom of the file, followed by a signature. “But I’m pretty sure that is my fucking writing.”
Harry was right.
I pulled the paperwork off of him, flicking through each file before turning my eyes to him. “Who the fuck are you?”
A clanging sound from above broke the tension, and whatever Harry was about to reply with was strangled in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth.
“Guys?”
The voice twisted me up inside, threatening to release a shriek from my mouth I had managed to clamp shut.
Teddy.
“Are you down here?” His voice was strained, and had an odd tone to it. “I can’t… I can’t see you.”
…
Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?! It’s been a blur of a week. We’ve managed to stay down here, surviving off of Allison’s rations. Rowan isn’t getting any better. He seems to have stopped mentally de-ageing at the age of maybe six. Harry has spent the last few days trying to get in contact with anyone, but it’s like they are IGNORING US.
I’ve been looking through everything I can find on Project Spearhead, but nothing points to Harry being involved. So. How is his signature all over the files? How is it possible that two friends I thought I knew several days ago, are now complete strangers?
Teddy keeps coming back.
He’s crying out to us.
I think he’s… in pain.
My god, I can’t stand this anymore. Please. CAMP REDWOOD NEEDS HELP.
submitted by Trash_Tia to TheCrypticCompendium [link] [comments]
We toast marshmallows around the fire, tell spooky ghost stories, and hide in random secret military bunkers under the campgrounds! Because SOMETHING IS HERE WITH US.
Camp Redwood is the PERFECT PLACE for a summer getaway where we start EVERY DAY with a CAMP REDWOOD SMILE. Where our counselors disappear every five minutes, and our campers disembowel us for funsies! Did I forget to mention our littles aren’t actually eight years old, but fully grown adults?
We hope you enjoy your fucking stay!
We are also not responsible for any counselors revealing they are not who they said they are—and not who they appear to be.
...
So. There’s a LOT to tell you and not a lot of time to tell it.
Right now, I suppose you could say we are under lockdown—if that is the word. I want to go over the last several days to get you up to date. That’s all I can do right now. I can hope and pray the thing with Teddy’s voice does not get in here, and once again cry out for help—that I know is not coming. Not from the authorities, at least. But hey, if any of you fancy coming to rescue us, we’re in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. The closest rest-stop is maybe three fucking hours away. So have fun. Has it really almost been a week since I posted? Well, we’re still here!
And surprise, surprise, help is not coming. So, please excuse the salt. I am seventeen years old and I have been abandoned by the adults who were supposed to be looking after us.
Who were supposed to act under protocol if something like this happened. I know they were waiting for it—there are specific fucking guidelines on an emergency evacuation for counselors if this ever happened. But then the little shits took over before we could do anything. I guess I’ll start by letting you know that there are two of us left. (three, if we count Rowan, but I’m not). What I thought was going to be a quiet summer getaway with kids my age has turned into a nightmare.
For one, we have been cornered inside the head counselor’s underground secret bunker. If you want to know why she has a secret military bunker, I guess you should keep reading.
Because shit gets weirder than animal crackers having the power to turn adults into kids, and vice versa. When I made my first post, I thought that was it for us. I thought for sure there must have been a self-destruct somewhere—which meant whoever was running this camp was waiting for something like this. I was sure we were going to die, so after making the post, I have to admit with ya’ll—I just slept. I curled up, tried to ignore Harry and Carmel calling our names through childish laugher, and went to sleep with the thought in my head that I was completely at peace with what I had done with my life.
Sure, I was young. Seventeen years old is too young to be ripped apart by littles who are in fact grown adults. But as I was falling into slumber and allowing myself to fall, with my head resting in my lap, my head turned towards a separate pile of files on the other side of the room—I realized I really wanted to know how this was possible. There was so much I needed to know. Why did eight-year-old Eleanor Summers have a file where here birthday dated back to 1979? Why had supposedly innocent sugary snacks turned our adorable littles into mini psychopaths?
These kids were not kids, somehow. But how? How was that even possible? Could it be that the files were wrong?
1979 was definitely 45.
But Eleanor Summers couldn’t be 45 years old. I knew what 45 looked like. I knew that they thought like. They spent half of their time on Facebook laughing at outdated memes, and the other half… I don’t know, working? They have job’s! They’re happily married with kids, maybe soon grandkids! That was not Eleanor Summers. Because Eleanor Summers was most definitely eight years old. I had played several rounds of teddy-bears picnic, and spent hours reassuring her that Harry's ghost stories were in fact not real, enough times for me to know that this little kid was little—and a kid.
But something was bothering me. More than the secret military bunker, and magic age-regressing animal crackers. When I first signed up to Camp Redwood, one of the tag-lines to gain attraction had been, “Solve mysteries in the woods in the dead of night, with nothing but a flashlight and your fellow campers!” I had no idea I would be solving this thing on my own, trapped inside a bunker.
“What are you doing?” Rowan, who was still looking through Allison’s dinosaur laptop, turned to me with half lidded eyes, when I slowly got to my feet, careful not to make too much noise, and crept over to the pile of separate files which seemed to be crumbling apart from age. He kept his voice low, but it sounded almost like a whine. He could have been scared, but from the way he was sitting, cross-legged with a frowny face, I figured something must have been going on with him. The guy looked tired. More tired than normal.
The bags under his eyes were practically shadowing his face, and were an odd contrast to unusually ashy colored cheeks and slightly dilated eyes. Still though, Rowan refused to look vulnerable. I caught glimpse of Harry’s raybans sitting on his head, pinning back thick dark brown curls from falling in front of sleepy eyes. Maybe he was finally losing his cool and breaking out of the well-constructed façade he had been hiding behind since Teddy disappeared.
We had just narrowly escaped a crowd of psycho littles high on age-regressing sugary snacks who were doing who-the-fuck knows to the other counselors who had been captured, so I didn’t blame him looking like that. I guess he couldn’t look me in the eye, because in Rowan’s mind, he was the reason why this happened. He was the leader, and the camp had fallen to psychopathic little eight year olds who had taken half of the counselors hostage, and the other half—most likely taken apart in the physical sense, after what we had witnessed in Cassie’s cabin. Still though, it wasn’t Rowan’s fault. He could sit there and pull a face all he wanted, it’s not like I was going to blow up at him for getting us stuck down here. He actually saved us.
And trapped us, judging from the footsteps upstairs, Carmel and Harry still bouncing around looking for us.
It was a game in their heads. The little’s thought it was cat and mouse. Harry and Carmel were the oblivious cats prowling, while we were the mice, hoping to fucking GOD we weren’t caught and eaten. Ignoring Rowan, I glimpsed what looked like a box full of DVD’S—all of which were labelled with dates and names. I saw familiar ones, my heart racing into my throat. Phoebe. Eli. Cassandra.
Each DVD had one of the kid’s names scribbled on the front, as well as a date.
I found Eleanor’s right at the back of the box.
Eleanor Summers.
08/05/2021. (PM)
Before I could hesitate and think what I was doing, I slid the DVD into the portable player attached to the MacBook. Rowan, to my surprise, didn’t move. But he did make an acknowledging noise when the screen flickered to what looked like video footage. Peering at the screen, I found myself staring at a small white room. There was no door. Only a wooden desk and a chair, and sitting on it was a middle aged woman with dark blonde curls tied into a strict ponytail. She was wearing what looked like a prison jumpsuit.
Her eyes were eerily glued to the camera, unblinking. Her wrists were cuffed in front of her. Though from the look on her face, she saw the restraints as a game. Her eyes lit up with intrigue and I could practically see the cogs in her mind starting to turn as she struggled with them.
As soon as I saw this woman, I felt all of my nerve endings set alight. I wanted to turn the screen off, or look away. But once I was looking at the screen, I couldn’t bring myself to tear my eyes away. “Let’s try this again.” There was a woman offscreen. She sounded young. Too young to be in that kind of authority. I figured there was no way teenagers were being hired as special ops agents, but I guessed I was wrong. She cleared her throat. “It is 4:35 exactly. August 5th 2021. My name is Agent Lemrac,” she stated. “I am asking once again for you to comply with us. As I have said several times, the court are willing to lessen your sentence if you plead guilty with insanity.”
The woman surprised me with a snorting laugh. She seemed to come alive, leaning forward with animated features, her brow reaching her hairline. She was acting like a child, bouncing up and down in the seat, her lips stretching into a wider grin. “What did you just say?”
There was a pause. I could tell the woman was intentionally antagonising the interviewer.
“It means you have been legally declared insane,” the interviewer stumbled over her words slightly. “Mrs Summers, it would be in your best interest to work with us to lessen your current sentence which at the moment is standing at,” the sounds of shuffling paper crackled through the speakers. The interviewer cleared her throat again rustling paper. “Thirty six years. Without parole.”
The woman didn’t speak, only continued to smile—and the interviewer delved further into the sentence. “If you do in fact plead guilty with declared insanity, you will be sentenced to a program which is in the process of supporting and rehabilitating people with your…” she caught herself for a moment. I could tell this interviewer had a biased opinion and it was definitely showing through her interviewing style. I could hear the rapid intakes of her breath as she hurried through what seemed to be a script she was reading from. “Conditions.” She finished. “The Redwood program aims to help people exactly like you.”
Redwood? I thought.
Like… Camp Redwood?
Rowan whistled behind me. I guess I could call that a reaction. The guy was probably still in shock after seeing Café de Teddy splattered all over little Cassie’s cabin floor. I should have known those little bitches weren’t playing Operation for eight hours straight. Turning my attention from Rowan and back to the screen, the woman in the jumpsuit appeared to have changed tactics. Her expression twisted into nonchalance. She leaned back in her chair. “I am not pleading insane because I am not insane.”
“Mrs Summers—”
The woman cut her off. “I am not crazy.” She raised her hands “I am doing what needs to be done.” She leaned forward. “Humanity suffers in the skin. We age and die— and how is that fair? What if we want to see the next millennium? And the next two millennia after that? Why should our bodies dictate our lifespan? Why should we sit here and wait to rot and wither and die when we have the intelligence and mindset to do it? If nobody else is willing to throw ethics aside to take a step forwards in human evolution, I should do it myself.” She folded her arms across her chest, again, like a child. “I did what was to be done.”
“Dr. Summers.” The interviewer’s tone grew stiff. “You and your colleagues conducted illegal and unethical procedures on your family and friends—as well as four other victims.”
The woman inclined her head. “You have a daughter, am I correct? I have a son.”
“A child you killed, Dr Summers.” The interviewer retorted in a hiss which was definitely expressing emotion. She ignored the mention of her daughter, but I could tell it had rattled her to her core. Her voice had cracked. This case was close to her.
That was obvious. Without seeing the interviewer herself, I could sense how uncomfortable she was, shuffling in the chair. Every so often I would hear the sound of her rubbing her hands on her knees and tapping her shoe against the chair leg. She oozed anxiety, not just from her tone of voice, but the way the frame seemed to move with her. “Dr. Summers, you used your son in your research, along with several of his friends. This was not science.” Her voice shook. I heard her sharp inhale. Unprofessional, but very human. Instead of staying stoic and keeping to script, this agent was cracking apart. “It was murder.”
“Agent Lemrac, concentrate on the interview only.” An official voice crackled through what sounded like an intercom on screen.
“Got it.” She spoke through her teeth.
The woman was finding wounds and pressing on them. She was scanning the interviewer for vulnerabilities and preying on every insecurity. She leaned back speaking through a sigh. “Without my son’s sacrifice we wouldn’t have created an answer to death. To growing old and dying, and leaving loved ones behind.” Her voice softened into a murmur, but I didn’t trust it.
After identifying the shattering pieces of this interviewer which were very clear visible in her view, the woman was taking advantage.
“Agent Lemrac, you have a daughter. Am I correct in saying her name is Mari?
“That… that is not relevant.”
“Glioblastoma.” Dr. Summers lips curved into a sickening smile hidden behind mocking sympathy. “A sickness of the brain--which, unfortunately, I cannot fix. If your daughter’s brain was in my hands, I would try. However, not even a brand new body would help her. One which would never age or grow sick. And for that, I am deeply, deeply sorry.” She reached her cuffed hands forwards. “My condolences, Agent Lemrac. Honestly. I have to hand it to you. You are incredibly brave for coming here today and talking to me while abandoning your sick child.” She shook her head.
“Your daughter is dying of an incurable illness, suffering inside fragile skin which will break and fall apart and be unable to keep her standing for much longer. While my son will live on forever. He will see every millennia, a planet which will crumble and build itself back together. And maybe the end of the universe itself.” There was a twitch in her expression and a glitter in her eye I did not recognise. Insanity.
She was fucking insane. I was seeing the pure of it, the depraved and disgusting gleam in eyes empty of remorse and regret. This woman did not care what she had done. I could tell from the look on her face. If she had the chance, she would do this again.
But there was no way they were trying to say her cruelty and complete disregard for her son’s life was due to insanity.
“You are sick, Dr. Summers.” The interviewer said after a moment of gathering herself.
The woman shook her head with a chuckle. “I told you. I am not sick--”
“Sick in the head!” The interviewer’s voice exploded through the speakers in a shriek—a terrified cry she had been trying to hold in. I finally saw her—or at least the back of her. She was a young woman with light blonde hair falling loose on her shoulders. She was trembling. Slamming her hands down on the table, she screamed at the orange jumpsuit woman.
“You are psychologically fucked in the head! You psycho bitch! That is my sister!” She spoke through strangled sobs rattling her whole body. “Mari is my little sister. She is not my child.”
Her breaths were strangled and harboured. I noticed figures looming in the background, but she was continuing. “You killed your own fucking son,” she spat. “You are not legally insane, you are sick!” she shrieked. “You planned and put this together! You sit there and you talk about your son like he’s a… like he’s a tool! You deserve to rot. Do you hear me?” I noticed the orange jumpsuit woman was still smiling, satisfied with the interview’s reaction. Her words were spoken in a vicious poison as she leaned forward and spat directly in orange jumpsuit’s face.
“Agent Lemrac!” Whoever her superiors were—were panicking. “I told you not to turn it off. I knew this was going to happen. Can we stop the demonstration, please? Human emotions present inside an Aceville soldier are too powerful—"
Voices were murmuring in the background, and Agent Lemrac raised her hands. “I want to stop.” She choked out, her hands trembling. She spoke like she still had control over the situation and wasn’t being apprehended. “I want to stop. Do you hear me?” The interviewer was crying, I realized. “Stop the recording! I can’t do this. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick—”
When the footage ended in a burst of static, I found myself backing away, something slimy creeping its way up my throat.
The woman in the orange jumpsuit who had murdered her son and countless others in what sounded like an attempt at playing god, was Eleanor Summers. I thought back to Teddy’s corpse, and the surgical precision of every organ’s removal. The young interviewer had mentioned colleagues of Eleanor.
Was it possible that Camp Redwood was in fact nothing more than a rehabilitation camp for murderous criminals? There was a loud bang from above, and I was torn from my thoughts.
I turned to Rowan, who had been unusually quiet. And I realized why, when I twisted around to find him three inches from my face, his laboured breath tickling my cheek.
The boy jumped back with a chuckle—like me noticing him was some kind of game, before diving back into the chair. I did notice something odd, as my thoughts spiralled. Rowan couldn’t sit still. Slumped in the leather spinning chair, he fingers tapped a rhythm on the armrests while his feet jumped up and down. In the dim light of the bunker, I glimpsed a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and the flesh of his neck. He looked to be… feverish—and now that I was looking at him properly, all of my attention on the boy, I noticed small things which seemed… off about him.
For one, he wasn’t coming up with a plan. Rowan always had a plan. Even if he wasn’t completely sure of it, or was completely winging it. This time though, he was strangely quiet. I found my voice when he stuck out his tongue at me. “What are you looking at?”
“Rowan.” I spoke softly, careful not to garner attention from above us where Harry and Carmel were still clamouring around, playing games. “Are you… feeling okay?” I asked, when he turned back to the laptop, manically biting his fingernails.
“I dunnnooooo, Josie! Am I feeeeeeling okaaaaaayyyyy?” He surprised me with an uncharacteristic laugh.
But I did know it.
I knew it from earlier when he reacted to Allison’s bunker and I had been too freaked out to realize that I was dragging along the enemy with me.
Because the fucking idiot had consumed animal crackers. I had seen him for myself earlier, pouring a pack into his mouth for a snack. Which meant either the ‘kids’ had intentionally dosed him with mind altering sugary snacks, or the more likely, he could not resist those preservatives which was the equivalent of caffeine. It’s not like I could blame him when he harboured the weight of an entire camp, but come on, did he really have to sacrifice his own fucking mind to keep himself awake?
Rowan wasn’t just biting. His nails. He was gnawing. Which he previously thought was a filthy habit. He had yelled at a camper for chewing on her nails a few days earlier.
Now that I was noticing it, I couldn’t… stop noticing it. The boy’s whole demeanour had changed; the way he was sinking into the chair, instead of sitting up straight like usual—- I used to call it having a stick up his ass. The boy started typing on the laptop, ignoring me. But when I watched the pattern of his fingers, he was just typing gibberish. Footsteps pounded above us, Harry and Carmel acting as the kid’s’ brainwashed foot-soldiers. Or, more likely somehow, if the animal crackers had caused the littles, or I guess, the fully grown forty year old criminals, to relapse in age-- then maybe it was possible for the same thing to happen to us. To Rowan.
I could feel myself starting to back away, but there was nowhere to run. I just slammed into a cupboard. My gaze flicked to Rowan again, who was tapping a beat on the laptop tracking pad, swaying back and forth, his eyes elsewhere before his gaze found mine. “Marcoooooo!” Harry shouted from above, giggling with Carmel.
I had to guess their mental age had to be at least 8-10 years old. Which meant I wasn’t just dealing with a camp full of forty-year-old psycho’s, I was also dealing with mentally relapsed counselors acting like toddlers.
Rowan seemed to jolt in the chair, twisting his head around, his eyes suddenly incredibly childlike and playful, and very Un-Rowan, were finding the ceiling, his mouth stretching into a smile, like he was seeing butterflies. His eyes flashed to me, and I caught a twitch in his lip. I knew that look. It was the look on my seven year old sister, who knew mom was mad at me, and wanted to make it even worse.
His cheeks were starting to blossom scarlet from what must have been the overwhelming urge to laugh. Rowan pressed his lips together and held in a breath like a hamster, and the asshole was fucking with me. Waiting for me to beat him to it by accident. Kids were fucking ruthless, but there was something terrifying about an 18 year old with a little kid’s mind.
I lifted my index to my lips, miming for him not to even try, but the boy just mimicked me, bugging out his eyes and pressing his finger to his grinning mouth. “Don’t you fucking dare.” I managed to whisper. The boy was definitely playing his own game, moving in twitching movements, baiting me. When he cupped his mouth, I almost let out a cry, but then he dropped his arms with a giggle, as if to say, “I’m just kidding!”
Slowly, I turned around, grabbed the salt I’d found in Allison’s cupboard, and a flat can of soda. Without making too much movement, I poured a handful of salt into the can. But Rowan seemed to know exactly what I was doing. Because in the time it was taking me to advance towards him with the can of salty soda, one arm shakily ready to grab hold of him, and put him into a headlock, he was cupping his mouth, all logic and everything adult, everything he had been as our leader, igniting in playful eyes, leaving me the last one standing.
“Pollloooooo!”
By the time Rowan had managed to reveal our hiding place in a spluttered laugh, I had hold of the squirming boy, one arm wrapped around his neck, my other forcing the can of soda into his mouth. I had definitely miscalculated his strength. During camp Redwood activities, he was always the last one to come back from the trail, holding his knees and panting. I figured he was unfit. However, I was wrong. Underneath his shirt, the guy had some serious muscles.
It was like attacking a brick wall. However, Rowan was mentally a kid. So, I had my intelligence and logic on my side. When it became obvious I wasn’t going to get anywhere with brute strength, I resorted to tickling him, which made him squirm, squeaking out a laugh. When he opened his mouth to yell at me to stop, I took my chance, thrusting the can into his lips and holding his nose so he swallowed it down.
“No!” His laughter turned into muffled yelling, as he batted his fists at my chest. “No, no, no! Get off, get off!”
His body convulsed as the salt did its job, causing the boy to lurch to his knees and choke up forbidden animal crackers in a gooish sludge which turned my stomach. By the time Rowan seemed half himself and half not, still kneeling, his head pressed against the floor, Harry was poking his head through the door with a goonish grin. “Found you!” He giggled, before forcing the door open, allowing Carmel and Callen, freshly caught and mentally turned into littles, to advance down the stairs with equally terrifying grins. There was something wrong with Harry’s face, and I only realized it when the guy himself was hauling me from the bunker, Carmel dragging a barely responsive Rowan. There was nothing in Harry’s expression, only blind childish excitement at winning the game. When he dragged me out of Allison’s cabin and threw me to the ground, I realized he too had insane strength I had not been expecting. But that thought quickly retracted when I was seeing his face in the light of a crescent moon lighting up the sky an eerie glow. Harry’s cheeks were puffy and swollen, his right eye way bigger than it should have been.
When he spoke, his voice was more of a lisp. This was something far more realistic than magical animal crackers fucking with his brain.
“He needs help!” I managed to choke out when Carmel wrapped jump-rope around my wrists. Next to me, Rowan was refusing to get up, still choking up salty soda, groaning into his hands. Every time Callen tried to restrain him, he hissed out like an animal.
“Do you hear me?!” I struggled violently. “Harry needs—”
BANG.
Is what it felt like. The feeling of something—what felt and sounded like a toy car—colliding with my temples, sent me onto the ground, my head spinning itself off of its axis. I remember lying on my back and frowning at the moon which almost looked like it was getting closer to me, blurring into a white ball of light—before reality sunk in, and it was in fact Carmel’s converse coming down to finish me off. I didn’t stay knocked out for long. But I did dream.
I think you can call it a dream? I was lying in bed at home; my room drowned in the dark. I was cosy, curled up in my blankets, when a clammy hand slammed over my mouth, rousing me from slumber. There were two figures in my room. They didn’t have faces. They just existed as shadows, silhouettes. Before one of them raised something above their head, and… impact.
It was the same impact as the toy car hitting me, snapping me back to that night. It wasn’t a dream. Because I remembered his clammy fingers over my mouth, and his hisses for me to shut up as he dragged me from my room.
My parents stood in front of me with expressions of sympathy. Basked in warm light, my mom and dad looked almost otherworldly. “For the best.” Was what they mouthed when my own phantom screams slammed into me. I asked them why, and they didn’t reply, allowing him to pull me further and further from what I knew, from my life as I knew it. But.. that couldn’t be real. I had memories of getting on the bus to camp Redwood. I could recall the whole journey. So, why… why was my tangled mind saying otherwise?
When I gathered myself, the first thing I realized was I was sitting down. I was outside, cool night air grazing my bare arms. There was something attached to me, jerking violently, And it took me several disorientating blinks to understand that I was tied back to back with Rowan. My head pounded, and something wet and warm dripped down my temple. Great. I could add head injury to the long list of things to worry about.
“Let me go you little fucking witch.”
Rowan was back to himself, though from the muffled hissing and the sound of choking—I had to guess he was being force-fed animal crackers.
“Let me—mpphmmm. little…. fucking… mphmmphhmhppmm!”
“Rowan.” I managed to get out in a croak. Through flickering eyes, I caught glimpse of a familiar figure dancing around us. Shivers rocketed down my spine, and I wrenched at the jump-rope restraints, but they did a surprisingly job of restraining my arms behind my back.
Eleanor was with Rowan, while Eli was knelt in front of me. Looking at him, the boy had definitely aged in the face—and I couldn’t help wondering what exactly he had done as a forty something year old to be sent to this place.
“Josie!” Rowan responded in a wail. “Josie. Wake the FUCK up.”
“Stop swearing.”
Eleanor spoke with the cold tone of her actual age.
“Oh, yeah?” Rowan spluttered. “Fuck you.” The boy’s laugh was still rough from almost vomiting his insides out from too much salt intake. “I’m sorry, you were a fucking boomer all along?!” He wriggled in the restraints, lunging forwards, which sent me backwards.
“Stop swearing, Rowan.” Was all the girl responded with calmly.
“Like I’m going to listen to you!” He sneered. “Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fucking fuck!” What are you going to do, huh? Bite me with your false teeth?” The sound of saliva hitting skin made me wince. He was pissed. I had no doubt his completely rational anger was going to get us killed. Rowan was also somehow getting mixed up between forty and eighty. Though he was unwillingly snacking on mind bending sugary goodness.
“Fudge, Rowan.” Eleanor spoke in a giggle.
“What?!”
“Say fudge. Not fuck.”
“No.”
His hiss of pain caught me off guard. I don’t know what she was doing to him, but it was hurting him.
“You fudging fudge! I’m going to fudging kill you when I get out of these fudging ropes—“ his manic cursing became a muffled yell.
“Say fudge,” Eleanor hummed, followed by his hiss when the palm of her hand skinned his cheek. “Fuck is a bad word. You even said so yourself and you’re my favourite counselor.”
He heaved out a breath.
“You fudge,” Rowan spat. “When I get out of this, I am going to fudging kill you, you fudging—” His manic ranting morphed, once again, into muffled yelling, after another fistful of animal crackers were forced into his mouth. When I risked twisting around, I could see his rebellion slowly starting to simmer out as he relaxed slightly. I wanted to yell at him to keep a clear head before cold fingers were dipping under my chin and forcing my head around where I found myself face to face with Eli.
“I like you, Josie,” he said, before untying me and pulling me to my feet. Now at the age of nine or ten, he was a lot stronger. When I tried to pull away, the cruel blade of a knife grazed my gut. I caught his grin. “But we don’t need you.” Eli pointed to Rowan.
“We just want them.”
I followed his pointer finger which went from Rowan to Harry and Carmel, who were just standing there like fucking idiots, probably awaiting the next game. Harry’s face was getting redder. It looked like he was suffocating, and yet his grin was growing wider and wider, splitting his lips apart. “Rowan Atlas.” Eleanor said, dragging him to his feet. Something was stapled to his forehead head, which caused him to howl in pain, hissing another strangled line of “Fudge”. but I couldn’t read what it was.
“Camp leader. Intelligent, and problem solving skills.”
“Harry Carlisle.” Eli nodded his head with a smile. “Quick thinker. Strong minded.”
“Carmel Locke.” Cassie spoke behind me. She had her arms folded, a wry smile on her lips. “Smarter than she makes out—- an independent learner, and can work well under pressure.”
Looking at these kids, I felt sick to my stomach. They were planning something—and had the intelligence of renowned scientists, which was what I gathered from the footage on the MacBook. “What?” was all I could hiss out, as Eli prodded the blade of the knife into my back, ushering me to walk. “What are you talking about?”
“Duh.” He spoke in a more tweeny giggle. “Like I said, Miss Josie. You’re my favorite counselor but we don’t need you, so I’m going to use you for parts.” He laughed when a shiver spiderwebbed down my spine. “See! I told you I was going to show you my collection!”
“But… what do you need them for?”
Eli pressed his index finger to his lips with a laugh before forcing me to face forwards. “That’s a secret!”
When I didn’t, or couldn’t move, he shoved me into a stumbling power-walk, and I managed to turn my head quickly, making feverish eye contact with Rowan.
“Rowan.” I said calmly through the gutter in my throat. “Get…. Get help.”
If I was going to die, I needed him to get a hold of himself and somehow alert the outside world what was going on.
“From whom, Josie?!” He wailed back—and as I was dragged away, I could once again sense the childish undertones in his voice.
I had no choice but to obey Eli’s orders. If I didn’t want a knife in my back. He took me to the main lunch cabin, which, when I set foot inside, almost sent me to my knees.
Something lurched inside me, and I was screaming with no voice, staggering backwards, only to be shoved onto my face. In front of me was what had been the lunch hall, fully converted into the beginning of a laboratory.
What had been cafeteria tables were fashioned into makeshift gurney’s and beds, and I was looking at all of the missing counselors. Yuri and Noah had been skinned completely, their faces laid out on a makeshift surgical table. Joey had been ripped open, his heart and brain removed, a glittering metallic substance creeping its way across his forehead. It was then when I remembered Eleanor Summers words.
She wanted to prevent death and preserve the human mind. Looking at what was in front of me, this was the start of it. There was equipment I had never seen before. Lily’s body was empty, carved out completely, tubes forced inside her. When I glimpsed her fingers move and begin to ball into a fist, I saw red. I saw fucking red. The exit was so close and yet Eli, fucking Eli, wielded his knife. I think that is when part of me gave up. My brain just stopped. It short circuited. Seeing my friends murdered and yet somehow being kept alive through playing god, my body slumped to the ground. I was numb. Completely numb.
I’m not sure what would have happened if those bloody saws and instruments which had been used on my friends were used on me too.
