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kathyprior4200 · 4 years

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Hazbinphobia: Arrival of Adina

Adina fan art collage

Adina artists: (PLEASE GO SUPPORT)

Vivziepop

Hele-nae https://www.deviantart.com/hele-nae/art/Adina-and-Fitch-594650932

Buhitter https://buhitter.com/search?q=zoophobia

https://buhitter.com/author/AngelOfTheCode

MatrixArt28 https://www.deviantart.com/matrixart28/art/Adina-VivziePop-600498071

http://www.tjhongshengyuan.com/video/av33912053/?spm_id_from=333.788.videocard.5

SLoad666 https://aminoapps.com/c/hazbin_zoophobia/page/blog/a-d-i-n-a-fan-art/eYJp_lgQt3uEb4KZR62402Lp0ZnDe7DgDz6

“Here There Be Dragons”

“In the very beginning, a primordial force (known as Mother V by mortals), existed in the dark antimatter in space. The force caused a major explosion, one that mortals call the Big Bang. After stars and galaxies were formed, planets soon followed. Crafted from that very explosion was an all-powerful being: God. He was everywhere, where there was light, He existed within it. With a flick of His finger, He created the sun, moon, stars and the planets in the Milky Way Galaxy. Then, three main dimensions were formed: Heaven, Earth, and Hell.”

“The first one was Heaven, His residence. It was a marvelous place, with buildings made of gold, sitting on top of fluffy white clouds. The sky was endlessly blue, the environment a paradise. Angels were formed, divided into nine hierarchies: Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Powers, Principalities, Dominions, Virtues, Archangels and Angels. Jesus was the son of God who was killed on Earth, then reborn. God soon created His Archangels: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Azrael (black haired Angel of Death), among many others. His favorite one, however, was Lucifer, the Light Bearer. Lucifer was the embodiment of pride and perfection. The Rings of Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Jupiter, Saturn, Fixed Stars and Primum Mobile were formed, God existing in the last one. (Also called the Rings of Faith, Hope, Love, Charity, Fortitude, Justice, Temperance, Prudence, and Wisdom). C.H.E.R.U.B. was an organization that saved lives on Earth, traveling to the living world via the Bible. It consisted of sheep cherubs and a cherub boy.”

“The denizens of Heaven were animal-like (like those in Hell), and were ignorant to those suffering in Hell. They took on traits of flowers, harps, doves, dogs, cats, swans and other things considered “holy” or “pleasing” (unlike the spiders, and mythical monsters in Hell). Heaven, too, consisted of councils and Overlords who ruled certain Rings of Heaven, though they were far more just than the ones in Hell. Like in Hell, there were those born in Heaven (the Heaven Born) and do-gooders (the opposite of sinners). Like those born in Hell, the Heaven-Born had more power and a higher status than the do-gooders who had formerly been human. In God’s garden stood the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

“For many years, all was well.”

“Then one day, God decided to create new beings in His image, who could reproduce and unite with Him after death. They were called humans. The prideful Lucifer did not like the thought of God favoring man over angels. To Lucifer, he and the other angels were superior to humans and mostly immortal…why would God favor man instead?”

“Flooded with pride and anger over God’s strict rules, Lucifer ignited a rebellion against Him. Using his Morning Star sword, Lucifer fought Michael and Gabriel, leading other angels who followed him. God told Lucifer to submit and to end the madness, but the light-bearer refused. Michael defeated Lucifer and soon enough…Lucifer and the angels on his side were banished from Heaven.”

“The second world was Earth, consisting of oceans, land, animals, plants and humans. It was a neutral world between Heaven and Hell. Mortals there could be good or evil or many shades in between. The majority of them were flawed in God’s eyes, so only those worthy enough could go to Heaven. This often translated to straight, white, faithful men getting first pick. Humanity evolved from cavemen to farmers, to townsfolk and city-goers. Wars were fought, inventions were made, and lives were lost and gained. For the most part, humans were concerned with themselves, for better or worse.”

“Lucifer roamed the Earth for a thousand years before being sent to Hell, the fiery third world. There, he became king, while Lilith became queen after her banishment. Together, they created Hell and Pentagram City as a place where fallen angels and sinners could freely express themselves and take whatever risks they wanted. Drugs, murder, rape, and thievery were rampant. Overlords were placed into positions of power, ruling territories and districts. The Rings of Limbo, Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Wrath, Heresy, Violence, Fraud, and Treachery were formed, Satan being trapped in ice in the last one. The Immediate Murder Professionals consisted of imps who would travel to Earth to kill humans upon the requests of their demon clients. Lucifer and Lilith raised their princess daughter, Charlie, who always saw the good in everyone. Charlie would later form the Hazbin Hotel to try and redeem sinners so they could potentially go to Heaven, in order to stop the yearly purges.”

“Parallel to the Hazbin world was the world of Zoophobia. It was a world where humans, animals and anthromorphic beings (bi pedal animals with human traits) coexisted. Bi-pedal animals took refuge in Safe Haven to escape the humans who despised their differences. Safe Haven was one of the districts where Xirxine Labs and Phoenix Academy resided. A human named Cameron was sent to the academy by a mischievous goddess, knowing she had an extreme fear of animals. She eventually got to know the staff and students there, working as a therapist to help the teens. A Heaven and Hell also existed in the Zoophobia world. In Hell, there lived mythical monsters, Lucifer, his fox wife and trouble-making son Damion. Up in Heaven were angels, the same God as before and an angel named Adina.”

“Who is Adina? She is a white, centuries-old angel with glowing teal eyes, long lashes and long white hair. She has large white feathery wings extending from her back. She wears a white dress and robe, bordered by dark teal trim with little white Christian crosses along it. Adina is the mother of dragons in Zoophobia and spiritual consort to God. She was created by God to “save” some people while torturing others. In this way, she performs many tasks: 1. Instilling fear in sinners 2. Encouraging more people to worship the Heavenly Father 3. Gathering information and allies to use against Hell 4. Caring for her sons, whom she created. Adina is also the head of the Exorcists or Exterminators who purge demons in the Hazbin Hell every year.”

“Like Samael and the Exterminators, Adina enjoys torturing demons and sinners, often creating illusions of their worst fears. Her methods and the annual exterminations are ways of keeping demons in line, for them to know their fate and to not rebel against God and Heaven, like Lucifer did. She also has the ability to possesses others and convince them to take her side. Those influenced by her will have teal glowing eyes. (Take Mirage, the killer demon who possessed a brown-haired young woman. She caused havoc until Adina took control of both of their souls, creating a formidable ally.) Chainsaw, a white being with a chainsaw weapon with a cross on it, is Adina’s merciless ally.”

“However, Adina’s closest allies in the fight against sinners are us dragons.”

“Oh? Allow me to introduce myself…”

Surrounded by a teal aura, a humanoid silently walks forward. He is slender with a pointed dark teal tail, black pants and a green vest with white sleeves. He has a white face, a pointed chin and nose and rectangular glasses. His analytical eyes are light green sclera and glowing teal irises, like Adina’s teal eyes. His hair is dark green with two tall furry tufts with light teal tips atop his head.

“I am Fitch, dragon shapeshifter and oldest son of Adina. My large dragon form is in various shades of green: light green stripped underbelly, dark green tail and wings, spikes going along my back. My tail, claws and horns form my head all have teal tips, followed by forest green colorations. My mouth looks beak-like when it’s closed, but my teeth are sharp as ever.”

“I am a demon hunter along with my mother. From a very young age, I have learned to wield a variety of weapons to use against the demons of both Hells. (I’ve only been to the Hazbin world once, and I barely remember). One of my signature weapons is a staff with several spinning blades on it. Many people think I’m heartless, a merciless killing machine, but like Azrael, I’m merely doing my job. My mother enjoys manipulating people and killing demons…it’s just the way she is. My mother also supports Xirxine Labs, the facility where scientists perform experiments on Zoophobia denizens. They may be unethical, but sacrifices must be made in the phases of progress.”

As for me? I feel no remorse nor joy in particular. Demons are like rabid animals wrecking havoc across the realms…someone has to interrogate them and take necessary means.”

“I have three younger brothers.”

Another dragon walks forward, surrounded by dark purple and yellow. He wears thin yellow shoes and long black pants with yellow ends. His curvy black tail is decorated with several dark bows shaped like butterflies. His undershirt is yellow and his tailcoat is the same color as his pants, complete with buttons and a black bow tie under his neck. His face is pale, his eyes have lavender sclera and yellow irises. Finally, his hair is dark black, almost purple, with yellow bangs and tips on his two tufts.

