#Lowland-Fell
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Lowland Fell (2008)
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┌─ “ ! „ FLUIDITY
tw. dubcon, monsterfucking, explicit size kink, interspecies sex, reader has sex pollen like effects, communication barrier, manipulation, yandere (other parts will contain a lot more explicit dark kinks so please read every individual part's warnings!)
wordcount. 8.7k
part 1 of —
a/n. ♡♡ thank you so much rhi for keeping me going through this, idk if i would have pushed through if not for you so ily ily ily and this fic is just indulgence as a period piece and a monsterfucking fic but i hope you give it a chance and like it bc there's moresomes a-coming and this is just the beginning so! yeA i hope you guys enjoy mwuah mwuah mwuah ♡♡
tachibana makoto x fem!reader ( x other characters coming)
Dragonflies glint the prettiest, richest silver you’ve ever seen under the right light. The rosy evening sun casts the entire river into a blooming glow— complete with a soft blanket of fog that rolls along the base of the trees. “Your maiden servants worry about you, you know,” a voice softly calls, and the rustle of shrubbery makes you turn.
You don’t really want to know how long the man’s been guarding you without a word. If it were anyone but one of your father’s most trusted men, you’d probably have some distrust. Instead you only pull your knees to your chest, and continue tossing rocks into the babbling brook.
“Lady, it’ll get dark soon. Your parents don’t want you playing out here so late.”
The small area isn’t open enough to lure any visitors. You’d be fine. Still, you slowly bob your head, waiting for him to step away from the tree edge into the river bank with you. “I had a weird dream, only it didn’t feel like a dream.” The reeds sway in the wind, and you almost let the perfect surrounding whisk away the thought. But the man’s hand drops from his sword, and he gives the faintest of nods. “There was a monster here when I fell asleep— one with a huge mouth packed full of teeth. I saw eyes in the water, and hair so long it covered its whole body.” The tart remnants of your delicately applied makeup wash away as you swallow. “I think- it was a yokai.”
“There’s no yokai here, lady,” he patiently responds, and you turn to him better. This time taking a proper look. If the damp hair tied in a bun is anything to go off of, he was most likely called out of his bath to come out looking for you. You bite your lip, apology lingering on your tongue. But that’s where it stays, as the man continues. “There’s monsters only where people don’t go. You needn’t worry.”
“Are you comforting me?” A slight giggle passes your lips before you can help it. “I know you think I’m lying. You don’t believe anything you don’t see with your own eyes.”
“... It’s not for a lack of trying.” He smooths a hand over his hakama, before resting it back on the pristine handle of his sword. The dragonflies buzz over the low edge of the water, and your feet ache a little from the cold. You’d love to ask to be carried right about now, but spare the poor man the effort. It’s the least you can do. After another few minutes of silence and watching the sun disappear entirely below the tree line, he finally clears his voice. “Come on, lady. We should really get back. You’re precious to your parents. You’re precious to us all. I can’t leave you here.”
This river runs from the high mountains all the way through the small lake that borders the gates of your home; and all the way down the lowlands— and it’s said that on the day of your birth the river flooded, and provided the most bountiful harvest of the last few decades. Even as a child, there was no ignoring the gleeful whispering of the ladies, nor the calculated introductions of sons of poorer lords at every birthday or feast. Some day not too long from now you will get married and spread providence over the land… and there won’t be time for napping by rivers or running off half-dressed into the forest.
Somehow, despite the honor, a small part of you goes cold at that. The water glistens under the last of the light— and you take a long look into the deep of it. The eyes the color of hot coals flash through your mind once more, and you start pulling the fabrics of your dresses aside to put your zori back on. “I know it was a monster- but-” The wind picks up when you turn over your shoulder and smile your most genuine smile. “I wasn’t scared, I think. Perhaps it was friendly.”
The guard is quiet as he watches you get up from the riverbank, and sticks a comfortable distance after helping you gently up onto your feet. You suppose he doesn’t really have the heart, or perhaps confidence, to tell you what he really thinks of your childish talk. The barely-there path back to your home has you growing much more tired— as if weights are tied to your legs. You wish you could stay. The moss crunches softly under your feet, and the dewy air starts to feel a bit cold to the touch. Despite everything, it’s always peaceful here. You cast a brief glance up to the man as he pushes the shrubbery aside. His face has a vacant sort of look, until he catches you looking, and his mouth curls up. “I’ll tell your maiden servants to prepare a purifying ritual for you.”
“Ugh, no, please. Anything but that.”
+
“The koi fish aren’t around anymore, are they, lady?” There’s a slight hesitation in her voice as your maid walks up.
You nod, lift your sleeves to brush your fingers through the water and wait. You got them as a present for your coming of age festivities— the most beautiful blue grey with red fins— much too expensive for your liking but a courting gift nonetheless. You’d been quite fond of the walks out of your houses’ walls because of them. The feed floats sadly on the surface of the inlet, where the clear river water shows no sign at all of the normally curious animals. “It seems like they’ve gone.” What a shame.
Your other maiden scans the area, before rushing to help you up onto your feet as she lowers her head. “Should we ask the master to procure some more? We know feeding the fish brings you much joy.”
The girl helps to fix your sleeves again, before awaiting your call. “No, that’s quite alright. There’s no use replacing a gift.” You cast a wary glance at the bay once more, not quite sure what you’re looking for; but fail to find anything out of the ordinary. A sight furrow comes to your brow, before you hike up your layers of skirts- much to the shock of your two servants- and turn to them with a softer smile. “I would like to be alone for a bit—”
“Lady!” one of them squeaks, but you only laugh.
“I am certain, Hitsu. Tell my father I will be home before tea and dinner, and if you could prepare my bath…” The dark brunette has a question on her tongue, but does nod with the same trained properness that you’ve come to know. “I simply wish to walk along the river, I won’t swim. It’ll be quick, I promise.” It’s not a lie. You have no intention of ruining your beautiful, expensive clothing by going any further than a shallow few steps. But there’s a nagging memory somewhere in the back of your mind—
You used to have so many dreams, all of them now too faint to recall. Both young ladies give each other a look, before eventually bowing deeply and heading back towards the palace gates.
See, that nagging sense that you’re forgetting something important, something crucial, overcomes you. It’s almost impossible to ignore, and you kick off your shoes to tread carefully along the edge of the deep pool of fresh spring water. The moss is soft under your feet, keeping a tight grip on your embroidered silks.
When you were only a few years old, you used to have these dreams. Dreams of drowning, of ghouls and demons. They grew scarcer the older you got, and eventually even the weekly purification spells and chants became declared unnecessary. But where the memories once sat, now only a blank hole remains in your mind. And however hard you try to remember, you can never quite get there. You make it to the sloped edge of the river not much later, stepping up the small sputtering waterfall and a few round stones between stray bamboo— nearly still water pooling at your feet.
It’s chilly, but not freezing. Something scratches in the back of your skull, deep down. It trickles down your neck, and with a steady heartbeat, it breathes.
But you can’t catch the thought, and the harder you try, the cloudier it becomes— eventually you click your tongue and start walking along the water edge up stream. You should look for your fish. If they swam out of the inlet somehow, maybe they’d be around. They are, much like you are, bred for captivity and wouldn’t survive too long on their own. The sun casts warm spring rays onto your skin, walking in much needed solitude. When you barely realize you’ve spaced out, you’ve already made it to a bend in the river where peach blossoms float on the otherwise pristine surface of the water— and despite your previous care, you drop your dress.
The blossoms swirl in slow circles. And a raindrop lands on your nose.
Arms, wrapped tight around your chest. Claws. Wide lashless eyes.
Something floods your brain so suddenly that you stumble back a few steps and gasp, sucking in a breath.
It was here. You can’t exactly make out what, but your gut recognizes the trees, the scraggly stones sticking out of the water. Your lungs full of water, and hands all over.
Bumps rise all over your back as you look around, and water seeps up along your tarikubi robe. It’s so quiet, and the stillness starts to trouble with each droplet that comes down. But you breathe. You’ve been here, perhaps more than once, and the aching, pressing itch deep in your head grows more unbearable. When a metallic flicker catches your eyes, you glance down. The rain now starts up more properly, and though the trees provide some shelter, there’s no hiding away from the cold as you walk in just deep enough to bend and pick up a dainty golden chain from between the smooth rocks.
It’s fine like thread, and cold to the touch, and though you can’t quite explain it; something about this finely crafted piece is familiar too. Even through the rain and the chills crawling all the way up your spine, you study the necklace closer. The intricate detail is almost too pristine.
A soft splash on the other side of the river startles you— The sudden scare makes you lose your balance and fall back onto your lower end. Hard. The ache immediately has you whimpering, but instead of worrying about the pain, you slowly try to catch yourself on the rocks; pained enough in the motion that you swear — you see a person diving underneath the water edge. Something pale and fast. You scream, and whatever you saw dashes away before you can think about doing different. The blossoms drift off as you scramble back up; your bruised palms sting, and your heartbeat still hammers hard in your throat when the silence returns.
But the blurry flash of maroon hair and fiery red eyes you caught is long gone.
And much too soon, the clouds that had seemed so fluffy and beautiful earlier turn a dreary grey. You turn on your heel and book it back down the river side on bare feet— still clamping the chain between your fingers.
+
The wick of your lantern splutters with thick oil as you fail to catch sleep. Even with the spring weather it’s chilly, with you remaining wrapped under a thick blanket. You breathe a long sigh, and listen to the crackling of the candle beside your bed in the absence of any other sound. The earlier lecture of your father, your mother, and even the normally quiet and collected matron of the house still lingers on your mind— it’s not like you can blame anyone. You wouldn’t be the first stupid, brazen young girl who happened to drown, and despite the quiet lives most girls like you live, you most likely won’t be the last.
You shouldn’t have been out there. Your servants had been ghastly pale from fright upon seeing the state in which you returned, and even the thorough scrubbing and hours-long bath didn’t do much to alleviate the ache in your lower back.
Despite all that, you’re stuck. Eyes -monstrous, unnatural eyes- appear in the crevices of your mind each time you close your own. No amount of prayer makes the longing fade, and the longer you lay here, the deeper they seem to dig into your flesh. Goosebumps crawl all over your skin once more. When you throw your blankets off you, you go digging in one of the woven baskets for the thickest bland garments you’ve got— tying them around your hips until you’re dressed enough to peer out into the hall. The frigid air current howls through the house when you gather your lantern, some woven socks, and after a brief bit of deliberation; snatch the golden chain from beside your pillow.
The palace is quiet at night, an almost eerie sort of calm that is broken only by the soft ‘pats’ of your feet on the hardwood— with the lanterns barely providing enough light to see a good arms length at a time. The wind pushes you forward, nuzzling deeper into the collar of your clothing until you make it outside. Even under the starry sky, there’s no doubt that this is a stupid idea. No good can come from nightly outings — though you’ve seen girls come and go in similar ways under the cover of night, you’re quite sure their purpose was less out-for-trouble than you are now. But what else can you do?
How could you ever sleep soundly not knowing what’s out there.
With only the flickering reflection on the water, you bow before your home— you’d be back soon enough. You love your clan— and you have no intention of getting caught in long lectures twice in a night. The guards at the gates have no way of noticing you as you slip into the brush and cover the lamp from sight, as cold breaths form clouds before your eyes.
Your legs move almost instinctively until you come upon the peach tree, and the pretty white flowers rain down with the breeze. You place the candle by your feet; and hesitate before taking your own seat on a round rock right by the water edge. You’ve never seen a yokai. Not that you can remember at the very least, but if you would have-you didn’t expect to here. Not the river that blessed your birth, or the one who gives everyone life by way of harvest. Maybe what you saw was a farmer bathing, or a particularly pale, large cod— wouldn’t that make more sense. Isn’t that exactly why you didn’t tell your father?
Because naïvity and silly wonder seems better than monsters lurking among the shrub.