Luckily, that did not happen. Before Eli could get his slimy hands on me, he crumpled to the ground in an almost cartoon-like fashion, and standing over me was Harry. Who was looking better. When he grasped hold of me and helped me up, I only had one word. “Out.” And he was nodding, his eyes glistening as he drunk in our friends’ fate.
“How?” I managed to sputter out, when we made it out of the cabin, ducking behind a tree. Harry turned to me, motioning for me to shut up. There was a group of now ten to eleven year olds already running around, searching for what I guessed was him.
“I’m allergic to peanut butter,” Harry murmured, his grasp tightening on my wrist as he led me across the camp, the two of us stumbling.
“What, and you just magically healed?”
He didn’t respond to that, which bothered me.
“The bunker is our best shot,” I hissed out. “I think we can get in contact with someone down there.” I paused, unable to stop myself. “What makes you so important?”
“Dunno. Maybe I’m their favorite.”
When we found Allison’s cabin, which was more of a safehouse (an exposed safehouse) I found Rowan sitting on the wooden porch with his legs swinging over the side. “Rowan!” Harry groaned. I found it hard to believe their roles had been switched. Now he was the one yelling at the camp-leader. “I told you to stay inside!”
He ushered the boy inside, before barricading the door with some hefty looking equipment. I could tell from the grin on his face that our so-called leader was once again no longer himself.
I had to bite back a groan. “You’re kidding.” I said, pointing to Rowan, who buried his head in his knees and blew a raspberry. “Does he look and act like our leader right now?!”
“It’s Rowan, Josie.”
“He’s a liability.”
“He’s our friend! Wouldn’t Rowan do the same?”
Yes, he would. But. He would also realize we’re lost causes.
“Gag him with something.” I said. “If he makes any more noise, we’re dumping him.”
“He’s a kid!”
“Just the mind of one.”
I don’t know how animal crackers worked, but his age seemed to be progressively younger. This time he just sat with wide eyes watching us.
Harry almost tore apart the place looking for means of communication, before an old fashioned ringing sound made me jump.
“What was that?” Harry turned to me with his lip curled.
“How am I supposed to know?!” I hissed. “Keep looking!” But when I ducked under the table, my hands crawled under the desk, finding a wire—and attached to that, an ancient looking phone which looked straight out of a 1940’s movie, a bright green rotary phone.
Hesitantly, I answered it, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Did you awaken the subjects, Agent Salta?"
The voice on the other end was a woman, an oldish sounding woman with the tinge of a British accent.
“What?” I shot a look at Harry before shaking my head. “No. My name is Josie Greenfield. We’re at Camp Redwood, and we need help.”
The woman paused.
“Where is Agent Salta?” She cleared her throat. “This line is reserved for communication with agents only.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about!" I squeaked out. “My name is Josie, and whatever is happening here, we need help!”
“Josie. Did you awaken the subjects?”
I paused after a moment, shooting Harry a look when he tried to take the phone off of me. “Yes.”
“And… are our agents unavailable?”
“I don’t understand.”
“When a health and safety breach is activated, our agents are awakened to deal with the Project Spearhead subjects if they were to ever go rogue, or become conscious enough to think. Josie, can you tell me what is in front of you? Describe it to me.”
I held my breath. Next to the hidden phone under the desk was what looked like mismatched wires, all of which had been severed. I lowered myself slowly, poking at mess. “Wires. I see… cut up wires.” I whispered. “Does this mean they know about you?”
She hummed. “Ah…That makes sense. The only way to activate our sleeper handlers would be to send out the signal. You appear to have been sabotaged. Unless activated manually, our agents cannot help you. I am sorry. They are your problem now.” The woman paused.
“If I were you, I would hope and pray they have not sabotaged the self-destruct. If you find that, then you may be able to save yourselves and find peace.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you for your service, Josie Greenfield.”
“Wait.” I managed to get out. “Wait, no! You can’t just… you can’t leave us! We need help!”
I found myself yelling at nothing when the phone went dead. The dull tone of the dead ringtone was clanging in my ears before footsteps from up above. “Fuck this.” Harry picked up a lead pipe. “They’re still little kids, right? I mean, their head must still be partly kids—- so let’s fucking beat their heads in.”
He noticed something, then, starting forwards towards the mess of files I had left earlier. Harry knelt on the ground and picked up Eli’s file, his eyes wide. But he wasn’t staring at the dates confirming the little boy’s age.
Instead, Harry pointed at the bottom of the file. “I don’t want to freak you out, Josie,” he whispered. Initially, I didn’t know what he was trying to show before I glimpsed notes scrawled at the bottom of the file, followed by a signature. “But I’m pretty sure that is my fucking writing.”
Harry was right.
I pulled the paperwork off of him, flicking through each file before turning my eyes to him. “Who the fuck are you?”
A clanging sound from above broke the tension, and whatever Harry was about to reply with was strangled in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth.
“Guys?”
The voice twisted me up inside, threatening to release a shriek from my mouth I had managed to clamp shut.
Teddy.
“Are you down here?” His voice was strained, and had an odd tone to it. “I can’t… I can’t see you.”
…
Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?! It’s been a blur of a week. We’ve managed to stay down here, surviving off of Allison’s rations. Rowan isn’t getting any better. He seems to have stopped mentally de-ageing at the age of maybe six. Harry has spent the last few days trying to get in contact with anyone, but it’s like they are IGNORING US.
I’ve been looking through everything I can find on Project Spearhead, but nothing points to Harry being involved. So. How is his signature all over the files? How is it possible that two friends I thought I knew several days ago, are now complete strangers?
Teddy keeps coming back.
He’s crying out to us.
I think he’s… in pain.
My god, I can’t stand this anymore. Please. CAMP REDWOOD NEEDS HELP.
2023.06.05 00:26 bubbafang Read This
 | submitted by bubbafang to u/bubbafang [link] [comments] |
2023.06.05 00:16 whatgives222 Dwarves in 18th and 19th century wars?
Hi all, I have a Vermont ancestor born c. 1785 who fought in the War of 1812. I have no records indicating who his parents were, however I’ve found a historical town booklet with somebody of his name and nearly the same age noted down as a well-known dwarf. Were dwarves permitted to fight in 18th/19th century wars?
submitted by whatgives222 to Genealogy [link] [comments]
2023.06.05 00:12 IndigoCreepy I've been researching the unknown my whole life but maybe I should of pursued a different passion.
The year was 1974, and I was a dedicated researcher with a passion for the unexplained. My name is Dr. Jonathan Hartman, and I had spent years studying paranormal phenomena, searching for concrete evidence of extraterrestrial life. Little did I know that my pursuit of truth would lead me down a dark and treacherous path.
It began innocently enough, with reports of unexplained timeloss incidents in a small rural town. Residents claimed to have experienced hours of their lives vanishing without a trace. Intrigued, I packed my bags and set off to investigate, armed with my trusty notepad and camera.
My first encounter was with an elderly woman named Mrs. Miller. She spoke of an afternoon spent gardening, only to find herself indoors hours later with no recollection of how she got there. Her confusion was palpable, and the lines etched on her face spoke of the genuine terror she had experienced.
My next interview was of a middle-aged man named Mr. Jenkins who recounted a harrowing experience of which he claims he was abducted, he spoke of having vivid images of bright lights and strange beings standing around him on some sort of operating table.
One evening, after a long day of interviewing witnesses, I retired to my dingy motel room. I laid in bed, my mind racing with thoughts of the unknown, I finally fell asleep somewhere around 1 am. Shortly after I found myself abruptly awake at precisely 2:22 am. A crimson glow filled the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Paralyzed with fear, I could only watch as the light pulsated, its intensity growing with every beat of my heart. I tried to scream, to move, but my body remained frozen, completely under the control of an unseen force.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the red glow vanished. I gasped for air, my body drenched in sweat. It was as if the room had returned to its ordinary state, devoid of any traces of the supernatural. Had it all been a hallucination? A trick of my sleep-deprived mind?
a few nights later, as I sat alone in my poorely lit motel room, poring over the testimonies I had gathered, I was startled by the sound of footsteps above me. My heart raced as I realized there was no upstairs in this motel. The ceiling continued to creake in a barrage of pitter patters, until the footsteps grew louder and heavier and began to thud more and more distinctly.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I cautiously stepped outside, my eyes scanning the rooftop, Silence enveloped the air, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until I focused my gaze on the treeline that bordered the motel yard. Then I saw it, I froze in fear, my eyes locked onto the figure standing amidst the treeline. It stood just beyond the veil of darkness, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. As my gaze settled upon it, a chill ran down my spine, for the creature before me resembled no earthly being
The creature's head bore an uncanny resemblance to a baby barn owl, yet its body was sleek and slender, lacking any trace of feathers. The skin, a sickly pale hue, seemed to emit a subtle luminescence, casting an otherworldly glow upon its form, its large round eyes glowed unnaturally. It possessed an unsettling stillness, as if it were studying me just as intensely as I was studying it. It stood there, almost statue-like, exuding an air of malevolence that permeated the surrounding air, suffocating me in its presence.
As I stood transfixed, my gaze locked with the unearthly being in the treeline, a sudden urge to blink overwhelmed me. In that brief moment, my eyes closed, and when I opened them again, it was as if an eternity had passed.
The darkness of the night had dissipated, replaced by the soft hues of a dawning morning. The once eerie treeline now bathed in the gentle light of the rising sun. In the blink of an eye, hours had slipped away unnoticed. The darkness of the night had yielded to the gentle embrace of morning light.
submitted by IndigoCreepy to nosleep [link] [comments]
It began innocently enough, with reports of unexplained timeloss incidents in a small rural town. Residents claimed to have experienced hours of their lives vanishing without a trace. Intrigued, I packed my bags and set off to investigate, armed with my trusty notepad and camera.
My first encounter was with an elderly woman named Mrs. Miller. She spoke of an afternoon spent gardening, only to find herself indoors hours later with no recollection of how she got there. Her confusion was palpable, and the lines etched on her face spoke of the genuine terror she had experienced.
My next interview was of a middle-aged man named Mr. Jenkins who recounted a harrowing experience of which he claims he was abducted, he spoke of having vivid images of bright lights and strange beings standing around him on some sort of operating table.
One evening, after a long day of interviewing witnesses, I retired to my dingy motel room. I laid in bed, my mind racing with thoughts of the unknown, I finally fell asleep somewhere around 1 am. Shortly after I found myself abruptly awake at precisely 2:22 am. A crimson glow filled the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Paralyzed with fear, I could only watch as the light pulsated, its intensity growing with every beat of my heart. I tried to scream, to move, but my body remained frozen, completely under the control of an unseen force.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the red glow vanished. I gasped for air, my body drenched in sweat. It was as if the room had returned to its ordinary state, devoid of any traces of the supernatural. Had it all been a hallucination? A trick of my sleep-deprived mind?
a few nights later, as I sat alone in my poorely lit motel room, poring over the testimonies I had gathered, I was startled by the sound of footsteps above me. My heart raced as I realized there was no upstairs in this motel. The ceiling continued to creake in a barrage of pitter patters, until the footsteps grew louder and heavier and began to thud more and more distinctly.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I cautiously stepped outside, my eyes scanning the rooftop, Silence enveloped the air, broken only by the distant chirping of crickets. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until I focused my gaze on the treeline that bordered the motel yard. Then I saw it, I froze in fear, my eyes locked onto the figure standing amidst the treeline. It stood just beyond the veil of darkness, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. As my gaze settled upon it, a chill ran down my spine, for the creature before me resembled no earthly being
The creature's head bore an uncanny resemblance to a baby barn owl, yet its body was sleek and slender, lacking any trace of feathers. The skin, a sickly pale hue, seemed to emit a subtle luminescence, casting an otherworldly glow upon its form, its large round eyes glowed unnaturally. It possessed an unsettling stillness, as if it were studying me just as intensely as I was studying it. It stood there, almost statue-like, exuding an air of malevolence that permeated the surrounding air, suffocating me in its presence.
As I stood transfixed, my gaze locked with the unearthly being in the treeline, a sudden urge to blink overwhelmed me. In that brief moment, my eyes closed, and when I opened them again, it was as if an eternity had passed.
The darkness of the night had dissipated, replaced by the soft hues of a dawning morning. The once eerie treeline now bathed in the gentle light of the rising sun. In the blink of an eye, hours had slipped away unnoticed. The darkness of the night had yielded to the gentle embrace of morning light.
2023.06.04 23:49 whatgives222 Dwarves in wars?
Hi all, I’ve been working on my family tree and have hit a dead end with one of my Vermont ancestors. The only person of his name and very close birth year (1784/1785) was noted in a town historical booklet as a dwarf. However, records also show that my ancestor fought in the War of 1812 (for the British). I have two questions:
1) Were dwarves permitted to fight in the War of 1812?
2) Were many Vermont constituents loyalists, and if so, why?
submitted by whatgives222 to AskHistorians [link] [comments]
1) Were dwarves permitted to fight in the War of 1812?
2) Were many Vermont constituents loyalists, and if so, why?
2023.06.04 23:29 sideswipe781 UFC 289 Betting Preview
Staked: 193.15u, Profit/Loss: +8.41u, ROI: 4.36%, Parlay Suggestions: 51-21
Scroll down for UFC 289 Breakdowns. Below is just a review of last week’s bets.
UFC Vegas 74
Staked: 18.70u
Profit/Loss: -3.31u
Parlay Suggestions: 3-2
✅ 2u Alex Caceres to Win & Arlovski/Mayes Over 1.5 Rounds (+100)
❌ 2u Jim Miller & Jamie Mullarkey to Win (-125)
✅ 2.5u Jim Miller ITD (-105)
✅ 0.5u Jim Miller in Round 1 (+235)
❌ 2u Abubakar Nurmagomedov to Win (-105)
❌ 1.5u Andrei Arlovski to Win by Decision (+200)
❌ 2u Muin Gafarov to Win (-125)
❌ 3u Luan Lacerda to Win (-125)❌ 1u Luan Lacerda to Win by Submission or Decision (+100)
✅ 2u Philipe Lins to Win (+140)
Once again I was my own worst enemy, making some good reads once I initially dropped the preview (Lins, Caceres, Elliott) but consistently made tweaks in the build-up that sent things south. I really need to be more disciplined and block out the noise once I’ve made my initial conclusions. I remember when I started posting here I was tipping about four bets maximum…now I apparently have action across almost every fight.
Going forward I think I’ll stop analysing each bet in this section, as no-one seems to really comment on that stuff and it just eats into the overall character count.
So let’s get into the PPV.
UFC 289
This is a weird, weird PPV card. I guess they kind of have to have a title fight at the top of the billing over a number-one contender bout as co-main, but to see Mike Malott, Nate Landwehr and Eryk Anders perform before Charles Oliveira…and then Amanda Nunes as the main event, is quite funny. Canadian MMA has been in ruins since GSP and Rory MacDonald left the UFC, and none of the guys on this card are not the one to restore its glory.
I know I say it every time the PPV event rolls around, but MMA oddsmakers are very sharp for these higher profile events. Once again I find myself coming to very similar conclusions for a lot of the fights here, so I very much expect this one to be a much smaller slate for me. Definitely a good idea given what I said in the review of last week.
Amanda Nunes v Irene Aldana
There’s a very loud narrative surrounding Amanda Nunes these days, and it’s a hard one to ignore. Having been in the UFC for a decade and holding a title for 7 years, there’s literally nothing left for her to do. She’s had the big money fights that Women’s MMA can offer (Rousey, Cyborg & the “redemption” sequel with Pena), and she doesn’t seem interested in setting up another fight with Shevchenko (who, to be fair, she’s beaten twice). What else is there for Nunes to be motivated for?
Outside the cage, She’s started a family with Nina Ansaroff, who also retired very recently and has spoken about wanting a second child with Nunes. The Brazilian has spoken quite candidly about her aspirations to retire very soon as well, and I believe that she would have laid her gloves in the centre of the Octagon if she’d beaten Pena in their initial meeting. She had to right the wrongs in the sequel, but a victory over Pena at UFC 289 to make it 2-1 in the series was probably enough of a narrative for Nunes to put her career to bed then and there. It’s a bold prediction, but I have a hunch that Nunes has done this whole training camp knowing it’s going to be her last.
Unfortunately, Pena was forced to withdraw and Irene Aldana steps in to challenge for the belt instead. Mexican MMA is absolutely booming right now, with three champions in the last few months, and the stage really feels set for Aldana. She’s always had very impressive boxing, as well as some opportunistic submissions…but her inability to stuff takedowns has often been her undoing in her career. Given that Nunes has relied heavily on her wrestling in recent years (20 takedowns in her last 4 wins), I think it’s fair to say Nunes should once again be favoured here.
Women’s Bantamweight and Featherweight have been underdeveloped weight classes for some time now, where the same names that were competing for the belt in like 2019 are still in the top 5 (looking at you Holly Holm!). The next generation seems to have broken through at Flyweight, with Valentina losing her last two title defences (not officially, but I scored the first one quite confidently for Santos). Nunes has been fortunate enough to govern over a division that doesn’t have many of those up-and-coming prospects yet, but those on the rise are still training and competing in a modern MMA context more frequently than the champion – which makes me think the changing of the guard could happen sometime soon. (For more on this, I asked a hypothetical question in the comment section).
So, overall, I think there are a lot of valid asterisks on Nunes’ name at the moment, and I think her career is coming to an end sometime soon, if not after this fight. However, if she’s fighting at her optimum then Aldana’s weaknesses can certainly be exploited, and are enough to deem her the Champion as favourite. With that said, I actually think Aldana could more than hold her own in the striking, so I would already be lining this one closer than Nunes normally is…and after adding in the narrative that surrounds the fight I think it gets even closer.
Therefore, I’ll be playing a 0.5u “value bet” on Aldana. It’s not something I expect to win, but I think her chances of winning are much greater than the odds available.
How I line this fight: Amanda Nunes -175 (64%), Irene Aldana +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: 0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
Notable Props: I'd encourage you to play Nunes by Submission or Decision if you wanted to play her.
Charles Oliveira v Beneil Dariush
Oh this is a spicy one. Charles Oliveira holds a special place in my heart as being my favourite fighter of all time, and he’s the fighter I’ve definitely made the most money on in my time betting on MMA. At the start of that massive win streak he went on, you could get a decent price on Oliveira ITD against so many prelim guys, and the underdog prices available against Kevin Lee, Tony Ferguson, Michael Chandler and Dustin Poirier were even better.
But, as we know, Islam Makhachev exists and did a sensational job against Oliveira. Such a good job in fact, that I expect it to be footage that Beneil Dariush and his camp have dissected in great detail.
Dariush is an equally exciting fighter to watch. He’s got a brilliant skillset, but he’s not particularly athletic which makes him a very unassuming fighter. He looks like some bloke that works in HR in your office…not an elite Lightweight UFC fighter.
I think Dariush’s BJJ abilities are going to be the key to this fight, as we’ve seen many times in his career already. High level BJJ is a brilliant quality because not only does it make you dangerous at finishing fights, it also improves your defence and provides the platform for a wrestling based offence. We saw Dariush make full use of this in his wins over Tony Ferguson, Carlos Diego Ferreira (x2) and Thiago Moises, as well as his takedown defence on display against Gamrot. I feel like he’s going to be able to dictate where the fight takes place here.
What interests me is the competitiveness of the striking. If you’ve been watching this sport religiously for over seven years, you’ll still remember when Dariush was thought to have a glass jaw, where the likes of Alex Hernandez, Drew Dober and Drakkar Klose hurt him badly with strikes. I feel like Dariush has had quite favourable matchmaking against that weakness on his recent streak, and Oliveira is potentially one of the biggest threats he’s faced on the feet in recent years in terms of power.
On the flipside, Oliveira is still as reckless as ever, and has been knocked down or hurt in each of his last four title fights. Only Makhachev came away with a win in those fights, because his grappling was at a good enough level that he was happy to follow Charles down to the mat when he knocked him down, and capitalised fully to secure the submission soon after. Dariush has sneaky power himself, and if he is able to land a knockdown on Oliveira then I think we see him capitalise too.
The volatility is going to be massive in this fight, as both men are hard hitters with durability concerns (maybe not in a fight ending sense, but they frequently get rocked). With that in mind, I think any sort of finish is going to be very live in this fight. If not, I think you have to give Dariush the decision winning potential, as I think his ability to find top position is greater than Oliveira’s. It’s enough to make Benny the favourite, but not by a whole lot. I think the books have got this one priced spot on, actually.
How I line this fight: Charles Oliveira +110 (48%), Beneil Dariush -110 (52%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: FDGTD is probably a decent parlay piece at -200 or better
Live Betting Lean: I think the longer this fight goes, the more it favours Dariush due to his round winning superiority.
Mike Malott v Adam Fugitt
Honestly the fact that I’m breaking down this fight straight after Oliveira v Dariush is hilarious. I wouldn’t even question it if this was on the prelims of an Apex card.
I underestimated Mike Malott in his last fight against Yohan Lainesse, and my take was so bad that I looked like an idiot. He impressed me a lot, and I think he impressed the UFC too for them to give him this spot on the main card.
Malott looks to have really good submission ability, but I’m still a bit concerned that his striking might be a few too many steps behind. People will say things looked improved in the Lainesse fight, but I think that was more a case of Lainesse having no real interest in engaging or committing to his strikes in the early goings (he has become gunshy as to manage cardio). The fight against Mickey Gall was a massive, massive red flag for Malott…no one in the UFC should really be getting outstruck by Gall. That footage was from a year ago though, so there’s a chance he has improved things since then…but I don’t think you can really use the Lainesse fight as evidence of that.
Malott faces Adam Fugitt, who took the ‘sacrificial lamb’ approach to entering the UFC when he was paired up with Michael Morales – who is lowkey a very bright young prospect. It’s important not to judge a fighter by their performance in that type of fight, it’s best to instead treat their sophomore fight as their ‘real’ debut. We saw that with Fugitt, as he dominated Yusaku Kinoshita as a +260 underdog earlier this year.
I was quite impressed with Fugitt in his loss to Morales. His striking clearly wasn’t on Morales’ level, and he’ll have to be careful of Malott’s powerful hands, but he showed decent defensive awareness and had a couple of moments of his own. Fugitt’s a bit too kick heavy for my liking, but it looks like it confuses opponents and actually works well at establishing range. It did exactly that in his Solomon Renfro win.
Malott’s fight against Renfro however, despite only being 90 seconds long, really sums up his abilities as a fighter. He was getting tagged on the feet, but managed to find one moment to land a powerful shot and sinked in a choke in the blink of an eye. He was losing 98% of that fight convincingly.
The big question for this fight revolves around Fugitt’s grappling ability on bottom, and initial takedown defence, as that’s where most of Malott’s win equity is going to be. Unfortunately we have not actually seen him defensive grapple, so honestly it’s impossible to accurately line this fight given how integral it should be. The only inclination I have is that Fugitt’s takedowns have looked really good in his two fights. DC was very impressed with how he got Morales down, and his trips were also looking on point against Kinoshita. He did great work on top as well when he did establish position, and worked his way to a finish efficiently.
However, there can sometimes be a big disparity between a wrestler’s grappling ability on top vs on bottom, which is why BJJ is so important to MMA (see the breakdown of Dariush!). Therefore, complimenting Fugitt’s top position grappling doesn’t mean a whole lot, as he could be atrocious on bottom, and even if he does use wrestling himself he’s going to dive headfirst into Malott’s nasty guillotine.
So in conclusion, you can’t have super strong opinions on this fight, but you can deduce that Malott has more ways to win. If Fugitt isn’t winning via striking, it’s likely he’s not winning at all. Malott, on the other hand, could win with a big shot on the feet, through takedowns and top control of his own, or even from a guard submission on bottom.
Therefore, with Malott being the hometown hero and likely taking all the betting action on the moneyline, I think the books have the liberty to juice his odds a fair bit. -200 is probably an example of that, but it’s not too far off where I’d line this fight. There are still enough unknowns about both men that I wouldn’t be too surprised to see Fugitt pull off the upset, but I think the +170 available on him in return isn’t providing a whole lot of value. Smart work by the oddsmakers.
How I line this fight: Mike Malott -175 (64%), Adam Fugitt +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Malott by Submission would be the bet I’d make at +200 or better if someone told me I had to. Won’t be playing it though.
Dan Ige v Nate Landwehr
Well it seems the UFC matchmakers have confirmed their position on Dan Ige. He’s a top 15 gatekeeper now! His string of losses to Evloev, Emmett, Korean Zombie and Kattar did put one too many nails in his title aspiration coffin, but those bounce-back performances against Gavin Tucker and Damon Jackson were pretty impressive to me.
Ige is still a very, very tricky fighter to beat because he’s so well rounded, as most of the top 15 at Featherweight are. Ige faces Nate Landwehr, who has been on an entertaining run of form in the UFC – beating the likes of Ludovit Klein, David Onama and Austin Lingo. Whilst running through his record, it is important to note he went to a close decision in a striking bout against Darren Elkins, and also lost to Herbert Burns and Julian Erosa.
As I say quite often in higher level FeatheBantam/Fly-Weight breakdowns, they’re very tricky divisions to identify skill gaps in. The elite in the division are all very well-rounded offensively and defensively, so it often feels like you’re splitting hairs when you’re trying to find attributes that favour one fighter over the other.
The same can kind of be said here, except Dan Ige has the much better record in terms of actual wins and overall experience. If I imagine Nate Landwehr competing against Ige’s last eight opponents, I genuinely think he might win 1 or 2 of them…whilst Ige has won 4, not been finished in any of the losses and given a good account of himself on each scorecard (except the Evloev loss).
So honestly, the only real thing I feel I can reference here in terms of differentiating between both men is ‘levels’…but I genuinely think that’s enough for Ige to be about -200 here. You can’t go any further than that because this fight should still be reasonably competitive, but given what Ige has done to the opponents he’s stepped down in competition for (Damon Jackson, Gavin Tucker), I think you can have a certain degree of confidence that he should find that extra 10% to clearly win this fight. That equates to around -175 in my mind.
How I line this fight: Dan Ige -175 (64%), Nate Landwehr +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Ige ITD could be of some interest, as he’s started showing real power in his hands, and Landwehr is quite finish-able in his losses.
Marc-Andre Barriault v Eryk Anders
Eryk Anders is one of the most frustrating guys to watch. He had so much athleticism and decent skills, but just doesn’t put his best foot forward. Barely any evolution to his game, poor fight IQ…but the occasional glimmers of potential – enough to stop you from writing him off despite his constant underdelivering.
Marc-Andre Barriault is kind of the opposite really. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, master of none…but he will do everything in his power to maximise his advantages to turn the fight in his favour. He isn’t a physical specimen and doesn’t really have much power…but he can hustle hard for 15 minutes and use a mixture of striking, takedowns and clinch work to win rounds.
Anders has actually had some of his better performances in recent fights, looking in great shape and form against Kyle Daukaus, arguably beating Jun Yong Park by decision, and outpoint + KO’ing Darren Stewart (x2) beforehand.
If this fight was happening two years ago, MAB would be like -200 here due to his reliability to out-hustle Anders, but his recent performances have been a little bit lacklustre (Hernandez ragdolled him and Chidi Njokuani folded him like a deckchair). Couple that with the fact that Anders FINALLY looks to be growing into the potential he’s always been on the cusp of with a recent change in training camp…I think you’re looking at a closely lined fight here.
I predict this one ends up being a 29-28, possibly split decision type of fight. One man has activity whilst the other has power. The subjectivity of judging will be in full effect and everyone will call this one a robbery, depending on who they bet on.
How I line this fight: Marc-Andre Barriault +100 (50%), Eryk Anders +100 (50%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Barriault by Decision would probably be my preferred choice.
Jasmine Jasudavicius v Miranda Maverick
Miranda Maverick is a Women’s MMA fighter that I hold in very high regard. The back-to-back losses put a real halt to her hype train, but I think she’s easily got Top 10 potential and got robbed against Maycee Barber anyway. I think her style is one that can very easily exploit a lot of opponents in her division. Her striking’s okay, but her wrestling and top pressure are very dominant tools.
She takes on Jasmine Jasudavicius, who has also used her wrestling ability to good effect in the UFC/DWCS so far. Neither woman is a particularly good striker, and I expect this one to turn into a bit of a scramble fest pretty quickly.
Their statures have been very important factors in their grappling successes so far, but for different reasons. JJ is basically a size bully at 5’7 and will have a 4 inch height advantage once again. Maverick, on the other hand, is going to be the stronger of the two during those close quarter engagements, because she’s pretty damn jacked.
I think Maverick should be favoured overall as I think her wrestling is the superior of the two and should lead to more time in top position, but I’m definitely not keen to play her at -275. Miranda’s strengths are also her opponent’s strengths, and facing the lanky size of Jasudavicius could cause her problems when it comes to securing the initial takedowns against those long legs, or keeping safe from guard submissions or maintaining that dominant position in the first place. Also, if they do somehow end up choosing to strike for significant portions, I can’t actually guarantee that Maverick is the better on the feet (reach disadvantage plays a part too).