In his dragon form, his skin is thick and purple. He has the black bow tie and buttons along his back, spines down his back, large wings and two sharp horns.

“Marx is a film producer and believed to be a former stage actor. He considers himself a victim of circumstance and is often very grumpy and bad-tempered. Marx and I are no longer in contact, due to disagreeing with certain life choices we have made. He makes me sick. Seriously, he goes around trying to impress others with his so called theater performances instead of doing more important work. Not to mention, joining the mafia, no less! You, know, the shady flirtatious black and yellow Castello, his brother Ribbon who does his dirty work and Salem, part of his black cat army. That mafia is almost as bad as that Italian Hazbin one with Henroin, Angel Dust, Arackniss, and Molly.”

“Safe Haven is supposed to be a secure place where the bi-pedal animals don’t have to worry about paranoid humans hunting them down. But the mafia and the monsters who keep entering the world thanks to that troublesome goddess makes things difficult. At least Lesson, the white cat, helps encourage people to seek the right path and convert to Christianity, like my mother wants. In fact, he works for her and Heaven (Though, his too-wide smile and eagerness gives me the creeps.)”

“Gustav, that German self-centered snake student teacher is Marx’s adopted son. He only likes students with talent; I heard he was very mean to a shy girl on stage.”

Fitch sighs deeply.

“Marx going against our mother’s wishes is seriously going to get him into major trouble. Thanks to Adina, my place in Heaven is already guaranteed. (And yes, “thou shall not kill” is in the Commandments but sometimes killing evil is necessary).”

“Alright, enough about him.”

Another dragon enters. He has a large goofy grin, a green shirt and a pale green face. His eyes are cloudy white, indicating blindness. His hair is jet black, black bangs going sideways and black tufts. In his dragon form, he is slender with light green and dark green colors blending into each other.

“Malcom…I rarely think about, actually. He is a blind dragon teacher at Phoenix Academy. Apparently, he’s friends with another teacher named Perci. His blindness helps heighten his other senses. He’s passionate about learning and helping others. Meh. I consider him a coward, as he’s not willing to kill off any demons. At least he’s not like Marx.”

“And finally…”

The last dragon emerges, surrounded by orange and red. He wears black and white shoes, long red pants, and a black tank top. A spiked collar is around his neck, giving him a gothic look. His claws are black and his skin is white with an array of lines and symbols on it like tattoos. His sclera are orange, his irises red. His hair is a fiery bold orange, as are his two ear tufts. In his dragon form, he is white with black spikes down his back, tattered wings with the black designs, and a tail with sharp orange spikes at the end. His clawed feet are red-orange.

“Hatchet and I see each other often. He is a handful, but admittedly, my closest family. Hatchet can create things with his fire and loves eating rabbits. His acid is acidic, so others would best steer clear. When he’s not eating rabbits or goofing off, he does pyrotechnic tricks, such as twirling flaming batons around. Perhaps he grew attached to me back when I would take care of him when we were younger. He was often the wild one, always getting into mischief. We all live distant lives now. Like Malcom, Hatchet always tries to get along with all of us. Though Malcom and Marx are perhaps closer to each other, like Hatchet is with me. Heh. Strange how two dragons with opposite personalities could get along so well. Adina likes all four of us, but she and I are closest.”

“Yes, that’s about it. Adina and I have been through a lot.”

“I remember those moments when Adina would coax people, like the green haired Iggly student into her wings, getting him to tell her everything. I’ll never get over that terrified look on his face.”

“Or when Adina tortured a white spider demon with his worst fears and said, ‘There is no mercy for the damned.’”

“She once saved this pink bi-pedal animal, embracing her and saying, “Let me save you, my little creature.” My mother always tries to do what is best, even though other people seem to be afraid of her.”

“One other time, I fought and interrogated an uncooperative demon with red eyes. Adina hovered by my side as I raised my teal weapon over his head. She declared, ‘Such is the will of the Lord, so shall it be…’ Later I accidentally killed a delicate white butterfly creature in my hands. I’ve been mocked over my love of butterflies by my brothers, my father, and by many in Zoophobia.”

“Whenever I would get tired or hesitant about my job, my mother would give me a warm smile and say in her soothing voice, “Just remember, it’s for the greater good.” Those words have stayed with me since. It always hurts when Adina says she’s disappointed in me after I fail a task, which is rare, thankfully. But I do what I do for her…it’s my one purpose in this life.”

“I know that those demonic beasts have a safe haven in the Hazbin world like the demons do in Zoophobia’s Hell. Maybe once mother and I find it, we can stop those scum from spreading and planning devious things. Of course, we would need to take out the powerful ones when we can. Everyone knows that angelic blades can instantly kill demons. That’s why I carry mine wherever I go.”

“Adina has summoned all four of us to go on a mission. Not like the interrogation or cleansing missions in Zoophobia Hell. No. This mission was very special. The four of us were to accompany her to the Hazbin Hell world, and find out more information about the princess and her hotel. Some say that the princess wants to unite Heaven and Hell’s denizens of the Hazbin world to create a larger diverse culture full of music, laughter and dancing creatures. Preposterous.”

“God had heard about the program from a distance. Rumor was, if demons were to be redeemed, Heaven would get overcrowded and chaos would ensue. The unwanted guests would disrupt the entire Heavenly system, possibly creating an apocalyptic war as deadly as the one where Lucifer tried to fight God. God only allows those with no flaws or sins to enter Heaven; it’s been that way for centuries. Adina, God, the angels and exorcists all agree that those in Hell are dangerous and should not be allowed into paradise.”

“Hatchet and I remain loyal to mother, though for Hatchet, it’s mostly because he cares for me and doesn’t want to let me down. Marx is grumpy and reluctant as usual. Perhaps he’s upset over a broken relationship or a show or something, not that I care. I briefly saw him drinking at a bar one time. Malcom, blind as he is, looks concerned. He obviously doesn’t want to leave his students and partake in this mission. Alas, Adina is a powerful being, perhaps second to God, so no one dare disobey her if they want to live a pain-free existence. Being dragon-shapeshifters, we can easily fight when needed. And in our bi-pedal forms, we can easily spy and blend in with Hell’s inhabitants.”

“Adina brings out a special device, shaped like a music box. It is golden and pink in color, nearly indestructible. After typing in a code (A24, 921028, VVZPP), the music box slowly opens with a faint whirl, revealing a figure of a fluffy cat. The cat slowly turns around on the stand as cheery music begins to play from the box. The cat stops and from its eyes, flashes a black outline of a portal in the air.”

“The portal lights up in neon pink, revealing elaborate symbols and one spot shaped like a horse named Spindle.”

“There was only one other device in the Hazbin world that could open a portal to Zoophobia, Heaven and perhaps Earth (along with open any door in the Hazbin Hotel), it was another music box with a black winged Sinner’s Key. All that was needed was the key or a grimoire) and a powerful demon or angel who could open portals.”

“A golden Do-Gooder’s Key (The kind used in Heaven) is revealed from an outward moving slot from inside the box. Adina picks it up with her delicate white fingers and places it through a glowing key hole in the portal. After she turns and releases it…”

“Vivienne, Vivienne, Aperiam in porta!”

“Adina chants the phrase to open the glowing portal in front of us. It is the only known gateway to the Hazbin world. The fabric of Zoophobia fades in front of us, revealing a hole to a crimson sky world.”

“We all get ready to go through...set to fulfil our destinies…”

“But let’s go back to the past a bit…”

“The Dragon’s Keep”

Many years ago, my brothers and I were born from special eggs in the Zoophobia world. Adina became lonely over the centuries. Although she had lots of power, it was tiring to travel to different worlds and interrogate denizens all the time. She eventually wanted someone to help her out in her work. Although she was ruthless to demons, she did care deeply for those in Zoophobia and Heaven. She felt like she was part of something bigger; she was doing part of His work, after all.

“Oh what a marvelous place Heaven is,” she sighed to herself. “But the days drag on. I feel my legacy will eventually go unnoticed. If only there was a way I could pass down my values to a new generation.”

Then, it came to her: she wanted children of her own.

But in Heaven, casual sex was seen as one of the many sins not allowed. Plus, angels and demons were creatures that could not reproduce, unlike humans.