Sadly, but perhaps unsurprisingly, a soft splashing in the water sets every hair on your body upright— and your mouth goes dry. It’s so dark. So awfully dark that it’s hard to see even past your own feet, if not for the broken reflection of your candle in the water. You know it's there. You feel it, by the rancid sort of churning in your stomach, the rapid beating of your heart. You swallow the tightness in your throat as best you can. “I’ve come to return your necklace. I didn’t mean to steal it, so I’ve come to give it back.” You wish you could let your eyes grow used to the dark, but without candle light, it’d be so much harder to get back home in one piece.
After just the sounds of the river drag on, you slowly take another breath, and try to bite back the wetness that rises every time you try and fail to find the eyes you know are looking at you. “I don’t wish to harm anyone.” The wind seems to howl harder across the river, and you can’t fight the horrible visions of monsters all around you, just there in the darkness; tightening your hands into fists. “So I wish you would not harm me either. You can have it back.” Your hand shakes when you hold out the chain above the water— not nearly far enough for anything to reach it without coming into your sight. But you’re too frightened to go any deeper, and your lungs tighten.
“Please, I-”
The peaceful spluttering of the water is suddenly disrupted by a much louder splashing, and you freeze up with a sharp gasp, shoulders trembling despite yourself. You don’t dare move any more than that— only after a minute or so of silence, you continue. “Hello? Don’t you want your necklace back?”
The reeds shake in the wind, and one of the blossoms brushes along your cheek as it falls into your crouched lap. Your breathing is tense enough to almost hide the little mumble that reaches back. It’s soft, sweet like dripping honey, and makes your whole spine tingle. “We want.”
If you had any less sense, you’d probably run right back home. But the idea of moving is too terrifying, so you’re stuck rooted in place as you take a breath. The voice sounds young enough, but the Japanese is distinctly older than your own dialect, rolling off the tongue with a vague foreign lilt— and it takes your frightened brain a little longer than you want to process that the voice isn’t simply human. When another little splash sounds a bit closer, you pull your outstretched hand back to your chest. “Can you see me?” Your own voice wavers when trying to make out any shape in the river. Alas, it’s just so dark that any further effort hurts your eyes.
“Yes.”
“I’ve come to give back your necklace. I got scared and took it, I’m sorry. I mean no harm-”
“He told.” The voice is unbearably clear. Almost like it’s being spoken directly into your head, even though it’s just a mere whisper among the rippling water. It’s distracting, and feels ice cold between your ears.
“Who’s he?” you try, biting your lip. The river seems to stare back at you, and you can’t do anything but hope you aren’t making some horrible mistake. Are you supposed to talk to the monsters that go bump in the night? “I- I don’t know where you are, I can’t see you.” Despite the soft, gentle nature of the voice, your heart patters wildly, unable to let go of your fear when there’s another closer splash. You must only be a dozen feet away from each other now, and still you can’t even see past the water at your toes. The voice stays quiet for a while.
“You don’t see is … better.”
You don’t respond for even longer. But for whatever reason, you almost want to agree. Not seeing, he almost sounds like a childhood friend of yours. The soft, honeyed words aren’t so frightening when you can’t see what they’re being spoken by; and you gather your last bit of courage to softly open your palm out again towards the night. “I’ll throw it over to you. Can you catch it?”
“No ‘throw’.” The -whatever- struggles with the word as he says it, before going quiet. You’re not sure if he doesn’t want you to throw it, or he simply doesn’t understand— so you just bite your lip and wait for any further comments that eventually do follow. “You put paw- h-hand.” Then, after another breath, “Come.” With a slight tremble in your voice, you breathe out a little laugh. You are really being asked to be braver than any girl with sense would— dragging your lantern closer over the pebbles until it’s right by your feet. Cursing yourself, you blink back nervous tears, trembling as you hike up the edge of your skirts, just the tiniest bit, and place only one foot into the shallowest part of the river for stability.
Your hand drops halfway outstretched, and you watch the flame where she glints back on the chain.
More splashing makes way for a more disturbing sound once it surfaces, of a body dragging over the shallow of the river towards you, scraping along the blunt stones— and you almost dart away when the sound comes close enough to reach. But your fingertips are almost frozen solid when another hand comes ever faintly into view, and wetness drops into your palm. To call it a hand is gracious, you decide. There’s longer digits, clawed, and webbed between each bony finger, and the wet glossy skin is more curved spike than thumb. The paw slides carefully along your hand, swiping up the chain as it goes— and leaves a cold coating all over your palm that you snatch back too quickly.
It’s unbearable to stay so close to something and not see it now, and you quickly hurry back to the safety of your rock as the same shuffling goes back to the water. Your heartbeat’s in your throat, and you can’t find any polite words to offer it until the yokai speaks again.
“Rin present, with- no, f-for you. You give present back, make happy. I am thank you.” You’re welcome, you think, but you barely manage to paint on a little smile before wringing your hands together and picking your lantern back up for safekeeping.
“I’m heading home now. If I’m not back soon my guards will find out.” It doesn’t feel entirely appropriate to thank it for not killing you when it had ample chance to, so you stay quiet. But there’s also a sense of gratitude that washes over you. Soon you’ll be back in bed like all of this was a dream. That seems right. That seems good. Your tongue lingers on your words. “You … What's your name?” The river bank feels much safer now you’re back on solid ground, and you can see the peach blossoms you almost slipped on.
There’s another long pause, where you almost make a run for it back all the way home, before the voice sounds out again from the dark— sugary sweet in its tone.
“Makoto.”
+
You’re pretty sure you should be questioning your own sanity. Everyone else wouldn’t hesitate to, and after the few restless nights you’ve had, you should be staying as far away as you can. But curiosity, mixed with a slight sense of obligation, has you walking the river bank like a little droplet flowing back to the sea. The quiet, scruffy man following behind doesn’t say much… never does, and you can’t say you dislike it. But you feel the glances your way, distracting you. Soon you find yourself clearing your voice. “You’re wondering why I’m walking this same path again?”
The older man only hesitates for a moment. “No, lady.”
“Sure you are. I would wonder if I were you.” There’s a faint smile that makes its way up, glancing out over the babbling brook to your left as grass tickles your ankles. “Not too long now and I’ll be engaged…” The peach blossoms above are almost done blooming— and you’ve never known your father to be an indecisive man. “Walking gives me a little break from all the fussing attendants, and father's advisors. Which is why it’d be even better if I were alone-”
It doesn’t take much pushback at all for the man to stop in place and give you a little look, resting his hand on the handle of his sword. “Lady.”
“Oh, please Azuma-san, we’ve had this same conversation for years.”
“I am not to leave you unprotected-”
You turn on your heel to face him. “I want to swim.” The stubborn frown on his face doesn’t move an inch, as your eyes go a little more puppy-esque. You have to know, so you have to lie. It doesn’t bring you joy either, but you might go insane if you have to live with questions for the next twenty years barred in some fancy prison of your future husband’s making. “-Swim right here. Without my very expensive clothing getting ruined.” Still that stone wall refuses to budge, and you throw your last bit of dignity into the ring. If this was anyone else you’d never hear the end of your unrefined words. “So I am going to get undressed.”
“—Ag-lright, just quiet. Your servants hear you and I’ll be lynched in the square.” He sighs deeply, rubbing his hand over his scruff, then gives a little bow. He wants nothing more than to roll his eyes when you offer back a self-satisfied grin, but instead takes a few steps the way you came with a stern look. “I’ll ask one of your maiden servants to make her way over here.”
“Don’t tell her to hurry!” you chant back, only taking off the heaviest layer of clothing once he’s out of sight. You lay it safe out of reach, before kicking off your shoes and socks and waddling towards the big stones again. Sure enough, the river here is a lot deeper than it looks. There’s a ledge in the pool that’s dark enough for almost any kind of monster to hide. This at least means your midnight escape wasn’t a total delusion. The peaceful sway of water grass settles when you dip your toes in the water, and wonder. There’s only a brief few minutes where you sit to think, before a slight thrashing once again captures your attention.
Only when you look up, the river is still, safe for a few tiny fish jumping out of the water. You get up, and tie your skirts up higher to inspect. A large maroon shape darts away into the darkness before you can take a good look, splashing droplets all over the river bank— and you hold your breath. You aren’t crazy. That definitely was much larger than any fish you’ve ever seen, and such a brilliant color that nothing but yokai could possess it. Brighter than all the finest silks, shimmering like a mirror. You wait for what could be a few seconds or an hour, before… someone- something else starts coming up from the darkness.
The olive-golden glitter rises so slow you have no choice but to take in another breath, but luckily don’t scare it away. His light chestnut hair is chopped short-ish, and a strangely human face— with cloudy black eyes, and green gashes either side of his neck— where he hovers below the water surface. It’s not human though. The eyes are big, round and deer-like, nose flatter, and his skin seems almost pearlescent. You don’t have the ability to think if you’re brave or just frozen solid. But whatever the case, the humanesque monster seems to stare for quite a while before judging it safe enough to approach.
It’s only then that you get to see the full extent of his body, scaled from ribs down, with a snake-like bottom half that’s at least longer than your entire body, and ending in a beautiful fish-like tail that feathers out in glittering threads. “Oh…” you breathe, and your arms wrap around yourself for protection, but you still don’t move further. Can’t, more like.
The half-man is close enough -and real enough- to feel a bit nauseating. Close enough to set every hair on your body on end and have your heartbeat a wild patter. But it’s the voice that really makes you feel frigid, gulping for air when that soothing tone comes out of a monstrous mouth. Whatever you had expected to see… wasn’t this. You can’t make out if the near-resemblance is comforting, or more frightening. You shiver at the black tongue, against porcelain white teeth.
“You come back.”
Your nod is hesitant, and you fidget with your jewelry in an attempt to calm your nerves. “I- wanted to see who I’d been talking to, that night. I haven’t slept well since then.”
He hoists himself a little further out of the water onto both hands, clawed and boney. “That was you, right? Makoto?” The brunet only gives a single nod of response, and doesn’t take his dark eyes off you for a second. And you want to laugh, though it isn’t too funny. The scene is just so absurd that you have nothing else to do, but laugh. “Isn’t this weird, talking to each other? How come yokai speak Japanese?” your voice comes, and you only hear how childish you sound when it seems to hang over the river without answer.
Out of all the questions you can ask, that’s what is most important to you? Makoto is gracious as he scoots a little closer once again, scraping his long, heavily muscled tail up over the pebbles and stones. “I listen very many year. Always listen, listen woman, listen warrior, listen you.” He blinks, and blondish lashes are the only normality you have staring back at him. “All can’t speak like me. I -hmm, pras-”
“Practice?” you try, and he clearly agrees when his tail pats happily on the ground. When you smile, he grins back wide and kind, his teeth are much sharper than yours. There’s something so human about the look, that you feel your muscles unwind a little further. You suppose, if he wasn’t so strange looking, with the wrong shades and fins here and there; he’d be quite handsome. He’d go over well with the maiden servants in the clan, too. “Many years, huh? Then- How old are you?”
“Hmmm- old. Very…” He doesn’t seem it, though. You avert your eyes when the water flicks over your feet, slowly dropping your shoes to the side. When you look back, he’s gotten closer yet, and is reaching out his hand towards the edge of the water, towards you. Despite your hesitation, and slight disgust— scaly and seemingly frost bitten pale lips, and unnatural greenish marks along his neck that flare out and in— there’s something that makes you want to follow.
A call, or instinct, to glide into the water and feel it embrace you. “You want come in?” he prompts, softly, and you do. You aren’t much of a swimmer even in high summer, and yet. You find yourself closing the distance and reaching out for his hand, letting your fingertips glide along as you get up to your knees into the water, and then get pulled along further step by unsure step. “Good, come.”
“Ah- it’s cold!” you squeak, but Makoto’s fingers wrap around your hand to support you even when you get almost up to your chest into the river, water crawling up your clothing and making your chest feel tight. “Sh- it's so cold.”