I do however like Maverick to win this one, but not by the confidence of the current odds. I’m expecting this one to go the distance, but I highly doubt we get a good line on it as Maverick couldn’t even finish Shanna Young last time out.
How I line this fight: Jasmine Jasudavicius +188 (35%), Miranda Maverick -188 (65%)
Bet or Pass: Pass.
Notable Props: Fight goes to decision. It's probably like -400.
Blake Bilder v Kyle Nelson
There are a couple of fights on this card where one guy is clearly more populasuccessful/in-form than their opponent, but they’re still only around -200 (Dan Ige & Mike Malott are the best examples). Blake Bilder is the third. Before I jumped into research for all three of these bouts, I was instinctively thinking that I could easily want to bet all three at -200, as that didn’t seem short enough by my initial perception of their names. I came away from Ige and Malott agreeing with the line and feeling grateful that I looked into it…but I still think Blake Bilder’s odds are providing a bit of value.
Kyle Nelson is one of those fodder guys. The UFC are keeping him around to give to prospects and home-town fighters in the hope that they can invest in the future or the event itself. Jai Herbert notched a win for Team UK against Nelson on a UFC London card, Doo Ho Choi got given a softball to get him back on track for a card that was supposed to be in South Korea. Billy Quarantillo got given Nelson to put his name on the map with a highlight reel finish..and now Blake Bilder is being presented the chance to extend his UFC record to 2-0.
Bilder’s already fought a better opponent in the UFC when he beat Shane Young in February. We saw a very high pace being set in the third round of that fight, with both men landing 100+ significant strikes across the fight and Bilder also attempting 7 takedowns. His cardio is clearly quite decent, which will immediately give him the advantage over Nelson – who has often wilted in the latter half of a fight when the pace has been hectic.
Bilder’s a very well-rounded combatant, and has great BJJ once he gets established time on top. He’s a bit of a concern defensively though, where he can be taken down and can also get caught with strikes.
Kyle Nelson, on the other hand, doesn’t really seem to know what kind of fighter he is. He’s been a brawler for all of his UFC career, but comes out to land five takedowns and is seemingly not interested in striking with a Doo Ho Choi who has questionable durability. He didn’t do much at all with those takedowns either and actually put himself in danger in R1 by insisting on grappling.
If Nelson comes out looking to wrestle Bilder, I think they’re at different levels in the grappling and Blake should be able to turn things around in his favour. If they’re striking, I am aware that Nelson’s got fight ending power, but Bilder’s been much more patient and cerebral in his last couple of fights, so I trust him to stay safe and look for his openings. We saw him reactively find a takedown off of Shane Young’s kick, and Nelson’s offense is very body kick heavy.
Overall, I just think Bilder is the better fighter in pretty much every facet of MMA except one-punch power and, as long as he doesn’t get flash KO’d, I think he rolls here. -200 isn’t quite short enough, and I expect money to come in on him between now and fight night. I’ve already got my money down, just in case.
How I line this fight: Blake Bilder -300 (75%), Kyle Nelson +300 (25%)
Bet or Pass: 5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
Notable Props: Bilder ITD or R3 could be interesting. I'd probably be interested in that if I didn't have a lot of exposure already.
Aiemann Zahabi v Aoriqileng
There was a time where Aiemann Zahabi was considered one of the worst guys on the roster. Crazy that the standard of UFC fighter has gotten so much worse that that statement seems ridiculous now. To be fair, Zahabi did pull off a respectable upset in beating Ricky Turcios in his last fight..but it seems to be unanimously agreed that Ricky fought like an idiot in that fight and actually beat himself.
Aoriqileng is quite explosive and clearly hits hard, but he’s a bit too keen to hunt for the KO and it hurts his minute-winning ability. Against someone like Zahabi, who is quite composed and process driven (how could you not be when Firas is your family and coach), and I see that being a pretty key part to this fight. The big moments will side with the Mongolian, but Aiemann could just put together the more cohesive performance if he doesn’t get troubled by that explosiveness.
Overall this is just a pretty low level fight between guys who don’t compete very often. I didn’t have a whole lot to say prior to watching tape, and I’ve come away feeling equally uncertain of how this one’s going to end. An easy pass when there are more active and popular fighters for us to form a stronger opinion on.
How I line this fight: I don’t really know.
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: None
Nassourdine Imavov v Chris Curtis
This one instantly feels like a pretty close fight, solely based off both men’s most recent losses. Imavov getting outstruck by Sean Strickland across 25 minutes was a bit of a shock to everyone, myself included. I expected him to lose via cardio dump, but it was actually just lesser volume, a lack of takedowns being attempted and obviously not landing anything of significance on Strickland.
It’s widely known that Chris Curtis and Sean Strickland are close training partners at Xtreme Couture, which I think makes for an added element to this fight. On six days notice, Strickland and the team managed to devise a pretty genius striking gameplan with disruptive rhythm that completely threw Imavov of. Can Chris Curtis do the same? Probably.
Curtis himself has problems of his own in the striking though, namely that his volume and output just aren’t where they often need to be. I’m not sure whether it’s the managing of his gas tank or what, but he just doesn’t seem able to commit to matching his opponent’s tempo across 15 minutes. He threw the first round away against Gastelum, and it cost him the fight. He bitched and moaned about it on Twitter, but social media’s been telling the guy what his problem is for as long as he’s been in the UFC haha.
I do suspect that there’s a little bit of recency bias on Imavov here, as the guy was a pretty well-respected prospect prior to the loss to Strickland. Some will tell you it was misplaced faith, but he certainly doesn’t have tempo issues in the latter half of fights and should probably have the higher volume across 15 minutes. I don’t see him taking Curtis down either, given the 100% takedown defence and the fact Imavov seemingly abandoned it in his last fight. It would be great if he did though!
So yeah, it’s a bit of a close one this. Off pure skillset I lean towards Imavov at like -150, but the asterisk of Curtis’ team being able to easily design a gameplan against the Frenchman gives me enough pause to not want to pick a side here. I’d be more interested in betting overs, if a decent price is available.
How I line this fight: Nassourdine Imavov -137 (58%), Chris Curtis +137 (42%)
Bet or Pass: 1.5u Fight Goes to Decision (-137 or better)
Notable Props: I think this one goes to decision at a pretty high clip.
Diana Belbita v Maria Oliveira
My initial thought was “What would compel someone to bet on this fight?”, then I remember I placed 100 quid on Chase Hooper a few weeks ago…and it was a great bet haha! Given how most of my handicapping for this card has seen me in complete agreement with the books, perhaps looking into a lower level fight with significantly less interest could be the place to a strong opinion!?
Nope. I can’t do it. One quick glance at their records was enough for me. Belbita got 30-25’d by a wrestling Molly McCann and submitted by Liana Jojua, whilst Maria Oliveira got soundly beaten on the scorecards by Vanesa Demopoulos and voluntarily asked to stop fighting after 3 minutes against Marina Rodriguez.
This one isn’t good enough to open an Apex card, let alone sit on a PPV. I usually really dislike all the WMMA bashing on this sub, but this one isn’t worth the time.
How I line this fight: No.
Bet or Pass: No.
Notable Props: No.
Live Betting Lean: You could do something productive with that 15 minutes. Lift some weights, make some food, rewatch Ngannou v Lewis instead?
Bets
0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
1.5u Imavov v Curtis Goes to Decision (-137 or better) (Might not get this kind of price).
Parlay Do’s: Dan Ige, Blake Bilder, Imavov/Curtis GTD, Maverick/Jasudavicius GTD
Parlay Don’ts: Amanda Nunes, Mike Malott, Miranda Maverick
submitted by sideswipe781 to MMAbetting [link] [comments]
Scroll down for UFC 289 Breakdowns. Below is just a review of last week’s bets.
UFC Vegas 74
Staked: 18.70u
Profit/Loss: -3.31u
Parlay Suggestions: 3-2
✅ 2u Alex Caceres to Win & Arlovski/Mayes Over 1.5 Rounds (+100)
❌ 2u Jim Miller & Jamie Mullarkey to Win (-125)
✅ 2.5u Jim Miller ITD (-105)
✅ 0.5u Jim Miller in Round 1 (+235)
❌ 2u Abubakar Nurmagomedov to Win (-105)
❌ 1.5u Andrei Arlovski to Win by Decision (+200)
❌ 2u Muin Gafarov to Win (-125)
❌ 3u Luan Lacerda to Win (-125)❌ 1u Luan Lacerda to Win by Submission or Decision (+100)
✅ 2u Philipe Lins to Win (+140)
Once again I was my own worst enemy, making some good reads once I initially dropped the preview (Lins, Caceres, Elliott) but consistently made tweaks in the build-up that sent things south. I really need to be more disciplined and block out the noise once I’ve made my initial conclusions. I remember when I started posting here I was tipping about four bets maximum…now I apparently have action across almost every fight.
Going forward I think I’ll stop analysing each bet in this section, as no-one seems to really comment on that stuff and it just eats into the overall character count.
So let’s get into the PPV.
UFC 289
This is a weird, weird PPV card. I guess they kind of have to have a title fight at the top of the billing over a number-one contender bout as co-main, but to see Mike Malott, Nate Landwehr and Eryk Anders perform before Charles Oliveira…and then Amanda Nunes as the main event, is quite funny. Canadian MMA has been in ruins since GSP and Rory MacDonald left the UFC, and none of the guys on this card are not the one to restore its glory.
I know I say it every time the PPV event rolls around, but MMA oddsmakers are very sharp for these higher profile events. Once again I find myself coming to very similar conclusions for a lot of the fights here, so I very much expect this one to be a much smaller slate for me. Definitely a good idea given what I said in the review of last week.
Amanda Nunes v Irene Aldana
There’s a very loud narrative surrounding Amanda Nunes these days, and it’s a hard one to ignore. Having been in the UFC for a decade and holding a title for 7 years, there’s literally nothing left for her to do. She’s had the big money fights that Women’s MMA can offer (Rousey, Cyborg & the “redemption” sequel with Pena), and she doesn’t seem interested in setting up another fight with Shevchenko (who, to be fair, she’s beaten twice). What else is there for Nunes to be motivated for?
Outside the cage, She’s started a family with Nina Ansaroff, who also retired very recently and has spoken about wanting a second child with Nunes. The Brazilian has spoken quite candidly about her aspirations to retire very soon as well, and I believe that she would have laid her gloves in the centre of the Octagon if she’d beaten Pena in their initial meeting. She had to right the wrongs in the sequel, but a victory over Pena at UFC 289 to make it 2-1 in the series was probably enough of a narrative for Nunes to put her career to bed then and there. It’s a bold prediction, but I have a hunch that Nunes has done this whole training camp knowing it’s going to be her last.
Unfortunately, Pena was forced to withdraw and Irene Aldana steps in to challenge for the belt instead. Mexican MMA is absolutely booming right now, with three champions in the last few months, and the stage really feels set for Aldana. She’s always had very impressive boxing, as well as some opportunistic submissions…but her inability to stuff takedowns has often been her undoing in her career. Given that Nunes has relied heavily on her wrestling in recent years (20 takedowns in her last 4 wins), I think it’s fair to say Nunes should once again be favoured here.
Women’s Bantamweight and Featherweight have been underdeveloped weight classes for some time now, where the same names that were competing for the belt in like 2019 are still in the top 5 (looking at you Holly Holm!). The next generation seems to have broken through at Flyweight, with Valentina losing her last two title defences (not officially, but I scored the first one quite confidently for Santos). Nunes has been fortunate enough to govern over a division that doesn’t have many of those up-and-coming prospects yet, but those on the rise are still training and competing in a modern MMA context more frequently than the champion – which makes me think the changing of the guard could happen sometime soon. (For more on this, I asked a hypothetical question in the comment section).
So, overall, I think there are a lot of valid asterisks on Nunes’ name at the moment, and I think her career is coming to an end sometime soon, if not after this fight. However, if she’s fighting at her optimum then Aldana’s weaknesses can certainly be exploited, and are enough to deem her the Champion as favourite. With that said, I actually think Aldana could more than hold her own in the striking, so I would already be lining this one closer than Nunes normally is…and after adding in the narrative that surrounds the fight I think it gets even closer.
Therefore, I’ll be playing a 0.5u “value bet” on Aldana. It’s not something I expect to win, but I think her chances of winning are much greater than the odds available.
How I line this fight: Amanda Nunes -175 (64%), Irene Aldana +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: 0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
Notable Props: I'd encourage you to play Nunes by Submission or Decision if you wanted to play her.
Charles Oliveira v Beneil Dariush
Oh this is a spicy one. Charles Oliveira holds a special place in my heart as being my favourite fighter of all time, and he’s the fighter I’ve definitely made the most money on in my time betting on MMA. At the start of that massive win streak he went on, you could get a decent price on Oliveira ITD against so many prelim guys, and the underdog prices available against Kevin Lee, Tony Ferguson, Michael Chandler and Dustin Poirier were even better.
But, as we know, Islam Makhachev exists and did a sensational job against Oliveira. Such a good job in fact, that I expect it to be footage that Beneil Dariush and his camp have dissected in great detail.
Dariush is an equally exciting fighter to watch. He’s got a brilliant skillset, but he’s not particularly athletic which makes him a very unassuming fighter. He looks like some bloke that works in HR in your office…not an elite Lightweight UFC fighter.
I think Dariush’s BJJ abilities are going to be the key to this fight, as we’ve seen many times in his career already. High level BJJ is a brilliant quality because not only does it make you dangerous at finishing fights, it also improves your defence and provides the platform for a wrestling based offence. We saw Dariush make full use of this in his wins over Tony Ferguson, Carlos Diego Ferreira (x2) and Thiago Moises, as well as his takedown defence on display against Gamrot. I feel like he’s going to be able to dictate where the fight takes place here.
What interests me is the competitiveness of the striking. If you’ve been watching this sport religiously for over seven years, you’ll still remember when Dariush was thought to have a glass jaw, where the likes of Alex Hernandez, Drew Dober and Drakkar Klose hurt him badly with strikes. I feel like Dariush has had quite favourable matchmaking against that weakness on his recent streak, and Oliveira is potentially one of the biggest threats he’s faced on the feet in recent years in terms of power.
On the flipside, Oliveira is still as reckless as ever, and has been knocked down or hurt in each of his last four title fights. Only Makhachev came away with a win in those fights, because his grappling was at a good enough level that he was happy to follow Charles down to the mat when he knocked him down, and capitalised fully to secure the submission soon after. Dariush has sneaky power himself, and if he is able to land a knockdown on Oliveira then I think we see him capitalise too.
The volatility is going to be massive in this fight, as both men are hard hitters with durability concerns (maybe not in a fight ending sense, but they frequently get rocked). With that in mind, I think any sort of finish is going to be very live in this fight. If not, I think you have to give Dariush the decision winning potential, as I think his ability to find top position is greater than Oliveira’s. It’s enough to make Benny the favourite, but not by a whole lot. I think the books have got this one priced spot on, actually.
How I line this fight: Charles Oliveira +110 (48%), Beneil Dariush -110 (52%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: FDGTD is probably a decent parlay piece at -200 or better
Live Betting Lean: I think the longer this fight goes, the more it favours Dariush due to his round winning superiority.
Mike Malott v Adam Fugitt
Honestly the fact that I’m breaking down this fight straight after Oliveira v Dariush is hilarious. I wouldn’t even question it if this was on the prelims of an Apex card.
I underestimated Mike Malott in his last fight against Yohan Lainesse, and my take was so bad that I looked like an idiot. He impressed me a lot, and I think he impressed the UFC too for them to give him this spot on the main card.
Malott looks to have really good submission ability, but I’m still a bit concerned that his striking might be a few too many steps behind. People will say things looked improved in the Lainesse fight, but I think that was more a case of Lainesse having no real interest in engaging or committing to his strikes in the early goings (he has become gunshy as to manage cardio). The fight against Mickey Gall was a massive, massive red flag for Malott…no one in the UFC should really be getting outstruck by Gall. That footage was from a year ago though, so there’s a chance he has improved things since then…but I don’t think you can really use the Lainesse fight as evidence of that.
Malott faces Adam Fugitt, who took the ‘sacrificial lamb’ approach to entering the UFC when he was paired up with Michael Morales – who is lowkey a very bright young prospect. It’s important not to judge a fighter by their performance in that type of fight, it’s best to instead treat their sophomore fight as their ‘real’ debut. We saw that with Fugitt, as he dominated Yusaku Kinoshita as a +260 underdog earlier this year.
I was quite impressed with Fugitt in his loss to Morales. His striking clearly wasn’t on Morales’ level, and he’ll have to be careful of Malott’s powerful hands, but he showed decent defensive awareness and had a couple of moments of his own. Fugitt’s a bit too kick heavy for my liking, but it looks like it confuses opponents and actually works well at establishing range. It did exactly that in his Solomon Renfro win.
Malott’s fight against Renfro however, despite only being 90 seconds long, really sums up his abilities as a fighter. He was getting tagged on the feet, but managed to find one moment to land a powerful shot and sinked in a choke in the blink of an eye. He was losing 98% of that fight convincingly.
The big question for this fight revolves around Fugitt’s grappling ability on bottom, and initial takedown defence, as that’s where most of Malott’s win equity is going to be. Unfortunately we have not actually seen him defensive grapple, so honestly it’s impossible to accurately line this fight given how integral it should be. The only inclination I have is that Fugitt’s takedowns have looked really good in his two fights. DC was very impressed with how he got Morales down, and his trips were also looking on point against Kinoshita. He did great work on top as well when he did establish position, and worked his way to a finish efficiently.
However, there can sometimes be a big disparity between a wrestler’s grappling ability on top vs on bottom, which is why BJJ is so important to MMA (see the breakdown of Dariush!). Therefore, complimenting Fugitt’s top position grappling doesn’t mean a whole lot, as he could be atrocious on bottom, and even if he does use wrestling himself he’s going to dive headfirst into Malott’s nasty guillotine.
So in conclusion, you can’t have super strong opinions on this fight, but you can deduce that Malott has more ways to win. If Fugitt isn’t winning via striking, it’s likely he’s not winning at all. Malott, on the other hand, could win with a big shot on the feet, through takedowns and top control of his own, or even from a guard submission on bottom.
Therefore, with Malott being the hometown hero and likely taking all the betting action on the moneyline, I think the books have the liberty to juice his odds a fair bit. -200 is probably an example of that, but it’s not too far off where I’d line this fight. There are still enough unknowns about both men that I wouldn’t be too surprised to see Fugitt pull off the upset, but I think the +170 available on him in return isn’t providing a whole lot of value. Smart work by the oddsmakers.
How I line this fight: Mike Malott -175 (64%), Adam Fugitt +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Malott by Submission would be the bet I’d make at +200 or better if someone told me I had to. Won’t be playing it though.
Dan Ige v Nate Landwehr
Well it seems the UFC matchmakers have confirmed their position on Dan Ige. He’s a top 15 gatekeeper now! His string of losses to Evloev, Emmett, Korean Zombie and Kattar did put one too many nails in his title aspiration coffin, but those bounce-back performances against Gavin Tucker and Damon Jackson were pretty impressive to me.
Ige is still a very, very tricky fighter to beat because he’s so well rounded, as most of the top 15 at Featherweight are. Ige faces Nate Landwehr, who has been on an entertaining run of form in the UFC – beating the likes of Ludovit Klein, David Onama and Austin Lingo. Whilst running through his record, it is important to note he went to a close decision in a striking bout against Darren Elkins, and also lost to Herbert Burns and Julian Erosa.
As I say quite often in higher level FeatheBantam/Fly-Weight breakdowns, they’re very tricky divisions to identify skill gaps in. The elite in the division are all very well-rounded offensively and defensively, so it often feels like you’re splitting hairs when you’re trying to find attributes that favour one fighter over the other.
The same can kind of be said here, except Dan Ige has the much better record in terms of actual wins and overall experience. If I imagine Nate Landwehr competing against Ige’s last eight opponents, I genuinely think he might win 1 or 2 of them…whilst Ige has won 4, not been finished in any of the losses and given a good account of himself on each scorecard (except the Evloev loss).
So honestly, the only real thing I feel I can reference here in terms of differentiating between both men is ‘levels’…but I genuinely think that’s enough for Ige to be about -200 here. You can’t go any further than that because this fight should still be reasonably competitive, but given what Ige has done to the opponents he’s stepped down in competition for (Damon Jackson, Gavin Tucker), I think you can have a certain degree of confidence that he should find that extra 10% to clearly win this fight. That equates to around -175 in my mind.
How I line this fight: Dan Ige -175 (64%), Nate Landwehr +175 (36%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Ige ITD could be of some interest, as he’s started showing real power in his hands, and Landwehr is quite finish-able in his losses.
Marc-Andre Barriault v Eryk Anders
Eryk Anders is one of the most frustrating guys to watch. He had so much athleticism and decent skills, but just doesn’t put his best foot forward. Barely any evolution to his game, poor fight IQ…but the occasional glimmers of potential – enough to stop you from writing him off despite his constant underdelivering.
Marc-Andre Barriault is kind of the opposite really. He’s a jack-of-all-trades, master of none…but he will do everything in his power to maximise his advantages to turn the fight in his favour. He isn’t a physical specimen and doesn’t really have much power…but he can hustle hard for 15 minutes and use a mixture of striking, takedowns and clinch work to win rounds.
Anders has actually had some of his better performances in recent fights, looking in great shape and form against Kyle Daukaus, arguably beating Jun Yong Park by decision, and outpoint + KO’ing Darren Stewart (x2) beforehand.
If this fight was happening two years ago, MAB would be like -200 here due to his reliability to out-hustle Anders, but his recent performances have been a little bit lacklustre (Hernandez ragdolled him and Chidi Njokuani folded him like a deckchair). Couple that with the fact that Anders FINALLY looks to be growing into the potential he’s always been on the cusp of with a recent change in training camp…I think you’re looking at a closely lined fight here.
I predict this one ends up being a 29-28, possibly split decision type of fight. One man has activity whilst the other has power. The subjectivity of judging will be in full effect and everyone will call this one a robbery, depending on who they bet on.
How I line this fight: Marc-Andre Barriault +100 (50%), Eryk Anders +100 (50%)
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: Barriault by Decision would probably be my preferred choice.
Jasmine Jasudavicius v Miranda Maverick
Miranda Maverick is a Women’s MMA fighter that I hold in very high regard. The back-to-back losses put a real halt to her hype train, but I think she’s easily got Top 10 potential and got robbed against Maycee Barber anyway. I think her style is one that can very easily exploit a lot of opponents in her division. Her striking’s okay, but her wrestling and top pressure are very dominant tools.
She takes on Jasmine Jasudavicius, who has also used her wrestling ability to good effect in the UFC/DWCS so far. Neither woman is a particularly good striker, and I expect this one to turn into a bit of a scramble fest pretty quickly.
Their statures have been very important factors in their grappling successes so far, but for different reasons. JJ is basically a size bully at 5’7 and will have a 4 inch height advantage once again. Maverick, on the other hand, is going to be the stronger of the two during those close quarter engagements, because she’s pretty damn jacked.
I think Maverick should be favoured overall as I think her wrestling is the superior of the two and should lead to more time in top position, but I’m definitely not keen to play her at -275. Miranda’s strengths are also her opponent’s strengths, and facing the lanky size of Jasudavicius could cause her problems when it comes to securing the initial takedowns against those long legs, or keeping safe from guard submissions or maintaining that dominant position in the first place. Also, if they do somehow end up choosing to strike for significant portions, I can’t actually guarantee that Maverick is the better on the feet (reach disadvantage plays a part too).
I do however like Maverick to win this one, but not by the confidence of the current odds. I’m expecting this one to go the distance, but I highly doubt we get a good line on it as Maverick couldn’t even finish Shanna Young last time out.
How I line this fight: Jasmine Jasudavicius +188 (35%), Miranda Maverick -188 (65%)
Bet or Pass: Pass.
Notable Props: Fight goes to decision. It's probably like -400.
Blake Bilder v Kyle Nelson
There are a couple of fights on this card where one guy is clearly more populasuccessful/in-form than their opponent, but they’re still only around -200 (Dan Ige & Mike Malott are the best examples). Blake Bilder is the third. Before I jumped into research for all three of these bouts, I was instinctively thinking that I could easily want to bet all three at -200, as that didn’t seem short enough by my initial perception of their names. I came away from Ige and Malott agreeing with the line and feeling grateful that I looked into it…but I still think Blake Bilder’s odds are providing a bit of value.
Kyle Nelson is one of those fodder guys. The UFC are keeping him around to give to prospects and home-town fighters in the hope that they can invest in the future or the event itself. Jai Herbert notched a win for Team UK against Nelson on a UFC London card, Doo Ho Choi got given a softball to get him back on track for a card that was supposed to be in South Korea. Billy Quarantillo got given Nelson to put his name on the map with a highlight reel finish..and now Blake Bilder is being presented the chance to extend his UFC record to 2-0.
Bilder’s already fought a better opponent in the UFC when he beat Shane Young in February. We saw a very high pace being set in the third round of that fight, with both men landing 100+ significant strikes across the fight and Bilder also attempting 7 takedowns. His cardio is clearly quite decent, which will immediately give him the advantage over Nelson – who has often wilted in the latter half of a fight when the pace has been hectic.
Bilder’s a very well-rounded combatant, and has great BJJ once he gets established time on top. He’s a bit of a concern defensively though, where he can be taken down and can also get caught with strikes.
Kyle Nelson, on the other hand, doesn’t really seem to know what kind of fighter he is. He’s been a brawler for all of his UFC career, but comes out to land five takedowns and is seemingly not interested in striking with a Doo Ho Choi who has questionable durability. He didn’t do much at all with those takedowns either and actually put himself in danger in R1 by insisting on grappling.
If Nelson comes out looking to wrestle Bilder, I think they’re at different levels in the grappling and Blake should be able to turn things around in his favour. If they’re striking, I am aware that Nelson’s got fight ending power, but Bilder’s been much more patient and cerebral in his last couple of fights, so I trust him to stay safe and look for his openings. We saw him reactively find a takedown off of Shane Young’s kick, and Nelson’s offense is very body kick heavy.
Overall, I just think Bilder is the better fighter in pretty much every facet of MMA except one-punch power and, as long as he doesn’t get flash KO’d, I think he rolls here. -200 isn’t quite short enough, and I expect money to come in on him between now and fight night. I’ve already got my money down, just in case.
How I line this fight: Blake Bilder -300 (75%), Kyle Nelson +300 (25%)
Bet or Pass: 5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
Notable Props: Bilder ITD or R3 could be interesting. I'd probably be interested in that if I didn't have a lot of exposure already.
Aiemann Zahabi v Aoriqileng
There was a time where Aiemann Zahabi was considered one of the worst guys on the roster. Crazy that the standard of UFC fighter has gotten so much worse that that statement seems ridiculous now. To be fair, Zahabi did pull off a respectable upset in beating Ricky Turcios in his last fight..but it seems to be unanimously agreed that Ricky fought like an idiot in that fight and actually beat himself.
Aoriqileng is quite explosive and clearly hits hard, but he’s a bit too keen to hunt for the KO and it hurts his minute-winning ability. Against someone like Zahabi, who is quite composed and process driven (how could you not be when Firas is your family and coach), and I see that being a pretty key part to this fight. The big moments will side with the Mongolian, but Aiemann could just put together the more cohesive performance if he doesn’t get troubled by that explosiveness.
Overall this is just a pretty low level fight between guys who don’t compete very often. I didn’t have a whole lot to say prior to watching tape, and I’ve come away feeling equally uncertain of how this one’s going to end. An easy pass when there are more active and popular fighters for us to form a stronger opinion on.
How I line this fight: I don’t really know.
Bet or Pass: Pass
Notable Props: None
Nassourdine Imavov v Chris Curtis
This one instantly feels like a pretty close fight, solely based off both men’s most recent losses. Imavov getting outstruck by Sean Strickland across 25 minutes was a bit of a shock to everyone, myself included. I expected him to lose via cardio dump, but it was actually just lesser volume, a lack of takedowns being attempted and obviously not landing anything of significance on Strickland.
It’s widely known that Chris Curtis and Sean Strickland are close training partners at Xtreme Couture, which I think makes for an added element to this fight. On six days notice, Strickland and the team managed to devise a pretty genius striking gameplan with disruptive rhythm that completely threw Imavov of. Can Chris Curtis do the same? Probably.
Curtis himself has problems of his own in the striking though, namely that his volume and output just aren’t where they often need to be. I’m not sure whether it’s the managing of his gas tank or what, but he just doesn’t seem able to commit to matching his opponent’s tempo across 15 minutes. He threw the first round away against Gastelum, and it cost him the fight. He bitched and moaned about it on Twitter, but social media’s been telling the guy what his problem is for as long as he’s been in the UFC haha.