Adina soon went to God for advice, bowing respectfully when she saw Him. She stood on a light blue rug that led to a set of marble steps. Golden pillars reached up into the sky, hovering on clouds that appeared on both sides of the open space hall. Two guards dressed in white stood hovering on either side, with flames for faces and six red wings flapping softly from their backs. Above Adina were the fixed stars and galaxies, shining brightly overhead, in contrast to the sky on the sides. Not too far away, angels were darting around large white roses, spreading songs and feelings of joy to other beings born within the petals. She was briefly reminded of her own birth, her name meaning “gentle” and “mild.”

“Your Heavenly Grace,” Adina said, soon standing up, folding her white wings behind her. God appeared as a large golden eye surrounded by golden wheels with eyes covering them and small angel wings spread out from them. The wheels and wings were moving, but God as the eye stared unblinkingly at her. A white marble throne stood behind Him.

“My lovely consort,” he replied, kindness in his voice. “So wonderful to see you again. What is it that you seek?”

“I grow ever lonesome, and feel that what I do isn’t quite enough.”

“My dear, your work is more than enough. I chose you to be the angel of Divine Retribution. You have organized and led countless Exorcists to Hell and back. Not to mention you saved so many souls who almost lost their way. Are you not happy?”

“I truly am, my Lord. It’s just…I want someone who can help carry out my work. One who could work with me, but also be cared for by me. I’d like to have children of my own.”

“Ah,” said God. “A beautiful wish. Alas, you know that angels cannot procreate.”

“I do know. That’s why I came to you for help.”

“Well, there is a way,” He said. “You remember you were created from holy starlight and dragon’s blood, right?”

She nodded.

“You have the ability to give birth to offspring. Dragon shapeshifters, and powerful ones. Here’s what you will do.”

Adina listened intently.

God had sent her on a journey across the world of Zoophobia. She was to retrieve four special items and bring them to a nest in a vast cavern. She remembered the instructions she was given:

“Find the fur of a polecat on a rock during the full moon.

Find a gold frowning theater mask in the camp of rule breakers by the river.

Find the hatchet that lies within a volcano, where fire roars to life.

Find a religious text in the hands of St. Columba where the wind blows high.”

Earth, water, fire and air.

Finding the polecat pelt was easy; she traveled to the forest and there it was, illuminated and clean in the moonlight.

Getting the mask was harder. She had to ward off several shady looking creatures, and a few monsters as well.

After grabbing the ax from the volcano and nearly plunging into lava, she had to use lots of holy water to heal her singed skin and wings.

Finally, she found the leather bound book in the hands of a St. Columba statue, high up in the mountains.

“Head to the largest habitable cavern. Create a large secure nest and place the objects inside.”

At last, she traveled to the cavern, created a large nest of sticks and twigs, and gently placed the objects inside. Her glowing eyes allowed her to see in the dark. Toward the back of the cave was a pile of gold coins and a few precious gems scattered around.

“A decent lair for dragons. They will reside here before being introduced to the rest of the city.”

“Recite this spell to begin the transformation and birthing process.”

Adina hovered her hands over the objects and chanted in Latin. The objects lit up in flaming spheres of light, transforming into speckled oval-shaped white eggs.

The effort of doing the spell made Adina fall unconscious for several days.

Adina stirred awake, her eyes fluttering open. She could hear some movement coming from the eggs. She stood up from the atone floor and let out a soft gasp.

Her children were about to hatch!

She carefully took the nest, flapped her wings forward, and placed it in a secure spot on top of a high cliff near the cave. She made sure that it lay within the sunlight and not too close to the edge.

The eggs then gradually turned different colors. The one from the polecat pelt turned dark green and teal. The one from the mask became yellow and black. The one from the hatchet was red and orange. Finally, the egg from the book was light green and black.

The green and teal egg wobbled first. A dark crack snaked slowly over the surface. More cracks began to appear, creating intricate designs. Ever so carefully, bits of shell fell off from different spots. A beck poked through, and the rest of the shells fell away.

There I was, small with a dark green body, wings and a pointed tail. My new green-teal eyes scanned the area, curiously. It was love at first sight when I saw my mother’s smiling face. Adina stroked my head and back lovingly with her fingers, me letting out a pleased sound. I nudged my face repeatedly into her hand, a musical chuckle coming from Adina.

“You are going to do great things, my little Fitch.”

Around thirty minutes later, two eggs began to stir. The fiery colored one and the yellow-black one. The eggs bonked into each other several times, and chirping could be heard from inside.

“Oh? Who’s coming next?” she asked.

Adina soon had her answer. A part of the yellow and black shell was shoved off, landing onto the nest like a door breaking down. A dark purple and yellow dragon did a little pose before stumbling out of the shell remains. He shook off the embryonic fluids from his scales, showing a grin of small teeth just beginning to form. Moments later, the fiery egg beside him exploded, sending shells and sparks everywhere. I jumped into mother’s hands, terrified, while the purple dragon covered his little head with his arms. A slender white dragon appeared, shaking away bits of shell from his small horns. (This was before he got all his tattoos). His red-orange eyes darted around excitedly, spotting the purple dragon.

“Hatchet!” Adina scolded as the white dragon began to play-wrestle his brother with loud croaks. “Leave Marx alone!”

But little Marx soon joined in the fun, pushing his brother back with his little feet. Hatchet’s small spiked tail smacked Marx in the face and the dragon squeaked in brief pain. Little me jumped from mother’s hands, biting Marx’s tail.

For several minutes, the three of us rough-housed in the nest, testing out our new senses and bodies.

Adina soon grew concerned. “What about the last egg?”

Indeed, the last egg had remained as still as ever. Adina shooed Hatchet away when he tried to knock on the hard light green shell.

“Oh dear,” she sighed. Was it a stillborn? She couldn’t bear that. Minutes became hours. The egg still hadn’t hatched by the morning.

Finally, in the evening, after Adina had almost given up hope, a small chirp was heard. The other dragons peered to get a closer look. Cracks snaked along the egg shell in multiple directions. At long last, holes appeared in the egg, before a closed eye was revealed through one hole. The egg split open and a light green and darker green dragon was revealed. He was slender, with thin see-through wings and a thin pointed face. He sniffed and slowly opened his eyes.

“Malcom,” Adina exclaimed, overjoyed to see her youngest son. Malcom took several shaking steps forward, and bumped right into Marx. Marx growled in protest. Malcom’s eyes were cloudy white.

“He’s blind,” Adina realized.

Malcom’s ears picked up the sounds of bats fluttering from above the cave. He jumped into the air, but fell flat on his back. I helped him up and licked his face.

“You guys will need flying lessons one day,” Adina said.

For several days, Adina brought in meat, game and other foods for us. Hatchet, in particular, loved to eat rabbits. The four of us were much closer back then, than we are now. Eventually, we would learn to breathe fire, fly, talk and hunt for ourselves. We were to go to school and learn to live a more civilized life when we turned one year old, (equates to five human years). Adina had given us brief glimpses of the city and some tidbits.

“Bi-pedal animals wear clothes,” she said. “But full animals don’t have to. Eating humans or other creatures is forbidden.”

“Awww man,” Hatchet groaned.

“Shut up and go chase a rabbit,” Marx muttered to him.

“Rabbit? Where?”

Marx rolled his eyes as Adina continued.

“Do not go outside the Safe Haven border without permission. There are dangerous humans out there with weapons that can kill you.”

“But we’re dragons,” Hatchet mentioned in his child-like bi-pedal form. “We live longer than them and are more powerful. Can’t we just burn down their cities and stuff?”

“Did you not hear what mother just said?” I chided him. “They have weapons that can pierce through dragon scales. Interacting with them would only put the districts in danger and confusion. Idiot, I swear.”

“Swearing’s not very nice,” Malcom added. “I heard one guy say something really bad to another, he was like, ‘oh no you didn’t,’ the other was like, ‘yeah huh, I just did,’ and then…”

“You talk too much,” I deadpanned.

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Pay attention, my sons,” Adina said, before continuing her lecture.

A week after we were born, we had gotten the hang of hunting for ourselves. Me and Hatchet, in particular were the better hunters among the group. Hatchet would eat rabbits whenever he could. (To this day, I don’t understand his obsession with them). We steered clear of bears or black horned monsters who could overpower us or swipe us down with their paws.

Adina taught us how to speak, read, write, and, of course, how to fly.

“Feel the direction the wind is blowing,” she said. “Flapping your wings propels you forward but don’t overdo it. Deep breaths and remaining calm are key. Try and land straight on your feet…”

She said this just before Malcom came in for a faulty landing. He bashed into a rock face, tumbling down onto the ground in a heap. Marx tripped on his tail and almost fell, but managed to straighten himself up. Hatchet laughing whenever I fumbled only encouraged me to work harder. Hatchet was doing pretty well, if you didn’t count the time his white wings got torn up a bit from flying through tree branches.