“Water not cold. You warm.” Only when he comes up in front of you do you truly notice how much bigger he is. His hands dwarf yours, and even though you’re higher up, his tail is curved aside to fit on the ground so he stares down at you— covering the sun from your view. He towers over any man you’ve ever seen, and his human-esque top half is still much broader than most. Like a hard plane of muscle, marked with thousands of golden freckles that shift in color the longer you look.
Shivers climb up your legs, and the water seeps your energy out of you. Wrapping your free arm around yourself, you rub some heat into your skin. Those pale lashes flutter as he gives you a half lidded glance, and the freckles that also go across his cheeks color a little more amber. “Lady is … cute.” Large hands suddenly slide along your sides up, before dragging over your shoulders and slowly taking your clothing with it, removing one of a few layers as he leans in. “Here, better without.”
“Oh. No- I don’t- think-”
“Shhh. Better, I know,” he seems to get closer, even though you are too busy staring back into the darkness of his eyes to really notice; and let him untie the robes enough to toss it towards the water edge. Then he pauses, and gets up higher onto his coiled tail to pull another layer off and throw it. Until you’re left standing in only your flimsier linen undergarb, and you’re suddenly much too aware of how peaked your nipples are against the scratchy fabric. But his hands slide up along your thighs to start peeling that off too, when you grab for him and shake your head.
Makoto insists. “No cold when not -this.” His hands keep going up even with your pressure on them.
Having a night encounter with a man is one thing, but you don’t know how you’d ever explain this if someone saw. You can’t dart away in a flash and escape the consequences. You have to go home after this. “I need my clothes to go back—” you quickly beg, ignoring the soft pads of his fingers along your upper thighs, “and if people see- Makoto, please.” Your whole body aches with the cold, and though the touch feels nice, it doesn’t seem right. Your nakedness isn’t a simple thing, even if his is.
“Clothes heavy. Water don’t like clothes.” He turns you around and you lose your footing on the stable flooring, arms quickly clinging onto his wide shoulders for support— it does make his point. Your clothes are incredibly heavy soaked, and pull down on you as strong arms ever so slowly wrap around your waist; nose only a few inches from yours. You can’t help it, your face gets hot. Cheeks, ears, nose- everything starts getting a distracting warm glow that you do your best to ignore, pulling your lip between your teeth. Even so, he seems to look down at you with intrigue, water reflecting in the black of his eyes. “What?”
“You’re very close…” you confess, and also try to release some of the tightness of your embrace— but amusement only brings him closer. He tilts his head, before leaning in until your foreheads meet, and the cooler skin consumes you. “Makoto-sama-”
“Human kiss, hm?” He’s so close, and his mouth is right there -and though you have no clue why, you really want to. The thought is almost as real as the air you breathe, feeling his hands roam all over your body through the soaked linen. Your voice doesn’t make it out when you nod, but he still lifts you into his chest, and your fingertips dig into his shoulders instinctively. “Show me how to kiss? You little one -hmm- good- fit.” You can’t help it, in place of physical heat there’s a sort of aching fire that spreads through your limbs the longer you stay close— and once you start you can’t stop.
Your mouth meets his first, lips moving with yours as his arms squeeze tighter; but when your tongue brushes his lips and meets his, he makes a noise. A low sort of purring that rattles his chest, and has him leaning in harder, trying to bury you into his body as your tongues brush and you suck and moan. His taste is mild but his tongue is heavy, and much longer than yours when it slips further into your mouth. Much longer, bigger, and the wetness soon has you feeling like you can’t breathe.
You pull back with a gasp, staring at the way his long tongue brushes along those sharp teeth before he leans in more. “Again.” You try to make some separation between your two bodies, but clearly Makoto doesn’t care for it when he clamps his hand down around your hip and kisses you more, melting to you as his tongue brushes against yours. He kisses like you’re the first and last thing he’s tasted, even when you moan a little whimper at the lack of air. His cold skin prickles against yours, grinding his waist against you slowly as your head pounds. Still, it feels good.
You don’t ever want to leave— and it’s this exact feeling that has you pulling back for air. You must be out of your mind. He stares with a blown out sort of hunger when you say his name again, and run your fingers along his shoulders up a little. “I’m going to get in trouble if someone finds me here- and- it’s not like we can—” Your cheeks get even hotter when you try to say the words, not even sure if he’d understand. Does a yokai’s understanding include human nighttimes? When he shows no intention of putting you down, you bury your face into his chest, feeling even smaller than before.
Though his skin is cold to the touch, there’s an intense amount of heat surging between you two, almost impossible to ignore— and the way you’re positioned against him, large arms caging you against his waist that pushes into you— doesn’t help anything. You can feel yourself get more slick each time you move your legs. He seems to chuckle when you groan- and as if sensing your train of thought, he rubs his nose along your ear and down the sensitive of your neck with a lower voice. “I want see. Human body so little. Want see it.”
That’s the tipping point. Every fiber in your being aches to obey, to let yourself get touched, seen, taken by him— and your mouth drops open a sliver as you struggle to find words. Your feet can’t reach the bottom here, and Makoto seems content to keep rubbing against you in a slow sea-saw motion that makes your center feel entirely hot. And eventually you crack. Blinking up at him, you breathe a faint “okay”, and let him turn you around. His hands are quick in their exploration, sliding under the last layer up your thighs, squeezing every few inches as he goes up. When he gets to your center, there’s a little flutter of his eyes, before those digits slide in and brush over your pussy, rubbing just soft enough to leave you wanting. “Warm,” he breathes, and then pulls you a little closer. “You do me too.”
As he pushes your last layer of clothing open fully and starts sliding it off your shoulders, you allow yourself just a little curiosity. He’s handsome, and he’s close, and you just feel so needy. Your breathing is still short against his chest, but your numb fingers glide down his sides with purpose as the muscles flex under your touch. His chest rumbles when you whine at the prodding and circling of his fingers around your dripping pussy, and you glide your hands down to his tail. The touch feels a little coarse, but he’s warmer there, and when you rub your palm over the area he’d been grinding into your waist, your fingers feel a softer, spongey slit. Makoto hisses when you rub a finger up and down, and you feel more heat burn onto your face. “Here?”
The question is answered when your finger slips in and is all hot, and something bumps you. But he picks you up and with one swift dash, lays you down on the river bank to get up between your legs. You need to open wide to allow him to fit, and can only whine out his name when the weight of his body over yours pushes you into the cold stones. He licks the air a few times, before grunting. You wish you could do anything other than just flush and look away when his hands descend onto your tits and start touching and rubbing, and the pressure leaves you all exposed. But it doesn’t take long for his attention to shift back to between your legs, and now with a better angle, he sinks down to nose below your navel. “Hmn-”
The purring is paired with a flaring of the gashes on his neck, and his eyes roll back. When his hands spread your legs up as wide as you can go, he nuzzles into you, and that long black tongue peeks out to lick slowly. You can’t help it, you moan. Loudly. It feels like a million pinpricks are traveling your body, as the very long, heavy tongue drags a long strip up your center, and then the tip of it laps at the wetness coating your hole— that quickly gets pushed open further with each sloppy lick. His tongue pushes inside you as he sucks and the feeling of something so hot and so- squirmy makes you squeeze your eyes closed. It’s too strange, but you can’t pull back.
Your hands even reach for his head to tangle your fingers in his hair and whine, your back curling from the floor. You’re drenched- no longer just water as your pussy clenches around his tongue that he forces in to lick places you’ve never been licked. Makoto wraps an arm around your thigh to pull it over his shoulder when you curl and wiggle against him- you can’t help it, it feels so good. Everything’s so sensitive, like your entire body’s been doused into hot water and you’re drowning— only difference is, you’re actively longing for more.
It’s better than any drink-induced daze, late night tussle with a stable boy. It’s even better than your own touch and mind, because he’s just so big and you’re so full, so hot. Your hips grind against his face when he sucks again, and his nose brushes your most sensitive area— and try not to let the water into your mouth when you yerk again. “Ah, ahg, Makoto-sama. I can’t- I can’t handle this much, please. Oh dear gods, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Ah-ughhh, f- ah, please -keep going.”
Your lower belly is wound so tight, and even the sound of his breathing against you feels good. You could melt into the floor with how much slick is coating your insides, dripping out of you around the suction on your cunt. And Makoto doesn’t have any intention of moving. Your mind aches— you want more. You want to wrap your entire body around him and come apart— as his large hands squeeze your thighs tight and wrap them around his head like he can’t get deep enough.
The sloppy, wet sounds of his face burying between your legs to stuff you full of tongue, licking and sucking at your sensitive pussy. It has your muscles so tight as you roll your hips against him, and you can’t stop shaking. “Oh, I’m g-gonna cum— I can’t! I can’t. It feels so- gud. Ah, ahh. What is happening?” When your fingers clench in his hair, he lets out a long, animalistic groan as he glances back up. Still his tongue isn’t fully inside you. “I can’t- Makoto, I can’t!” Even though he’s reaching further than fingers can, he’s still able to fold the deft black muscle over your clit and slot his lips around it to suck. Hard.
And your body can’t handle any more. While his heartbeat pulses through his tongue against your clit, everything goes white, your muscles clenching so hard it hurts. And your heart beats so hard it feels like it stops altogether. If you make any noise at all, you can’t hear yourself over the pounding in your head, rattling your body so hard that nothing except you and him exist. Your eyes are shut until you’re aware of how he grunts against you and pinpricks get too unbearable. But he doesn’t stop, lifting your body to his face and allowing you to ride out your orgasm against him for what feels like forever.
When you feel like you can hear yourself breathe again, you unwrap your legs from around his head. “I thought my heart was going to explode. If Hitsu knew…”
Your eyes are teary when they flutter open against the light, and the black abysses that stare back are barely narrowed slits. Dipping his gills into water briefly before getting up above you again, Makoto seems different. There’s something predatory that wasn’t there before. You can’t help but go quiet. As his hands drag your body down a few inches, you swallow. “Are you okay? Sorry. I feel like I should thank you— I haven’t come that hard, ever. I don’t know about yokai but I don’t think I could feel that good.” His muscular body covers most of the river from your view, but you find it almost too hard to look at him. You’re still hot; but your skin feels cold.
His fingers slide down along your side when he lets out a little groan. “Yokai don’t do this.” Then he goes to brush his face and mouth along your throat, and you shiver a little at the feeling. “So pretty. Warm. I like warm. Stay with me?” You let him grind himself on top of you and embrace him the best you can, only fitting around the narrow of his waist, but after just a second you yerk up. Makoto pulls his head back when he notices, and you get another brush against your slit that makes a cold shiver run up your spine. Where the slit sat before, a dick has emerged- and your mouth drops open a little. The thing is vaguely dick shaped, but has spurs at the base like an anchor, is more pointed at the tip; and it also pulses with each breath.
“Pretty warm body, good. Smell good too.”
You can’t help but swear when you avert your eyes, and instead wrap your arms back around his neck. “Oh, fuck.” Surely, this is where you’d draw the line. Right? But the touching of that against you doesn’t make your body react the way you think it should. The prodding along your inner thighs just leaves you feeling empty, like you’d like to start all over again. Makoto grunts out a little breath when your tits brush his chest, before staring down at you.
After a few seconds of studying your face, and probably the heat that’s flooding your features, he licks his lips. “Human men have… hm-”
“Yes,” you quickly say. He smacks his lips and grinds against you again. “They uhm- put it inside.” If the answer shocks him, he certainly doesn’t show it— looking like he’s barely holding back from crashing his face back to yours and turning you over to fuck you like the begging whore you feel like. The longer he just keeps his solid body against yours, the harder it is to ignore yourself getting wet again against the pulsing of his cock. The purring, clicking noise coming from him feels nice, and you pull at him. “You’re not done yet, right? I can do more.”