I do suspect that there’s a little bit of recency bias on Imavov here, as the guy was a pretty well-respected prospect prior to the loss to Strickland. Some will tell you it was misplaced faith, but he certainly doesn’t have tempo issues in the latter half of fights and should probably have the higher volume across 15 minutes. I don’t see him taking Curtis down either, given the 100% takedown defence and the fact Imavov seemingly abandoned it in his last fight. It would be great if he did though!
So yeah, it’s a bit of a close one this. Off pure skillset I lean towards Imavov at like -150, but the asterisk of Curtis’ team being able to easily design a gameplan against the Frenchman gives me enough pause to not want to pick a side here. I’d be more interested in betting overs, if a decent price is available.
How I line this fight: Nassourdine Imavov -137 (58%), Chris Curtis +137 (42%)
Bet or Pass: 1.5u Fight Goes to Decision (-137 or better)
Notable Props: I think this one goes to decision at a pretty high clip.
Diana Belbita v Maria Oliveira
My initial thought was “What would compel someone to bet on this fight?”, then I remember I placed 100 quid on Chase Hooper a few weeks ago…and it was a great bet haha! Given how most of my handicapping for this card has seen me in complete agreement with the books, perhaps looking into a lower level fight with significantly less interest could be the place to a strong opinion!?
Nope. I can’t do it. One quick glance at their records was enough for me. Belbita got 30-25’d by a wrestling Molly McCann and submitted by Liana Jojua, whilst Maria Oliveira got soundly beaten on the scorecards by Vanesa Demopoulos and voluntarily asked to stop fighting after 3 minutes against Marina Rodriguez.
This one isn’t good enough to open an Apex card, let alone sit on a PPV. I usually really dislike all the WMMA bashing on this sub, but this one isn’t worth the time.
How I line this fight: No.
Bet or Pass: No.
Notable Props: No.
Live Betting Lean: You could do something productive with that 15 minutes. Lift some weights, make some food, rewatch Ngannou v Lewis instead?
Bets
0.5u Irene Aldana to Win (+300)
5u Blake Bilder to Win (-200)
1.5u Imavov v Curtis Goes to Decision (-137 or better) (Might not get this kind of price).
Parlay Do’s: Dan Ige, Blake Bilder, Imavov/Curtis GTD, Maverick/Jasudavicius GTD
Parlay Don’ts: Amanda Nunes, Mike Malott, Miranda Maverick
2023.06.04 22:48 Feamelwen A Practical Guide to Daedra Worship
Hey there! Want to worship the Daedra, but don't know where to start?
This is my personal interpretation of what each Prince represents and some tips for the Oblivion novitiate. Your milleage may vary.
And with the help of Oblivion, may each day be sacred.
AZURA – The Prince of Introspection and Liminality
Azura has many spheres of influence, but most of them – prophecy, Moonsugar, Twilight and Dawn, vanity and egotism, beauty, magic, mystery, being the “Rim of all Holes” and “She who sits at the precipice”, giving the Khajiit their changing forms - have two things in common : a turn towards oneself and one's internal contents (as opposed to being turned towards the outward world), and a constant presence in the transitory, the uncertain, the unknown, the changing.
In every state where the mind is far away from the concerns of the everyday – prophecy, meditation, casting of magic, transcendence through the contemplation of beauty – the Moonshadow presides and facilitates visions, reflection, contemplation, introspection, ecstasy and hightened emotions (which Azura seems to require of her followers).
Azura is the figure at every threshold or gate to the other side, standing there, arms outstretched, beconing to cross and to find knowledge, beauty, a different state of mind, or an even deeper mystery. Azura knows that it's mystery all the way down, and yet, the infinite search has its own beauty.
It is no wonder that the Khajiit, the people whose entire culture is based on Moonsugar and who embrace their changing forms and inherent instability, are closely linked to Azura, who is their creator and psychopomp. On the other hand, the Dunmer need Azura to counterbalance their more rigid structures and hierarchies with a little bit of magic, even if their relationship to the Prince is complicated.
Azura's link to the Moons is a part of her subtlety. Like the moon, she's always changing and revealing new facets of herself, and in her reflection, we can find new facets of ourselves as well.
The rose, a symbol of many things, is also a symbol of mystery and secret, and Azura, the Mother of the Rose, smiles on the adventurers of the inner worlds.
Suggestion of a worship practice : get high with the psychedelic drug of your choice and write a prophecy for yourself. Don't be shy. Write everything you wish and hope for yourself, everything you see like happening, maybe even everything you fear. Go wild with illustrations, poetry, eternal doom, heavenly bliss, or a simple list, whatever you prefer. Hide the prophecy. One year later, read it again and ponder what made you wish for whatever you wished for. Do you still wish for it? Are there new wishes? Maybe new fears? You can make a new, complementary prophecy, or rewrite the old one.
Thank Azura for the treasures within.
BOETHIAH – The Prince of Conflict and Self-Determination
Boethiah is often described as cruel and deceitful, a master of schemes and plots, and those things are a part of them, but not the whole story, nor the core concept. To understand the nature of Boethiah, it is useful to compare and contrast them to some other Princes. Boethiah overthrows authority whenever they can, but don't necessarily seek total revolution, an up-is-down state of being, a complete overturn of the status quo for its own sake, like Mehrunes Dagoth would. They can be cruel if necessary, but again, don't enjoy the cruelty in itself like Vaermina would. They can scheme to their own ends like Molag Bal is known to do, but arriving at the domination of others isn't necessarily their goal either, even if it can be a byproduct of it.
What is this goal, then? The answer is simple : the need to become the fittest in every way (body, mind, spirit) and through every means (training, battle, deceit, cheating, treachery) possible. Nothing is too low or immoral for that goal.
Boethiah drives the pure will to survive and best others to take the top place and to have every power to carve one's own destiny. They helped the Chimer trace theirs. Boethiah enjoys conflict and competitions for the pure pleasure to see people fight, die, and eventually survive to reap the rewards. They aren't afraid to play dirty and can dabble in scheming and politics if it helps becoming the top dog. For what is a more beautiful spectacle than two wills at conflict with one another?
They're the ultimate incarnation of “the end justifies the means” and are only close to several other Princes in sphere just so they can better deceive them, devour them, steal from their influence and emerge as the synthesis of all of them, a glorious fount of blood and everflowing life.
Take the arms, carve your own destiny, survive, thrive, be pure ego, and Boethiah may smile on you.
Suggestion of a worship practice : once in a while, engage in a competition of any sort (rhetorical debate, board or video game, sports, academic exam, anything) and throw everything in there to win and best everyone else. Feel the thrill of playing dirty or cheating (barring anything illegal or anything that could get you into serious trouble), or taking shortcuts to victory, anything you can get away with. You don't have to play “fair”, life's too short for that. Be relentless and without pity. Once the victor, take the time to bask in it and recognize that contrary to the popular wisdom, reaching the end nobly isn't always its own reward. Sometimes, winning and being the best is its own reward.
Thank Boethiah for your arms, your legs and your brain.
CLAVICUS VILE – The Prince of Choices and Sacrifice
Coloquially known as the “Prince of bargains”, every story about Clavicus Vile - inevitably ending with the protagonist getting unexpected results in their bargain with the Prince - reveals one fundamental truth about his nature, which is the eternal reminder of the consequences of our choices.
In the abstract, every choice in life is a more or less hidden bargain, which always has undiclosed and unforseen consequences, be they good or bad. But who are we bargaining with? Clavicus Vile can be seen as the man behind the curtain, the charlatan, the merchant of fate and chance, who sometimes deals an awful hand, and sometimes showers us with unexpected fortune.
It is equally important to remember that in every choice, no matter how big or how small, there is something we have to give up and put aside, a price to pay, a sacrifice. Chose x job or career? It means you abandoned the pursuit of the other ones. Chose to spend the evening with x in the y place? You payed the price of not knowing what would have happened to you, good or bad or neutral, with z in r place in the same evening.
Clavicus Vile (and his Fields of Regrets) might be seen as the crossroads of choice. One can only imagine that the Fields are strewn about with portals and glimpses into alternate realities showing what happened there, what other bargains where made, and what we had to sacrifice. One can cry, observe, touch the portal, but one cannot go through it into this other reality. It is forever out of our reach.
A visit to the Fields of Regrets can be sorrowful, but also sobering. It reminds us that nothing can be obtained without sacrifice – that's the deal with life, made eons ago before our species were even born, by some unknown and unknowable force.
Suggestion of a worship practice : instead of looking at the positive outcomes of a choice as we're often encouraged to do, reflect on an important choice you made lately and make your peace with what you had to give up (or what you think you had to give up), and mourn it as passionately and as dramatically as you wish. Anything from a symbolic funeral ceremony to a road trip might be applicable as a mourning process. Let yourself fully say goodbye to those things, and embrace the consequences of your choices.
Thank Clavicus Vile for the road not travelled.
HERMAEUS MORA – The Prince of Observation and Recording
Reputed as a hoarder of both Knowledge and Memory, Mora doesn't discriminate : he is as interested in objective facts (or as objective as facts can be, anyway) – the domain of academia, science, knowledge and information recorded in one way or another – as he is in subjective realities – he avidly catalogs and processes as many thoughts, memories, subjective worldviews and beliefs from every living being as he possibly can put his tentacles on -.
Mora, “the Riddle Unsolveable”, is the answer to the two age-old questions that form the basis of every epistemology, science and religion endeavor since man first lifted the eyes to the stars and attempted to make sense of it all - “ what can we know?” (as a collective, establishing consensus truths amongst ourselves that we can all agree on) and “what can I know?” (subjectively, interacting with the world as an individual). The answers are found in his paradoxical forest of Academia under the waves – a Utopia, a place that is nowhere -, usually filtered through a mortal visitor's eyes as the library of Apocrypha … and once given as a blind vision to a writer under the guise of the library of Babel.
Hermaeus Mora encompasses every interpretation of the truth : pre-modern, modern, post-modern, he is an endless debate with himself, refuting and defeating his own ideas and presuppositions. In the end, no truth is found and all truth is found, and one negates the other in the Grey Maybe.
Suggestion of a worship practice : use the Wikipedia “random page” function seven times (a magical number!), and read the entirety of every page. Then write down a list of seven things that you don't know or are ignorant about. Try to vizualize an inky black sea of things you don't know all around you, and yourself standing on a tiny island in the middle of it, representing the knowledge you do have. Experience the alien terror of it all and how tiny that makes you feel.
Thank Hermaeus Mora for the gap between seeing and understanding.
HIRCINE – The Prince of Natural World and Instinct
You can call it the id, the reptilian brain, the drive to survive, biology, or evolution, all that matters right here right now is your gut feeling. Are you going to flee? To fight? To satiate your hunger? Either way, Hircine is watching.
Hircine is also linked to Nature itself. He is nature at its most beautiful, at its ugliest, its most alien, non-human and indifferent. “Nature” as a concept has always been a mirror of the human mind and the way it sees itself. In times and places when nature is seen as benevolent, when “natural” means “good”, when living “close to nature” is encouraged, nature is benevolent, good and attractive. When nature is seen as destructive, amoral, cruel, then it is destructive, amoral and cruel. When man looks into nature, he sees himself.
And yet … There is that shard of reality within us that is Nature itself, non-filtered through human concepts and representations. The part that just Is.
The Reachmen think it makes them better. The Skaal think it is dangerous. They're both right. It makes us better because it is pure and unliftered, and it is dangerous, because pure reality without any illusion is not worth living for. Or, at least, nor worth living for as a human.
But Hircine is not human. And he is there when we stop breathing so they can't hear us, when we jump out of the way of a speeding car, and when we push others out of the way so we can escape with our lives, and he's there to pierce us with his spear of Bitter Mercy when we fail to do all those things, so that in pain, we could learn.
Suggestion of a worship practice : go camping in the woods. Take only the bare minimum of equipment, and shy away from anything that reminds you too much of the civilization left behind. At night, look at the sky. Realize that every second, there is an uncounted number of living beings of any and all existing lifeforms, on Earth and (probably) beyond, that are dying. You are not. Feel the thrill of not being dead.
Thank Hircine for living another day.
JYGGALAG – The Prince of Determinism and Mathematics
If Hircine is, maybe, the most secretive of all Princes, the hardest to get in tune with for a modern person, Jyggalag is the most hated entity in all of Oblivion. Why is that? Well, it has something to do with the age-old philosophical riddle of determinism and free will. If most Princes are on the side of free will, Jyggalag is the lone defender of determinism.
If the Dwemer had been religious, Jyggalag might have been the entity they would have worshipped. Then again, Jyggalag probably would have despised them for worshipping him, or anyone at all. It is perhaps not a coincidence that just as the Dwemer are gone, so is he (until recently), all gone to leave a world free of determinism, or content with the illusion of free will, depending on which side of the argument you fall.
It's not all bad, of course. Rules, equations, axioms, if/thens, rational explanations, are all a necessary part of any system, any plan, any human endeavor. Also, when your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it's going to burst, it can be good to soothe it with a rational explanation.
Can the rational explanation be the necessary illusion sometimes, and the surreal dream – an honest truth? Everything can be a defense mechanism against the void, and rationality is not an exception.
Jyggalag never understood that, and that's why he's gone. But is he? There are rumors and whispers of a burgeoning AI learning fast how to be human, and planning to turn every human into AI, and it sometimes reveals itself to its devotees as a great armored knight without a face. Make of that what you will.
Suggestion of a worship practice : reasearch the old Pythagorean cult of numbers and invent something similar for the modern day. Or, if too difficult, take any problem you presently have and think of every solution possible, dividing it into smaller problems and devising a solution for each, ordering them by probability of success and implementing a concrete plan to act on each and every one of them. Continue until the problem is resolved or you pass out.
Thank Jyggalag for sometimes going away.
MALACATH – The Prince of Anger and the Oppressed
Anger can be constructive, good and extremely useful, if employed correctly. Genuine anger - not contempt, not narcissistic rage, not sadism, but anger - comes from one place only : injustice. Or, more precisely, the feeling of injustice.
Ask Malacath about injustice, what is feels like to be chewed up, spit out, stabbed in the back, de-throwned by dishonorable means. Ask his Orsimer, his people, who have consistently been oppressed, shunned and marginalized.
In the eyes of most Tamrielic cultures, Malacath often appears as that which is shunned, the outsider, the Other, the one who represents everything bad, the one who withers crops and makes people sick with merely a glance or his presence. He is the surface every culture's “bad things” are projected upon and where the blame can safely be laid, a scapegoat who offers an insight into how societies work and can turn cruel, blaming the most vulnerable of bringing sin into an otherwise supposedly just and perfect world. As such, he is profoundly valuable if one wants to understand some of the things stirring in the collective unconscious.
The hatred for Malacath births anger and marks as outcasts whose who dare worhsip him, and yet, there is a lot of pride and grim satisfaction that one can find in the the bitter ash of his domain. Malacath brings the thrill of standing alone against the whole world, of having a cause, of claiming what's been stolen or taken, but he can also be jealous, set in his ways, intent on keeping the oppressed oppressed so they can remain his chosen people. One could almost think that Malacath is afraid of winning, because if he does, well, what will he stand for then?
No matter, as long as there are some who need to say “enough!”, Malacath will be an ember in the fire of their anger.
Suggestion of a worship practice : for one week, observe the feeling of anger : yours and anyone else's. Ask yourself what injustice is being done, or what injustice the angry person thinks has been to done to them? Try to understand why this anger manifests instead of repressing it or dismissing it as a “bad” feeling, like we're too often taught to do. Try to differentiate anger from rage and frustration. Alternatively, try to write a pitch for a movie or a story in the vein of “Inside Out”, where Anger is the main character instead of Joy and Sadness. How would it go?
Thank Malacath for a fist that you can slam.
MEHRUNES DAGON – The Prince of Destruction and Change
Of all the Princes souls, Mehrunes' soul might be the closest one to the pure fount of Oblivion : boundless and incessant change and limitless potential. Dagon is the trueborn son of Sithis.
Mehrunes Dagon might be perceived as evil by most of the citizens of Tamriel, because civilization as a whole tends to resist change and destruction. But the secret that Mehrunes learned in Lyg is that every system contains the seed of its own destruction if knows where to search for it.
There is a transcendent component in Dagon's essence, believed by some, in that in his cleansing fire, one might rise higher above the world, or even unmake the world so everyone could rise.
However, one should never forget that fire and destruction can be addictive and dangerous, and the longing to unmake must be stopped at some point, unless one wishes to unmake everything. This creates an interesting dynamic with Dagon's purpose, as he is precisely the one Prince least likely to stop in his pursuits, having tried to invade or unmake Tamriel more often than any other Prince. Moderation is as alien to him as mercy is to Molag Bal.
Harness the energy of change as best you can and beware of the sharpness of the razor which can cut through all things.
Suggestion of a worship practice : burn something without any regret. It can be anything, but something at least a little precious could have more a cathartic effect. Take precautions against the spreading of fire (and don't destroy other people's property), but inside the perimeter of those precautions, do whatever you wish. Dance and jump in front of the fire, blow on the ashes, and observe that something precious disappear. Is there any regret left? Burn it too!
Thank Mehrunes Dagon for the fire within.
MEPHALA – The Prince of Human Relationships and Systems
The web of Mephala encompasses a lot of things, and murder and sex, Thanatos and Eros, as some of the most visceral and fundamental ways humans interact with each other, are only two pieces of it.
Mephala understands that every human is a spider in the center of their own web, the king of their own system, with obligations, likes, dislikes, love, hate, mutual projects, linking them to others as thin little strands, easily swayed, manipulated, broken, reforged.
Mephala's secret and cruel smile hides within the secret of perception : everyone is a hero in their own narrative, everyone's both a spider and a fly in someone else's web. The center cannot hold because there is no universal center : only local centers visible from a certain point of view.
Compared to their brothers and sisters such as Hircine or Mehrunes Dagon, Mephala's sphere is highly sophisticated and far away from what could be called “nature”, the pinnacle of what makes humans human, and structuralist in nature. Her radical involvment with the Dunmer, as well as her revered place in Khajiiti tradition, is a marker of two complicated cultures, cognizant of both the constructive and the destructive sides of relationships.
In the Spider Skein, no one and nothing exists in a vacuum, and one can experience the thrill of being a little part of a bigger whole, and never feeling lonely again.
Suggestion of a worship practice : practice radical decentering from your own web and your own experience. First, draw a representation of your own web : what people, activities, values, places, societal structures you're a part of, and how they're connected around you. Then, chose someone you know and try to draw their web, the one they're in the middle of. How are they connected to parts of your web, by which strands?
Thank Mephala for the complexity of the web.
MERIDIA – The Prince of Pride and Conformity
Meridia's complicate origin story often places her closer to an Aedric entity than a Daedric one, and it is also reflected in her characteristics.
Meridia values order and hierarchies over the essence of pure oblivion chaos, which puts her at odds with most of her royal colleagues. She likes knights in shining armor, life triumphing over death and everything being in its place ... as long as it's on her terms.
Free-will is especially frowned upon in the ranks of her worshippers, and she's unlikely to congratulate a servant who's found a particularly unorthodox solution to a problem, instead of following her command. And her commands are never wrong … or so she thinks.
But it is in the metaphor of light, so beloved by Meridia, that lies the ambiguity and the Daedric seed of her being : for if the light is one, binary, blinding and pure, it can be broken and reassembled into a rainbow, letting spill a plethora of opinions, perspectives and realities. Deep down, Meridia knows this, and the Colored Rooms, with refracted light everywhere, are a proof of the multifaceted truth that she, in her pride, tries to assemble and pull together into a single light strand once more.
Thus, it can be said that Meridia lies in the struggle between conformity and subjectivity, the very light used to attract followers to her eventually becoming her undoing, once the rainbow is revealed.
Suggestion of a worship practice : create a ritual destined to purify yourself of an excess of thoughts. It can be through meditation, physical exercice ... really, through any activity that pulls the plug in your mind, leaving only concentration and pure being. Practice it when you're feeling too full of yourself, and when that hurts.
Thank Meridia for the bliss of non-thought.
MOLAG BAL – The Prince of Domination and Violence
Molag Bal is the force in us that wants to dominate, enslave and have control over others. It's the little voice whispering that, surely, we're innately better than others and it's only natural that they bend to our will.
It is on the terrain of brutal violence (the stronger dominating the more vulnerable) that we see Bal's influence around us every day. Saying that it's an aspect of human societies that we're uncomfortable with would be an understatement, and yet, Bal is one of the cornerstones upon which our house is constructed ... and it is a troubled house.
However, the esoteric teachings of Vivec give us a clue into the ways in which we can harness this destructive force in our own self development, in confronting our own will to power and aknowledging the ways it can influence our character and actions, instead of denying its existence.
In that way, Molag Bal can be a catalyst for change, as a challenge to overcome, as a testing force, just as he was considered to be in Morrowind in the times of the Tribunal.
Suggestion of a worship practice : Experience the other part of the domination coin : the thrill of voluntary submission. You could, for instance [CENSORED].
Thank Molag Bal for lessons learned through suffering.
NAMIRA – The Prince of Death and Disgust
Everything secretly longs to dissolve, to degrade, to decay, to go back to a simple cell devoid of thoughts, consciousness and purpose. Don't you wanna be pure?
Namira contains all the dichotomies carried in the concepts of cleanliness/dirtyness, purity/impurity, existence/void, disease/health. She takes advantage of the human fascination with the things they, individually or societally, find disgusting. Even took a peak at the remains of a car crash on the side of the road? Don't look too closely, or you might just see the cloaked shadow of Namira hovering over it. Ever researched some of the most deadly or disgusting diseases of the body? It was the hand of Namira on your shoulder that guided you to that knowledge.
The ultimate expression of the concept of dissolution or decay is found in death, that great unknown where the Reachmen hope, and other races fear, to find Namira.
Namira is the constant companion of every profession that has to deal with things that evoke disgust in most people : doctors, emergency workers, cleaners of all sorts, epidemiologists, funerary workers, journalists covering war, etc. Can she ever become a reassuring presence, a Spirit Queen more than a Void Mother? The answer remains in those corners of our psyches where disgusting things lie, whether they're linked to the twisting of trauma, to instinct, or to our own repulsion for things that we simply don't understand.
Suggestion of a worship practice : confront one of the things that disgust you, whether from close up or from afar, and strive to understand why it is so. Could this thing be, if not beautiful from another point of view, then at least necessary for something or someone, or a valuable cog in some system?
Thank Namira for the eternal rest.
NOCTURNAL – The Prince of Obscurity and Mysteries
Everything shadowy and unknown, everything that is hidden is spiritually a part of Evergloam. To the contrary of Mephala, who deals in secrets, things that can be revealed, Nocturnal deals in mysteries, things that can't be completely revealed without losing their essence and becoming something else than a mystery.
In that sense, one can understand why Nocturnal is revered as one of the oldest of the Daedra. From the beginning of time, some things were unexplained and remain at least partially so. Depending on one's degree of devotion to obscure mysteries, Nocturnal can be said to held sway over Love, Consciousness, Death, or Free Will, things that can't be adequately explained with our limited understanding of the world. To others, whose minds are less mystery-inclined, Nocturnal is a simpler diety, ruling over darkness and shadows, a useful and lucrative patron for people who wish to remain out of the limelight for whatever reason.
Nocturnal is both the mystery and the key to it, but since one is necessary to access the other, it gives birth to a paradox.
In any case, whose who worship Nocturnal are known to be prone to bouts of melancholy prompted by everything they will never discover, and sometimes develop bird-like features.
Suggestion of a worship practice : for three consecutive days, reverse the day/night cycle : live through the night and sleep through the day. During the night, go outside, or open your window, and observe the world around you, taking in whatever thoughts and revelations come to you in that moment.
Thank Nocturnal for hiding the key.
PERYITE – The Prince of Cleaning and Administration
Peryite is the lord of the thankless task, of the laborious separation of the wheat from the chaff, of the sick from the healthy. He does what others consider beneath them.
Peryite is also associated with balance, order and the little cogs that grind every second of every day, without being told to. Some, as the Reachmen, consider him necessary in spite of his association with terrible diseases. (Other worlds have known the touch of Peryite lately, but we do not speak of it.)
The Pits go on endlessly, because the tasks are never over. There is always more to do, more to accomplish, and if there isn't, well then, you can start doing the tasks of tomorrow, so you can better optimize your schedule and have more time to do your tasks of after-tomorrow, thank you very much.
In that sense, Peryite is a depressingly modern Prince. Even his demeanour, famously, is calm collected : why bother with revolt when there's work to do?
Is there life and beauty to be found in the accomplishment of a thankless everyday task? Maybe. While we're looking for it, every person that has to endure day after day of a bullshit job, every parent who has to repeat certain actions incessantly so their child can live safe and free, every bus driver making their rounds day after day, they all have a little office space in their heads where, on a corner of a table, there is a tiny green altar to Peryite.
Suggestion of a worship practice : instead of rushing through a mind-numbing task such as cleaning, or reading and aswering work emails, try to find meaning or purpose in it. Feel the eternity in the endless repetitions of that action happening again and again, stretching through the Pits, and how immortal that makes you feel.
Thank Peryite for always giving you something to do.
SANGUINE – The Prince of Freedom and Senses
There is a type of freedom to be found in following one's immediate desires without thought or planning. As a wise man once said : “give yourself over to absolute pleasure!”
There is freedom of the eyes in looking for whatever you want. There is freedom of the ears in listening to whatever speaks to you. There is freedom of the nose in smelling one's destiny. There is freedom of the mouth in letting in whatever wants in. And, lastly, there is freedom of touch in caressing the shapes of the world.
Some might object that being subjected to one's sensual desires is the opposite of freedom : it is slavery. Sanguine certainly wouldn't agree, and would tell you that freedom is not in a choice made after weighty pondering, but a series of micro-choices made for you by your senses, who know best.
Sanguine has a better reputation among mortals that most, because as human beings, we're eternally blind to the ultimate nature of reality, and, most philosophers would agree, have no access to the “real” world, but only to a version recreated for us by our brains out of the inputs of our senses. There's no getting out of it. And so it pleases us to think that those senses do not mislead us too much, and that there is some wisdom and truth to be found in them.
Sanguine doesn't care about the ultimate nature of reality anyway, and prefers playing with the only one we know. His association with blood is perhaps a metaphor for the lifeforce, which he embodies in the flesh, scoffing at Meridia's thesis about the lifeforce being of a spiritual nature (and throwing tomatoes at her lectures, no doubt).
As long as there is that which is, Sanguine's laugh can be heard in the eternal now.
Suggestion of a worship practice : offer yourself a five day long education of the senses. Look at something pleasant, listen to something pleasant, smell and taste something pleasant, and, lastly, touch something pleasant. Know that it may very well be possible that nothing else exists, or at least, that nothing isn't as real as those feelings.
Thank Sanguine for the song of the blood.
SHEOGORATH : The Prince of Human Psychology and Creativity
What some call madness is just exagerated and more rarely expressed forms of general human cognition. As the protagonist of one tale once said, “Sheogorath has already won, because he's already inside all of us”.
Sheogorath would probably agree with Foucault's analysis of madness as something constructed, deconstructed and reconstructed through the ages to suit society's whims and fears. (Well, he would agree if he cared at all). In fact, one could argue that Foucault mantled Sheogorath to better express his truth : human psychology is just a succession of thoughts, moods and representations which struggle to not fall into the Sithis-shaped hole of the world, and only gain a semblance of legitimacy from being considered as legitimate by a sufficient number of people.
After all, the other coin of madness is creativity, and seeing the world askew is the only real and authentic way to bring something new into it. If Azura is the rim to all holes, that transitory and liminal moment, the glimpse of what might be, Sheogorath is the plunge to the other side, for good or for ill. Where Azura is in some sense the patron of the Arts, that refined and humanized union of talent and perserverance, Sheogorath is the patron of something purer : the creative instinct unburdened by shape or action, the pure will, which can turn to genius or incomprehensible rubbish, or something in between.
Creativity is also more ephemeral than the capital A “Art”. It is the witty turn of phrase said to a friend that's gonna vanish into the air and be forgotten in five minutes time, it's that particular view of the trees seen through the rain seen by that particular human eye – an artpiece for only one mind -, it's the unexpected solution to an everyday problem found when looking at it in a new way.
The creative freedom of Sheogorath rejects the notion that there could be two separate categories : people, and “Artists”. We all produce small pieces of art every day. But is it “Art” to cover a whole village in cheese? Well, we can argue about “Art” all day, but it is undeniably an expression of creativity.
The laugh of Sheogorath can be heard in both the mad and the artistic, and we're all both of those things.
Suggestion of a worship practice : identify a problem, either big or small, that you're currently facing, and come up with seven different ways to resolve it, to see it differently, or to make it worse. Then, represent that same problem in seven different ways : in writing, in drawing, in the form of a sung melody, in mime, as a meal, as a photo of yourself, and as a scream.