It took a few years for us to fully master our flying and shapeshifting abilities. But I grew fast and learned fast.

I led my brothers when we practiced diving off a cliff. Taking a deep breath, I jumped off the cliff, morphed into my dragon form and spread out my wings gracefully. Adina’s face blended into the clouds; she looked proud. Hatchet was up next.

“Whoo-hoo!” he roared, as he morphed into his white dragon form and took off. A gust of yellow fire shot from his mouth, creating a ring for him to fly through. I smiled a bit and rolled my eyes at him. We weren’t at full size yet, but we weren’t too far off.

“Isn’t this amazing, Fitch?” Hatchet called as he flew beside me. We stared at the canyons and rocky ground below us. “Rawr!” he called, pleased to hear his voice echo through the air.

“Focus, please,” I said. “Mother’s looking for grace and agility, not loudness.”

“Fitchy…am I being too quiet?!”

His loud voice and laughter rang in my ears.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your need to shut up,” I retorted.

Hatchet scoffed. “You’re always so…erm…stuffy. I’d say almost as grumpy as Marx back there.”

Marx was pacing back and forth back on the cliff in his bi-pedal form. We all wore white loincloths over our waists that would appear even after we had transformed from our dragon forms. Our chests had thin fur that matched our hair colors.

He appeared to be talking to himself, as if planning some kind of imaginary show.

“Jerry the knight gallops through the woods, only to tremble in fear at the four mighty brothers. Then the camera…one of the objects from the city that Adina told us about…pins up and down as we stomp toward our victim. He runs and runs, the scene going by in a blur…”

“Are you going or what?” Malcom asked.

“Right!” Marx called, raising a fist and standing straight. “Life is but the next grand adventure. We now roll too…”

He spread his wings…

“Marx of Karl, taking off!”

He jumped into the air. Malcom misjudged his next step and plummeted rapidly to the ground with a shocked yelp.

Hatchet and I turned around. “Malcom!” Hatchet cried in fear.

Malcom was briefly scared, but soon got over it. With a new happy look on his face, he spread out his green wings and swirled toward us. “Speak up so I can hear you!” he called out.

“We’re going this way!” I said as I led the group once again.

“What the…” Marx began, looking at Malcom. “You’re not scared.”

“No. Not really.”

“This is only your third time in the air. And you can’t see anything!”

“I can hear, smell and feel where things are. It’s easier on the ground but I’m just happy to be with my dragon bros!”

“Bros?” Marx raised an eyebrow.

“Hey look, I’m not even in my full dragon form! You should totally try it!”

The three of us morphed into our bi-pedal forms, while still retaining our wings. We huddled close to support ourselves.

“W-w-w-whoa this feeling sure is new,” Hatchet muttered, trying not to look down. I, too, was feeling vulnerable, flying for the first time in this form.

“Don’t look down,” I suggested.

But of course, he didn’t listen.

“Oh, no, Fitch, I’m looking down! Yaahhhh!”

“Get off me!” I said, pushing him off when he grabbed my back. He clawed at the air in desperation.

“You’re not drowning, Hatch,” Marx sighed.

Marx muttered some prayers as he grabbed hold of Hatchet to steady him. Hatchet took some deep breaths, settling down.

“Hahahaha!” Malcom laughed in bliss. “You’ll get used to it eventually!”

“How long is eventually?” Hatchet asked.

“How should I know?”

The four of us landed haphazardly into a nearby lake after a wind knocked us slightly off course. Water splashed everywhere after we landed. Hatchet shook off water droplets from his scales and wings.

“Bleh! I hate baths!”

“I’ll say you needed one, Hatch,” Malcom said with a grin.

A deep growl rumbled in Hatchet’s throat. “Wanna see what it’s like to drown? Oh wait, you can’t.”

“At least I don’t have to lay my eyes on your monstrosity of a form.”

“What was that?!”

“Heheheh. You heard me, Hatch.”

“Empty threats and callous fighting, per usual,” Marx remarked, crossing his arms as his brothers landed some kicks and punches in the water. I stood up and narrowed my eyes. I had trouble seeing things off in the distance. Those things Adina called glasses would be very helpful.

“That’s quite enough, both of you!” I commanded, a burst of teal fire escaping my mouth. It was enough to make Hatchet and Malcom pay attention. Good.

“Anyone up for a swim?” Malcom asked.

“Absolutely not,” Marx replied.

“For once, I agree. I say we find ourselves some food and get out of here,” I advised.

“Alright,” Hatchet agreed, separating from Malcom with a grin. “What are we waiting for? Food would be great right now.”

“When are you not hungry?” Marx asked Hatchet.

“Let me think…Never!”

Turning back into our dragon forms, we hunted for food before heading back home. Hatchet had a knack for finding rabbits almost anywhere…and wouldn’t share with us.

“That’s my rabbit!” Hatchet declared.

Marx tried to grab the small dead carcass from his brother’s hands.

“For Viv’s sake!” cried Marx. “You’ve had enough of them already! It’s my turn.”

“Let go!”

“You let go!”

The boys struggled for a bit until Hatchet accidentally ripped off Marx’s loincloth.

Marx turned red and angry in the face as Hatchet stuck out his tongue and laughed.

“You’re such a filthy hothead!” Marx spat as he picked up the cloth and tied it back around his waist.

We found a river of fresh water for us to drink. In our dragon forms, we spit water at each other playfully and had a contest to see who could spit the farthest. It came as a tie between me and Hatchet. Hatchet, being the most athletically inclined, won intense races we had, both on the ground and in the air. A black creature with horns chased after us and nearly devoured poor Malcom, but thankfully, several hard punches from me and the others caused the beast to flee. In celebration, Hatchet juggled fireballs in his hands before catching them all in his mouth.

“That beast will be “dragon” himself to oblivion! Haha! Get it?” Hatchet chuckled at his joke. Malcom giggled while Marx and I groaned in annoyance.

Once we all got back, we turned into our bi-pedal forms once more. Adina said that those would be our default forms most of the time, so she encouraged us to get used to them.

As we reached the mouth of the cave, Hatchet stuffed a severed brown rabbit’s head into his mouth with a greedy look on his face.

“You know that is considered bad manners, don’t you?” I asked, referring back to mother’s lecture. Hatchet wiped off some blood from his pointed face with his arm.

Hatchet scoffed. “Who cares? We aren’t going to the city for…another month, at least.”

“It’ll be here faster than you know it, Hatch. It’d be best if we all prepare ourselves soon.”

“Whatever you say, Fitchy.”

“Stop calling me that. It’s Fitch.”

“Same thing.”

Our steps echoed as we arrived back into the cave at dusk. Hatchet shot a jet of fire up toward hanging bats, who screeched in protest, flapping their wings.

One scorched bat fell down and landed right into Malcom’s mouth as he yawned. After a look of surprise, he happily chewed up the creature and swallowed.

“I guess food can fall from the sky,” he said, licking his lips.

“Jeez Malc, you’re even blinder than the bats,” Marx mentioned.

“Technically, bats use echolocation to track down their food and figure out their surroundings. They aren’t as blind as you think.”

“Hmpth. Know-it all.”

We curled up in our bed nests that were spread out among the cave. They were nests with a few pillows and some blankets inside them. Malcom was the only one who hadn’t outgrown being tucked in. Since mother was busy, Marx came over and helped relax his brother. Malcom’s nest was by a chest of gold coins and some fancy books. They were some of many treasures that Adina magically provided for us. (She had a knack for spoiling us when she wasn’t stern.)

Marx sighed and hopped into his nest by a pile of royal robes nearby. Hatchet slept near, well, a hatchet, along with a few golden goblets and gems. I soon curled up in my nest, the one nearest to some discarded swords, and bladed silver weapons. Apparently, Adina said she would teach me how to use them later on.

“If you want to protect yourself and your brothers,” she had said, “You’ll need to learn how to defend yourself.”

Of course, she hadn’t told me anything about hunting demons until I was older, but I was still eager to learn, nonetheless. The full moon and stars shone through a hole in the cave, a beautiful sight. Before long, the four of us were snoozing peacefully away.

The assassin, the actor, the punk, and the nerd. A very unique dragon family indeed.