You angle your hips a little, and try not to sound so desperate when looking up at him for a kiss. “Please- put it inside me. I- I want to feel you.” Your hands slide over the rougher scales down between you two to reach for him, and hesitate a little when his cock is heavy and covered in some sort of slime; and it seems to follow your touch. But you’re too far past embarrassment to truly care, and Makoto groans when you wrap your fingers around him to squeeze softly. “I need you.” You really don’t know what’s wrong with you. You feel like your body’s being torn apart. You want to be filled, fucked full of him, and get pumped round of his kids— all things that you shouldn’t be thinking about. You didn’t with any men you’ve been with. You can’t.
Even though you know you’re being ludicrous, when he goes in for a kiss, you cling onto him hard; digging your nails into his back. You don’t even know if he could fit. His cock is proportionate to him- but it’s big and long and girthy enough to put any man to shame. You should care. You should care that you could regret being filled up to your breaking point, but you’re just so, so desperate. You might die if he doesn’t fuck you. You can feel it. “Please, please, please—”
—You slide a few feet across the floor, angry thrashing scaring you up into a flounder as you breathe in deeply. Makoto’s dragged off of you and down before you can even blink, water splashing everywhere; and you struggle back to the riverbank with wide eyes. Now you’re no longer side by side with another person- no, creature- you suddenly feel the entire ache of the cold water. The shortness of breath, the numbness of your lips and hands and feet. You feel the painful sting of your back where you’ve been sliced by a dozen sharp rocks, struggling to keep your head above water. And you feel the soreness between your legs of having been filled by something too big.
When you get over the pure shock, you notice the struggling has stopped, and you notice your creature’s golden shape next to someone else. They glitter and glint even in the low light of the afternoon, and you furrow your brows. The second shape only gets clearer when the light shines through the water and colors the flickers a blinding maroon. Your tongue feels cold.
Your arms wrap over your chest and cover up the best you can when Makoto surfaces again and gives you a kind smile, but you take a slight step back. His long, pale lashes flutter when he reaches out a hand. “Sorry. Rin don’t want to bleed you.” Your back and your painful scrapes are the lesser of your worries though. Whatever spell you were under, you’ve been snapped out of. You feel entirely strange- enough to have hot tears welling up along your waterline. What the hell have you been dragged into? You were going to… do things with some monster you didn’t know existed until today. Your brain screams and pounds, and your stomach is entirely flipped. But the brunet softly continues. “He don’t like I take you. Can you come here?”
“No.” Your hair now sticks to your neck and chest, and every second you’re out of the water, is one where the feeling comes back to your limbs. Your arms are so heavy as you keep them up. “There’s more of you?” You don’t know what you expected, really. Maybe you should have known. Maybe you should have questioned. But how could you have truly known?
“Yes.” he answers after a beat, and swims up a little closer with a frightening ease. “Shhh, okay. He will come. You stay.” You try to tell him not to, but he dips below the water surface before you get the chance to ask him not to, splashing water all over as he does— and you don’t know what else to do but to stare at the small bubbles that pop as peach blossoms wash over your feet. Before too long, the reddish shape surfaces alongside Makoto. He lingers in the deep of the river however; fiery eyes zeroing in on you without blinking at all. He stays submerged from the nose down, and you can’t help but feel too watched.
Your heartbeat doesn’t calm when the brunet swims up closer, and you take a little breath. “Who’s that?”
“Rin,” Makoto softly, sweetly answers, as if he was expecting the question all along. He smiles wide like a saint, and you have to ignore the voice in the back of your head that tells you to get back in the water. His hand reaches out though, and you almost want to. Almost. Your arms and back break out in goosebumps. Then Makoto looks back at the other yokai, and gives you a smiley once-over. It takes you a little too long to recognize something else that plays over his features though. A strange sort of knowing, like he’s seeing right through you. “You Rin’s mate.”
You don’t know why you don’t get up and run.
“Come back in?”
Only that the voice in the back of your head gets more unbearable. You wrap your hands over your ears, and try to hang on.
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#makoto x reader#free x reader#free! makoto#free! smut#makoto smut#tw.dubcon#tw.monsterfucking#tw.size kink#tw.yandere#tw.dark content#🍯honey.pot#💫ch.makoto
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Because tuatara are very long lived - between 100 and 200 years by most estimates […] - the founding of Aotearoa/New Zealand as a modern nation and the unfolding of settler-wrought changes to its environment have transpired over the course of the lives of perhaps just two tuatara [...].
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[T]he tuatara (Sphenodon punctatus) [...] [is] the sole surviving representative of an order of reptiles that pre-dates the dinosaurs. [...] [T]he tuatara is of immense global and local significance and its story is pre-eminently one of deep timescales, of life-in-place [...]. Epithets abound for the unique and ancient biodiversity found in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Prized as “Ghosts of Gondwana” (Gibbs 2008), or as denizens of “Moa’s Ark” (Bellamy et al. 1990) or “The Southern Ark” (Andrews 1986), the country’s faunal species invoke fascination and inspire strong language [...]. In rounded terms, it [has been] [...] just 250 years since James Cook made landfall; just 200 years since the founding of the handful of [...] settlements that instigated agricultural transformation of the land [...]. European newcomers [...] were disconcerted by the biota [...]: the country was seen to “lack” terrestrial mammals; many of its birds were flightless and/or songless; its bats crawled through leaf-litter; its penguins inhabited forests; its parrots were mountain-dwellers; its frogs laid eggs that hatched miniature frogs rather than tadpoles [...].
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Despite having met a reassuringly temperate climate [mild, oceanic, comparable to western Europe], too, the newcomers nevertheless sought to make adjustments to that climate, and it was clear to them that profits beckoned. Surveying the towering lowland forests from the deck of HMS Endeavour in 1769, and perceiving scope for expansion of the fenland drainage schemes being undertaken at that time in England and across swathes of Europe, Joseph Banks [botanist on Cook's voyage] reported on “swamps which might doubtless Easily be drained” [...]. Almost a century later, in New Zealand or Zealandia, the Britain of the South, [...] Hursthouse offered a fuller explication of this ethos: The cultivation of a new country materially improves its climate. Damp and dripping forests, exhaling pestilent vapours from rank and rotten vegetation, fall before the axe [...]. Fen and march and swamp, the bittern’s dank domain, fertile only in miasma, are drained; and the plough converts them into wholesome plains of fruit, and grain, and grass. [...]
[The British administrators] duly set about felling the ancient forests of Aotearoa/New Zealand, draining the country’s swamps [...]. They also began importing and acclimatising a vast array of exotic (predominantly northern-world) species [sheep, cattle, rodents, weasels, cats, crops, English pasture grasses, etc.] [...]. [T]hey constructed the seemingly ordinary agronomic patchwork of Aotearoa/New Zealand's productive, workaday landscapes [...]. This is effected through and/or accompanied by drastic deforestation, alteration of the water table and the flow of waterways, displacement and decline of endemic species, re-organisation of predation chains and pollination sequences and so on [...]. Aotearoa/New Zealand was founded in and through climate crisis [...]. Climate crisis is not a disastrous event waiting to happen in the future in this part of the world; rather, it has been with us for two centuries already [...].
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[T]he crest formed by the twinned themes of absence and exceptionalism [...] has shaped this creature's niche in the western imagination. As one of the very oldest species on earth, tuatara have come to be recognised [in Euro-American scientific schemas] [...] as an evolutionary and biodiversity treasure [...]. In 1867, [...] Gunther [...] pronounced that it was not a lizard at all [...] [and] placed the tuatara [...] in a new order, Rhynchocephalia, [...] igniting a frenzy of scientific interest worldwide. Specifically, the tuatara was seen to afford opportunities for "astonished witnessing" [...], for "the excitement of having the chance to see, to study, to observe a true saurian of Mesozoic times in the flesh, still living, but only on this tiny speck of the earth [...], while all its ancestors [...] died about one hundred and thirty-five million years ago" [...]. Tuatara have, however, long held special status as a taonga or treasured species in Māori epistemologies, featuring in a range of [...] stories where [...] [they] are described by different climates and archaeologies of knowledge [...] (see Waitangi Tribunal 2011, p. 134). [...]
While unconfirmed sightings in the Wellington district were reported in the nineteenth century, tuatara currently survive only in actively managed - that is, monitored and pest-controlled - areas on scattered offshore islands, as well as in mainland zoo and sanctuary populations. As this confinement suggests, tuatara are functionally “extinct” in almost all of their former wild ranges. [...] [Italicized text in the heading of this post originally situated here in Boswell's article.] [...] In the remaining areas of Aotearoa/New Zealand where this species does now live [...], tuatara may in some cases be the oldest living inhabitants. Yet [...] if the tuatara is a creature of long memory, this memory is at risk of elimination or erasure. [...] [T]uatara expose and complicate the [...] machineries of public memory [...] and attendant environmental ideologies and management paradigms [...].
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All text above by: Anna Boswell. "Climates of Change: A Tuatara's-Eye View". Humanities, 2020, Volume 9, Issue 2, 38. Published 1 May 2020. This article belongs to the Special Issue Environmental Humanities Approaches to Climate Change. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Text within brackets added by me for clarity. The first paragraph/heading in this post, with text in italics, are also the words of Boswell from this same article. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]
#i posted commentary about this article in 2020 right after it was first published but i did a sloppy job presenting and discussing it#some might be familiar with boswells 2015 article on longfin eels or her article the stoat free state on weasels in aotearoa#basically she writes on british imperial environmental imaginaries#how settlement tries to reshape a colonys landscape in idealized english image of domesticated home replacing native species with introduce#ecology#abolition#imperial#colonial#landscape#paleo#aotearoa
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On 16 August, 1996, a 3-year-old boy fell 18 feet into the gorilla enclosure at Brookfield Zoo and was knocked out. Unconscious and with a broken hand and a gash to his face, visitors began to scream as they thought the boy would be attacked by the gorillas. Instead, 8-year-old western lowland gorilla, Binti Jua, picked up the young child and carried him 59 feet to the entrance where zoo staff could retrieve him. She growled at other gorillas who tried to get near the boy. This is a clear example of apparent altruism and empathy in animals.
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This is a message to my black brothers and sisters
Learn about your history
Ethiopia is one of the oldest countries in Africa; the emergence of Ethiopian civilization dates back thousands of years. Abyssinia or rather "Ze Etiyopia" was ruled by the Semitic Abyssinians (Habesha) composed mainly of the Amhara and Tigray, the Cushitic Agaw. In the Eastern escarpment of the Ethiopian highlands and more so the lowlands was the home of the Arab-descended Harari that founded Sultanates such as Ifat and Adal and the Afars. In the central and south were found the ancient Sidama and Semitic Gurage, among otheres. One of the first kingdoms to rise to power in the territory was the kingdom of D'mt in the 10th century BC, which established its capital at Yeha. In the first century AD the Aksumite Kingdom rose to power in the modern Tigray Region with its capital at Aksum and grew into a major power on the Red Sea, subjugating South Arabia and Meroe and its surrounding areas. In the early fourth century, during the reign of Ezana, Christianity was declared the state religion. Ezana's reign is also when the Aksumites first identified themselves as "Ethiopians", and not long after, Philostorgius became the first foreign author to call the Aksumites Ethiopians.[The Aksumite empire fell into decline with the rise of Islam in the Arabian peninsula, which slowly shifted trade away from the Christian Aksum.[citation needed] It eventually became isolated, its economy slumped and Aksum's commercial domination of the region ended.The Aksumites gave way to the Zagwe dynasty, who established a new capital at Lalibela before giving way to the Solomonic dynasty in the 13th century. During the early Solomonic period, Ethiopia went through military reforms and imperial expansion that allowed it to dominate the Horn of Africa.
How did Ethiopia Resist Imperialism?