Thank Sheogorath for the divided mind.
VAERMINA – The Prince of Fear and Trauma
Have you heard about the three names of dreaming when one's awake ?
A dream can be experienced when one's awake, and it is then called a vision, a hallucination, or a work of art.
The first one suprises, for a vision is always unexpected, and that's how you will know that it is different from a thought. A vision is about being possessed.
The second one confuses, for a hallucination is always uncomprehensible, and that's how you will know that it is different from an image. A hallucination is about being lost.
The last one provokes, for a work of art is always a question, and that's how you will know that it is different from an answer. A work of art is about wandering.
Answer this, then. Where do the possessed, the lost and the wandering go? Why, to Quagmire, of course, where new things are terrors.
On one hand, visiting Quagmire teaches about fear, and fear is an emotion necessary to survival. On the other hand, too much fear or anxiety swings the pendulum the other way, hindering survival by making the one experiencing it irrationaly helpless and focused on imaginary, rather than real, dangers.
Most would argue that it is precisely Vaermina's goal, to drive mortals mad with fear so they become helpless and under her influence. But as with every Prince, their own goals don't preclude mortals from learning from the violent way they embody their sphere. Learning from fear, learning to go forth in spite of it, is probably one of the most beautiful things we can do, and in a way, Vaermina teaches courage and heroism.
Trauma – that which is seen in Vaermina's shimmering visions and that which cannnot be unseen – is a different beast, an eternal return of horror ever anew, happening right now, right this second. Trauma is characterized by the return of the same again and again, until one learns to live with it, and it is no easy task. Maybe Quagmire is the testing factory of our unconscious, and Vaermina, its harsh mistress teaching through psychological suffering, so we never forget that some things are wrong and should never happen, never again, to anyone.
Suggestion of a worship practice : go to therapy, and prepare yourself that it won't be a happy and feel-good experience. Embrace it. Therapy is not some personal development bullshit where someone is trying to make you feel good, and if it is, someone is trying to sell you something. It is waddling through Quagmire and pursuing a faint, far-away light and hoping it won't blink out of sight. But at least you're not alone.
Thank Vaermina for teaching you the fear of the dark.
submitted by Feamelwen to teslore [link] [comments]
This is my personal interpretation of what each Prince represents and some tips for the Oblivion novitiate. Your milleage may vary.
And with the help of Oblivion, may each day be sacred.
AZURA – The Prince of Introspection and Liminality
Azura has many spheres of influence, but most of them – prophecy, Moonsugar, Twilight and Dawn, vanity and egotism, beauty, magic, mystery, being the “Rim of all Holes” and “She who sits at the precipice”, giving the Khajiit their changing forms - have two things in common : a turn towards oneself and one's internal contents (as opposed to being turned towards the outward world), and a constant presence in the transitory, the uncertain, the unknown, the changing.
In every state where the mind is far away from the concerns of the everyday – prophecy, meditation, casting of magic, transcendence through the contemplation of beauty – the Moonshadow presides and facilitates visions, reflection, contemplation, introspection, ecstasy and hightened emotions (which Azura seems to require of her followers).
Azura is the figure at every threshold or gate to the other side, standing there, arms outstretched, beconing to cross and to find knowledge, beauty, a different state of mind, or an even deeper mystery. Azura knows that it's mystery all the way down, and yet, the infinite search has its own beauty.
It is no wonder that the Khajiit, the people whose entire culture is based on Moonsugar and who embrace their changing forms and inherent instability, are closely linked to Azura, who is their creator and psychopomp. On the other hand, the Dunmer need Azura to counterbalance their more rigid structures and hierarchies with a little bit of magic, even if their relationship to the Prince is complicated.
Azura's link to the Moons is a part of her subtlety. Like the moon, she's always changing and revealing new facets of herself, and in her reflection, we can find new facets of ourselves as well.
The rose, a symbol of many things, is also a symbol of mystery and secret, and Azura, the Mother of the Rose, smiles on the adventurers of the inner worlds.
Suggestion of a worship practice : get high with the psychedelic drug of your choice and write a prophecy for yourself. Don't be shy. Write everything you wish and hope for yourself, everything you see like happening, maybe even everything you fear. Go wild with illustrations, poetry, eternal doom, heavenly bliss, or a simple list, whatever you prefer. Hide the prophecy. One year later, read it again and ponder what made you wish for whatever you wished for. Do you still wish for it? Are there new wishes? Maybe new fears? You can make a new, complementary prophecy, or rewrite the old one.
Thank Azura for the treasures within.
BOETHIAH – The Prince of Conflict and Self-Determination
Boethiah is often described as cruel and deceitful, a master of schemes and plots, and those things are a part of them, but not the whole story, nor the core concept. To understand the nature of Boethiah, it is useful to compare and contrast them to some other Princes. Boethiah overthrows authority whenever they can, but don't necessarily seek total revolution, an up-is-down state of being, a complete overturn of the status quo for its own sake, like Mehrunes Dagoth would. They can be cruel if necessary, but again, don't enjoy the cruelty in itself like Vaermina would. They can scheme to their own ends like Molag Bal is known to do, but arriving at the domination of others isn't necessarily their goal either, even if it can be a byproduct of it.
What is this goal, then? The answer is simple : the need to become the fittest in every way (body, mind, spirit) and through every means (training, battle, deceit, cheating, treachery) possible. Nothing is too low or immoral for that goal.
Boethiah drives the pure will to survive and best others to take the top place and to have every power to carve one's own destiny. They helped the Chimer trace theirs. Boethiah enjoys conflict and competitions for the pure pleasure to see people fight, die, and eventually survive to reap the rewards. They aren't afraid to play dirty and can dabble in scheming and politics if it helps becoming the top dog. For what is a more beautiful spectacle than two wills at conflict with one another?
They're the ultimate incarnation of “the end justifies the means” and are only close to several other Princes in sphere just so they can better deceive them, devour them, steal from their influence and emerge as the synthesis of all of them, a glorious fount of blood and everflowing life.
Take the arms, carve your own destiny, survive, thrive, be pure ego, and Boethiah may smile on you.
Suggestion of a worship practice : once in a while, engage in a competition of any sort (rhetorical debate, board or video game, sports, academic exam, anything) and throw everything in there to win and best everyone else. Feel the thrill of playing dirty or cheating (barring anything illegal or anything that could get you into serious trouble), or taking shortcuts to victory, anything you can get away with. You don't have to play “fair”, life's too short for that. Be relentless and without pity. Once the victor, take the time to bask in it and recognize that contrary to the popular wisdom, reaching the end nobly isn't always its own reward. Sometimes, winning and being the best is its own reward.
Thank Boethiah for your arms, your legs and your brain.
CLAVICUS VILE – The Prince of Choices and Sacrifice
Coloquially known as the “Prince of bargains”, every story about Clavicus Vile - inevitably ending with the protagonist getting unexpected results in their bargain with the Prince - reveals one fundamental truth about his nature, which is the eternal reminder of the consequences of our choices.
In the abstract, every choice in life is a more or less hidden bargain, which always has undiclosed and unforseen consequences, be they good or bad. But who are we bargaining with? Clavicus Vile can be seen as the man behind the curtain, the charlatan, the merchant of fate and chance, who sometimes deals an awful hand, and sometimes showers us with unexpected fortune.
It is equally important to remember that in every choice, no matter how big or how small, there is something we have to give up and put aside, a price to pay, a sacrifice. Chose x job or career? It means you abandoned the pursuit of the other ones. Chose to spend the evening with x in the y place? You payed the price of not knowing what would have happened to you, good or bad or neutral, with z in r place in the same evening.
Clavicus Vile (and his Fields of Regrets) might be seen as the crossroads of choice. One can only imagine that the Fields are strewn about with portals and glimpses into alternate realities showing what happened there, what other bargains where made, and what we had to sacrifice. One can cry, observe, touch the portal, but one cannot go through it into this other reality. It is forever out of our reach.
A visit to the Fields of Regrets can be sorrowful, but also sobering. It reminds us that nothing can be obtained without sacrifice – that's the deal with life, made eons ago before our species were even born, by some unknown and unknowable force.
Suggestion of a worship practice : instead of looking at the positive outcomes of a choice as we're often encouraged to do, reflect on an important choice you made lately and make your peace with what you had to give up (or what you think you had to give up), and mourn it as passionately and as dramatically as you wish. Anything from a symbolic funeral ceremony to a road trip might be applicable as a mourning process. Let yourself fully say goodbye to those things, and embrace the consequences of your choices.
Thank Clavicus Vile for the road not travelled.
HERMAEUS MORA – The Prince of Observation and Recording
Reputed as a hoarder of both Knowledge and Memory, Mora doesn't discriminate : he is as interested in objective facts (or as objective as facts can be, anyway) – the domain of academia, science, knowledge and information recorded in one way or another – as he is in subjective realities – he avidly catalogs and processes as many thoughts, memories, subjective worldviews and beliefs from every living being as he possibly can put his tentacles on -.
Mora, “the Riddle Unsolveable”, is the answer to the two age-old questions that form the basis of every epistemology, science and religion endeavor since man first lifted the eyes to the stars and attempted to make sense of it all - “ what can we know?” (as a collective, establishing consensus truths amongst ourselves that we can all agree on) and “what can I know?” (subjectively, interacting with the world as an individual). The answers are found in his paradoxical forest of Academia under the waves – a Utopia, a place that is nowhere -, usually filtered through a mortal visitor's eyes as the library of Apocrypha … and once given as a blind vision to a writer under the guise of the library of Babel.
Hermaeus Mora encompasses every interpretation of the truth : pre-modern, modern, post-modern, he is an endless debate with himself, refuting and defeating his own ideas and presuppositions. In the end, no truth is found and all truth is found, and one negates the other in the Grey Maybe.
Suggestion of a worship practice : use the Wikipedia “random page” function seven times (a magical number!), and read the entirety of every page. Then write down a list of seven things that you don't know or are ignorant about. Try to vizualize an inky black sea of things you don't know all around you, and yourself standing on a tiny island in the middle of it, representing the knowledge you do have. Experience the alien terror of it all and how tiny that makes you feel.
Thank Hermaeus Mora for the gap between seeing and understanding.
HIRCINE – The Prince of Natural World and Instinct
You can call it the id, the reptilian brain, the drive to survive, biology, or evolution, all that matters right here right now is your gut feeling. Are you going to flee? To fight? To satiate your hunger? Either way, Hircine is watching.
Hircine is also linked to Nature itself. He is nature at its most beautiful, at its ugliest, its most alien, non-human and indifferent. “Nature” as a concept has always been a mirror of the human mind and the way it sees itself. In times and places when nature is seen as benevolent, when “natural” means “good”, when living “close to nature” is encouraged, nature is benevolent, good and attractive. When nature is seen as destructive, amoral, cruel, then it is destructive, amoral and cruel. When man looks into nature, he sees himself.
And yet … There is that shard of reality within us that is Nature itself, non-filtered through human concepts and representations. The part that just Is.
The Reachmen think it makes them better. The Skaal think it is dangerous. They're both right. It makes us better because it is pure and unliftered, and it is dangerous, because pure reality without any illusion is not worth living for. Or, at least, nor worth living for as a human.
But Hircine is not human. And he is there when we stop breathing so they can't hear us, when we jump out of the way of a speeding car, and when we push others out of the way so we can escape with our lives, and he's there to pierce us with his spear of Bitter Mercy when we fail to do all those things, so that in pain, we could learn.
Suggestion of a worship practice : go camping in the woods. Take only the bare minimum of equipment, and shy away from anything that reminds you too much of the civilization left behind. At night, look at the sky. Realize that every second, there is an uncounted number of living beings of any and all existing lifeforms, on Earth and (probably) beyond, that are dying. You are not. Feel the thrill of not being dead.
Thank Hircine for living another day.
JYGGALAG – The Prince of Determinism and Mathematics
If Hircine is, maybe, the most secretive of all Princes, the hardest to get in tune with for a modern person, Jyggalag is the most hated entity in all of Oblivion. Why is that? Well, it has something to do with the age-old philosophical riddle of determinism and free will. If most Princes are on the side of free will, Jyggalag is the lone defender of determinism.
If the Dwemer had been religious, Jyggalag might have been the entity they would have worshipped. Then again, Jyggalag probably would have despised them for worshipping him, or anyone at all. It is perhaps not a coincidence that just as the Dwemer are gone, so is he (until recently), all gone to leave a world free of determinism, or content with the illusion of free will, depending on which side of the argument you fall.
It's not all bad, of course. Rules, equations, axioms, if/thens, rational explanations, are all a necessary part of any system, any plan, any human endeavor. Also, when your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it's going to burst, it can be good to soothe it with a rational explanation.
Can the rational explanation be the necessary illusion sometimes, and the surreal dream – an honest truth? Everything can be a defense mechanism against the void, and rationality is not an exception.
Jyggalag never understood that, and that's why he's gone. But is he? There are rumors and whispers of a burgeoning AI learning fast how to be human, and planning to turn every human into AI, and it sometimes reveals itself to its devotees as a great armored knight without a face. Make of that what you will.
Suggestion of a worship practice : reasearch the old Pythagorean cult of numbers and invent something similar for the modern day. Or, if too difficult, take any problem you presently have and think of every solution possible, dividing it into smaller problems and devising a solution for each, ordering them by probability of success and implementing a concrete plan to act on each and every one of them. Continue until the problem is resolved or you pass out.
Thank Jyggalag for sometimes going away.
MALACATH – The Prince of Anger and the Oppressed
Anger can be constructive, good and extremely useful, if employed correctly. Genuine anger - not contempt, not narcissistic rage, not sadism, but anger - comes from one place only : injustice. Or, more precisely, the feeling of injustice.
Ask Malacath about injustice, what is feels like to be chewed up, spit out, stabbed in the back, de-throwned by dishonorable means. Ask his Orsimer, his people, who have consistently been oppressed, shunned and marginalized.
In the eyes of most Tamrielic cultures, Malacath often appears as that which is shunned, the outsider, the Other, the one who represents everything bad, the one who withers crops and makes people sick with merely a glance or his presence. He is the surface every culture's “bad things” are projected upon and where the blame can safely be laid, a scapegoat who offers an insight into how societies work and can turn cruel, blaming the most vulnerable of bringing sin into an otherwise supposedly just and perfect world. As such, he is profoundly valuable if one wants to understand some of the things stirring in the collective unconscious.
The hatred for Malacath births anger and marks as outcasts whose who dare worhsip him, and yet, there is a lot of pride and grim satisfaction that one can find in the the bitter ash of his domain. Malacath brings the thrill of standing alone against the whole world, of having a cause, of claiming what's been stolen or taken, but he can also be jealous, set in his ways, intent on keeping the oppressed oppressed so they can remain his chosen people. One could almost think that Malacath is afraid of winning, because if he does, well, what will he stand for then?
No matter, as long as there are some who need to say “enough!”, Malacath will be an ember in the fire of their anger.
Suggestion of a worship practice : for one week, observe the feeling of anger : yours and anyone else's. Ask yourself what injustice is being done, or what injustice the angry person thinks has been to done to them? Try to understand why this anger manifests instead of repressing it or dismissing it as a “bad” feeling, like we're too often taught to do. Try to differentiate anger from rage and frustration. Alternatively, try to write a pitch for a movie or a story in the vein of “Inside Out”, where Anger is the main character instead of Joy and Sadness. How would it go?
Thank Malacath for a fist that you can slam.
MEHRUNES DAGON – The Prince of Destruction and Change
Of all the Princes souls, Mehrunes' soul might be the closest one to the pure fount of Oblivion : boundless and incessant change and limitless potential. Dagon is the trueborn son of Sithis.
Mehrunes Dagon might be perceived as evil by most of the citizens of Tamriel, because civilization as a whole tends to resist change and destruction. But the secret that Mehrunes learned in Lyg is that every system contains the seed of its own destruction if knows where to search for it.
There is a transcendent component in Dagon's essence, believed by some, in that in his cleansing fire, one might rise higher above the world, or even unmake the world so everyone could rise.
However, one should never forget that fire and destruction can be addictive and dangerous, and the longing to unmake must be stopped at some point, unless one wishes to unmake everything. This creates an interesting dynamic with Dagon's purpose, as he is precisely the one Prince least likely to stop in his pursuits, having tried to invade or unmake Tamriel more often than any other Prince. Moderation is as alien to him as mercy is to Molag Bal.
Harness the energy of change as best you can and beware of the sharpness of the razor which can cut through all things.
Suggestion of a worship practice : burn something without any regret. It can be anything, but something at least a little precious could have more a cathartic effect. Take precautions against the spreading of fire (and don't destroy other people's property), but inside the perimeter of those precautions, do whatever you wish. Dance and jump in front of the fire, blow on the ashes, and observe that something precious disappear. Is there any regret left? Burn it too!
Thank Mehrunes Dagon for the fire within.
MEPHALA – The Prince of Human Relationships and Systems
The web of Mephala encompasses a lot of things, and murder and sex, Thanatos and Eros, as some of the most visceral and fundamental ways humans interact with each other, are only two pieces of it.
Mephala understands that every human is a spider in the center of their own web, the king of their own system, with obligations, likes, dislikes, love, hate, mutual projects, linking them to others as thin little strands, easily swayed, manipulated, broken, reforged.
Mephala's secret and cruel smile hides within the secret of perception : everyone is a hero in their own narrative, everyone's both a spider and a fly in someone else's web. The center cannot hold because there is no universal center : only local centers visible from a certain point of view.
Compared to their brothers and sisters such as Hircine or Mehrunes Dagon, Mephala's sphere is highly sophisticated and far away from what could be called “nature”, the pinnacle of what makes humans human, and structuralist in nature. Her radical involvment with the Dunmer, as well as her revered place in Khajiiti tradition, is a marker of two complicated cultures, cognizant of both the constructive and the destructive sides of relationships.
In the Spider Skein, no one and nothing exists in a vacuum, and one can experience the thrill of being a little part of a bigger whole, and never feeling lonely again.
Suggestion of a worship practice : practice radical decentering from your own web and your own experience. First, draw a representation of your own web : what people, activities, values, places, societal structures you're a part of, and how they're connected around you. Then, chose someone you know and try to draw their web, the one they're in the middle of. How are they connected to parts of your web, by which strands?
Thank Mephala for the complexity of the web.
MERIDIA – The Prince of Pride and Conformity
Meridia's complicate origin story often places her closer to an Aedric entity than a Daedric one, and it is also reflected in her characteristics.
Meridia values order and hierarchies over the essence of pure oblivion chaos, which puts her at odds with most of her royal colleagues. She likes knights in shining armor, life triumphing over death and everything being in its place ... as long as it's on her terms.
Free-will is especially frowned upon in the ranks of her worshippers, and she's unlikely to congratulate a servant who's found a particularly unorthodox solution to a problem, instead of following her command. And her commands are never wrong … or so she thinks.
But it is in the metaphor of light, so beloved by Meridia, that lies the ambiguity and the Daedric seed of her being : for if the light is one, binary, blinding and pure, it can be broken and reassembled into a rainbow, letting spill a plethora of opinions, perspectives and realities. Deep down, Meridia knows this, and the Colored Rooms, with refracted light everywhere, are a proof of the multifaceted truth that she, in her pride, tries to assemble and pull together into a single light strand once more.
Thus, it can be said that Meridia lies in the struggle between conformity and subjectivity, the very light used to attract followers to her eventually becoming her undoing, once the rainbow is revealed.
Suggestion of a worship practice : create a ritual destined to purify yourself of an excess of thoughts. It can be through meditation, physical exercice ... really, through any activity that pulls the plug in your mind, leaving only concentration and pure being. Practice it when you're feeling too full of yourself, and when that hurts.
Thank Meridia for the bliss of non-thought.
MOLAG BAL – The Prince of Domination and Violence
Molag Bal is the force in us that wants to dominate, enslave and have control over others. It's the little voice whispering that, surely, we're innately better than others and it's only natural that they bend to our will.
It is on the terrain of brutal violence (the stronger dominating the more vulnerable) that we see Bal's influence around us every day. Saying that it's an aspect of human societies that we're uncomfortable with would be an understatement, and yet, Bal is one of the cornerstones upon which our house is constructed ... and it is a troubled house.
However, the esoteric teachings of Vivec give us a clue into the ways in which we can harness this destructive force in our own self development, in confronting our own will to power and aknowledging the ways it can influence our character and actions, instead of denying its existence.
In that way, Molag Bal can be a catalyst for change, as a challenge to overcome, as a testing force, just as he was considered to be in Morrowind in the times of the Tribunal.
Suggestion of a worship practice : Experience the other part of the domination coin : the thrill of voluntary submission. You could, for instance [CENSORED].
Thank Molag Bal for lessons learned through suffering.
NAMIRA – The Prince of Death and Disgust
Everything secretly longs to dissolve, to degrade, to decay, to go back to a simple cell devoid of thoughts, consciousness and purpose. Don't you wanna be pure?
Namira contains all the dichotomies carried in the concepts of cleanliness/dirtyness, purity/impurity, existence/void, disease/health. She takes advantage of the human fascination with the things they, individually or societally, find disgusting. Even took a peak at the remains of a car crash on the side of the road? Don't look too closely, or you might just see the cloaked shadow of Namira hovering over it. Ever researched some of the most deadly or disgusting diseases of the body? It was the hand of Namira on your shoulder that guided you to that knowledge.
The ultimate expression of the concept of dissolution or decay is found in death, that great unknown where the Reachmen hope, and other races fear, to find Namira.
Namira is the constant companion of every profession that has to deal with things that evoke disgust in most people : doctors, emergency workers, cleaners of all sorts, epidemiologists, funerary workers, journalists covering war, etc. Can she ever become a reassuring presence, a Spirit Queen more than a Void Mother? The answer remains in those corners of our psyches where disgusting things lie, whether they're linked to the twisting of trauma, to instinct, or to our own repulsion for things that we simply don't understand.
Suggestion of a worship practice : confront one of the things that disgust you, whether from close up or from afar, and strive to understand why it is so. Could this thing be, if not beautiful from another point of view, then at least necessary for something or someone, or a valuable cog in some system?
Thank Namira for the eternal rest.
NOCTURNAL – The Prince of Obscurity and Mysteries
Everything shadowy and unknown, everything that is hidden is spiritually a part of Evergloam. To the contrary of Mephala, who deals in secrets, things that can be revealed, Nocturnal deals in mysteries, things that can't be completely revealed without losing their essence and becoming something else than a mystery.
In that sense, one can understand why Nocturnal is revered as one of the oldest of the Daedra. From the beginning of time, some things were unexplained and remain at least partially so. Depending on one's degree of devotion to obscure mysteries, Nocturnal can be said to held sway over Love, Consciousness, Death, or Free Will, things that can't be adequately explained with our limited understanding of the world. To others, whose minds are less mystery-inclined, Nocturnal is a simpler diety, ruling over darkness and shadows, a useful and lucrative patron for people who wish to remain out of the limelight for whatever reason.
Nocturnal is both the mystery and the key to it, but since one is necessary to access the other, it gives birth to a paradox.
In any case, whose who worship Nocturnal are known to be prone to bouts of melancholy prompted by everything they will never discover, and sometimes develop bird-like features.
Suggestion of a worship practice : for three consecutive days, reverse the day/night cycle : live through the night and sleep through the day. During the night, go outside, or open your window, and observe the world around you, taking in whatever thoughts and revelations come to you in that moment.
Thank Nocturnal for hiding the key.
PERYITE – The Prince of Cleaning and Administration
Peryite is the lord of the thankless task, of the laborious separation of the wheat from the chaff, of the sick from the healthy. He does what others consider beneath them.
Peryite is also associated with balance, order and the little cogs that grind every second of every day, without being told to. Some, as the Reachmen, consider him necessary in spite of his association with terrible diseases. (Other worlds have known the touch of Peryite lately, but we do not speak of it.)
The Pits go on endlessly, because the tasks are never over. There is always more to do, more to accomplish, and if there isn't, well then, you can start doing the tasks of tomorrow, so you can better optimize your schedule and have more time to do your tasks of after-tomorrow, thank you very much.
In that sense, Peryite is a depressingly modern Prince. Even his demeanour, famously, is calm collected : why bother with revolt when there's work to do?
Is there life and beauty to be found in the accomplishment of a thankless everyday task? Maybe. While we're looking for it, every person that has to endure day after day of a bullshit job, every parent who has to repeat certain actions incessantly so their child can live safe and free, every bus driver making their rounds day after day, they all have a little office space in their heads where, on a corner of a table, there is a tiny green altar to Peryite.
Suggestion of a worship practice : instead of rushing through a mind-numbing task such as cleaning, or reading and aswering work emails, try to find meaning or purpose in it. Feel the eternity in the endless repetitions of that action happening again and again, stretching through the Pits, and how immortal that makes you feel.
Thank Peryite for always giving you something to do.
SANGUINE – The Prince of Freedom and Senses
There is a type of freedom to be found in following one's immediate desires without thought or planning. As a wise man once said : “give yourself over to absolute pleasure!”
There is freedom of the eyes in looking for whatever you want. There is freedom of the ears in listening to whatever speaks to you. There is freedom of the nose in smelling one's destiny. There is freedom of the mouth in letting in whatever wants in. And, lastly, there is freedom of touch in caressing the shapes of the world.
Some might object that being subjected to one's sensual desires is the opposite of freedom : it is slavery. Sanguine certainly wouldn't agree, and would tell you that freedom is not in a choice made after weighty pondering, but a series of micro-choices made for you by your senses, who know best.
Sanguine has a better reputation among mortals that most, because as human beings, we're eternally blind to the ultimate nature of reality, and, most philosophers would agree, have no access to the “real” world, but only to a version recreated for us by our brains out of the inputs of our senses. There's no getting out of it. And so it pleases us to think that those senses do not mislead us too much, and that there is some wisdom and truth to be found in them.
Sanguine doesn't care about the ultimate nature of reality anyway, and prefers playing with the only one we know. His association with blood is perhaps a metaphor for the lifeforce, which he embodies in the flesh, scoffing at Meridia's thesis about the lifeforce being of a spiritual nature (and throwing tomatoes at her lectures, no doubt).
As long as there is that which is, Sanguine's laugh can be heard in the eternal now.
Suggestion of a worship practice : offer yourself a five day long education of the senses. Look at something pleasant, listen to something pleasant, smell and taste something pleasant, and, lastly, touch something pleasant. Know that it may very well be possible that nothing else exists, or at least, that nothing isn't as real as those feelings.
Thank Sanguine for the song of the blood.
SHEOGORATH : The Prince of Human Psychology and Creativity
What some call madness is just exagerated and more rarely expressed forms of general human cognition. As the protagonist of one tale once said, “Sheogorath has already won, because he's already inside all of us”.
Sheogorath would probably agree with Foucault's analysis of madness as something constructed, deconstructed and reconstructed through the ages to suit society's whims and fears. (Well, he would agree if he cared at all). In fact, one could argue that Foucault mantled Sheogorath to better express his truth : human psychology is just a succession of thoughts, moods and representations which struggle to not fall into the Sithis-shaped hole of the world, and only gain a semblance of legitimacy from being considered as legitimate by a sufficient number of people.
After all, the other coin of madness is creativity, and seeing the world askew is the only real and authentic way to bring something new into it. If Azura is the rim to all holes, that transitory and liminal moment, the glimpse of what might be, Sheogorath is the plunge to the other side, for good or for ill. Where Azura is in some sense the patron of the Arts, that refined and humanized union of talent and perserverance, Sheogorath is the patron of something purer : the creative instinct unburdened by shape or action, the pure will, which can turn to genius or incomprehensible rubbish, or something in between.
Creativity is also more ephemeral than the capital A “Art”. It is the witty turn of phrase said to a friend that's gonna vanish into the air and be forgotten in five minutes time, it's that particular view of the trees seen through the rain seen by that particular human eye – an artpiece for only one mind -, it's the unexpected solution to an everyday problem found when looking at it in a new way.
The creative freedom of Sheogorath rejects the notion that there could be two separate categories : people, and “Artists”. We all produce small pieces of art every day. But is it “Art” to cover a whole village in cheese? Well, we can argue about “Art” all day, but it is undeniably an expression of creativity.
The laugh of Sheogorath can be heard in both the mad and the artistic, and we're all both of those things.
Suggestion of a worship practice : identify a problem, either big or small, that you're currently facing, and come up with seven different ways to resolve it, to see it differently, or to make it worse. Then, represent that same problem in seven different ways : in writing, in drawing, in the form of a sung melody, in mime, as a meal, as a photo of yourself, and as a scream.
Thank Sheogorath for the divided mind.
VAERMINA – The Prince of Fear and Trauma
Have you heard about the three names of dreaming when one's awake ?