#adina #zoophobia #fitch #heaven #fanart #hazbin hotel theory

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kimabutch · 5 years

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JLCR: kimabutch edition

To celebrate somehow reaching 1000 songs on Jam Like Critical Role, the giant fan-created playlist that I’ve been curating since February, I’ve decided to put together a mini-playlist of own, featuring two of my favourite songs for each member of Vox Machina and The Mighty Nein! Each song has a YouTube link, but you can find the whole mini-playlist on Spotify here.

By mini-playlist I meant that there are “only” 36 songs, and also that I’ve pulled out my favourite lines and explained why I associate the song with them, so that this whole thing is approximately 5400 words long. I tried to restrain myself, but, well, Jam Like Critical Role is a testament to my lack of self-restraint. If it helps, I’ve tried to incorporate a diversity of artists, eras, and genres, from folk-punk to techno, country, dream-pop, classical, and beyond. I hope you find something you enjoy.

Grog

We’re Going To Be Friends, Jack Johnson (cover of White Stripes), for Grog and Pike’s incredibly wholesome childhood friendship. While many of the lyrics describe friends at school, which is not totally accurate for them, I can just imagine the two weirdos playing among the bugs:

“Walk with me, Suzy Lee/ Through the park and by the tree/ We can rest upon the ground/ And look at all the bugs we’ve found”

Not to mention Pike teaching Grog his ABCs:

“Tonight I’ll dream while in my bed/ While silly thoughts run through my head/ Of the bugs and alphabet”

I just love these two silly monstahs.

Giant, Juno Reactor: to balance out that last song, have some techno that makes me want to yell “Vox Machina, Fuck. Shit. UP!” and split Kevdak in half with a nat 20 from the sky. Appropriately named for our goliath friend, this song always temporarily convinces me that I, too, am a seven foot tall barbarian (which is not recommended while you are trying to do anything that requires brainpower.)

Keyleth

I Lost Myself, Lauren Mann and The Fairly Odd Folk, for Keyleth’s self-doubt about whether she can do her Aramente (or whether she even wants to) and fear that she’s hurting everyone:

“I’ve got voices in my head Making me think that this is where I end Hey, what do you see, if anything What do you see in me”

This specifically reminds me of her Aramente, and how it taught her so much more than she was expecting:

“You and me we made a plan To travel from here to there and back again Somewhere on that weathered road I found the dreams that I’d been looking for”

And “Hey, we’ve got the world to see/ So let’s forget our anxieties and get on our way” makes me think of Keyleth and Percy’s friendship, and how both of their stories are about trying to figure out what to do once you’ve achieved your goals. I want to think that after the story ended, they were still occasionally able to leave behind their responsibilities and travel the world together.

Take Us Back, Alela Diane, for a post-canon Keyleth, reminiscing on the old days and eventually outliving the rest of Vox Machina. I get a strong image of Kiki coming down from Zephra to see her friends:

“Atop the crags and cliffs the air is thin/ So we’ll find a mountain path on down the hill/ Meet me where the snowmelt flows/ It is there, my dear, where we’ll begin again”

And of her listening to Scanlan’s music, centuries later; they’d be the last two alive: “I’ve a friend who lives out by the river’s mouth/ He knows the fiddle’s cry is an old sound”

And then Keyleth, alone, listening to a river’s gurgle or the wind’s howling, and almost thinking she hears her friends: “Muted voices, just beyond/ The silent surface of what has gone.”

Percival

The Devil Spoke Here, Chicken Little, which I think is actually about the aftermath of a protest, but which I feel works eerily well for Percy’s development following the Briarwood arc. The beginning reminds me of his guilt, feelings of brokenness, and anger issues after he’s cast out Orthax — right down to his guilt about guns:

“There’s bullets in the streets/ and broken dishes on the floor/ enough anger in my heart/ to take the blame for it all/ I could take every bullet back/ if I could never feel like that”

It also covers Percy’s realization, after his conversation with the Raven Queen, that he’s free from the judgment of the gods, and acceptance that he’s the one who has bad thoughts for the greater good:

“I have no god for guidance/ still I’m praying all the same/ may everything I do/ be done for everybody’s gain”

And then this, for a reason that I can’t quite explain, feels so much like Percy’s forgiveness of Ripley at Glintshore, and his death at her hand:

“May we always fail/ with the best of intentions/ with our hearts always pure/ and our souls only human”

Wandering Star, Portishead: the weird trip hop vibe to this song somehow feels appropriate to Percy, and in particular to his darkest thoughts. The song addresses the possible punishments for these thoughts: “Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved/ The blackness, the darkness, forever.” It helps that this is an allusion to a Bible passage about atheists.

The second verse makes me think both of Percy’s relationship to the concept of eternity (because of the “needle’s eye” — a parable about the entrance of heaven for the rich) and his raven mask:

“Those who have seen the needle’s eye, now tread Like a husk, from which all that was, now has fled And the masks that the monsters wear To feed, upon their prey”

Additionally, “Doubled up inside/ Take a while to shed my grief” is reminiscent of Percy’s revelation, in the last episode, that he just really fucking misses his family. This whole time, something inside of him has been curled up into a little ball like the teenager he was five years ago, grieving his family.

Pike

Holy, Jamily Woods: a song about self-love and self-assurance, underscored by Christian imagery:

“Though I walk through the darkest valley I will fear no love/ Oh my smile my mind reassure me I don’t need no one […] Woke up this morning with my mind set on loving me”

Many of the lyrics can be interpreted either as the singer being self-sufficient because her god is there — or being sufficient even beyond her god: “I’m not lonely, I’m alone/ And I’m holy by my own.”

I think both interpretations work for Pike: that she has found (or is attempting to find) peace when she’s not with her friends, or that although she worships Sarenrae, the Everlight doesn’t necessarily interfere in her day-to-day life and she makes her own happiness. Either way, the song makes me feel at peace in the same way that Pike does.

The Otherside, Ohbijou, for Pike’s feelings about Scanlan during the year gap. Particularly, I’m reminded of Pike’s attempts to talk to Scanlan on the earring: “With things left unsaid so unsatisfied/ And a burning to hear your voice just one more time.”

And in these lyrics:

“And it’s so silly for me to worry/ About situations that don’t exist/ We create these problems and try to solve them/ Why waste each passing moment?”

I hear Pike trying to figure out her feelings for Scanlan, but shooting herself down because he’s gone, why even try?

Scanlan

The Pilgrim - Chapter 33, Willie Nelson (cover of Kris Kristofferson), which really encapsulates, for me, Scanlan’s complex relationship with religion: the fact that a guy who regularly produces lightning from his dick, messes with people’s memories, and actively attempts to cultivate a drug habit finds himself praying to the Everlight at night and eventually becomes Ioun’s chosen:

“He’s a poet, he’s a picker/ He’s a prophet, he’s a pusher/ He’s a pilgrim and a preacher/ And a problem when he’s stoned”

The lines “He’s a walking contradiction/ Partly truth and partly fiction” reminds me of all the identities he’s taken on, both for fun and to shield his emotions from his friends, whereas “Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home” makes me think of Scanlan’s long road back to Vox Machina after leaving them.

Handle With Care, Traveling Wilburys: almost every single song on this album works for Scanlan, so choosing just one was a real challenge. But this song is so good for all the shit that Scanlan’s been through (and all the shit that he’s been), and his relationship with Pike through all of that:

“Been beat up and battered around/ Been sent up, and I’ve been shot down/ You’re the best thing that I’ve ever found/ Handle me with care […]”

“Everybody’s got somebody to lean on” reminds me of Scanlan’s feeling, in episode 85, that he’s the odd one out in Vox Machina.

The last verse encapsulates Scanlan acknowledging his own fuck ups, working to make them right, and eventually, having a healthy relationship with Pike:

“I’ve been uptight and made a mess/ But I’ll clean it up myself, I guess/ Oh, the sweet smell of success”

Taryon

Father and Son, Cat Stevens, for Tary’s relationship with his father and his decision to leave home; the song is a duet of sorts. I think the father’s part of the song is a little generous for Howaardt Darrington, but retains the message of (somewhat condescendingly) trying to keep his son at home and have him reconsider his far-reaching plans: “I know that it’s not easy to be calm/ When you’ve found something going on.”

The son’s part, though, captures Tary’s frustration with his father’s strictness and inability to actually understand his passions:

“How can I try to explain?/ ‘Cause when I do he turns away again/ It’s always been the same, same old story/ From the moment I could talk/ I was ordered to listen/ Now there’s a way and I know/ That I have to go away”

And the last verse is some real closeted gay feelings that always make me tear up:

“All the times that I cried/ Keeping all the things I knew inside/ It’s hard, but it’s harder to ignore it”

What’s It Gonna Be, Shura, not so much for the song’s lyrics, but for its music video, which is all about falling for a different gender than you expected, and which is incredibly sweet and beautiful.