Ethiopia, formerly Abyssinia, is one of the world’s oldest countries. Dating to around 400 BCE, the region is documented in the in the King James Version of the Bible as the Kingdom of Axum. Along with Rome, Persia, and China, Axum was considered one of the four great powers of the era. Throughout the millennia of its history, the willingness of the country’s people—from farmers to kings—to come together as one, coupled with its geographic isolation and economic prosperity, helped Ethiopia score decisive victories against a series of global colonialist forces.
Ethiopia is considered “never colonized” by some scholars, despite Italy's occupation from 1936–1941 because it did not result in a lasting colonial administration.
Seeking to expand its already considerable colonial empire in Africa, Italy invaded Ethiopia in 1895. In the ensuing First Italo-Ethiopian War (1895-1896), Ethiopian troops won a crushing victory over Italian forces at the Battle of Adwa on March 1, 1896. On October 23, 1896, Italy agreed to the Treaty of Addis Ababa, ending the war and recognizing Ethiopia as an independent state.
On Oct. 3, 1935, Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, hoping to rebuild his nation’s prestige lost in the Battle of Adwa, ordered a second invasion of Ethiopia. On May 9, 1936, Italy succeeded in annexing Ethiopia. On June 1 of that year, the country was merged with Eritrea and Italian Somalia to form Africa Orientale Italiana (AOI or Italian East Africa).
Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie made an impassioned appeal for assistance in removing the Italians and re-establishing independence to the League of Nations on June 30, 1936, gaining support from the U.S. and Russia. But many League of Nations members, including Britain and France, recognized Italian colonization.
It was not until May 5, 1941, when Selassie was restored to the Ethiopian throne, that independence was regained.
Ethiopia's ability to resist being swept up in the "Scramble for Africa" can be credited to the stability of its longstanding imperial government, beginning with the Abyssinian Empire in the 13th century, and lasting into the late 20th century, with the exception of a brief Italian occupation during the 1930s. King Menelik II, the Emperor during the period of rampant European exploration and colonization in Africa, was careful to cultivate an alliance with the smaller surrounding kingdoms of North Africa, and with European powers including Italy and Russia. When Italy began to turn the sights of their imperial ambitions toward Ethiopia, the Ethiopian military became the only African kingdom able to successfully resist the military might of European colonial power, using Russian-supplied weapons to defeat the Italian invading force at the Battle of Adwa in 1896. In the aftermath of the battle, in exchange for permanent recognition as an independent empire, Menelik II granted Italy the right to claim the neighboring territory of Eritrea under their imperial umbrella.
Ethiopians have a history of taming lions.
Many Emperors kept pet lions including Halie Selassie. Occasionally visitors like Kwame Nkrumah could pet one of the lions!
This practice of keeping lions is said to date back thousands of years to the Axumite period.The descendants of the Royal Lions currently live in the Addis Ababa zoo.
Meet his imperial majesty, the King of the Jungle.
And if, with his thick, shaggy mane Challa seems to have something of a frisky regal air about him - it's because he knows that he is a genuine blue blood.Challa is a direct descendant of Mochuria and Mollua - royal lions, which the late Emperor Haile Selassie kept as pets. The Emperor's practice of keeping pet lions is said to date thousands of years back to the Axumite period.Years ago in Ethiopia, Lions were pets to the people, some were used like donkeys, some like dogs kept at home. Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia had lions he kept as pets, while some Ethiopians could even ride on them. These were not wild lions, they grew up with humans and became domesticated.They didn't go after human blood or other animals, lions roamed around the streets of Ethiopia and live was beautiful with them. Ethiopia is in East Africa, it's a rugged, landlocked country split by the Great Rift Valley, Ethiopia is a place of ancient culture, they believe and still hold on to ancient affairs.
Any lion that goes wild was immediately hunted killed, they were only killed if they kill a human and not animals like goats and chickens. They forbid killing and eating of any lion because lions were pets used in different palaces.
Ethiopia as a country had its origin in about 980 B.C., which makes it one of the oldest nations in the world.
Due to this very long history and an unmatched diversity of people and cultures, the country has often been described as a “museum of peoples”. With such a highly diverse population, Ethiopia houses an intricate tapestry of language and ethnic groups.
Also nicknamed the “Land of 13 Sunshine’s”, Ethiopia is often described as one of the most enthralling and enchanting places in the world – and definitely in Africa.
Ethiopia may not be the first place any traveller think of when planning or booking a next holiday, but it may just as well soon be the case. As African country Ethiopia can boast about having been at peace for at least the previous 15 years or more years and its economy is consequently one of the fastest growing in the world.
With the added bonus of an astounding diversity of landscapes, mixture of cultures and history that tracks back to when homo sapiens first started to raise itself up onto two legs, a traveller suddenly may look forward to a surprising and breath-taking travel destination.
But talking about planning and holiday dated, you probably didn’t know that this unique nation even has its own calendar?
This is but one of a myriad fascinating facts about the country, of which a number are discussed in this article. Looking at the country’s ancient and statutory history, its religion, culture, people and natural phenomena, here are at least 44 random but fascinating facts that you can ponder in anticipation of a visit to this eastern African country in the near future:
Fact number 1 – The oldest people in the world probably lived here.
Fact number 2 – Ethiopia is the oldest independent country in Africa and the only African country that could evade colonial rule.
Fact number 3 – Ethiopia was one of the first African forces to achieve a significant victory over a European colonial power.
Fact number 4 – Ethiopia has a rich history of rulers, including emperors and queens.
Fact number 5 – Ethiopia is perceived to be the diplomatic capital of the African continent
Fact number 6 – Ethiopia is the country with the second highest population in Africa, and with almost 1,5 % of the world population.
Fact number 8 – Ethiopia has the most orphans in the world.
Fact number 10 – Addis Ababa is the highest capital city in Africa.
Fact number 11 – More than 200 dialects are spoken by the peoples of the country.
Please like and share so others can see, drop your comments below and let me know what you think.
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💞A different type of rec list ask game, to rep your own fics and other authors you enjoy.💞 Spell out your user name with fic recs. If the letter correlates to one of your fics you rec it (no duplicates use a different fic for repeat letters.) If you get to a letter you don’t have a fic title for you rec one you‘ve liked from someone else. 💖Send this to someone who might need a little love on their own fics or just like spreading the love.💖
Oh, my username is LONG, this is gonna be HARD (haha get it). Keeping it Harringrove to keep it simple (for myself. I have over 3k bookmarks on ao3)
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I Had to See You, by me. Almost 2k, Billy and Steve broke up three weeks ago, and Steve shows up on Billy's doorstep. One of the fics I'm proudest of.
sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, by @whenyouwishuponastar7. 94k, Steve is a professional babysitter, and is hired to look after Max after she and her older brother move to Hawkins. This was the first fic I read from her and I FELL IN LOVE. Absolute masterpiece. Every time she posts new fics I run to read them so fast.
Shout At The Devil, by @writerwhowritesao3. It's actually a series (155k) that has me by the balls, but the first fic(68k) can be read on its own just fine. It's a retelling of season 2 and it's delicious. It also gives Susan a personality. I would tag just the first fic, but I don't have a J in my username and I HAD to.
Of Cats and Men, by @ihni. 39k, Billy hits a cat with his car, and has to take care of three little kittens. Steve helps. This fics is EVERYTHING to me. Billy and cats get me every time, right in the heart. You will need to hug your pet when you read this, though.
Run for the Shadows, by @shieldofiron. 36k, this fic is DELICIOUS. Friends with benefits to lovers, OBLIVIOUS STEVE. So oblivious. Pure of heart, dumb of ass. I had such a great time reading this fic.
Towel Talks, by @weird-an. 10k, after s3, Steve finds Billy in the community pool sauna. I love this one because An does caring Steve SO WELL. I was like this 🥺 the whole time I was reading it. It's so so good.
On Loving Billy, by lilpeas. I don't know their tumblr. 16k, this is THE break-up and make-up fic. It hurts SO GOOD, their emotions are so beautifully written out. It wrung everything out of me. Love.
for what you have tamed, by skoosiepants. Don't know their tumblr either. 10k. Billy is a cat and a dragon, and he keeps saving Steve's life. I LOVE magical realism, and this fic builds the world incredibly well. It's such a good read.
Sideways, by @robthegoodfellow. 46k. THIS FIC. It spins season 2 on its head so fucking well, oh my god. Rob is such a good writer, I've read this fic more than once and it gets to me every time. Their Billy is incredible.
Only The Freaks Come Out at Night, by shippingmyarmada (idk their tumblr). 67k. GREAT post s2 fic. You know I cry from happiness when I find a post s2 fic. This one is really, really well done.
Rotten Apples, by @weird-an. 14k. It's. a. WITCHER. AU. Do I need to say anything else???????? I love this so much. So much. You have no idea.
Camaro, by @lovebillyhargrove. I'm cheating a little on this one bc I don't know the name of the fic and I wanted to include it, and it's about the Camaro coming alive after season 3 and going on a killing spree to avenge Billy. It gets EVEN BETTER from there. Ana wrote this so well, whenever a chapter dropped on tumblr I lost my shit.
every night fucks every day up, by anonymous. 8k. It's a modern AU, and you know I love my modern AUs. Steve and Billy interact through snapchat. I have a soft spot for snapchat because i first heard about this app reading a Sterek fic in january 2014. This has nothing to do with the fic.
Read to Me?, by lemonlovely (idk tumblr). 12k. Someone leaves books with marked passages at Family Video for Steve. It's SO CUTE. SO CUTE. I love it.
Yeah, It's Me, by @callieb. 29k. Another fic that's between s2 and s3, and this one is SOOOOO GOOD in that their relationship starts as a FWB that's kind of unhealthy and I just about died reading this. Happy ending though. Trust me, it's worth it.
And that's done! It took me over 2 hours to put this together lmao so go give these fics and these writers some love! They deserve it.
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Wasted Summers
you and bosch being kids. mostly platonic. wasted summers - juju inspired by @descendingarrow when they said they were making a nayshalli oc and it got me thinking what you and bosch would be like as kids.
You followed him like a lost puppy everywhere he went.
He tried many times to dump you on someone else: Amma, your mom, the neighbors, anyone. But you still wanted to stick by him.
When jumping on the metal roofs of the Lowlands, he had to wait for you to shuffle down before jumping down another couple of steps.
Which got on his nerves because of how long you were taking.
He thought about leaving you to do his own things but could only imagine what Amma would say, leaving another kid alone.
So he begrudgingly waited for you to catch up to him.
But he warmed up to you after a couple of older kids were picking on him.
They would rip the toys from his hands and play with them until they broke.
Bosch wasn't going to let it slide, so he did the only reasonable thing and tried to fight them.
Of course, being smaller he stood no chance. But when you saw him fighting with the other street kids, you jumped into the brawl.
Yeah, it was a stupid idea you had in the spur of the moment but it eventually scared off the older kids when they thought they could get away with it.
Cue your mother's scolding you two when you came back home beaten and bruised.
But after that, he didn't push you away so often anymore.
He would take you to the Lowlands and explore the gutter system with you, playing with glass bottles and worn-out tires.
You used bottle caps as currency, trading with Bosch for a random piece of trash.
For example: 3 caps for some old batteries. Or 5 caps for a square of bubble wrap.
He hissed in pain when he felt a stabbing sensation graze his leg.
He kicked the sharp plastic sticking out on the floor. “Dumb plastic.”
Seeing him kick the rubble of trash, you decided to kick it too.
He laughed at you and he jumped deeper into the pile.
Since you two were making a big racket, the people who lived nearby shooed you off.
He wanted to show you the cool caves in Mt. Vashal, but the construction workers always denied you two whenever you got too close.
He’s also the one to help you tie your Chuba when your mother is too busy with other things. Bosch always wore it differently, so he’ll tie it to match how he’s wearing it that day.
You scared him once when he saw your beady eyes peering at him from his window.
His scream woke his Amma up.
At least she found it endearing, because he was definitely yelling at you.
Maybe you do have separation issues.
On hot days, you both would lie on the floor and lay around until his Amma made him do something.