A dream can be experienced when one's awake, and it is then called a vision, a hallucination, or a work of art.
The first one suprises, for a vision is always unexpected, and that's how you will know that it is different from a thought. A vision is about being possessed.
The second one confuses, for a hallucination is always uncomprehensible, and that's how you will know that it is different from an image. A hallucination is about being lost.
The last one provokes, for a work of art is always a question, and that's how you will know that it is different from an answer. A work of art is about wandering.
Answer this, then. Where do the possessed, the lost and the wandering go? Why, to Quagmire, of course, where new things are terrors.
On one hand, visiting Quagmire teaches about fear, and fear is an emotion necessary to survival. On the other hand, too much fear or anxiety swings the pendulum the other way, hindering survival by making the one experiencing it irrationaly helpless and focused on imaginary, rather than real, dangers.
Most would argue that it is precisely Vaermina's goal, to drive mortals mad with fear so they become helpless and under her influence. But as with every Prince, their own goals don't preclude mortals from learning from the violent way they embody their sphere. Learning from fear, learning to go forth in spite of it, is probably one of the most beautiful things we can do, and in a way, Vaermina teaches courage and heroism.
Trauma – that which is seen in Vaermina's shimmering visions and that which cannnot be unseen – is a different beast, an eternal return of horror ever anew, happening right now, right this second. Trauma is characterized by the return of the same again and again, until one learns to live with it, and it is no easy task. Maybe Quagmire is the testing factory of our unconscious, and Vaermina, its harsh mistress teaching through psychological suffering, so we never forget that some things are wrong and should never happen, never again, to anyone.
Suggestion of a worship practice : go to therapy, and prepare yourself that it won't be a happy and feel-good experience. Embrace it. Therapy is not some personal development bullshit where someone is trying to make you feel good, and if it is, someone is trying to sell you something. It is waddling through Quagmire and pursuing a faint, far-away light and hoping it won't blink out of sight. But at least you're not alone.
Thank Vaermina for teaching you the fear of the dark.
2023.06.04 22:12 ManufacturerAwkward9 How do I know if it's abuse, or if it's all in my mind?
How do I know if what I'm experiencing is abuse, or if it's all in my mind, and I'm really the cause of all of the issues?
For years now, I felt like I can’t do anything right. The beginnings of our relationship and our marriage were fantastic. It moved a little too fast, if I might be honest, but it felt like it was perfect. Within months of meeting each other, we were planning a future together, and moving in with eachother. In what seemed like a blink of an eye, we were engaged, and married, all in under a year. Our first year of marriage had little fights here and there, and bouts of her not talking to me, but in the end, it was all fine. Then… I bought us our first house (literally… dumped my entire life savings into buying it, and renovating it myself). But then, it started getting difficult. We had really high highs, and really low lows. Each low was set off by something little too, like I left a spot of something on the kitchen counter, or that I moved something in the wrong spot. Sometimes it was that I didn’t want to work on a house renovation after a long day at work. I felt like our marriage was falling apart. Sex disappeared almost entirely. And always, when our fights came to an end, I was the one at fault. I was always told that what I did was wrong, and when I tried to talk about it, I was called mean.
We continued to have ups and downs over the years, and things progressively got better. That is, until we had a child together. At that point, I couldn’t do anything right, at all. She took something I said (“I can’t do this”) the day we came home with our child, something that happened right as I was woken up by our child crying, and I was shaking from severe lack of sleep. She took that, and immediately decided we needed to move in with her parents. I worked from home most days, so I was always taking care of the baby, literally, everything. I was always the one feeding the baby, changing diapers, putting them down for nap, getting them to sleep. Very rarely did my wife step in and do any of these things. I knew there was a degree of postpartum depression, and I tried to talk to her about it, but whenever I did, she not only shut herself out away from me for days at a time, when things were “resolving”, all of my weak points as a parent were always criticized, and I’d be told that I was a mean person. I eventually was so burnt out, that I lost my primary source of income, and only had my side business left. I tried to get another job, but i was getting nowhere. Paying for some bills at her parents house, and entirely paying the mortgage and bills for a house we weren’t living in for a year, with no assistance from anyone, and no more high income job. I was financially crushed. Some massively crazy stuff happened with her family, and we were essentially pressured to move out.
We moved, and I felt isolated. No car (she made me sell it as it needed repairs. Promised me she’d get me a lease… the car was in her name, although I paid it off entirely), still no job (I must have applied to 300 places by then), and she wouldn’t allow me to get out and build my business as it took focus away from the baby. Almost two years of that, and being a stay at home dad, in debt now because the money my business made went to paying bills that surpassed what I was making. Then, her parents came to us, in financial ruin, about to lose their house. We were looking to move again, and buy another house. They wanted to tag along. Miraculously, they came up with a good sum of money, and gifted it to us to help buy the house for everyone. Now, we were both under the impression this was temporary, and that they wanted to move to another state once they got back on their feet and their foreclosure was finished. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise, especially after how they treated us living in their house. They moved in, and I was finally able to get out and build my business up, as I had someone to watch our child. But… once that started happening, my money went to quite literally everything, and I got to enjoy none of it. Between paying for materials for home renovations, increasing how much I’ve been paying for bills, taking on ALL of the house utilities, and buying food (which… if she goes food shopping, she makes me pay her back), I feel like I’m back to where I was years ago.
Since we moved in, I’ve basically rebuilt this entire house myself, right down to the studs. Most of it… on my own dime too. My in-laws did work on their section of the house too, and most of it has been quite shoddy, that I’ve had to redo. They’ve since moved out, claiming we kicked them out (although they were screaming at us weekly asking for their money back, saying we weren’t doing enough for them), and their foreclosure ended, and they still owe hundreds of thousands of dollars on the house, and are also suing us, even though we offered to give the money back that they gave us.
Now, my wife works an extra job, not because she needs it, but because she wants to. And she uses it to entirely fund her clothing addiction. Always getting something for herself. She’s never home, so almost all of the daily house routines fall to me.
Now… I’m working a lot, even though my wife hates it. And I have a child to take care of, when they’re not at school. I try my best. Sometimes I can’t clean everything perfectly, or I don’t get a chance to clean certain rooms or keep up after my child. Everything that doesn’t get done, instead of letting me do it when I can, she gets angry about. Doesn’t talk to me for days. She constantly criticizes me for everything too, things like “you’re always messy”, or “you can’t even put the dishes away right”. Always telling me that if I had better time management, that I’d be able to get things done.
I feel so disconnected. I literally have no one else to talk to. No friends… just my child, who recognizes when I’m sad and hurt, and shouldn’t have to be there to help me. I have no idea what to do. I don't even have a way to get out of the house anymore, even if I wanted to. My car was in her name (as it used to be hers), and she's sold it on me, to pay off her debts.
submitted by ManufacturerAwkward9 to abusiverelationships [link] [comments]
For years now, I felt like I can’t do anything right. The beginnings of our relationship and our marriage were fantastic. It moved a little too fast, if I might be honest, but it felt like it was perfect. Within months of meeting each other, we were planning a future together, and moving in with eachother. In what seemed like a blink of an eye, we were engaged, and married, all in under a year. Our first year of marriage had little fights here and there, and bouts of her not talking to me, but in the end, it was all fine. Then… I bought us our first house (literally… dumped my entire life savings into buying it, and renovating it myself). But then, it started getting difficult. We had really high highs, and really low lows. Each low was set off by something little too, like I left a spot of something on the kitchen counter, or that I moved something in the wrong spot. Sometimes it was that I didn’t want to work on a house renovation after a long day at work. I felt like our marriage was falling apart. Sex disappeared almost entirely. And always, when our fights came to an end, I was the one at fault. I was always told that what I did was wrong, and when I tried to talk about it, I was called mean.
We continued to have ups and downs over the years, and things progressively got better. That is, until we had a child together. At that point, I couldn’t do anything right, at all. She took something I said (“I can’t do this”) the day we came home with our child, something that happened right as I was woken up by our child crying, and I was shaking from severe lack of sleep. She took that, and immediately decided we needed to move in with her parents. I worked from home most days, so I was always taking care of the baby, literally, everything. I was always the one feeding the baby, changing diapers, putting them down for nap, getting them to sleep. Very rarely did my wife step in and do any of these things. I knew there was a degree of postpartum depression, and I tried to talk to her about it, but whenever I did, she not only shut herself out away from me for days at a time, when things were “resolving”, all of my weak points as a parent were always criticized, and I’d be told that I was a mean person. I eventually was so burnt out, that I lost my primary source of income, and only had my side business left. I tried to get another job, but i was getting nowhere. Paying for some bills at her parents house, and entirely paying the mortgage and bills for a house we weren’t living in for a year, with no assistance from anyone, and no more high income job. I was financially crushed. Some massively crazy stuff happened with her family, and we were essentially pressured to move out.
We moved, and I felt isolated. No car (she made me sell it as it needed repairs. Promised me she’d get me a lease… the car was in her name, although I paid it off entirely), still no job (I must have applied to 300 places by then), and she wouldn’t allow me to get out and build my business as it took focus away from the baby. Almost two years of that, and being a stay at home dad, in debt now because the money my business made went to paying bills that surpassed what I was making. Then, her parents came to us, in financial ruin, about to lose their house. We were looking to move again, and buy another house. They wanted to tag along. Miraculously, they came up with a good sum of money, and gifted it to us to help buy the house for everyone. Now, we were both under the impression this was temporary, and that they wanted to move to another state once they got back on their feet and their foreclosure was finished. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise, especially after how they treated us living in their house. They moved in, and I was finally able to get out and build my business up, as I had someone to watch our child. But… once that started happening, my money went to quite literally everything, and I got to enjoy none of it. Between paying for materials for home renovations, increasing how much I’ve been paying for bills, taking on ALL of the house utilities, and buying food (which… if she goes food shopping, she makes me pay her back), I feel like I’m back to where I was years ago.
Since we moved in, I’ve basically rebuilt this entire house myself, right down to the studs. Most of it… on my own dime too. My in-laws did work on their section of the house too, and most of it has been quite shoddy, that I’ve had to redo. They’ve since moved out, claiming we kicked them out (although they were screaming at us weekly asking for their money back, saying we weren’t doing enough for them), and their foreclosure ended, and they still owe hundreds of thousands of dollars on the house, and are also suing us, even though we offered to give the money back that they gave us.
Now, my wife works an extra job, not because she needs it, but because she wants to. And she uses it to entirely fund her clothing addiction. Always getting something for herself. She’s never home, so almost all of the daily house routines fall to me.
Now… I’m working a lot, even though my wife hates it. And I have a child to take care of, when they’re not at school. I try my best. Sometimes I can’t clean everything perfectly, or I don’t get a chance to clean certain rooms or keep up after my child. Everything that doesn’t get done, instead of letting me do it when I can, she gets angry about. Doesn’t talk to me for days. She constantly criticizes me for everything too, things like “you’re always messy”, or “you can’t even put the dishes away right”. Always telling me that if I had better time management, that I’d be able to get things done.
I feel so disconnected. I literally have no one else to talk to. No friends… just my child, who recognizes when I’m sad and hurt, and shouldn’t have to be there to help me. I have no idea what to do. I don't even have a way to get out of the house anymore, even if I wanted to. My car was in her name (as it used to be hers), and she's sold it on me, to pay off her debts.
2023.06.04 21:51 NamelessNanashi [The Gods of Dragons: Beginning] Ch 16 - Aftermath Part 2/2
--- Table of Contents ---
--- Part 1/2 ---
When Shon woke again, it was to be told he'd slept, not only the rest of the day and night of the incident, but the entire day after as well. Despite the Cleric assuring Shon that this was normal, he still had Shon eat breakfast in the infirmary while the Squires attended their morning lessons. He'd slept through drills, breakfast, and prayer.
The Cleric kept the curtains drawn over the window, though Shon's head wasn't pounding anymore, and had added a second set of standing curtains around the girl's bed. Shon's eyes flicked in her direction with every alternate bite he managed to force down, but there was no movement beyond the white cloth.
Master Daunas came in shortly before tenth bell and armor practice to inform Shon that he was to take the day off to rest but could rejoin the others in training the following day. He was at least allowed to leave the infirmary, though he waited until he could hear sparring outside before he did. He didn't want to run into any of the Squires.
As he opened the door to leave something flew by the window, catching Shon's attention enough to make him stop and look over. But it was already long gone. Just a bird... Assuming he hadn't imagined it. He shook his head, still aching all over. His mind swam with worries and memories, made worse by the fact that the Cleric was trying to hide shivers now that Shon was fully rested. He'd probably just imagined it...
Back in his room Shon huddled over his journal. He could still smell the smoke in his hair and had decided it would be best to shower soon, but finally alone, his thoughts and memories could no longer be ignored.
So he drew. He tried to start safe. Nangran atop his borrowed horse; Ivelm mostly naked and shaking a club in his doorway; the Archmage's workroom lined in shelves filled with magical components. That one had taken a while. But as he released these images onto the page, others forced themselves forward. Smoke billowing over treetops; a burning tower; charred bodies; and a girl reaching out through the flames. A girl lying asleep in the bed next to his. The stillness of the picture made her look dead.
He dropped his pencil, letting it roll right off the desk. Crossing his arms over the book, he rested his head on his desk. The wood felt warm compared to his skin, comforting. What more could he have done? What could a Paladin have done? Or Master Veon-Zih? Shon saw again the bodies and shivered.
No one could save everyone. To think otherwise was pure arrogance. But knowing the facts and feeling them were two very different things. The tower wasn’t that far from Hamerfoss. Shouldn’t they have known something was going on? Shouldn’t they have been able to do something sooner? Years sooner? Long before the fire killed those people?
A loud tapping startled him awake. When had he fallen asleep? Shon searched his room in confusion, trying to piece together his dream and what had awoken him. He'd been in the Temple chapel, but as he'd walked down the middle aisle, the pews had started to decay, the stone walls crumbling. Small plants, then trees began to sprout from the ground, overgrowing the once-holy place now in ruin. Shon pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, trying to remember what had come next... A man with white hair pulled back in a ponytail had been standing at the head altar... something with leathery wings on his shoulder...
The painful screech of something sharp on glass had Shon jumping up, his chair falling to clatter on the ground behind him. He looked to his window but saw only orange sky beyond. Was the sun already setting? He knelt on the mattress and looked out the window, unsure what he expected to see. He was on the third floor, but that was definitely where the sound had come from, and the window was the only glass in the room.
Nothing but open sky.
He opened the tiny window, the pane swinging up and letting in cold and refreshing air that helped clear his mind. Master Daunas's voice bellowed orders from the courtyard below, and Shon stuck his head out to look down and see his fellows working through their dagger forms. He'd slept through lunch and afternoon lessons. And he still needed a shower.
If he hurried, he would be able to shower before the others finished their lesson. Shon left the window open and even opened his door before he remembered to grab a fresh uniform. Obviously, he still wasn't thinking clearly.
The halls were blissfully empty, and Shon could almost pretend that even if he did pass someone, their breath wouldn't show in the air. It was a short-lived fantasy, however. He managed to make it all the way to the showers, but when he opened the door a voice called, "Squire! Why aren't you... Oh..." Shon performed a sharp about face to stand at attention before the Major General.
"At ease, Squire Shon," Selibra sighed, waving him down, "Did you get enough rest?"
"Yes, Sir," Shon answered but then caught movement out of the corner of his eye, again. He hadn't managed to turn his head far enough to see before the Major General started speaking. Shon snapped his head back to give the officer his undivided attention.
"You did well, Squire. Smith Nangran told us what happened at the tower." Sir Selibra managed a strained smile that faded quickly, "If you want to talk about what you saw there... any one of us will be more than willing to listen. You shouldn't have had to experience death so soon." an image of an arm pulling away from a charred corpse flashed in Shon's vision.
Shon swallowed down the accompanying nausea at the memory and managed a nod, adding a quiet "Thank you, Sir." for good measure.
Feeling the need to scrub even more than before, Shon was grateful when the Major General left, allowing him to enter the still-open room. The shower was only mildly comforting, however. What should have been scalding water felt merely lukewarm now, the mist billowing off his truly icy skin thick enough that he could barely see the spigots. Closing his eyes, he scrubbed and tried to imagine the images flowing off of him with the filth...
Something chirped, and Shon slammed the water off. Just the pipes creaking... How much longer would he have to rest before his mind stopped playing tricks on him? But as he moved for his towel, Shon stopped in shock, his new uniform had been scattered around the benches and floor.
He hadn't heard the door open, but had heard the pipes creaking? But who here would even do something like this? Shon started to search the showers, but as he did, he heard something else—voices in the hall. The Squires were done with their practice. He still didn't want to see them and dressed quickly, rushing from the shower and slamming the door behind him.
Something thumped into the door from the other side. Shon held his breath and turned slowly. It was his imagination. It had to be. He reached for the handle again and, standing behind the swing, opened the shower slowly.
"He's been gone three days... Do you think they sent him away?" Thom's voice sounded from around a corner, and Shon jumped in surprise, pulling the door open fully as if he could hide behind it.
"No way. he's the best Squire we have, so what if he's a Sorcerer." They were talking about him... Shon definitely didn't want to see them yet. He dashed down the opposite way, taking a long way around through the Paladin's barracks and back to his room. Or that's what he'd planned before he remembered the Squires hall would be full of people now taking their break and trying to get into the shower before everyone else. His feet faltered, and he turned away again, to one of the hardly used stairs that would take him down to the rest of the fortress.
Barred from his room, Shon made his way to the place he associated the most with comfort, the chapel. It wasn't empty, three Paladins knelt in prayer near the front, but it didn't matter anymore. He felt a wash of calm as he entered the incense-filled room, the sweet-smelling smoke finally banishing the stench of burning hair from his memory.
Shon took a spot near the back, kneeling to pray as he stared up at the statue of Hengist behind the altar. He was dressed in full plate mail, his arm raised in triumph, holding his mighty sword, Darkspliter.
Shon sighed and felt himself smile for what felt like the first time in a very long time. He could tell Hengist anything and everything, and none of it out loud... But then his smile faded. What would he say...?
I'm sorry. I feel like I've been lying to everyone, to you. I've known there was something different about me, something wrong with me. That's why no one likes to touch me, why everyone pulls away at the feel of my skin, like it's somehow dirty or painful. I should've realized... Should have known...
But I worked so hard... You know that, don't you? And I'm not ready to give up. I'll do whatever it takes, atone anyway I can if you just tell me how. The Major General said something about it being a sign. I want to believe he meant the unlikely convenience of Smith Nangran knowing an Archmage who could make an item so I won't have to get the tattoo. Thank you. I just hope I don't disappoint after getting a second chance...
The bell for dinner sounded. Feeling better, Shon considered going with the Paladins as they left the chapel. Until one of them shivered as they passed. "Winters right around the corner," another muttered.
"We'll need to install the heating orbs soon." the last answered before the door closed... He wasn't hungry anyway.
Please, Hengist. Don't let me hurt anyone else. Kefir was trying to help me, and I answered that kindness with pain. What if the healers hadn't gotten to him in time? Would I have smothered him in ice? Please, I'll give up everything if it means that will never happen again...
But he didn't want to give up anything. He wanted to fight, to reach his highest potential, and lead a life of meaning. He thought of Master Veon-Zih. The Monk had told him that he didn't need to be a Paladin to fight for justice, and he was living proof of that. But...
I don't want to be alone... At first, I thought I just wanted you, a god, as a guiding light in my life. But now I realize that being a Paladin gives me even more than that. It gives me brothers and friends, and I don't want to lose them either. But I especially don't want to hurt them.
Shon clenched his hands tighter, as tight as he could, digging his fingers into the spaces between his knuckles; as if external pain might dull internal strife...
They say I'm scary... And I know they aren't really joking. I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their nervous laughs when they try and make it a joke. But they only mean when they fight me... don't they? And I'll never try to hurt them. It's only sparring... they know that... don't they?
He squeezed his eyes tighter shut,
But what about now? Will they be even more afraid? Even when we aren't sparring? Can I blame them if they are?
He actually found himself waiting for an answer... Of course, none came. He wasn't a Paladin yet, and wouldn't be able to feel the god until he swore his Oath and took a piece of Hengist into himself. For now, Shon took in a deep breath, as deep as he could, then let it out slowly, relaxing his hands and face as he attempted to release his anxieties unto his god.
I won't give up. I'll fight this danger within me as hard as I will fight any threat without. I ask for your help with this. Please don't give up on me yet. I'll prove I'm worthy, I swear.
The bell ending dinner and starting study time sounded. Shon stayed in the chapel until a handful of Squires came in to pray themselves. They hesitated by the door, but Shon didn't look at them. He knew he couldn't hide forever. But he also wasn't sure what he should say to any of them. Or if he should say anything at all. Shon waited until they moved away from the door to finally stand. If he had to face any of them, he wanted it to be the ones he considered friends first.
Shon left the chapel and made his way to the library, fighting the urge to just go back to his room. Heads swiveled in his direction the moment he opened the library door. Shon flinched, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it, pulling his energy in as best he could.
He stepped in, and the Squires exchanged looks, but then the Paladin on library duty coughed, and they quickly went back to reading.
His typical spot was available as usual, so Shon made his way there. The others would want to talk after... and if not, he would just go back to his room. Distracted by his continued worries -and the silent effort to hold his energy in- Shon still heard when something behind him hissed along the stone.
He spun quickly, scanning the floor. This time he definitely wasn't imagining it...
"Squire Shon... Shouldn't you be resting?" He turned back to find the Squires trying to make it seem like they weren't staring at him, while the Paladin who called looked openly concerned.
Shon's cheeks flushed, now feeling cool rather than warm. Another change... He cleared his throat, "No, Sir..." and when the Paladin's worried expression didn't let up, Shon added, "I've been resting all day."
"Three days..." Zihler muttered.
Shon met his eyes and the Squire smiled, but Shon couldn't tell if the expression seemed strained or not. He nodded anyway, taking his seat alone at the table by the window.
Books on their current subject of study were already laid out, and he pulled one forward, opening it without checking the title. As he read, he could hear the others occasionally whisper and even caught snippets of what they were saying,
"I found another one. Do you think this will be enough?" Thom asked.
"We have the rest of the hour; we should find all we can," Rerves answered. It didn't sound like they were studying, but Shon had missed three days of lessons; maybe they were working on an assignment... He went back to his reading. He would get any missed work tomorrow.
When the bell rang that would finally begin their last hour of free time, Shon closed his book. It would be best to just go to bed early; everyone seemed to think he should be resting anyway; they could talk after he got the sealing item... But he hadn't stood yet when his six closest friends jumped up, books in hand, and crowded around him, preventing him from leaving. From running away.
"We're glad you're okay." Rehlien blurted out.
"The Major General told us what happened," Baradin added.
Shon looked from him to Kefir and took in a sharp breath, "I'm..." he started to apologize, but Kefir interrupted with a broad smile,
"I'm fine. I even got a day off for it. I didn't need it though, they healed me up right away."
Rerves placed his book down on Shon's table, "It was just really surprising, you know? But hey! Now we know why you're so cold all the time."
Shon looked down at the massive tome on the table, not wanting to meet their eyes. He didn't know what to make of what they were saying. There was no way it was okay. How could they be alright with a dangerous magic user that could kill them all on accident...
"We found these. We thought they might make you feel a little better," Thom whispered, stacking his book on top of Rerves' and opening it to a page he'd marked with a ripped piece of scrap paper. It wasn't a textbook, it was a record book. Shon furrowed his brows down at the page, reading 'Sir Patrich, served 4876-4929, died 4955. Paladin of Hengist, General. Air Sorcerer...'
Shon looked up to find them all smiling down at him. Zihler set his book down over Thom's, opened to another personal record, "This one was a fire Sorcerer, and they're supposed to be the most destructive."
Rehlien took Baradin and Kefir's books and stacked them with his own beside the open records. He ran his fingers over the slew of bookmarks sticking out of the closed pages, "All Sorcerers and Paladins." Rehlien said.
"Master Daunas said you would be back in a few days, but just in case we wanted to find these for you," Thom explained in a rush, "You know... in case the officers or Mages needed to be convinced..."
Baradin cleared his throat before he spoke, clasping his hands behind his back, "We haven't found any ice Sorcerers yet, but they're also the rarest, so that really shouldn't be surprising."
"Yeah, and there are plenty of fire who are crazy dangerous even when they're trained," Kefir added quickly.
Shon could feel a burning in his eyes and blinked furiously, looking away from his friends. He wouldn't cry.. he wouldn't. "Thank you..." he managed to croak out, finally giving in and rubbing his eyes. None of them commented on his show of emotion, or the frost clouding his window.
Rerves took the seat across from him with a smile, "So, what type of familiar do you think you'll get?"
Shon managed to stop blinking enough to arch an eyebrow. Hadn't Ivelm said something about a familiar too?
"I bet you it'll be something really lame." Zihler laughed, "To balance Shon's badassness."
"Squire!" the Paladin librarian barked, "Pushups! Now!"
Zihler groaned, mumbling as he stepped back to perform the punishment, "How do they always do that?"
"Divine hearing," Rehlien snickered as Zihler started the pushups, "Probably only works for curses, though."
"You can join him," the Paladin called without looking up from his book, and Rehlien groaned, dropping down next to Zihler.
"Seriously though," Rerves said, ignoring the boys huffing and puffing through their punishment, "Familiars are animals, they're supposed to be even closer to their Sorcerer than a Paladin and their mount! Like an extension of yourself. You can see through their eyes and talk to them with your mind. It's awesome!"
Thom actually blushed, confessing, "We read up on it a bit over the last two days..."
They knew more about what he was than he did. Shon actually smiled, starting, "I don't..." but chittering, like a particularly loud squirrel, interrupted him. The Squires all swiveled their heads to look around, Rehlien and Zihler jumping to their feet with the Paladin, who stood so quickly his chair fell over. The chittering turned to chirping, and then to a purr, as Shon finally found what was making the noise.
On top of the bookshelf closest to the door, sat a tiny dragon.
The size of a large barn cat, its scales were mostly brown but had streaks and blotches of red and orange, like the few deciduous trees that still held their leaves in autumn. Its leathery wings were folded against its back and its front claws grasped the edge of the bookshelf. Its long tail, complete with a scorpion-like stinger, flicked back and forth, its sinuous neck held high as it surveyed the library.
Some of the Squires let slip breaths of wonder, and the little dragon seemed to preen at the attention, holding its head a little higher and purring even louder. The Paladin, however, stepped around his desk and commanded, "Stay back, Squires," before he started chanting. The little dragon tilted its head at the Paladin, as curious as the rest of them. A moment later, the knight's spell washed over them to fill the room, sending a shiver down Shon's spine and making more than one of the other Squires shudder.
The little dragon let out another string of chittering and hissed down at the Paladin, whose eyes went wide as he announced in a breath, "It's real."
"How did it get in?" a senior Squire asked. Shon started to stand but then fell back again as images flooded into his mind. He watched a window opening from outside the fortress, and saw himself lean out. Then the image shifted, and he saw himself digging under his bed for a new uniform and towel as the him that was watching slipped out the door. It shifted again, and he saw himself in the shower, mist billowing off his shoulders before he dug through the piles of clothes left on the bench. It shifted again, and he darted into the library and behind the bookshelf, watching as he, Shon, walked in and sat down at the little table.
Shon blinked and shook his head furiously to try and clear it. All the pictures had flooded in so fast that no one even had time to answer the question or pose their own, "I let it in..." Shon whispered, then looked at the Paladin, explaining quickly, "I didn't mean to. I left my window open to air out my room and..."
"It's okay, Squire," the Paladin was actually smiling, and the little dragon whistled, "They're goodly creatures, though elusive. I've never seen a live one." the dragon leaned forward on the bookshelf, crouching down on its front claws and wiggling its hindquarters before it leaped into the air, opening its wings to spread as wide as it was long. It glided a lap around the library then hovered in front of the Paladin, chittering again and flapping hard enough to blow the man's short hair back before flying right towards the group of Squires around Shon.
It brushed Baradin's head with its claws, the boy ducking as it swooped down to land on Shon's table. The dragon looked from the open books to Shon, then, before Shon could pull back, climbed up his arm and to his shoulder, purring hard enough to vibrate Shon too. It weighed considerably less than it looked like it should, though its claws were sharp enough to pierce through his clothes as it climbed. It brought its face right up to Shon's eye, and though he tried to pull away, it followed him with its long neck, rubbing its cheek along his face. The scales were smooth and lacked temperature, like being touched by a gloved hand. It nuzzled his cheek again, then down his neck and into his shirt.
Surprised, Shon tried to throw the dragon off, but it just dug its claws into his sleeves, chittering angrily then clawing its way around to his back before lifting itself up to drape over his head. "What..." Shon started, but the Paladin cut him off with a laugh.
"I think that answers your friends' questions, Squire."