That being said, you could definitely take the lyrics to be about his crush on Percy and his obliviousness about who in Vox Machina is sleeping with whom:

“Do I tell you I love you or not?/ 'Cause I can’t really guess what you want/ If you let me down, let me down slow”

Vax’ildan

Glorious, Muse, for Vax’s early relationship with faith. He can’t help but feel drawn towards Sarenrae’s light, even as he has doubts and perhaps even anger towards the gods:

Faith: It drives me away/ But it turns me on/ Like a stranger’s love It rockets through the universe It fuels the lies and feeds the curse And we, too, could be glorious”

He wants that glory that he sees in Pike, but he doesn’t know how to approach it or reconcile it with his life experiences. And then he finds his whole world shattered as he’s chosen by the Raven Queen, and he once again has to find faith, though in a way that he never expected:

“I need to believe But I still want more With the cuts and the bruises”

Fields of Gold, Sting: a song from Vax to Keyleth. I can imagine them so perfectly in this scene, perhaps during their year of downtime, with the winds of Zephra blowing through the fields and their hope beyond hope that they’ll be able to stay together:

“Will you stay with me? Will you be my love?/ Upon the fields of barley/ We’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky/ As we lie in fields of gold”

“See the west wind move like a lover so/ Upon the fields of barley/ Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth/ Among the fields of gold”

Years later, Vax knows that Keyleth will see those fields again and think of him: “You’ll remember me when the west wind moves/ Upon the fields of barley.”

Vex’ahlia

Half Jack, The Dresden Dolls: a truly haunting song about the pain and unavoidability of being her father’s daughter — she’s always half Jill (her mother) and half Jack (her father.) The whole song is incredibly painful for Vex, and the lines:

“It might destroy me But I’d sacrifice my body If it meant I’d get the Jack part out”

always makes me think of “If I could pull the blood of you from my veins and give it back, I would.” Also,

“But if you listen/ You’ll learn to hear the difference/ Between the halfs and the half nots”

reminds me of her asking Percy if she looks like she comes from money — or a younger Vex, in Syngorn, gradually realizing why everyone looked down on her and Vax. Lastly, isn’t “I see my mother in my face/ But only when I travel” absolutely heartbreaking for her?

Fall Down or Fly, Lindi Ortega, only partly because Lindi Ortega strongly resembles my headcanon for Vex. The other part is because of my abiding love for how Vex learned to fly, and how that worked with her character arc: from the first time, in the Briarwoods arc, that she discovered her love for flying, to her flaunting convention and stealing the broom, to Percy modifying it for her, to her friends cheering her on with chicken target practice, and finally to her soaring through the skies with confidence. And the song captures that so well for me, as well as her decision to keep going even when her father, Saundor’s words, and her own self-doubt bring her down:

“This is your life/ You can fall down or fly/ You can burn out a shot if you want/ This is your life/ You can live it or die/ You can quit now or try if you want/ But don’t you give up, don’t you give up”

This also reminds me of how much all of Vox Machina adores and supports Vex (and I will join them in crying about how awesome she is):

“You said what is there to lose?/ Do it if you choose/ I got faith in you/ Everything you do/ I know you are gonna make it to the top”

(I also maintain that a modern Vex would be really into country music, particularly the genre of country song in which women tell people to fuck off.)

Vox Machina

Call Them Brothers, Regina Spektor feat. Only Son, for Scanlan’s departure from Vox Machina and the whole team’s attempts to deal with it. I first heard this song in an absolutely heartbreaking TAZ animatic, and my pain increased exponentially when I realized how much it also worked for Critical Role. It’s perfect, in my opinion, for the sense that their family, which has seen them through so much, is irreparably broken — “That’s it, it’s split, it won’t recover/ Just frame the halves and call them brothers.”

But then you also get “Over and over, they call us their friends/ Can’t we find something else to pretend?” for Scanlan’s insistence that Vox Machina doesn’t really care about him, and “Find your fathers and your mothers/ If you remember who they are” for “what’s my mother’s name?”

Maybe this should go on Scanlan’s playlist, but I think “The hunt is on, everyone’s chasing a shot” also works for the way that the rest of Vox Machina independently searched for Scanlan during their year of downtime… and the feelings of defeat in the song just feel appropriate to the whole group.

(I actually have a playlist full of songs for episode 85, because I enjoy making myself sad; it took a lot of effort not to put them all here.)

Freaks, The Hawk in Paris: I can never decide whether this is a Mighty Nein or Vox Machina song, but I’m putting it here mostly because “If you come along with us, the doors are never ending” is absolutely hilarious in for Vox Machina’s single greatest enemy.

That, and there are a lot of lines that work for individual members of the group: “We have a flair for the shade and the inbetween” (Vax); “We like to run with the wolves from the darker scene” (Keyleth); “When we turn the safety off, the shots are automatic” (Percy); “All our friends tell their friends we’re so dramatic” (Scanlan); and “We’ll make you swoon, make it hurt just a little” (Vex).

Additionally, “We have a plan, we’ve got the means for your liberation/ You’ll only have to blur the lines on a few occasions” makes me think of the Briarwood arc, and I makes me think of Percy dramatically revealing his identity to the priest — and cut to Grog pulling out a guy’s tongue.

Anyways, if I learn to make AMVs by the time that the animated series is released, this will be the first that I’ll make.

Beauregard

Saint Simon, The Shins, for Beau’s escape from the Cobalt Soul. The song expresses frustration at weighty intellectualism and how much it doesn’t teach you — which i think is something Beau felt strongly with her monk teachers:

“After all these implements and texts designed by intellects/ So vexed to find, evidently there’s still so much that hides […] Since I don’t have time nor mind to figure out the nursery rhymes/ That helped us out in making sense of our lives”

So she tries not to care about anything because it’s safer that way (“The cruel, uneventful state of apathy releases me”), and she runs away:

“I’ll try hard not to give in, batten down to fare the wind/ Rid my head of this pretence, allow myself no mock defence/ Step into the night”

I think the last part of the song could also work for her meeting the Mighty Nein and starts understanding friendship and love: “Mercy’s eyes are blue when she places them in front of you/ Nothing really holds a candle to the solemn warmth you feel inside you.”

Jonas and Ezekiel, Indigo Girls, because what kind of lesbian would I be if I didn’t put at least one gay-written song on Beau’s playlist? This one is about road trips, wandering, and looking for a purpose:

“I left my anger in a river running Highway 5 New Hampshire, Vermont, bordered by College farms, hubcaps, and falling rocks Voices in the woods and the mountaintops”

But also contains one verse that I think fits her strict family, her new family in the Mighty Nein, and the “devils” — or tieflings — of which her family would certainly not approve:

“Now when I was young my people taught me well/ Give back what you take or you’ll go to hell/ It’s not the devil’s land, you know it’s not that kind/ Every devil I meet becomes a friend of mine/ Every devil I meet is an angel in disguise”

And something about this reminds me of her journey into Xhorhas and attempts to uncover conspiracies and work out the truth: “In the war over land where the world began/ Prophecies say it’s where the world will end.”

Caduceus

Born at the Right Time, Paul Simon, for Caduceus’s belief in destiny and his place therein. The chorus describes his occasional naïveté, and the happiness of his life in the Blooming Grove, with his family:

“Never been lonely Never been lied to Never had to scuffle in fear Nothing denied to”

And then gets into his conviction that his goddess and the world itself put him where he is:

“Born at the instant/ The church bells chime/ And the whole world whispering/ Born at the right time”

The very chill vibe of the song is also very Clay, to me.

Happy All the Time, Danny Schmidt: the singer himself has said that he doesn’t know whether or not this song is ironic and/or melancholic, so I’m going to go with a sincere and cheerful interpretation for Caduceus, with maybe a hint of nostalgia for more peaceful days among his family. It’s got some incredibly lush and occasionally strange nature imagery that I think is perfect for him:

“I took the time to breathe cause I was happy all the time/ Among the rootbuds and the weeds cause I was happy all the time/ But the peat moss and the leaves took turns with both my feet/ Until my toes took root and I was happy, I was happy all the time”

I think Caduceus is still happy, but he was definitely at peace as a hermit.