Sometimes you would help him replace the offerings on the family altar inside his home.
You hold out the bottom of your shirt to use as a makeshift basket so bosch can give you the older ones.
After the edible offerings were replaced, you two would make your way to feed the wild Yaks.
He laughed when one licked your fingers, making you drop the rest of the fruits in surprise.
But the moment was ruined when another Yak licked his face when he got too close to the fence, making him yelp.
You would lounge by the market during peak hours and wait for people to drop their change or any valuable items that fell on the floor.
He got daring with a particular food stand, causing the Shopkeeper to grab Bosch by the collar.
Panicking you bit down on the man’s hand, making him howl in pain.
He instantly let go, dropping Bosch to the ground.
Taking this as an opportunity, you both bolted out of there.
Only hearing the distant shouts from the market.
You both slowed down as you got closer to your houses.
You and Bosch were out of breath and tired from all the running.
“Thanks for helping me out back there. But you didn’t need to, I had everything under control.” he said.
“No you didn’t.” You replied as he rolled his eyes.
He pulled the Momos from his belt pocket and held one out to you.
“I’d say this was a good trip, and thanks to you I was able to grab more while the old man was crying in pain.” he laughed. “Wanna share?”
You smiled, accepting the savory treat.
Well turns out, that Shopkeeper you bit knows Bosch’s mom personally.
So you both knew you would be in trouble when he showed up at Bosch’s doorstep.
After a very long lecture from your parents and the Shopkeeper, you two had to make 100 Momos for him to sell as your punishment, making you and Bosch groan.
Well, it could’ve been worse.
The next day, Bosch's Amma helped prepare the Yak meat. While you and him rolled out the dough and filled the insides with the raw paste.
He got tired after a while and you sprawled yourself over your work area whining about how much your hands hurt.
Your mom reminded you that you and Bosch have to repay Tsanpa-La after causing a commotion yesterday.
Bosch rested his cheek on the table saying “It’s not like we’re the only ones doing that, other kids are doing it too.”
“Yeah, but those other kids probably aren't going to be an older brother soon. So you need to set an example for your younger sibling.”
He begrudgingly helped fill the rest of the dough.
Your mom made you and Bosch walk to Shopkeeper Tsanpa’s stand and give him your Momos in person. After forcing you two to bow to him.
As you got closer, he would start sharing food with you.
Amma gave him enough money for some Dzomo Yogurt.
He saw the way your eyes linger on the same stand every time you two pass the market, so he got one.
He would eat a spoonful and pass it to you. Then you would do the same, and pass it back to him.
When you get some on your face, he used the bottom of his shirt to wipe your mouth.
He sat next to you during breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Basically, any time you both were sitting, he was right next to you.
He would lead you to the staircase overlooking the lake and he taught you how to skip rocks. It took a couple of days but when you skipped your first one, all the rocks you and bosch were holding fell to the floor as you two celebrated in excitement.
You would sometimes stop and pick up the glass on the ground, telling Bosch that they looked like diamonds. Which also made him collect them.
When you two collected a decent amount, you both presented them to his Amma hoping it would make her feel better during her pregnancy.
You asked your mom if you and Bosch can have a sleepover. She said “If Bosch is okay with it, then it’s fine with me.”
Which prompted you to ambush him while he was eating, almost making him choke on his food.
From then on, you and Bosch slept together in the same room every time you had sleepovers.
Granted it got messy, so you and him would have to clean it before you go outside.
You liked to give fruits to the langurs that lingered around the market.
You thought they were so cute when their cheeks puffed up when eating. Especially this one gray langur you decided to name, Dawa, because of his silver fur.
Apparently, you did it so often that he now expects fruit from you every time you visit.
Bosch found out the hard way when you two were eating apples by Shopkeeper Tsanpa-La’s stand. And Dawa swooped down to take the apple from his hands.
Bosch chased him around for a bit before Dawa decided to sit on the cable line and eat it in front of Bosch.
Other times when it got hot, you would sit by the Kulfi stand and wait for the owner to open, so you could get first pick.
But the combined money you and Bosch was enough for only one.
Whoever won rock paper scissors that day, ultimately chose the flavor you two would share.
Finally, no one is allowed to pick on you unless they want to deal with Bosch. Not kids. Not adults. No one.
So if they had a problem with you, they had a problem with him.
amma-In tibet, children call their mother amma (媽).
momo- are a type of steamed filled dumpling in tibetan and nepali cuisine that is also popular in neighboring bhutan and india
dzomo yogurt- yogurt that comes from a hybrid between the yak and domestic cattle
#street fighter x reader#bosch x reader#bosch waraya#bosch waraya x reader#sf x reader#sf6 x reader#street fighter bosch#street fighter#street fighter bosch waraya#street fighter 6 x reader#street fighter 6
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New Don Troiani just dropped!
This one is depicting the storming of Redoubt No. 9 at the close of the Siege of Yorktown, 14 October 1781.
After campaigning through Virginia in 1781, Major General Cornwallis’s Crown forces had established a base at Yorktown, a seemingly ideal spot since it provided easy access to the sea, and thus supplies and reinforcements from the Royal Navy.
What Cornwallis hadn’t counted on was a major joint French and American revolutionary operation that would not only bring a French and Continental force to besiege him by land, but also a French fleet to block off access by the sea.
The siege that followed progressed rapidly. Yorktown’s main defences were protected by a number of redoubts, small fortifications sitting a little out from the primary defensive lines. Two redoubts, numbered 9 and 10, were earmarked to be captured by the besiegers. On the night of 14 October Continental Army light infantry would attack redoubt 10, while their French allies attacked redoubt 9.
The multinational nature of the American Revolution comes to a head here. The 120ish Crown defenders of redoubt 9 included detachments from several English and Scottish regiments as well as Germans from the Hessian Regiment von Bose. There was variation even among the Scots, with highlanders from the 71st Regiment (Fraser’s highlanders), and lowlanders from the 80th Regiment (Royal Edinburgh Volunteers).
The attacking French force primarily consisted of the grenadiers and chasseurs (light infantry) of two regiments, Gatinais and Royal Deux-Points, but the latter regiment actually mostly consisted of Germans from the states of the Holy Roman Empire.
After darkness fell, and following a thunderous bombardment, the attack got underway. The French first had to clear the abatis (basically stakes and sharp undergrowth) lining the ditch in front of the redoubt. Charpentiers wielding axes did this, hacking a path. The assault force then stormed up and into the redoubt, roaring ‘long live the king’ and ‘kill, kill.’ The fighting was some of the most brutal of the Revolutionary War. One German in Royal Deux-Points, Georg Daniel Flohr, leaves a grim account;
‘Anyone can imagine what happened once we were inside the redoubt. People of four nations were thrown together: Frenchmen, English, Scots, and Germans… the soldiers… were so furious that our people were killing one another. The French were striking down everyone in a blue coat. Since the Deux-Ponts wore blue, many of us were stabbed to death… One screamed here, the other there, that for the grace of God we should kill him off completely. The whole redoubt was so full of dead and wounded that one had to walk on top of them.’
Artwork is, of course, by Don Troiani and reproduced with permission. Prints available for purchase on the W Britain website.
#history#military history#18th century#american revolution#american war of independence#revwar#yorktown#siege of yorktown
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Clad in Justice and Worth
Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.
The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.
The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.
Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.
All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.
“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”
“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”
He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”
“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”
“Young Henry said much the same.”
Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”
Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”
She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.
*
When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.
Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.
A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”
The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”
The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”
But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.
“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”
“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”
*
They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.
Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.
His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.
The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.
“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”
Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”
*
Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.
There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.
In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.
“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”
“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”
“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”
“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”
At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.
*
Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.
“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.
A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”
At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.
“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”
A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”
“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”
“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”
“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”
The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.
“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”
Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.
“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”
Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Joan, your Highness.”
“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”
“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.
When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”
“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”
The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.
“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”
“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”
Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”
Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.
When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.
*
Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.
“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”
“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”
Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”
Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.
As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.
Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.
The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.
The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”
“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.
Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”
“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.
“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”
“Henry will lead.”
“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”
Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”
“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”
*
Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.
Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.
By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.
An hour later, she fell asleep.
When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—
There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.
“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”
The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.
“How do you know me, mother?”
“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”
“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’
“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.
“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.
“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”
“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”
Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.
Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”
Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.
“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”
“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”
Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”
“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”
“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”
“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”
“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”
Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.
“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”
“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”
If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”
Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.
“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”
Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.
“God has predestined His own
That they should be sons and heirs.
Drawn by gentle constraint
A zeal consuming is theirs.
They shall inherit the earth
Clad in justice and worth.”
“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”
“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.
Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”
As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.
She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.
*
She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.
“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.
Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”
When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.
#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge#team tolkien#genre: time travel#theme: visiting the imprisoned#with a tiny little hint of#theme: visiting the sick#story: complete#so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can#when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me#Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc#so that was the basis for this story#somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power#and also illness worked itself in there. go me#anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise#i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes#but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way#on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do#hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong#i think that covers all my bases#i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it#and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone#pontifications and creations#leah stories#i enjoy being a girl#the unquenchable fire
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Lowland Fell (2008)
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Wangxian Mermay 2023
Day X: The Hunt.
War was a human invention.
Their blood, and fights, and bodies filled the rivers and shores. Providing food for every creature that came across them. The natural world did not hold their beliefs, they did not care for things such as 'soul' or 'respect'. The Cycle was what dominated. Everything was a part of nature.
Humans just believed themselves exempt.
They cursed when they found their half eaten brethren, tossed ash and perfumed soap into the water, spiked nets with barbs, and when they spotted them in the rivers, took endless pleasure in hunting them.
This time they made a mistake.
They took his son.
Wei Ying hunted them for ten days, inland through the waterways, human built dams, destroyed the traps they set to catch or slow him.
The foolish ones became his prey early on. Keeping his son chained like their four-legged hunting animals, and venturing to the water to wash or relive themselves. They fell first and tasted the worst. He tossed their bodies back on land, daring more to come to avenge their fallen, to come to him in the deep.
Unfortunately, they were smart enough to know better.
As he followed their scent and the smell of his son, he dwindled their numbers down to a scant few. He lured them to the lowlands, then waited, knowing the high tide would cut them off from the shore.
They would have been at his mercy. Had the others not come.
They smelled of winter, of freshwater and crystalline rivers, of an earth ash that stuck in the back of his throat and made him yearn for more.
He watched them drop from the sky, swords gleaming, reflecting firelight and the dark waters as they fed the land the blood of their enemies.
"The reports said there would be more." One of them said, smooth and even toned. His voice did not grate against Wei Ying's ears like so many did.
"Mn." The other hummed.
He stood against the firelight, his white edged in the orange glow. His dark hair hung straight and thick against pale skin that smelled of that scent. Wei Ying wanted more, he wanted that flesh against him, he wanted to breathe it in. He wanted to hear that melodious voice speak to him.
Wei Ying swam closer, intent upon finding his son, and seeing more of this human if he could.
"Wangji!" The other shouted.
His son screamed, he darted around grabbing hands, heading for the dark river.
Wei Ying leapt from the water, coiling around his son, holding his trembling body. He snapped at the hand reaching for his son just catching the edge of his sleeve.
His hearts beat a drum in his ears. The clothes were smooth, like an eel, between his teeth.
His eyes. Oh. His eyes. Bright like every day of sun breaking over the waves. Like the glow of fish in the rivers. Like the human made fire behind him.
Wei Ying released the sleeve, pulling back, holding his son close.
The humans stood upon the wet soil, staring at him with blades bathed in blood, the reek of it permeating the air, mixing with the thick ion of the incoming storm.
"He…is yours?" The one said, his voice resounding through Wei Ying's ears, his longer fingered hand gesturing towards his son.
"He is mine." Wei Ying stroked his sons hair, smoothing it away from the bruise on his temple. His son hiccuped a sob, pressing himself closer.
"Shh baobei, shh, I am here." He kissed the bruise, humming as he rubbed circles around the skin. The bruise began to glow gentle from below, spreading across his skin until it was gone, only healthy, unblemished skin remained.