Shon was too confused to even arch an eyebrow at the man, but Rerves apparently understood what he'd meant because he said, "But I thought only animals could be familiars, like cats and crows and stuff..."
The Paladin nodded but then shrugged, "That's usually the case, but sometimes, rarely, there will be a Sorcerer who gets something a bit more special, like a winged serpent, fairy dragon, or in this case," he nodded at Shon, "A pseudodragon."
The pseudodragon purred, vibrating Shon's head. The Squires all gaped slack-jawed in awe at it, and Shon reached up slowly. He wasn't even sure what he was going to do, pet it? Push it off? But before he'd even touched it, it lifted its head, stretching its long neck out and nuzzling into his hand, obviously not caring that his skin was colder now than it had ever been.
"Damn..." Zihler muttered in obvious disappointment, "I was really hoping it would be a toad so I would have something to make fun of..."
The little dragon's answering twitter almost sounded like a laugh.
***
She groaned, rolling over and nuzzling deeper into Her pillow. Except it didn’t smell like Her pillow. Her eyes flew open, and She sat up. Then fell back down. That was stupid. Ran and Brom had probably taken more blood than usual again… except She couldn’t remember them taking Her for samples. Not for weeks and weeks…
“It’s alright, you’re safe here,” the kindly voice of a man spoke from Her right, and She sat up again, more slowly this time. A stranger in white robes with a sword embroidered on the chest reached out to help Her up, but after touching Her back he pulled sharply away.
She was too confused to apologize for burning him. “Where?” She asked, looking around the room. Like the stranger, it was covered in white. White blankets, white rug, and white curtains hanging to either side of an open window. A window that looked out onto a blue sky. She gasped, scrambling from the bed and nearly tripping over Her white gown. Of course it was white. How in all the hells did they keep it all clean?
She shook Her head and rushed for the window. The man behind Her gasped, his chair scraping loudly as he stood to follow. She pressed Her hands on the cold glass, staring up into the sky, “I’m on an upper floor!?” She grinned excitedly over Her shoulder as the stranger stared at Her, mouth hanging open.
Turning back to the window, She used Her arm to wipe the fog from Her heat off the glass, letting Her gaze trail down. She didn’t see the treetops She expected. Not close anyway. Instead, the forest was beyond a wide clear field, which in turn was beyond a tall stone wall with people dressed in silver walking along its top. She stood on Her toes to look down through the window. Between the wall and Her was a courtyard full of more people swinging things that glinted in the sun.
This wasn’t the tower. None of those people wore robes except the nice stranger. She spun to him, “My treasures, where are they? Brom? Ran? Where…” She saw a flash of red, heard a pained bark, and smelled iron. She fell to Her knees, grasping Her chest and breathing hard, remembering bits and pieces. He killed them. He killed all of them. Then what? She couldn’t remember...
“You are in a training facility of the Temple of Hengist, Hamerfoss, in Clearhelm.” a new voice, deeper, less kind though not cruel, spoke from the doorway. Lifting Her head, She saw the new man wearing a crisp, white, uniform, with a sword hanging comfortably from his belt. Hengist… so that explained all the white.
The kind man in robes had rushed to Her but dared not touch Her. Wise. With Her head spinning so fast, there was no way She was controlling Her heat properly. “How long has she been awake?” the new man asked the kind one.
“She just woke up, Major General,”
“He killed them…” She whispered, squeezing Her eyes shut, pushing back the rage and sorrow, trying to fill in Her memory. What happened next?
“It will be alright. You're safe here,” the kind man said again.
She pulled Her own hair, lacing Her fingers into the golden strands and squeezing. What had happened? She had run down the hall, but how had She gotten out of Her room? There were strangers in Her tower. These men? She glared up at the brown-haired man who looked down at Her, his hands behind his back.
“Who are you? What did you do to the Mages?” She could feel the hair rise on the back of Her neck and a familiar tingling where the collar should be.
The Major General remained calm before Her building fury, saying only, “Calm down.” It was a command backed by magic. She felt the power flow over Her and try to settle on Her mind. She could almost sense the peace it promised but shook Her head, clearing it of the spell.
He could've used his magic to hurt Her. Perhaps not with the collar as the Archmages did, but in other ways. And yet, he hadn’t moved from his spot, his hands still behind his back. She looked again at the sword of Hengist at his side. She'd read all about the gods. Hengist was good and noble, all about self-sacrifice and protecting the weak… A fool, the Mages had said. And yet his Temple ruled this province. The Mages of Her tower would never work with the Temple of Hengist. Or any kingdom order…
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She didn’t need his help to calm down, not when She had something to focus on. She shoved Her grief to the back of Her mind. “How did I get here?” another image flashed in Her mind, fire all around, a white path, blue eyes.
The Paladin didn’t answer right away; instead, he motioned for the robed man - a Cleric? - to bring him a chair. She tilted Her head curiously at him, but he only sat down with a weary sigh, then gestured towards the bed, “Please, have a seat.”
She stood, returning to the bed and eyeing the door over his shoulder. He hadn’t locked it. “We saw smoke from the woods and found you in a burning tower.” the blood drained from Her face, “We have recovered several bodies from around the structure, but there were no other survivors.” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing Her with a piercing stare, “What happened? What was going on in that tower?”
She brought Her feet onto the bed and hugged Her legs tight, “I don’t… I can’t remember…” a fire, the tower burning… But it was made of stone. Her fire couldn’t burn that hot… Could it?
“Sir Selibra,” the kindly Cleric sounded stern, crossing his arms and glaring down at the Paladin, “She has just woken up from what was obviously a terrible ordeal. Show some compassion.”
The Paladin, Selibra, actually looked ashamed, leaning back in his chair and clearing his throat, “I apologize, miss…” he drew out the last word, looking at Her expectantly. She tilted Her head. “What is your name?” he asked more clearly. She tilted Her head the other way. Were they going to play that game here too?
The Cleric hummed then said, “Please forgive him, miss, we are all very troubled by the events and deaths at the tower. The Major General merely got ahead of himself. If you could tell us your name, then we can let you rest and…”
“I don’t have a name.”
The two men blinked dumbly at Her, and She rolled Her eyes, “I knnnooowww,” She let Her legs fall back down, so She was sitting properly again, “But I don’t know it yet. As soon as I do, I'll tell you.” She assured them. The men exchanged looks as She glanced again out the window. Maybe She should've just told them what Brom and Ran called Her… But those weren’t names. They were descriptors. No better than ‘Firewyrm.’
If these Temple men were to be believed, everything was gone. She had no room, no books, no clothes, no treasures, and no name. What did She have? She pulled Her hair over Her shoulder and stared out the window as She stroked it. She had Her hair. They hadn’t cut it in months. She had Her body. She straightened Her posture, holding Her head high. And She had Her power—the fire crackling deep inside Her soul. The Mages had taken the first two. The third had destroyed them.
“You should rest,” Selibra stood, and Her eyes snapped back to him, “You can send for me when you feel ready to talk. Until then, focus on recovering your strength and your memories.”
He made it all the way to the door, even swung it open before She called out, “What are you going to do to me?”
Selibra turned back, his eyebrows raised in surprise. The Cleric placed a hand on Her shoulder, slowly and carefully, gauging how much of Her heat he could handle. She turned to him, and he let Her go. He'd held on longer than expected. “We will keep you safe, child.” the Cleric assured Her.
The Paladin grew stiff for a moment, then brought his right fist up to his chest, “By the sword of Hengist’s honor, we will safeguard your life and freedom,” Freedom? “Whatever injustices you endured there, you will find justice in the laws of Clearhelm.” She didn’t know what to say, and so, after an awkward moment of silence, Selibra turned for the door again and left.
She didn’t lay down. Instead, She walked back to the window. The view seemed to stretch on forever from so high up, higher than She'd ever remembered being before. Even when She used to climb the trees around Her tower.
Selibra hadn’t locked the door, but the Cleric bustled around behind Her, and the wall below Her clanked with armored knights. What was freedom anyway?
--- Table of Contents ---
Thanks for making it this far, you are the real MVP
submitted by NamelessNanashi to redditserials [link] [comments]
--- Part 1/2 ---
When Shon woke again, it was to be told he'd slept, not only the rest of the day and night of the incident, but the entire day after as well. Despite the Cleric assuring Shon that this was normal, he still had Shon eat breakfast in the infirmary while the Squires attended their morning lessons. He'd slept through drills, breakfast, and prayer.
The Cleric kept the curtains drawn over the window, though Shon's head wasn't pounding anymore, and had added a second set of standing curtains around the girl's bed. Shon's eyes flicked in her direction with every alternate bite he managed to force down, but there was no movement beyond the white cloth.
Master Daunas came in shortly before tenth bell and armor practice to inform Shon that he was to take the day off to rest but could rejoin the others in training the following day. He was at least allowed to leave the infirmary, though he waited until he could hear sparring outside before he did. He didn't want to run into any of the Squires.
As he opened the door to leave something flew by the window, catching Shon's attention enough to make him stop and look over. But it was already long gone. Just a bird... Assuming he hadn't imagined it. He shook his head, still aching all over. His mind swam with worries and memories, made worse by the fact that the Cleric was trying to hide shivers now that Shon was fully rested. He'd probably just imagined it...
Back in his room Shon huddled over his journal. He could still smell the smoke in his hair and had decided it would be best to shower soon, but finally alone, his thoughts and memories could no longer be ignored.
So he drew. He tried to start safe. Nangran atop his borrowed horse; Ivelm mostly naked and shaking a club in his doorway; the Archmage's workroom lined in shelves filled with magical components. That one had taken a while. But as he released these images onto the page, others forced themselves forward. Smoke billowing over treetops; a burning tower; charred bodies; and a girl reaching out through the flames. A girl lying asleep in the bed next to his. The stillness of the picture made her look dead.
He dropped his pencil, letting it roll right off the desk. Crossing his arms over the book, he rested his head on his desk. The wood felt warm compared to his skin, comforting. What more could he have done? What could a Paladin have done? Or Master Veon-Zih? Shon saw again the bodies and shivered.
No one could save everyone. To think otherwise was pure arrogance. But knowing the facts and feeling them were two very different things. The tower wasn’t that far from Hamerfoss. Shouldn’t they have known something was going on? Shouldn’t they have been able to do something sooner? Years sooner? Long before the fire killed those people?
A loud tapping startled him awake. When had he fallen asleep? Shon searched his room in confusion, trying to piece together his dream and what had awoken him. He'd been in the Temple chapel, but as he'd walked down the middle aisle, the pews had started to decay, the stone walls crumbling. Small plants, then trees began to sprout from the ground, overgrowing the once-holy place now in ruin. Shon pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, trying to remember what had come next... A man with white hair pulled back in a ponytail had been standing at the head altar... something with leathery wings on his shoulder...
The painful screech of something sharp on glass had Shon jumping up, his chair falling to clatter on the ground behind him. He looked to his window but saw only orange sky beyond. Was the sun already setting? He knelt on the mattress and looked out the window, unsure what he expected to see. He was on the third floor, but that was definitely where the sound had come from, and the window was the only glass in the room.
Nothing but open sky.
He opened the tiny window, the pane swinging up and letting in cold and refreshing air that helped clear his mind. Master Daunas's voice bellowed orders from the courtyard below, and Shon stuck his head out to look down and see his fellows working through their dagger forms. He'd slept through lunch and afternoon lessons. And he still needed a shower.
If he hurried, he would be able to shower before the others finished their lesson. Shon left the window open and even opened his door before he remembered to grab a fresh uniform. Obviously, he still wasn't thinking clearly.
The halls were blissfully empty, and Shon could almost pretend that even if he did pass someone, their breath wouldn't show in the air. It was a short-lived fantasy, however. He managed to make it all the way to the showers, but when he opened the door a voice called, "Squire! Why aren't you... Oh..." Shon performed a sharp about face to stand at attention before the Major General.
"At ease, Squire Shon," Selibra sighed, waving him down, "Did you get enough rest?"
"Yes, Sir," Shon answered but then caught movement out of the corner of his eye, again. He hadn't managed to turn his head far enough to see before the Major General started speaking. Shon snapped his head back to give the officer his undivided attention.
"You did well, Squire. Smith Nangran told us what happened at the tower." Sir Selibra managed a strained smile that faded quickly, "If you want to talk about what you saw there... any one of us will be more than willing to listen. You shouldn't have had to experience death so soon." an image of an arm pulling away from a charred corpse flashed in Shon's vision.
Shon swallowed down the accompanying nausea at the memory and managed a nod, adding a quiet "Thank you, Sir." for good measure.
Feeling the need to scrub even more than before, Shon was grateful when the Major General left, allowing him to enter the still-open room. The shower was only mildly comforting, however. What should have been scalding water felt merely lukewarm now, the mist billowing off his truly icy skin thick enough that he could barely see the spigots. Closing his eyes, he scrubbed and tried to imagine the images flowing off of him with the filth...
Something chirped, and Shon slammed the water off. Just the pipes creaking... How much longer would he have to rest before his mind stopped playing tricks on him? But as he moved for his towel, Shon stopped in shock, his new uniform had been scattered around the benches and floor.
He hadn't heard the door open, but had heard the pipes creaking? But who here would even do something like this? Shon started to search the showers, but as he did, he heard something else—voices in the hall. The Squires were done with their practice. He still didn't want to see them and dressed quickly, rushing from the shower and slamming the door behind him.
Something thumped into the door from the other side. Shon held his breath and turned slowly. It was his imagination. It had to be. He reached for the handle again and, standing behind the swing, opened the shower slowly.
"He's been gone three days... Do you think they sent him away?" Thom's voice sounded from around a corner, and Shon jumped in surprise, pulling the door open fully as if he could hide behind it.
"No way. he's the best Squire we have, so what if he's a Sorcerer." They were talking about him... Shon definitely didn't want to see them yet. He dashed down the opposite way, taking a long way around through the Paladin's barracks and back to his room. Or that's what he'd planned before he remembered the Squires hall would be full of people now taking their break and trying to get into the shower before everyone else. His feet faltered, and he turned away again, to one of the hardly used stairs that would take him down to the rest of the fortress.
Barred from his room, Shon made his way to the place he associated the most with comfort, the chapel. It wasn't empty, three Paladins knelt in prayer near the front, but it didn't matter anymore. He felt a wash of calm as he entered the incense-filled room, the sweet-smelling smoke finally banishing the stench of burning hair from his memory.
Shon took a spot near the back, kneeling to pray as he stared up at the statue of Hengist behind the altar. He was dressed in full plate mail, his arm raised in triumph, holding his mighty sword, Darkspliter.
Shon sighed and felt himself smile for what felt like the first time in a very long time. He could tell Hengist anything and everything, and none of it out loud... But then his smile faded. What would he say...?
I'm sorry. I feel like I've been lying to everyone, to you. I've known there was something different about me, something wrong with me. That's why no one likes to touch me, why everyone pulls away at the feel of my skin, like it's somehow dirty or painful. I should've realized... Should have known...
But I worked so hard... You know that, don't you? And I'm not ready to give up. I'll do whatever it takes, atone anyway I can if you just tell me how. The Major General said something about it being a sign. I want to believe he meant the unlikely convenience of Smith Nangran knowing an Archmage who could make an item so I won't have to get the tattoo. Thank you. I just hope I don't disappoint after getting a second chance...
The bell for dinner sounded. Feeling better, Shon considered going with the Paladins as they left the chapel. Until one of them shivered as they passed. "Winters right around the corner," another muttered.
"We'll need to install the heating orbs soon." the last answered before the door closed... He wasn't hungry anyway.
Please, Hengist. Don't let me hurt anyone else. Kefir was trying to help me, and I answered that kindness with pain. What if the healers hadn't gotten to him in time? Would I have smothered him in ice? Please, I'll give up everything if it means that will never happen again...
But he didn't want to give up anything. He wanted to fight, to reach his highest potential, and lead a life of meaning. He thought of Master Veon-Zih. The Monk had told him that he didn't need to be a Paladin to fight for justice, and he was living proof of that. But...
I don't want to be alone... At first, I thought I just wanted you, a god, as a guiding light in my life. But now I realize that being a Paladin gives me even more than that. It gives me brothers and friends, and I don't want to lose them either. But I especially don't want to hurt them.
Shon clenched his hands tighter, as tight as he could, digging his fingers into the spaces between his knuckles; as if external pain might dull internal strife...
They say I'm scary... And I know they aren't really joking. I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their nervous laughs when they try and make it a joke. But they only mean when they fight me... don't they? And I'll never try to hurt them. It's only sparring... they know that... don't they?
He squeezed his eyes tighter shut,
But what about now? Will they be even more afraid? Even when we aren't sparring? Can I blame them if they are?
He actually found himself waiting for an answer... Of course, none came. He wasn't a Paladin yet, and wouldn't be able to feel the god until he swore his Oath and took a piece of Hengist into himself. For now, Shon took in a deep breath, as deep as he could, then let it out slowly, relaxing his hands and face as he attempted to release his anxieties unto his god.
I won't give up. I'll fight this danger within me as hard as I will fight any threat without. I ask for your help with this. Please don't give up on me yet. I'll prove I'm worthy, I swear.
The bell ending dinner and starting study time sounded. Shon stayed in the chapel until a handful of Squires came in to pray themselves. They hesitated by the door, but Shon didn't look at them. He knew he couldn't hide forever. But he also wasn't sure what he should say to any of them. Or if he should say anything at all. Shon waited until they moved away from the door to finally stand. If he had to face any of them, he wanted it to be the ones he considered friends first.
Shon left the chapel and made his way to the library, fighting the urge to just go back to his room. Heads swiveled in his direction the moment he opened the library door. Shon flinched, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it, pulling his energy in as best he could.
He stepped in, and the Squires exchanged looks, but then the Paladin on library duty coughed, and they quickly went back to reading.
His typical spot was available as usual, so Shon made his way there. The others would want to talk after... and if not, he would just go back to his room. Distracted by his continued worries -and the silent effort to hold his energy in- Shon still heard when something behind him hissed along the stone.
He spun quickly, scanning the floor. This time he definitely wasn't imagining it...
"Squire Shon... Shouldn't you be resting?" He turned back to find the Squires trying to make it seem like they weren't staring at him, while the Paladin who called looked openly concerned.
Shon's cheeks flushed, now feeling cool rather than warm. Another change... He cleared his throat, "No, Sir..." and when the Paladin's worried expression didn't let up, Shon added, "I've been resting all day."
"Three days..." Zihler muttered.
Shon met his eyes and the Squire smiled, but Shon couldn't tell if the expression seemed strained or not. He nodded anyway, taking his seat alone at the table by the window.
Books on their current subject of study were already laid out, and he pulled one forward, opening it without checking the title. As he read, he could hear the others occasionally whisper and even caught snippets of what they were saying,
"I found another one. Do you think this will be enough?" Thom asked.
"We have the rest of the hour; we should find all we can," Rerves answered. It didn't sound like they were studying, but Shon had missed three days of lessons; maybe they were working on an assignment... He went back to his reading. He would get any missed work tomorrow.
When the bell rang that would finally begin their last hour of free time, Shon closed his book. It would be best to just go to bed early; everyone seemed to think he should be resting anyway; they could talk after he got the sealing item... But he hadn't stood yet when his six closest friends jumped up, books in hand, and crowded around him, preventing him from leaving. From running away.
"We're glad you're okay." Rehlien blurted out.
"The Major General told us what happened," Baradin added.
Shon looked from him to Kefir and took in a sharp breath, "I'm..." he started to apologize, but Kefir interrupted with a broad smile,
"I'm fine. I even got a day off for it. I didn't need it though, they healed me up right away."
Rerves placed his book down on Shon's table, "It was just really surprising, you know? But hey! Now we know why you're so cold all the time."
Shon looked down at the massive tome on the table, not wanting to meet their eyes. He didn't know what to make of what they were saying. There was no way it was okay. How could they be alright with a dangerous magic user that could kill them all on accident...
"We found these. We thought they might make you feel a little better," Thom whispered, stacking his book on top of Rerves' and opening it to a page he'd marked with a ripped piece of scrap paper. It wasn't a textbook, it was a record book. Shon furrowed his brows down at the page, reading 'Sir Patrich, served 4876-4929, died 4955. Paladin of Hengist, General. Air Sorcerer...'
Shon looked up to find them all smiling down at him. Zihler set his book down over Thom's, opened to another personal record, "This one was a fire Sorcerer, and they're supposed to be the most destructive."
Rehlien took Baradin and Kefir's books and stacked them with his own beside the open records. He ran his fingers over the slew of bookmarks sticking out of the closed pages, "All Sorcerers and Paladins." Rehlien said.
"Master Daunas said you would be back in a few days, but just in case we wanted to find these for you," Thom explained in a rush, "You know... in case the officers or Mages needed to be convinced..."
Baradin cleared his throat before he spoke, clasping his hands behind his back, "We haven't found any ice Sorcerers yet, but they're also the rarest, so that really shouldn't be surprising."
"Yeah, and there are plenty of fire who are crazy dangerous even when they're trained," Kefir added quickly.
Shon could feel a burning in his eyes and blinked furiously, looking away from his friends. He wouldn't cry.. he wouldn't. "Thank you..." he managed to croak out, finally giving in and rubbing his eyes. None of them commented on his show of emotion, or the frost clouding his window.
Rerves took the seat across from him with a smile, "So, what type of familiar do you think you'll get?"
Shon managed to stop blinking enough to arch an eyebrow. Hadn't Ivelm said something about a familiar too?
"I bet you it'll be something really lame." Zihler laughed, "To balance Shon's badassness."
"Squire!" the Paladin librarian barked, "Pushups! Now!"
Zihler groaned, mumbling as he stepped back to perform the punishment, "How do they always do that?"
"Divine hearing," Rehlien snickered as Zihler started the pushups, "Probably only works for curses, though."
"You can join him," the Paladin called without looking up from his book, and Rehlien groaned, dropping down next to Zihler.
"Seriously though," Rerves said, ignoring the boys huffing and puffing through their punishment, "Familiars are animals, they're supposed to be even closer to their Sorcerer than a Paladin and their mount! Like an extension of yourself. You can see through their eyes and talk to them with your mind. It's awesome!"
Thom actually blushed, confessing, "We read up on it a bit over the last two days..."
They knew more about what he was than he did. Shon actually smiled, starting, "I don't..." but chittering, like a particularly loud squirrel, interrupted him. The Squires all swiveled their heads to look around, Rehlien and Zihler jumping to their feet with the Paladin, who stood so quickly his chair fell over. The chittering turned to chirping, and then to a purr, as Shon finally found what was making the noise.
On top of the bookshelf closest to the door, sat a tiny dragon.
The size of a large barn cat, its scales were mostly brown but had streaks and blotches of red and orange, like the few deciduous trees that still held their leaves in autumn. Its leathery wings were folded against its back and its front claws grasped the edge of the bookshelf. Its long tail, complete with a scorpion-like stinger, flicked back and forth, its sinuous neck held high as it surveyed the library.
Some of the Squires let slip breaths of wonder, and the little dragon seemed to preen at the attention, holding its head a little higher and purring even louder. The Paladin, however, stepped around his desk and commanded, "Stay back, Squires," before he started chanting. The little dragon tilted its head at the Paladin, as curious as the rest of them. A moment later, the knight's spell washed over them to fill the room, sending a shiver down Shon's spine and making more than one of the other Squires shudder.
The little dragon let out another string of chittering and hissed down at the Paladin, whose eyes went wide as he announced in a breath, "It's real."
"How did it get in?" a senior Squire asked. Shon started to stand but then fell back again as images flooded into his mind. He watched a window opening from outside the fortress, and saw himself lean out. Then the image shifted, and he saw himself digging under his bed for a new uniform and towel as the him that was watching slipped out the door. It shifted again, and he saw himself in the shower, mist billowing off his shoulders before he dug through the piles of clothes left on the bench. It shifted again, and he darted into the library and behind the bookshelf, watching as he, Shon, walked in and sat down at the little table.
Shon blinked and shook his head furiously to try and clear it. All the pictures had flooded in so fast that no one even had time to answer the question or pose their own, "I let it in..." Shon whispered, then looked at the Paladin, explaining quickly, "I didn't mean to. I left my window open to air out my room and..."
"It's okay, Squire," the Paladin was actually smiling, and the little dragon whistled, "They're goodly creatures, though elusive. I've never seen a live one." the dragon leaned forward on the bookshelf, crouching down on its front claws and wiggling its hindquarters before it leaped into the air, opening its wings to spread as wide as it was long. It glided a lap around the library then hovered in front of the Paladin, chittering again and flapping hard enough to blow the man's short hair back before flying right towards the group of Squires around Shon.
It brushed Baradin's head with its claws, the boy ducking as it swooped down to land on Shon's table. The dragon looked from the open books to Shon, then, before Shon could pull back, climbed up his arm and to his shoulder, purring hard enough to vibrate Shon too. It weighed considerably less than it looked like it should, though its claws were sharp enough to pierce through his clothes as it climbed. It brought its face right up to Shon's eye, and though he tried to pull away, it followed him with its long neck, rubbing its cheek along his face. The scales were smooth and lacked temperature, like being touched by a gloved hand. It nuzzled his cheek again, then down his neck and into his shirt.
Surprised, Shon tried to throw the dragon off, but it just dug its claws into his sleeves, chittering angrily then clawing its way around to his back before lifting itself up to drape over his head. "What..." Shon started, but the Paladin cut him off with a laugh.
"I think that answers your friends' questions, Squire."
Shon was too confused to even arch an eyebrow at the man, but Rerves apparently understood what he'd meant because he said, "But I thought only animals could be familiars, like cats and crows and stuff..."
The Paladin nodded but then shrugged, "That's usually the case, but sometimes, rarely, there will be a Sorcerer who gets something a bit more special, like a winged serpent, fairy dragon, or in this case," he nodded at Shon, "A pseudodragon."
The pseudodragon purred, vibrating Shon's head. The Squires all gaped slack-jawed in awe at it, and Shon reached up slowly. He wasn't even sure what he was going to do, pet it? Push it off? But before he'd even touched it, it lifted its head, stretching its long neck out and nuzzling into his hand, obviously not caring that his skin was colder now than it had ever been.
"Damn..." Zihler muttered in obvious disappointment, "I was really hoping it would be a toad so I would have something to make fun of..."
The little dragon's answering twitter almost sounded like a laugh.
***
She groaned, rolling over and nuzzling deeper into Her pillow. Except it didn’t smell like Her pillow. Her eyes flew open, and She sat up. Then fell back down. That was stupid. Ran and Brom had probably taken more blood than usual again… except She couldn’t remember them taking Her for samples. Not for weeks and weeks…
“It’s alright, you’re safe here,” the kindly voice of a man spoke from Her right, and She sat up again, more slowly this time. A stranger in white robes with a sword embroidered on the chest reached out to help Her up, but after touching Her back he pulled sharply away.
She was too confused to apologize for burning him. “Where?” She asked, looking around the room. Like the stranger, it was covered in white. White blankets, white rug, and white curtains hanging to either side of an open window. A window that looked out onto a blue sky. She gasped, scrambling from the bed and nearly tripping over Her white gown. Of course it was white. How in all the hells did they keep it all clean?
She shook Her head and rushed for the window. The man behind Her gasped, his chair scraping loudly as he stood to follow. She pressed Her hands on the cold glass, staring up into the sky, “I’m on an upper floor!?” She grinned excitedly over Her shoulder as the stranger stared at Her, mouth hanging open.
Turning back to the window, She used Her arm to wipe the fog from Her heat off the glass, letting Her gaze trail down. She didn’t see the treetops She expected. Not close anyway. Instead, the forest was beyond a wide clear field, which in turn was beyond a tall stone wall with people dressed in silver walking along its top. She stood on Her toes to look down through the window. Between the wall and Her was a courtyard full of more people swinging things that glinted in the sun.
This wasn’t the tower. None of those people wore robes except the nice stranger. She spun to him, “My treasures, where are they? Brom? Ran? Where…” She saw a flash of red, heard a pained bark, and smelled iron. She fell to Her knees, grasping Her chest and breathing hard, remembering bits and pieces. He killed them. He killed all of them. Then what? She couldn’t remember...
“You are in a training facility of the Temple of Hengist, Hamerfoss, in Clearhelm.” a new voice, deeper, less kind though not cruel, spoke from the doorway. Lifting Her head, She saw the new man wearing a crisp, white, uniform, with a sword hanging comfortably from his belt. Hengist… so that explained all the white.
The kind man in robes had rushed to Her but dared not touch Her. Wise. With Her head spinning so fast, there was no way She was controlling Her heat properly. “How long has she been awake?” the new man asked the kind one.
“She just woke up, Major General,”
“He killed them…” She whispered, squeezing Her eyes shut, pushing back the rage and sorrow, trying to fill in Her memory. What happened next?
“It will be alright. You're safe here,” the kind man said again.