Caleb

I Miss That Feeling, Tennis: a song about panic attacks and how the physical effects, when described, almost seem like falling in love. It works not only for Caleb’s panic attacks, but also, relatedly, his relationship with fire, which scares him, even as he likes the way it feels — “Something like pleasure, you’d never believe it.”

The fiery way that the singer describes panic attacks is also very Caleb:

“I miss that feeling/ Flicker hot and hovering/ Like my own discovering/ Eagerly, tenderly/ I miss that feeling/ Flicker spread into an itch/ Into a burn, into a twitch/ Slow and even”

It brings me back to the first time we saw it, in the gnoll mines. Also, “Every little thing starts trembling/ Recorded by the needle of an EKG” feels very reminiscent of his hospitalization, though from a modern perspective.

Putting the Dog to Sleep, The Antlers, for Caleb’s very tentative trust in the Mighty Nein, and in particular his friendship with Beau. I think this song really encapsulates Caleb’s pain and skittishness, especially near the beginning of their campaign, as well as his desperation (unknown even to himself) to love again:

“Well, prove to me I’m not gonna die alone/ Unstitch that shit I’ve sewn/ To close up the hole that tore through my skin/ Well my trust in you is a dog with a broken leg/ Tendons too torn to beg for you to let me back in”

And this feels like something that Beau would say to Caleb — upfront and caring all at the same time, reminding him that his actions affect everyone else and asking him not to run:

“You said, ‘I can’t prove to you you’re not gonna die alone/ But trust me to take you home/ To clean up that blood all over your paws/ You can’t keep running out […] Kicking yourself in the head/ Because you’re kicking me too.’”

By the end of the song, Caleb is starting to believe her, and even asking her to trust him: “Put your trust in me/ I’m not gonna die alone… I don’t think so…”

Fjord

Release the Kraken, The Daysleepers: I added this to Fjord’s playlist back when everyone was speculating that his patron was something kraken-like, and even now that this is clearly not the case, I think it still works for Uk’otoa (Uk’otoa) and his attempts at freedom: “It pulled the ships down/ It’s rising from the deep below.”

But also for Fjord’s relationship with Avantika — for his attempts to get close to her in order to save himself and his friends:

“Turn the lights down Careful as a serpent’s tongue Move without a sound Gentle as the cold wind moans”

I think “When you sold love/ Your heart becomes a monster” is some of what Fjord felt after those encounters: like he gave part of himself away.

21st Century Child, Daggy Man, for Fjord’s self-hatred and the masks he puts on. Many of the lyrics could fit several characters (particularly Beau, Caleb, and Scanlan), but

“I hate the sound of myself/ When I’m being honest/ Sounds like somebody else/ And I don’t wanna listen/ To the whinings of a 21st century child”

just perfectly captures his feelings about his voice and his past self — weak and whiny, and not who he wants to be. And then we get these lines, which feel like a good summary of his issues with identity and deception:

“And I’ve struggled with how/ Others perceive me/ And I can’t tell if I’m better/ Or just better at deceiving And I’ll keep going until I’m called out”

Jester

The Sweetest Sounds, Ella Fitzgerald (cover of Richard Rodgers), for pre-stream Jester barely waiting for her exciting life to begin. I first heard this song in Rodger & Hammerstein’s Cinderella, and while there is something fairy-tale-like about Jester, I think this upbeat, jazzy cover fits her well:

“The most entrancing sight of all Is yet for me to see And the dearest love in all the world Is waiting somewhere for me”

I can just imagine a 10-year-old Jester listening to the band at the Lavish Chateau play this song, dressing up in Marion’s clothes, and pretending she’s in a storybook romance.

One Hand in my Pocket, Alanis Morissette, which really captures her beautiful complexity:

“I’m free, but I’m focused/ I’m green, but I’m wise/ I’m hard, but I’m friendly/ I’m sad, but I’m laughing”

because Jester is so many things all at once, and none of them negate each other. It’s so hopeful (“What it all comes down to/ Is that everything’s gonna be quite alright”) and comforting (“What it all boils down to/ Is that no one’s really got it figured out just yet”) in a way that really reminds me of my favourite blue cleric.

The whole song has such a fun, free, summer vibe that always makes me smile — just like Jester.

Mollymauk

Carnival Overture, Antonín Dvořák (Leonard Bernstein & New York Philharmonic Orchestra): one of my favourite pieces of classical music ever — when I hear it, an entire music video about a carnival plays in my head. The exuberant theme that bowls you over from the start reminds me of Molly’s effervescent, ostentatious personality.

The slower and quieter part in the middle with the violin and woodwind solos gives me a picture of Molly and Yasha sitting alone in the evenings just outside the carnival encampment, cuddled together — Yasha talking about her wife, Molly telling jokes, and the both of them making up names for constellations and flowers. Then the quick-paced minor section makes me think of the bloodhunter tiefling in combat, deadly with his swords and vicious mockery — before the return to the joyful, triumphant original theme.

Wonderful Everyday, Chance the Rapper & The Social Experiment**: this is sort of a cover of the Arthur theme song, but in the absolute best way possible. The meandering, loose, and extraordinarily happy vocals always remind me of Molly’s way of living.

Although some of the lyrics are more optimistic than Molly (I think he’d laugh at “Everybody that you meet/ Has an original point of view” and say that their points of view are usually bullshit), the message of appreciating every single day is just wonderful for him.

And the last bit hits me like a ton of bricks:

“And when I go down/ I'ma go down swinging/ My eyes still smiling/ And my heart still singing”

“Eyes never shut,” indeed.

**not on Spotify, sorry!

Nott

The Sore Feet Song, Ally Kerr: at first it appears to be a simple song about traveling long distances to find your love, which certainly describes Nott’s search for Yeza: “I walked ten thousand miles, ten thousand miles to see you/ And every gasp of breath I grabbed at just to find you.”

But the second verse is where it really gets into Nott’s thieving, rat-eating, badass ways:

“I stole ten thousand pounds, ten thousand pounds to see you I robbed convenient stores cause I thought they’d make it easier I lived off rats and toads, and I starved for you I fought off giants bears and I killed them too”

I love this strange little goblin.

Fox in the Snow, Belle & Sebastian: this song has always been a bit of a mystery to me, but the lyrics remind me of Nott’s intense vulnerability after she was transformed into a goblin — and in particular her self-image as something animalistic:

“Fox in the snow, where do you go/ To find something you could eat?/ Because the word out on the street is you are starving/ Don’t let yourself grow hungry now/ Don’t let yourself grow cold”

The second verse, which switches to describing a human girl, reminds me of pre-transformation Veth, more acceptable in body but no less socially ostracized than Nott:

“Girl in the snow, where do you go/ To find someone that will do?/ To tell someone all the truth before it kills you/ Listen to your crazy laugh/ Before you hang a right/ And disappear from sight/ What do they know anyway?”

I can just see that exact scene play out with a young Veth, right down to the “crazy laugh.” I’m glad she found Yeza, but she must still have been pretty lonely without any other friends.

Yasha

Into the Barrens, Grizfolk, for Yasha’s years of blank wandering after Zuala’s death. This song fits Yasha so well that for months, I somehow tricked myself into believing that Ashley had put it on her playlist. But I feel like this encapsulates her hopeless feelings, away from all society, not living for anything or anyone:

“Cast me away, my shadow’s cold/ Into the barrens where I will grow old/ Well, I’m not looking for answers/ And I’m not looking for gold”

And I can see this verse for the beginning of her relationship with the Stormlord, following voices she can’t understand as she wanders, barely alive:

“The voices in my head/ They echo in the wind and I begin to sway/ I follow what they say/ I can’t see their eyes, but I hear howling through the haze”

Dreams, Fleetwood Mac: technically a break-up song, but I can’t help but think of Yasha’s ever-present guilt and her memories of Zuala when I hear:

“Listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness/ Like a heartbeat drives you mad/ In the stillness of remembering what you had/ And what you lost”

The storm imagery also works for Yasha — “When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know” makes me think of her fight with the Stormlord on the boat, which allowed her to open up to her friends. And it touches on Yasha’s opaque dreams (“Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions/ I keep my visions to myself”).

(Ally and Stevie also have a lesbian mash-up of Dreams and Rhiannon, two of the gayest Fleetwood Mac songs, that I associate strongly with Beauyasha.)