"That was.." the one said, he handed a dark cloth to the other, putting his blade away. He looked from the bruise to Wei Ying. Folding his arms, he bowed at the waist. "I am Lan Xichen of Gusu Lan, have you heard of us?"
Wei Ying tipped his head.
There were stories sung years ago, one of their own who had been captured and forced to stay. She found her escape, but not after she bore two children. Wei Ying had never met her, Qing-jie had, when she came from tending to her, she always smelled of…
Wei Ying bent closer, breathing in the man's scent. Earthy, spicy, it stuck in the back of his throat.
"I haven't." He said "There have been no formal introductions made since before you." He nodded to Lan Xichen, "Until now, that is. I am called Wei Ying."
"Wei-gongzi, have you been hunting the Wen's? We noticed their decimated numbers."
Wei Ying held his son, kissing the top of his head, "They took what was mine. I had every right." He coiled tighter around his son, bearing his teeth. He dared these men to challenge him, their ends would be as swift as the dead he left behind him.
Lan Xichen held up his hands, "We mean no offense. I was just…the rivers are laid with traps and snare nets to prevent Jiaoren coming this far inland."
Wei Ying scoffed, "We have lived before your forefathers, when you weren't even a thought yet. There is nothing you can do to keep us from where we desire to be."
Lan Xichen shared a look with the other, Lan…Wangji perhaps was his name. Wei Ying only knew him by smell, earth and sea, sunset and spice.
They shared a look for a long time before Lan…Wangji looked back at him, bowing as Lan Xichen had before.
"I am Lan Zhan, courtesy: Wangji. My xiongzhang would like to ask for your help in our efforts against the Wen."
The Wen's were not a singular threat. They knew of the Jiaoren. Qing-jie and A-Ning had worked in his castle before he wanted to conquer the world. They knew his threat would not end at the shore. Conversations amongst elders and Shifters had been tense and long these last few months. Wei Ying was ambivalent towards any decisions made, he knew he would likely be held back until the last minute.
Until they had taken his son.
"We have noticed Wen Rohan's movements. We know he threatens all of us. Not just those that choose the land. However, I must return home, to tell my jiejie that my son is safe." He looked at Lan Zhan, meeting those golden eyes. His hearts racing, the only other time he felt this excited was when his son was born.
"Come with me. I can tell you how the elders decide to help."
"Wangji." Lan Xichen put a hand on his brothers arm, tightening his hold.
It pleased Wei Ying to see Lan Zhan struggle to pulled his eyes away, he bowed to Lan Xichen,
"I will not be gone long." He put a hand over the one on his arm. "I promise to return to you shortly."
"Wangji." There was a wealth of meaning in that single word. 'stay with me' 'be safe' 'don't get hurt's and finally 'come back quickly'
Wei Ying heard it all because he had said it all before. He nuzzled the top of his son's head, pressing kisses into his hair, smoothing the rotten stench of humans away with his own. Truthfully he hardly smelled better, and he would rather his own smell of human-choked riverways on his son, than the reek of them.
"Are you well A-Yuan?"
Tucked in his tail, wrapped up like a octopus does its pretty, A-Yuan blinked his pretty eyes open, smiling at him, "Yes diedie, I'm okay."
"Wei…Ying."
Wei Ying looked up, blinking water from his eyes. It had begun to rain without him noticing.
Being around this man was dangerous, between him and A-Yuan, he forgot all surroundings, made no notice of anything except them.
"You will come with me, yes?"
He nodded, a single polite action.
Wei Ying smiled, "Good, I'm sure your mother would like to see you as well." He turned, pointing to the end of the island, "Meet me over there, we will travel together."
His arm was grabbed, he was not pulled, only held.
Lan Zhan and Lan Xichen had wide eyes, staring at him. Faces pale and mouths hanging open.
He looked between them, turning back around to face them, he laid a hand over the one on his arm.
"You didn't know, did you?"
"We…were told she had…passed " Lan Xichen said. A tiny frown, "Are you sure it's her?"
"You smell like her." Wei Ying bent close to Lan Zhan, breathing him in. He could hear the rushing of blood through his veins, how his heart pounded with Wei Ying so close.
He let his lips drift across his cheek as he pulled away.
"Will you still come?"
"Wangji…the war." Lan Xichen sounded torn between his personal desire, and duty.
Wei Ying did not envy him.
"I am going to ask the Jiaoren for help." He took Lan Xichen's hand, "I will write often. You will know if I am safe."
"I will protect him as I do my son." Wei Ying stroked A-Yuan's hair.
Lan Xichen closed his eyes, taking in a breath. The water was lapping at their ankles now, he couldn't not be aware of it.
"Be safe." He looked between them "keep each other safe. Write to me. I will pray that the Jiaoren are willing to help."
He pulled his sword from his hip. It hummed a song Wei Ying could not name, but resonated down his chest, settling into him like the songs of whales, or dolphins, or the way that sharks hum when they're close.
Lan Xichen stepped onto it, flying above the carnage, and away from his brother.
Wei Ying looked back to find Lan Zhan's eyes already in him.
He smiled, "Shall we go?"
Started out as a sort of dark!Wei Wuxian hunting down Wen's who kidnapped his son. In true mirmb fashion it manifested itself into something else completely.
Was it a good something?
#mdzs#mo dao zu shi#wangxian#wei wuxian#lan wangji#the untamed#wei ying#lan zhan#mirmb wangxian mermay 2023#wangxian mermay 2023#mermay prompts#mermay 2023#fics#fic#ficlets#ficlet#ficrecs#mirmb writes
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Seven-Fold Sea Periphery: Scale Islands Archaeological Site Findings
On top is the full extent of the document, closer copies and more detailed explanations to follow
Below is a world map, outlining the location of the Scale Islands with a dark red box
Located on the southeastern edge of the Seven-Fold Sea phenomena, the Scale Islands are an archipelago of space-originating islands formed of fragments broken off of the First Bright Moon, having gradually accumulated thick limestone beds in the lowlands during the last period of major sea rise.
A map of the Scale Islands
The lunar rock found in the islands has long been prized as a building material, with quarrying evident from the time of the first Hurricane-Engine City Ships, with temples constructed from the material present from the Salt region to the Crust region.
On the left, the rock type by depth of the archaeological dig, with the corresponding energy levels recorded by depth to their right.
On the right, the Island of Baltora, with an inset map showing the location of the archaeological dig.
The islands have been of note in recent years due to the discovery of an array of large-scale cave systems deep below sea level of a similar type as the long known lower reaches of the Bunker region. Evidence of human cohabitation dating back to the early Xerranian period is present in some of these caves, having remained untouched since then as opposed to the still currently inhabited caves in the Bunker region.
The particular site was discovered through drilling undertaken in a quarry in the east of the Island of Baltora.
The known extent of Baltora's Lunar cave system, with the entrance present in a small cave to the left of the largest chamber indicated by a +▵
The site of the discovered mural is indicated by a small star in the bottom roughly hexagonal segment
Preliminary examination of the inhabited sections of the cave have proven fruitful, with recent advancements in the Neon regions image capture technology having cut down energy costs to the point images can be captured without large, heavy infrastructure, and without the resulting energy output scouring all spirit/energy traces which can be useful for anthropological studies.
A sketch of the room containing the mural, with the location the image was taken indicated by a small star
The mural (10.8m Tall by 8m Wide) appears to show a draconic being and a humanoid towering above mountains and forests, with a stairway leading up to a large circular structure (presumably the moon) visually continuing the stairway up to the mural. Holes in the base of the mural appear to have been used to hold scrolls, while indents in the figures and patterns likely were meant for gems.
The photo of the mural, with annotation attempting to translate the symbols on the engraved scrolls to the left and right
A translation of the main body text from the Linear script into English has been provided below, any more specific translations will be provided by request.
Image taken during the year 927 expedition into the newly discovered macro-scale cave system located in the Scale Islands using a low energy grayscale LightCord camera isolated within a hooded pouch laced with silver to prevent energy contamination of the site.
The Scale Islands are known to originate from chunks of the first moon which fell from orbit several million years ago in planetary time, experiencing a crash consistent with stellar bodies, exhibiting little gravitational attraction and lacking mechanical failure upon impact.
The mural was found in the southern edge of the cave system, in an area identified as having human habitation. The chamber itself is notably formed of fossil space, an unusual anomaly considering the freestanding voids of the other constructed caverns in the area.
Wax placed along the left and right sides of the chamber formed out of an unknown plant based material, this wax contains Energy traces which date the last major residence of the site roughly 45000 years ago in local time. The date cannot be identified more precisely, as the material's energy decay rate is unknown.
The mural's ordered spirit is well formed, having very little intention pollution which occurs in public facing facilities. The intent of the mural's creator was preserved through the period the site was in use, suffering less than 10% pollution.
The chamber has partially collapsed near the opening on both sides, with dust stranding in the air above the rubble piles typical of a natural collapse rebound of a pocket of fossil space. Residual corrosive residue on the rock near the entrance clued in researchers to the rooms existence, appearing to have been the result of the hinges and locks of a doorway.
Small degrees of mechanical erosion of the rock in its early period is evident in the intent pollution experienced by the murals spirit, likely from cleaning the soot created by the candles off of the surface.
Chemical damage to the mural was caused by seawater intrusion into the chamber through the caves connections with the overlying limestone rock, the resulting erosion occurred in a low energy environment. This damage was not repaired until the high energy seas of the Abyss era, magnifying the spirits repair of the mural, resulting in the current murals rounded features.
Translations completed in concert with the people's of the island chain, along with the older translation work completed by the L'emmerak expedition of early y200, as the symbol base discovered in the Bunker region Lunar Caves dates back to the same region.
Direct influence by Miss Ziava-Ossan is unlikely, but cannot be ruled out during translation, none of their signature Pitch Black energy was captured by the candle-wax within the room at the time the image was taken.
Contributing Authors: Nessen Ralynoh, Ialm Chiroha, Parruh and Lakkan Collu, Geissec Harzui.
Citations: T. Iyottumaya, K. Keke'ralm, G. Vadizoa, M. Porovska, L'emmerak
#conlang#map#fantasy maps#anthropology#fantasy anthropology#fantasy map#I haven't posted in a bit so I forgor my tagging systems 😔#also a fun detail - you can probably translate the symbols on the mural from another of the conlang's I've posted about on this blog#sadly this project is slightly unfinished since I did it for an art class#so I had a specific time limit ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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On February 27th 1545 the Battle of Ancrum Moor took place.
This was a battle during the "Rough Wooing" as King Henry VIII of England tried to persuade the Scots that the 3 year old Mary Queen of Scots to marry his son. The decisive Scottish victory would put a temporary end to English incursions into the Scottish border and lowlands.
After failed negotiation with the Scottish king, in October 1542 Henry VIII sent an English army some 20,000 into Scotland, where they burnt Kelso and Roxburgh. In reply, James V of Scotland raised an army of some 18,000 troops in the west and headed for Carlisle, but was defeated in November at Solway Moss by a much smaller English force. After the death of James V, Henry aimed to unify the two kingdoms by seeking the marriage of the then, one year old Scottish Queen Mary to his own son, Prince Edward. When his proposals failed he pursued the matter through force of arms - the so called 'rough wooing'.
As part of this campaign, in February 1545 two of Henry's northern commanders, Euer and Laiton, again crossed the border, this time with some 5000 troops. The army plundered Melrose town and burn down the abbey, then returned towards Jedburgh. In response the Earl of Angus raised local forces. At first outnumbered, he manoeuvred but would not engage the invaders. Once joined by other forces, including the Earl of Arran, he had more than 1200 troops. The Scots now considered their army strong enough to act and at Ancrum Moor they totally defeated the far larger English army.