She pulled Her own hair, lacing Her fingers into the golden strands and squeezing. What had happened? She had run down the hall, but how had She gotten out of Her room? There were strangers in Her tower. These men? She glared up at the brown-haired man who looked down at Her, his hands behind his back.
“Who are you? What did you do to the Mages?” She could feel the hair rise on the back of Her neck and a familiar tingling where the collar should be.
The Major General remained calm before Her building fury, saying only, “Calm down.” It was a command backed by magic. She felt the power flow over Her and try to settle on Her mind. She could almost sense the peace it promised but shook Her head, clearing it of the spell.
He could've used his magic to hurt Her. Perhaps not with the collar as the Archmages did, but in other ways. And yet, he hadn’t moved from his spot, his hands still behind his back. She looked again at the sword of Hengist at his side. She'd read all about the gods. Hengist was good and noble, all about self-sacrifice and protecting the weak… A fool, the Mages had said. And yet his Temple ruled this province. The Mages of Her tower would never work with the Temple of Hengist. Or any kingdom order…
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She didn’t need his help to calm down, not when She had something to focus on. She shoved Her grief to the back of Her mind. “How did I get here?” another image flashed in Her mind, fire all around, a white path, blue eyes.
The Paladin didn’t answer right away; instead, he motioned for the robed man - a Cleric? - to bring him a chair. She tilted Her head curiously at him, but he only sat down with a weary sigh, then gestured towards the bed, “Please, have a seat.”
She stood, returning to the bed and eyeing the door over his shoulder. He hadn’t locked it. “We saw smoke from the woods and found you in a burning tower.” the blood drained from Her face, “We have recovered several bodies from around the structure, but there were no other survivors.” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and fixing Her with a piercing stare, “What happened? What was going on in that tower?”
She brought Her feet onto the bed and hugged Her legs tight, “I don’t… I can’t remember…” a fire, the tower burning… But it was made of stone. Her fire couldn’t burn that hot… Could it?
“Sir Selibra,” the kindly Cleric sounded stern, crossing his arms and glaring down at the Paladin, “She has just woken up from what was obviously a terrible ordeal. Show some compassion.”
The Paladin, Selibra, actually looked ashamed, leaning back in his chair and clearing his throat, “I apologize, miss…” he drew out the last word, looking at Her expectantly. She tilted Her head. “What is your name?” he asked more clearly. She tilted Her head the other way. Were they going to play that game here too?
The Cleric hummed then said, “Please forgive him, miss, we are all very troubled by the events and deaths at the tower. The Major General merely got ahead of himself. If you could tell us your name, then we can let you rest and…”
“I don’t have a name.”
The two men blinked dumbly at Her, and She rolled Her eyes, “I knnnooowww,” She let Her legs fall back down, so She was sitting properly again, “But I don’t know it yet. As soon as I do, I'll tell you.” She assured them. The men exchanged looks as She glanced again out the window. Maybe She should've just told them what Brom and Ran called Her… But those weren’t names. They were descriptors. No better than ‘Firewyrm.’
If these Temple men were to be believed, everything was gone. She had no room, no books, no clothes, no treasures, and no name. What did She have? She pulled Her hair over Her shoulder and stared out the window as She stroked it. She had Her hair. They hadn’t cut it in months. She had Her body. She straightened Her posture, holding Her head high. And She had Her power—the fire crackling deep inside Her soul. The Mages had taken the first two. The third had destroyed them.
“You should rest,” Selibra stood, and Her eyes snapped back to him, “You can send for me when you feel ready to talk. Until then, focus on recovering your strength and your memories.”
He made it all the way to the door, even swung it open before She called out, “What are you going to do to me?”
Selibra turned back, his eyebrows raised in surprise. The Cleric placed a hand on Her shoulder, slowly and carefully, gauging how much of Her heat he could handle. She turned to him, and he let Her go. He'd held on longer than expected. “We will keep you safe, child.” the Cleric assured Her.
The Paladin grew stiff for a moment, then brought his right fist up to his chest, “By the sword of Hengist’s honor, we will safeguard your life and freedom,” Freedom? “Whatever injustices you endured there, you will find justice in the laws of Clearhelm.” She didn’t know what to say, and so, after an awkward moment of silence, Selibra turned for the door again and left.
She didn’t lay down. Instead, She walked back to the window. The view seemed to stretch on forever from so high up, higher than She'd ever remembered being before. Even when She used to climb the trees around Her tower.
Selibra hadn’t locked the door, but the Cleric bustled around behind Her, and the wall below Her clanked with armored knights. What was freedom anyway?
--- Table of Contents ---
Thanks for making it this far, you are the real MVP
2023.06.04 21:51 NamelessNanashi [The Gods of Dragons: Beginning] Ch 16 - Aftermath Part 1/2
--- Table of Contents ---
Autumn 4986, 16 Aoimoth
Shon slid down the side of a tree to the ground and watched the tower burn. Ivelm did a circle of it, dousing the surrounding trees with his water wand, while Nangran inspected the few bodies he could reach without burning himself. At one point, he tried to pull a corpse further from the fire only to have its arms snap off at the shoulder, meat pulling away from the bone like a well-cooked turkey.
Somewhere in the back of Shon’s mind, he knew he should be sickened by the sights and smells. When they first stepped through the portal, he‘d had to hold back retching from the scent of smoking hair and cooking flesh. Now he could hardly muster the energy to keep breathing. He took long and slow, but shallow breaths. As if he were about to fall asleep despite the horror before him.
So much death. Shon had never seen a dead person before. Though he wasn’t sure if these still counted, so blackened they could almost be mistaken for macabre statues... if it wasn’t for the smell.
“What was going on here ‘Elm?” Nangran demanded of Ivelm as the mage rounded the other side of the tower and rejoined them.
Ivelm sheathed his water wand, pulling forth the diamond-studded wand again. He didn’t answer.
Nangran growled, grabbing Ivelm's arm as it rose to point the wand toward the forest. The Archmage shook him off and spun, his robes fluttering around him as he gestured angrily at the fire, “I don’t know, Flintchest. This tower was supposed to be empty, abandoned. I’m the only Mage with authorization to set up in this area.” he pointed his wand over Shon’s shoulder and spat something indistinct. A rush of cool air flowed from behind accompanied by shouting and armor clanking. Knights running.
Shon rolled limply to the side, planning to stand but finding his arms shaking as he tried to push himself up. Boots stomped around him as Paladins flooded from the magical gate into the clearing. Shon managed to lift his head, though even his neck seemed to be rebelling against his attempts at holding himself up. His vision swimming, he saw Major General Selibra and Master Daunas step through the portal, their mouths agape.
Shon’s arms gave out from under him, and he fell to the side, hearing as if from a great distance, “Squire! Shon… Shon… Nangran, what happened?” From the ground he could see the girl, now wrapped in Nangran’s cloak, leaning against the side of his tree. When had they brought her there? Why hadn’t he noticed?
“He’s fine.” Ivelm’s voice, Shon couldn’t see anymore, so he closed his eyes, “He’ll wake up in a few days. Hell of a Sorcerer that one…” No… no, no, no... he wasn’t a Sorcerer. He was a Squire. He would be a Paladin… For a brief moment, a flicker of an image played in Shon's mind. He saw himself lying on the muddy ground, Master Daunas knelt by his head, and Ivelm spit off to the side. Then, only the sweet relief of darkness as he passed out.
***
“Any other survivors?” Sir Selibra’s soft voice drifted through the darkness.
“Only the girl,” Daunas whispered from nearby.
“I doubt she’s human,” Ivelm spoke loudly, and Shon flinched, his head pounding as the mage didn’t bother to keep his voice low, “No fire-resist spell should have lasted in that heat. Even fire Sorcerers can't survive melting stone.”
“She looks human.” a fourth voice, the Hamerfoss Cleric. Shon couldn’t move. The light filtering through his eyelids sent stabs of pain into his head, making it hard for him to concentrate. He tried to lift a hand to cover his eyes, but the limb wouldn’t obey his call.
“And a table looks like it’s made of wood but does that mean it’s still a tree?” Ivelm snorted, and something wet splattered on stone.
“Archmage, please, this is an infirmary…” the Cleric said, shocked.
The mage didn’t apologize and continued to speak at full volume, “Whatever was going on out there it wasn’t sanctioned by the Guild, and that girl has most certainly been subject to experimentation. Those scales? That hair?” he spat again.
“Archmage, please…”
“Let’s take this outside, shall we?” Sir Selibra said, and three pairs of boots thumped away, a door swinging open. Sir Selibra’s voice retreated as they left the infirmary still in conversation, “We have sent for the Temple and Guild. They should be here shortly.” The boots left, and the door closed again.
Only one pair of feet remained, shuffling around the room before the rustling of curtains being pulled closed accompanied the sweet relief of darkness. Shon steeled himself and forced his eyes to open just a crack. More pain. He closed them again, his ears ringing. With a slow breath, he tried again, blinking in the weak light filtered through the cloth covering infirmary window.
A groan slipped from his lips, and the Cleric rushed to his bedside, “Don’t try to sit up, Squire. You’re drained, but unhurt,” which seemed a direct contradiction to Shon’s pounding head. The Cleric continued, “After a bit of sleep, you should be fine…” Shon let his head fall to the side, wanting to look away from the window, and saw a second bed, where a girl with golden hair slept.
“It happens to Paladins too, you know. You have to be careful not to expend too much of your own energy when casting magic…” the Cleric continued to talk, busying himself by checking Shon's vitals, “It’s inevitable, but with practice, you can mitigate some of the effects…” She was the only survivor, and she had been experimented on… “After you take your Oath, you'll receive training in divine magic…” even if she was okay physically, would she be alright mentally?... “For now, just rest. You did well. It’s thanks to you the girl got out alive…”
Shon closed his eyes. Thanks to him? Nangran had seen the smoke, Ivelm had taken them there. He… he hadn’t known what to do, had frozen at the sights and smells. He'd formed a path of ice, but the girl hadn’t been burning… Her feet had melted his ice... Shon let himself drift back to sleep. He wasn’t a hero. Not yet.
***
The tower was supposed to be empty. General Rasnah and the Mages Guild had combed through their records finding that the building had been abandoned over fifty years ago; when the old alchemist living there passed away. Archmage Ivelm reported that he'd surveyed the tower twenty years previous, before setting up his lab miles further south.
“Having a tower like that is practically begging for wanna-be-apprentices to come interrupt you. Looking for a teacher and free room.” he'd explained, with obvious disgust at the idea, even spitting on the floor of Sir Selibra’s office.
Sir Rasnah personally led the Temple Paladins and Guild Mages through a gate from Smilnda to Hamerfoss and from there to the ruins of the mysterious tower. Mages and Paladins crawled together over the still-smoking remains, now a mear hill. Trying to break apart the stones that had melted together and find anything that could explain what had happened here. Bodies covered in white cloth lay in lines along the edge of the forest, ten in total, though how many had been trapped in the tower was still unknown.
The Clerics of Lune would identify the bodies, though she wished they could do more than just give names. It would take months, possibly years, to scour the records to determine who these poor souls had been in life. And more years besides to track their movements through the meticulous paperwork kept by the kingdom.
She could practically hear Veon-Zih snickering at her, ‘Silly Ras, you gave up the battlefield of blood and stone for one of words and paper…’ she shook her head, banishing thoughts of the Monk. This work would be just as important. How else would those fighting the physical battles find their enemies without information and resources? And yet… She rested her hand on her sword with a sigh, “Some retirement…”
“Sir Rasnah,” a female Mage with dark hair and tan skin approached from the tower, “We found the basement…” she looked over her slumped shoulders back at the pile of melted rock.
“Not as promising a find as we'd hoped?” Rasnah asked, arching her steely eyebrow at the Mage. What had her name been? Vevi…
To her credit, the woman straightened her shoulders and answered clearly, “Oftentimes, we learn as much from a rejected hypothesis as a failed-to-be-rejected hypothesis.” As Rasnah tried to wrap her mind around what in the hells that meant, the Mage continued, “We had hoped that the basement level would be relatively unscathed as heat should rise to destroy the upper levels and possibly spare the lower…”
Those were words the Paladin understood at least, but they implied bad news, “And that wasn’t the case?”
The Mage sighed, “It was. The fire behaved as fire always does, barring external influence,”
“Mage Vevi, I admire your Guild's desire for specificity, but please, get to the point.”
Vevi blinked then shook herself, saying, “Evidence suggests that the fire started in the basement and that the heat there was far greater than we assumed.” Rasnah arched an eyebrow at the woman again and the Mage threw her hands into the air, “It looks more like a cavern carved by pure magma. Nothing but melted stones remain in the form of caves we can only guess were originally rooms.”
“Damn,” Rasnah gripped her sword and glared past the Mage toward the tower, “So we have no way of knowing what they were doing.” The girl still hadn’t woken up. What were the chances that she had any information of value? Archmage Ivelm was convinced that she'd been the subject of magical experimentation. Would those who had abused her also give her information?
“We have one way,” Vevi interrupted Rasnah’s worries, and the Paladin focused on her again. The Mage turned away, motioning to some of her fellows standing near the bodies. An old man with a bent back and shuffling gait split from the group and approached slowly. Rasnah had to resist the urge to walk to him just to speed up the process.
“Sir Rasnah, this is Archmage Meshed, our divination master.” Vevi introduced the old man while he was still a few steps away, “There is a chance we will be able to obtain some information from the tower remains. Though I’m afraid it might not be as clear and concise as you wish. Divination often creates more questions than answers.”
“I am well acquainted with the frustrations of interpreting symbols and signs…” Rasnah led, unsure of the value in this new idea. Arcane magic didn't get its power from a higher intelligence or any god, it utilized the natural magic and energies running through the world and every object in it, manipulating them with precise words and symbols directed by human will. It was all well over her head.
Meshed’s laugh turned into a dry cough. He cleared his throat, “I think you will find, Mage Vevi, Sir Paladin, that the information I will glean from this place to be far more clear and concise than you are accustomed to. It simply won’t be as complete as you wish.”
With a groan and many popping joints, he sat down on the ground, fishing through his robes and pulling out a small bag. From it, he withdrew a massive tome and a silk cloth that Vevi quickly helped spread on the ground before him. Next came a censor and many jars of herbs and incense, which, after checking his book, he carefully measured before pouring into the censor.
He waved a hand towards the tower without looking up from his work, “Stones, please, Vevi. Choose wisely, I don’t want to do this all day…” Despite being a senior Mage, well on her way to Archmage, Vevi rushed off towards the tower herself and eventually returned with two fist-sized stones.
“One from the upper floors and one from the basement, Meshed,” she explained, handing them to the Divination Master. Meshed pulled a set of brass scales from his small pouch, measuring the stones and muttering to himself as he adjusted the volume of herbs in the censor.
He placed the first stone with the herbs, and his eyes glazed over, “A light if you will.” Vevi performed some complicated motion with her hands, flicking her fingers forward at the end with a muttered word. A spark of flame appeared over the censor, lowering onto the herbs and setting them alight. Smoke billowed in a gray noxious cloud, and Rasnah covered her nose as Meshed began to chant.
He ran his hand through the smoke, which wrapped around his fingers, and continued skyward. “No divine magic was cast here…” he mumbled, moving his hand again. The smoke shifted above his fingers as they passed, creating images of people in robes leaning over books, “Arcane magic…” Obviously. Still, for some reason, his brow furrowed. He passed his hand through again, and the smoke turned nearly black. Before Rasnah could make out any shapes Meshed pulled his hand away and shook it violently before rubbing it on his robe, “Warlocks, Sir Paladin.”
“Damn.” Rasnah smothered more colorful curses and managed a half step closer, “What were they doing, Archmage?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he chanted a new spell, and his hand glowed with a soft red light. Reaching into the censor, he plucked out the stone and replaced it with the second. The smoke again turned gray and rose lazily into the air. Once again, he passed his hand through the flowing tendrils, and once again, they turned black. He shook his head, “Obviously… damnation… what to ask… what to ask…” He seemed to settle on something, muttering, “The fire, tell me about the fire…” he ran his fingers through the smoke. Flames leaped from the censor, the smoke turning red and billowing out before them.
Rasnah stepped back as great smoke wings spread wide, illuminated from below by flames. A horned head atop a sinuous neck stretched for the heavens and Meshed scrambled to his feet. Vevi kicked the censor over, spreading burning debris across the silk to smolder, releasing tiny lines of, blessedly, normal smoke.
“What was that? A wyvern?” Rasnah asked, her heart in her throat.
Meshed coughed his dry cough and shook his head. Vevi stared at the upturned censor with wide eyes. “Much worse, Sir Rasnah,” the Mage whispered, “A dragon.”
“It was dragon fire that destroyed this tower,” Meshed confirmed.
***
--- Part 2/2 ---
--- Table of Contents ---
Thanks for making it this far, you are the real MVP
submitted by NamelessNanashi to redditserials [link] [comments]
Autumn 4986, 16 Aoimoth
Shon slid down the side of a tree to the ground and watched the tower burn. Ivelm did a circle of it, dousing the surrounding trees with his water wand, while Nangran inspected the few bodies he could reach without burning himself. At one point, he tried to pull a corpse further from the fire only to have its arms snap off at the shoulder, meat pulling away from the bone like a well-cooked turkey.
Somewhere in the back of Shon’s mind, he knew he should be sickened by the sights and smells. When they first stepped through the portal, he‘d had to hold back retching from the scent of smoking hair and cooking flesh. Now he could hardly muster the energy to keep breathing. He took long and slow, but shallow breaths. As if he were about to fall asleep despite the horror before him.
So much death. Shon had never seen a dead person before. Though he wasn’t sure if these still counted, so blackened they could almost be mistaken for macabre statues... if it wasn’t for the smell.
“What was going on here ‘Elm?” Nangran demanded of Ivelm as the mage rounded the other side of the tower and rejoined them.
Ivelm sheathed his water wand, pulling forth the diamond-studded wand again. He didn’t answer.
Nangran growled, grabbing Ivelm's arm as it rose to point the wand toward the forest. The Archmage shook him off and spun, his robes fluttering around him as he gestured angrily at the fire, “I don’t know, Flintchest. This tower was supposed to be empty, abandoned. I’m the only Mage with authorization to set up in this area.” he pointed his wand over Shon’s shoulder and spat something indistinct. A rush of cool air flowed from behind accompanied by shouting and armor clanking. Knights running.
Shon rolled limply to the side, planning to stand but finding his arms shaking as he tried to push himself up. Boots stomped around him as Paladins flooded from the magical gate into the clearing. Shon managed to lift his head, though even his neck seemed to be rebelling against his attempts at holding himself up. His vision swimming, he saw Major General Selibra and Master Daunas step through the portal, their mouths agape.
Shon’s arms gave out from under him, and he fell to the side, hearing as if from a great distance, “Squire! Shon… Shon… Nangran, what happened?” From the ground he could see the girl, now wrapped in Nangran’s cloak, leaning against the side of his tree. When had they brought her there? Why hadn’t he noticed?
“He’s fine.” Ivelm’s voice, Shon couldn’t see anymore, so he closed his eyes, “He’ll wake up in a few days. Hell of a Sorcerer that one…” No… no, no, no... he wasn’t a Sorcerer. He was a Squire. He would be a Paladin… For a brief moment, a flicker of an image played in Shon's mind. He saw himself lying on the muddy ground, Master Daunas knelt by his head, and Ivelm spit off to the side. Then, only the sweet relief of darkness as he passed out.
***
“Any other survivors?” Sir Selibra’s soft voice drifted through the darkness.
“Only the girl,” Daunas whispered from nearby.
“I doubt she’s human,” Ivelm spoke loudly, and Shon flinched, his head pounding as the mage didn’t bother to keep his voice low, “No fire-resist spell should have lasted in that heat. Even fire Sorcerers can't survive melting stone.”
“She looks human.” a fourth voice, the Hamerfoss Cleric. Shon couldn’t move. The light filtering through his eyelids sent stabs of pain into his head, making it hard for him to concentrate. He tried to lift a hand to cover his eyes, but the limb wouldn’t obey his call.
“And a table looks like it’s made of wood but does that mean it’s still a tree?” Ivelm snorted, and something wet splattered on stone.
“Archmage, please, this is an infirmary…” the Cleric said, shocked.
The mage didn’t apologize and continued to speak at full volume, “Whatever was going on out there it wasn’t sanctioned by the Guild, and that girl has most certainly been subject to experimentation. Those scales? That hair?” he spat again.
“Archmage, please…”
“Let’s take this outside, shall we?” Sir Selibra said, and three pairs of boots thumped away, a door swinging open. Sir Selibra’s voice retreated as they left the infirmary still in conversation, “We have sent for the Temple and Guild. They should be here shortly.” The boots left, and the door closed again.
Only one pair of feet remained, shuffling around the room before the rustling of curtains being pulled closed accompanied the sweet relief of darkness. Shon steeled himself and forced his eyes to open just a crack. More pain. He closed them again, his ears ringing. With a slow breath, he tried again, blinking in the weak light filtered through the cloth covering infirmary window.
A groan slipped from his lips, and the Cleric rushed to his bedside, “Don’t try to sit up, Squire. You’re drained, but unhurt,” which seemed a direct contradiction to Shon’s pounding head. The Cleric continued, “After a bit of sleep, you should be fine…” Shon let his head fall to the side, wanting to look away from the window, and saw a second bed, where a girl with golden hair slept.
“It happens to Paladins too, you know. You have to be careful not to expend too much of your own energy when casting magic…” the Cleric continued to talk, busying himself by checking Shon's vitals, “It’s inevitable, but with practice, you can mitigate some of the effects…” She was the only survivor, and she had been experimented on… “After you take your Oath, you'll receive training in divine magic…” even if she was okay physically, would she be alright mentally?... “For now, just rest. You did well. It’s thanks to you the girl got out alive…”
Shon closed his eyes. Thanks to him? Nangran had seen the smoke, Ivelm had taken them there. He… he hadn’t known what to do, had frozen at the sights and smells. He'd formed a path of ice, but the girl hadn’t been burning… Her feet had melted his ice... Shon let himself drift back to sleep. He wasn’t a hero. Not yet.
***
The tower was supposed to be empty. General Rasnah and the Mages Guild had combed through their records finding that the building had been abandoned over fifty years ago; when the old alchemist living there passed away. Archmage Ivelm reported that he'd surveyed the tower twenty years previous, before setting up his lab miles further south.
“Having a tower like that is practically begging for wanna-be-apprentices to come interrupt you. Looking for a teacher and free room.” he'd explained, with obvious disgust at the idea, even spitting on the floor of Sir Selibra’s office.
Sir Rasnah personally led the Temple Paladins and Guild Mages through a gate from Smilnda to Hamerfoss and from there to the ruins of the mysterious tower. Mages and Paladins crawled together over the still-smoking remains, now a mear hill. Trying to break apart the stones that had melted together and find anything that could explain what had happened here. Bodies covered in white cloth lay in lines along the edge of the forest, ten in total, though how many had been trapped in the tower was still unknown.
The Clerics of Lune would identify the bodies, though she wished they could do more than just give names. It would take months, possibly years, to scour the records to determine who these poor souls had been in life. And more years besides to track their movements through the meticulous paperwork kept by the kingdom.
She could practically hear Veon-Zih snickering at her, ‘Silly Ras, you gave up the battlefield of blood and stone for one of words and paper…’ she shook her head, banishing thoughts of the Monk. This work would be just as important. How else would those fighting the physical battles find their enemies without information and resources? And yet… She rested her hand on her sword with a sigh, “Some retirement…”
“Sir Rasnah,” a female Mage with dark hair and tan skin approached from the tower, “We found the basement…” she looked over her slumped shoulders back at the pile of melted rock.
“Not as promising a find as we'd hoped?” Rasnah asked, arching her steely eyebrow at the Mage. What had her name been? Vevi…
To her credit, the woman straightened her shoulders and answered clearly, “Oftentimes, we learn as much from a rejected hypothesis as a failed-to-be-rejected hypothesis.” As Rasnah tried to wrap her mind around what in the hells that meant, the Mage continued, “We had hoped that the basement level would be relatively unscathed as heat should rise to destroy the upper levels and possibly spare the lower…”
Those were words the Paladin understood at least, but they implied bad news, “And that wasn’t the case?”
The Mage sighed, “It was. The fire behaved as fire always does, barring external influence,”
“Mage Vevi, I admire your Guild's desire for specificity, but please, get to the point.”
Vevi blinked then shook herself, saying, “Evidence suggests that the fire started in the basement and that the heat there was far greater than we assumed.” Rasnah arched an eyebrow at the woman again and the Mage threw her hands into the air, “It looks more like a cavern carved by pure magma. Nothing but melted stones remain in the form of caves we can only guess were originally rooms.”
“Damn,” Rasnah gripped her sword and glared past the Mage toward the tower, “So we have no way of knowing what they were doing.” The girl still hadn’t woken up. What were the chances that she had any information of value? Archmage Ivelm was convinced that she'd been the subject of magical experimentation. Would those who had abused her also give her information?
“We have one way,” Vevi interrupted Rasnah’s worries, and the Paladin focused on her again. The Mage turned away, motioning to some of her fellows standing near the bodies. An old man with a bent back and shuffling gait split from the group and approached slowly. Rasnah had to resist the urge to walk to him just to speed up the process.
“Sir Rasnah, this is Archmage Meshed, our divination master.” Vevi introduced the old man while he was still a few steps away, “There is a chance we will be able to obtain some information from the tower remains. Though I’m afraid it might not be as clear and concise as you wish. Divination often creates more questions than answers.”
“I am well acquainted with the frustrations of interpreting symbols and signs…” Rasnah led, unsure of the value in this new idea. Arcane magic didn't get its power from a higher intelligence or any god, it utilized the natural magic and energies running through the world and every object in it, manipulating them with precise words and symbols directed by human will. It was all well over her head.
Meshed’s laugh turned into a dry cough. He cleared his throat, “I think you will find, Mage Vevi, Sir Paladin, that the information I will glean from this place to be far more clear and concise than you are accustomed to. It simply won’t be as complete as you wish.”
With a groan and many popping joints, he sat down on the ground, fishing through his robes and pulling out a small bag. From it, he withdrew a massive tome and a silk cloth that Vevi quickly helped spread on the ground before him. Next came a censor and many jars of herbs and incense, which, after checking his book, he carefully measured before pouring into the censor.
He waved a hand towards the tower without looking up from his work, “Stones, please, Vevi. Choose wisely, I don’t want to do this all day…” Despite being a senior Mage, well on her way to Archmage, Vevi rushed off towards the tower herself and eventually returned with two fist-sized stones.
“One from the upper floors and one from the basement, Meshed,” she explained, handing them to the Divination Master. Meshed pulled a set of brass scales from his small pouch, measuring the stones and muttering to himself as he adjusted the volume of herbs in the censor.
He placed the first stone with the herbs, and his eyes glazed over, “A light if you will.” Vevi performed some complicated motion with her hands, flicking her fingers forward at the end with a muttered word. A spark of flame appeared over the censor, lowering onto the herbs and setting them alight. Smoke billowed in a gray noxious cloud, and Rasnah covered her nose as Meshed began to chant.
He ran his hand through the smoke, which wrapped around his fingers, and continued skyward. “No divine magic was cast here…” he mumbled, moving his hand again. The smoke shifted above his fingers as they passed, creating images of people in robes leaning over books, “Arcane magic…” Obviously. Still, for some reason, his brow furrowed. He passed his hand through again, and the smoke turned nearly black. Before Rasnah could make out any shapes Meshed pulled his hand away and shook it violently before rubbing it on his robe, “Warlocks, Sir Paladin.”
“Damn.” Rasnah smothered more colorful curses and managed a half step closer, “What were they doing, Archmage?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he chanted a new spell, and his hand glowed with a soft red light. Reaching into the censor, he plucked out the stone and replaced it with the second. The smoke again turned gray and rose lazily into the air. Once again, he passed his hand through the flowing tendrils, and once again, they turned black. He shook his head, “Obviously… damnation… what to ask… what to ask…” He seemed to settle on something, muttering, “The fire, tell me about the fire…” he ran his fingers through the smoke. Flames leaped from the censor, the smoke turning red and billowing out before them.
Rasnah stepped back as great smoke wings spread wide, illuminated from below by flames. A horned head atop a sinuous neck stretched for the heavens and Meshed scrambled to his feet. Vevi kicked the censor over, spreading burning debris across the silk to smolder, releasing tiny lines of, blessedly, normal smoke.
“What was that? A wyvern?” Rasnah asked, her heart in her throat.
Meshed coughed his dry cough and shook his head. Vevi stared at the upturned censor with wide eyes. “Much worse, Sir Rasnah,” the Mage whispered, “A dragon.”
“It was dragon fire that destroyed this tower,” Meshed confirmed.
***
--- Part 2/2 ---
--- Table of Contents ---
Thanks for making it this far, you are the real MVP