The photos show Lilliards Stone, or Lady Lilliards Stone, as it is sometimes called it marks where the battle took place and also commemorates a Teviotdale girl name Lilliard who to avenge the death of her lover slain by the Earl of Hereford's English troops at an earlier point took part in the Battle of Ancrum Moor until she fell with many wounds.
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💕 kissing somewhere other than lips
Aeryn frowned at herself in the mirror. The purple blouse was Thavnairian wool, as was her long straight skirt, so she was comfortable enough, if it all seemed heavy somehow.
Perhaps it was just her mood.
Outside Fortemps Manor a light snow fell, not nearly enough to deter the guests arriving for Count Edmont’s nameday fete. The party had been planned long before the Scions’ arrival in the Holy See, and hosting the fugitives was no reason for his lordship to call it off.
So of course, as wards of the House, they had to put in appearances. Aeryn had to put in an appearance. At a nobleman’s ball.
There was a gentle knock on her door. “Aeryn? Are you ready?” Haurchefant called.
“Just a moment.” She made one last check in the mirror, then huffed out a breath.
She’d rather face Lahabrea again.
Aeryn crossed the room and opened the door, giving Haurchefant a wan smile. He beamed. “Simply ravishing,” he said, offering an arm. “Please, do allow me to escort you down to the ballroom.”
She took his arm; it was almost strange to see him without armor, the few times it had occurred. The alpine coat she often saw on his brothers suited him well, the unicorn on his breast gleaming in the light.
“You need not attend long,” he said quietly. “I’ve mastered the exact length of time one might stay for propriety before effecting a polite exit.”
That made sense, given his own circumstances. “I don’t want to embarrass your father,” she admitted.
“You never could,” Haurchefant assured her as they reached the top of the stairs.
She stopped at the top of the landing. He made it a step down and turned. “Aeryn?”
“I’m a common farmer’s daughter, from the Eastern Lowlands but speak with a Thavnairian accent,” she said, anxiety rising. “And of course what happened in Ul’dah—”
“You are the hero of the realm,” Haurchefant said fiercely. “More than that, a good friend and kind woman. If any do think to say differently under my own House’s roof, I shall be glad to defend your honor. Not that you need me to, of course,” he quickly added, smiling gently. “But because I wish to, after all you have done for us.”
Her face was on fire at his words. She finally nodded. “Thank you.”
He took her hand and bowed, pressing a kiss to her knuckles while keeping her gaze in his.
She very briefly wished her hands weren’t so calloused and scarred.
“Anytime, my dear. Now, shall we?”
Aeryn took a deep breath and nodded, walking down the stairs with him.
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Article from ad.nl // Translation by Till Lindemann Belgium
Sharon Kovacs records a duet with Rammstein frontman Till Lindemann: 'He just went shopping with me and to the hairdresser'
For her new album, Dutch singer Sharon Kovacs collaborated with none other than Till Lindemann. A striking combination, which ensures a close friendship. “Suddenly I had a kind of personal assistant.”
Sharon Kovacs (32) does not look back on a carefree childhood. As a child she experiences unrest and tension and is placed in various foster homes and boarding schools by youth care. "To pass the time, I used the few hours in which I had access to music to sing my feelings off," she says. She continues to make music and is discovered by chance in 2014.
She releases an EP and is named 3FM Serious Talent. She is in the line-up of festivals, including Lowlands and North Sea Jazz and achieved a number 1 hit in Greece with the album My Love. The large fur hat she wears during performances earns her the nickname 'Wolflady'.
Kovacs has now released her third album, Child of sin.
A duet with Till Lindemann (60), best known as the singer and lyricist of the German band Rammstein, and it's the "the highlight" of the album.
How did the collaboration come about?
Sharon: "While writing the song I immediately thought of Till, I didn't want to just sing the song," she says.
Via via she got contact information. She decided to take the plunge and send Lindemann a message.
,,After two weeks I received an app with 'Hey, Till here, I wanna work with you'. I couldn't believe my eyes."
In no time, the two were on the phone with each other and not much later they met in his apartment in Berlin.
"It should have been like this"
A sign
A nice surprise awaits her in the German capital. “I found out that I used to live about 500 meters away from him, in Berlin. So I could have met him on the street at the time.
It was kind of a sign to me. It should have been like this.”
At home with Lindemann, Kovacs is amazed. “Working with him was a learning process for me. He's a very big artist
I listened as best I could to everything he had to tell me. The most important thing I learned from him is how he deals with the whole music world. I got to look backstage at his shows. They are so huge, it's completely different from my performances. He is 60, but his career is still alive and kicking. He continues to work hard for his passion and knows exactly what he wants. I am very much looking forward to that.”
And no matter how dark and dominant Lindemann's music is, his character is so sweet and good-natured.
,,When we were in Amsterdam, I had to go to the hairdresser. He came along. Alone, without bodyguards or team," Kovacs continues.
,,The two of us just walked along the canals, as you would otherwise do with friends.'' The German metal singer did not turn his hand around for an afternoon of shopping. “I needed some new clothes and suddenly I had a kind of personal assistant. I had to try and put on all kinds of crazy outfits.”
Kovacs is grateful for the collaboration, especially since Child of Sin is so close to her. ,,It's about the annoying things I've experienced in the past, for which I had to go to therapy. Then such a number gets the extra charge.
It still evokes a lot of emotions and sometimes nasty thoughts. ′′ ′′ By agreeing to it, a bit of tension fell away. “I am not alone in this way, we are in this together. Without Till, I don't know if I would have ever released the song."
The video clip – which can be seen later – in which she and Lindemann play themselves and in which the two get into a serious car accident, is the icing on the cake for Kovacs. This was recorded in Amsterdam and in the private hospital of the coroner from detective series Baantjer.
“It will be an intense clip with him, but that's how I wanted it. It was a huge set. There were about thirty people at work, a very large production. But it was all worth it. People really believe in the song, the collaboration, the message, and they're somehow touched by my song.
I'm just too proud of that."
#it's so cute#till is really a good human#can't wait the mv#child of sin#sharon kovacs#till is love 🖤#till lindemann#t.lindemann#t.lindemann 2023#rammstein
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Dungeon: The Veiled Palace
Sorrow pervades this valley, the painful ache that remains after tears and screams have exhausted themselves and the body can only linger on in faltering surrender. You can feel it in the rain, in the rocks, in the chill of the wind as it pulls the mirth from your bones.
Setup: Forlorn and forgotten thought it may be, the Veiled palace was said to have been constructed by a besotted celestial and played home to a succession of demigod warlords before it and the surrounding lands were reclaimed by nature at the end of the last civil war, transforming into a vast hinterland ripe for exploration.
Hooks:
Though the warlords have been gone for generations, their most cunning servants, a coterie of assassins live on, location concealed by ancient enchantments that cloak their fortress and their movements in near impenetrable mist. They now sell their services to the innumerable nobles and merchants of the lowlands as the “Serpent-Unseen”, a group the party will only hear of after taking an innocuous job that sees their prospective employer killed half way through and the party hastily pinned for the crime.
In addition to the isolated human villages in mountains, there are also encalves of aarakocra and jaguar-tabaxi in the region, both of whom retain scraps of lore about the palace and its formation, but have become increasingly unfriendly towards outsiders of late. Someone has been wandering their territory and ensnaring their people through the use of a bewitching flute, and all those who try to rescue the ensorceled are never heard from again.
Tales in local roadhouses tell of Tamha, a long vanished village in the mountains that once traded in heavenly treasures, some beautiful or powerful beyond beleif. While these rumors may incite the party to start combing the rainforest for trinkets, they’ve also inspired the Serpent-Unseen’s latest leader, Janbek the collector, aspirations for his organization far above being petty cutthroats. Having found a few of these trinkets ( such as the flute), the collector realizes that the Veiled palace is a storehouse of powerful enchantments that could lead him and his people to true power far beyond the swords and poisons they currently wield.
Those traveling high into the mountains should be wary, as to hear the locals tell it a soaking wet ghost that appears wandering the roads in the area dazed and confused, bloodless save for the silvery ichor which drips down from a bone-bearing gash in his head. As the ghost story goes, should the specter clasp you in his deathly grip, you’ll start to drown on land, all while he pleads with you to help him find his way home, dissolving into tears should his victim fight their way free.
Background: As the story goes, the celestial noble Rindal’jar was traveling the mortal world admiring the beauty of the mountains when he fell in love with a mortal girl from a tiny little village by name of Sya. This was a problem, as Rindal’jar was already married to the local goddess of rain, and so cloaked the surrounding valley in a never ending mist so as to hide the affair from his betrothed. Rindal’jar likewise concealed his true nature from his beau, claiming to be a wandering noble in search of poetic inspiration as he lavished gifts upon her and her people. Sya for her part figured out Rindal’jar’s ruse when such gifts icnluded bundles of gold or a bridge over a valley she was forced to cross every time she went to gather fruit, but she and her people were poor, and she feared offending this fanciful stranger and all the power he seemed to wield.
The affair continued for years, and eventually saw Sya living like royalty in a palace conjured by Rindal’jar, waited upon by a staff of animals transmuted into servants: brilliant birds for her ladies and courtiers and a pack of leopards for her honor guard. Her people were forced to stay in the village below, but she smuggled them whatever riches she could to trade for food and proper tools.
Having long suspected her husband’s unfaithfulness, the goddess of rain eventually used her trusted agents to track him to the valley, giving them a bronze vessel empowered by years of bitter hurt and resentment to unleash upon him when he was alone in the valley. Unstoppered the vessel unleashed monsoon storms and flooded the valley in an instant, washing away the unfaithful Rindal’jar as well as Sya’s village in an instant of divine spite. Watching from above and hidden by the palace’s enchantments, Sya watched her people destroyed, and afterwords retreated to the depths of the palace, living out the rest of her life like a ghost. Her and Rindal’jar’s children, raised by magical convenience and their sorrow-broken mother came up spoiled and wrong, eventually declaring themselves as warlords and raising successive bands of jaguar folk and mountain bandits as they use their father’s gifts to carve out territory for themselves. This pattern persisted over generations, until Rindal’jar’s line got tangled up in a brutal civil war and ended up extinguished for their troubles, their territory falling back to the wild.
Further Adventures:
Once and orphan and petty thief, the aasimar Janbek (perhaps correctly) sees himself as the heir to the warlords’ legacy, feeling pulled to collect the trinkets and treasures a celestial noble carelessly bestowed upon a hapless village girl so long ago. While many of these trinkets are merely valuable, others possess powerful abilities that have gone long unobserved, but seem to blossom in the collector’s grasp allowing him to ascend the ranks of the Serpent Unseen faster than anyone in the organization’s history. His ultimate goal is to uncover the origin of these wonders, and bring the valley under his control as a new reigning warlord to which surrounding territories must offer their allegiance. To this end the party may end up doing battle with Janbek over treasures they do not know the true origin of, or even inadvertently passing a few into his hands in the early game.
Of all the magical items scattered throughout the hinterlands and the surrounding region, perhaps the most dangerous is the stormbearing vessel, which was washed downstream and into the plunge of a violent waterfall and stuck in the rubble beneath the crashing water ever since. The party may only come to know of the vessel thanks to the locals telling them the sad story of Rindal’Jar’s transgressions, and connecting it with their earlier ghost sightings.
If one held the wrathful vessel, one could bring rains in times of drought, or summon hurricanes to ravage armies and scour fleets at sea. One could even use it to summon the wrathful goddess, which Janbek may attempt to do if the party closes in on him. What this scornful rain-god will do with the descendant of her philandering husband is anyone’s guess, perhaps smite him on the spot or take him as a consort, elevating him to terrible power. The gods are inscrutable after all, and it would be impious to try to predict how they would act next.
#dnd#dungeons and dragons#adventure#5e homebrew#homebrew adventure#low level#mid level#Assassin#dungeon#wuxia#ninjas#mountain#highlands#jungle#tabaxi#aaracokra#treasure hunt#villian#villain#celestial#haunting#Aasimar
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