Mighty Nein

Old Black Train, The Blasting Company (from Over the Garden Wall): trains don’t exist in Exandria (yet! — Percy or Taryon should get on that) but this is more of a metaphor for life. It reminds me of the Mighty Nein setting out from Alfield, not knowing the twists and turns they were going to face, the places they’d go, nor the family they’d become:

“This journey is a long one/ It will take you all around/ Life rushing by your window/ Before it lays you down”

Then there’s this verse:

“Oh come on now young stranger/ Weren’t you someone’s son? How’d you find this depot 'Cause it ain’t where you belong”

which feels very appropriate for many members of the Mighty Nein, separated as they are from their families and wandering in lands that aren’t welcoming to them. There’s also a verse that’s reminiscent of the graveyard they passed on the way to Zadash, which more and more feels like a portent of things to come:

“You will pass a graveyard/ Stones worn by the years/ The train’ll stop a minute but don’t let it leave you here”

Sailing, Leisure Cruise: another song about transportation, although this one is a little less metaphorical. As you can probably guess, I associate it with their adventures on the Mystake and the Ball Eater, which begun by total accident but which, in my opinion, was a turning point for the group, and ultimately helped them grow closer together:

“And to our surprise we’re sailing The high seas in the middle of the ocean […] We’re sailing the wildest mystery And to our surprise we’re happy and free”

Okay, so maybe “happy and free” is a bit of an exaggeration for that arc (particularly for poor Nott) but I think there were a lot of moments in which the Mighty Nein learned unexpected lessons about themselves.

And I think this is a good summary of the Mighty Nein’s modus operandi: seize every passing opportunity, because you don’t know what tomorrow will bring:

“Maybe it’s today Maybe it’s tomorrow But we have to make a play Or the chance will fade away”

And that’s a wrap! Thanks for listening and reading. Love you all <3

#critical role #Cr music #my stuff

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thecreatvre · 4 years

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i love monsters, i identify with monsters. i love them the same way people worship holy images

to me, they really connect in a fundamental way to my own identity

since childhood i’ve been faithful to monsters. i’ve been scared and absolved by them, because monsters are the patron saints of our blissful imperfections. that’s why i love them. they represent a side of us that we should actually embrace and celebrate

– guillermo del toro

#aesthetic #edits

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courage-a-word-of-justice · 5 years

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Shield Hero 20

Motoyasu getting dragged by Filo was funny…not enough to get a proper laugh though. Just a smirk or two.

Stop narrating and just get on with it, Naofumi and friends…!

“I was saying we should fight together all along.” (from Itsuki) – Were you, now…? (skeptical)

Ass-pull! I call “ass-pull” at the power to swallow the phoenix flame! Seriously, when did the dragon get the opportunity to teach Naofumi how to do that???

How did Naofumi not die after losing so much blood…?

What does the Q even stand for in the queen’s name…?

Sarazanmai 7

The seagulls…so fluffy…

For some reason, I expect a fakeout, but then it never arrives…these boys are really connecting…

I found some kappa croquette thingy online, but it referred to a “Shiki City” which probably isn’t in Asakusa…

The shirt…Kazuki’s shirt says “frog” but I get the feeling it also means “return”.

Shirohasu water. It’s Irohasu in Japan.

Was the lyric to Kawausoiya (the otter song) “gonna take ‘em”…?

Nice ET reference, Sara.

Balls…not just sport entendre, but…y’know. The sort of humour I don’t like as much.

Ooh…Keppi is shaping up to be the bad guy. But what plans does he have? Am I speculating too much and is he being framed? Hard to know until next time…

BSD 32

When Kyouka is eating the sundae, she looks like the Tofu Kyouka from Mayoi…hmm.

Can I confess something? Before I saw the illustrations for s2, I thought Louisa’s hair was much darker than what it is in the anime…hmmm, indeed.

I don’t think we were ever told (in the manga or the anime) what Louisa’s wish was…

This bit with Fyodor…I don’t think it was in the manga.

Subarashi-sou is a pun on “it seems wonderful”. That wasn’t in the manga, but it’s a great pun (because it’s right up my alley).

Fitz laughing at the neighbour’s TV wasn’t in the manga either, but that’s just the anime director’s humour peeking through.

“Blalack Daniel’s”, LOL.

Ohh…a quick Google reveals TJ Eckleberg is from the Great Gatsby. In there, he’s an eye doctor, but here, he’s an engineer.

George B Wilson is also from the Great Gatsby…Here be spoilers, but…George dies in his original work too.

Manhasset is a place in New York…I assume it’s connected to the Great Gatsby as well…

Oh yeah! Random Poe moment. That’s in the manga, so Igarashi (or whoever’s responsible for the terrible humour) doesn’t have to fake that bit.

Cue “Objection!” by Fitz, lemme guess. Even if I know the outcome and how it was done, I’d like to have my memory refreshed (by stabbing in the dark…and making an Ace Attorney joke in the process).

I already know, without googling, that Tom Buchanan is part of Great Gatsby as well…

Bank of Amerigo…LOL.

Fruits Basket 8

“If you show up for the banquet now…”

“The banquet sounds just like the folk tale!” Honestly, subbers, proofread…

Haa-kun and Haa-san. No distinguishing between them (aside from honorifics), even though they’re two completely different people.

Hatori’s squinty face was…hilarious, to put it simply.

Oh…I forgot the dance seems to be something the animal of the year does. So if Yuki was 3 years ago, it makes sense Momiji is doing it this year.

Best seat in the house for a sunrise, huh?

Kimetsu no Yaiba 8

I’ve seen Muzan being described as “Demon Michael Jackson” and now I can’t get that out of my head when I see him…sorry.

Tsukihiko, huh? It translates to “moon’s radiance” or something like that. That name is appropriate for a bad guy, isn’t it?

This is the first time I’ve really listened to the OST (aside from the OP and ED), so it’s…really something.

Ooh, I didn’t realise until now, but Ufotable even imitated the paper Jump is printed on with the next-ep previews…

OPM 2 8 (OPM 20)

Er…I haven’t mentioned it for the past few episodes, but Suiryu is hotttttttt. (No? I said that? Okay, next step.) That’s basically the only reason why I’m watching anymore…I can’t seem to find anyone who thinks positively of this tournament arc enough to do reviews of it that I can read, which has made my own opinion of this beloved series go down the drain…Also, if you weren’t aware, my taste lies not in Suiryu’s huge bulk, but rather in the fact he’s got long hair.

Didn’t Suiryu get pierced in the abs??? Where’s the blood coming from his injuries??? Update: He does have injuries there, they’re just not bloody…that’s all.

The main criticism for OPM 2 is the fact that it keeps cutting between different events, so it’s hard to follow. Well, I’ve had worse (see Concrete Revolutio) so that’s why I’m still here.

People say that clothing changes you – say if you put on a new outfit, you feel like a new person. (Of course, that’s all glamorising and praising consumption, but that’s beside the point here.) I think that’s what’s up with Max and Snek.

Shield Hero 21

“…the Shield Hero is worshipped.”

Really? Boob jiggle, at a time like this??? (Context: Malty is getting th slave crest painted on her.)

Wait, was there ever a Shield Church???

Okay, that felt like a real seasonal ending. What the heck is going to happen in the last few episodes, I wonder…?

Sarazanmai 8

Chikai knows the real meaning of YOLO…heh. I’m only kidding…

To be honest, I think I like Toi best out of the main trio. I tend to like the boys in blue…and no, I don’t mean the otter police.

Kazuki’s service provider is “Kappa Phone”, LOL.

When Reo held up the gun, I was yelling, “Enta! Get it for him!” (i.e. take the bullet) I didn’t expect him to actually do it…

…and here I thought tragic yuri was common enough and we don’t have enough Tragic Yaoi Dudes…

Notably, Toi was registered on Enta’s phone as “Kuji”, while Kazuki is registered as “Kazuki” (katakana) on Toi’s.

Shots fired…!

Update: I didn’t notice this, but the evil dude with kamome written behind him (I think it’s in this episode, but it might have been in the last one instead) must be based on a seagull…because that’s what kamome means.

Bungou Stray Dogs 33 (BSD S3 Ep 8)

I think it was around here I stopped reading the scans, because the series was picked up legally anyway…but I can see the death flags for a certain Port Mafia man…one who stands at the top.

As expected…butt shot. Igarashi (or whoever’s responsible for that shot) likes butts, so between this and Sarazanmai…*imagines image of kappa!Kazuki holding a shirikodama* There’s absolutely no buts about it (LOL), there’s no shortage of butts this season.

“To think that the rabbit being hunted would show its face…” – I think it’s hard for you to say that, Akutagawa, when you yourself have no face in that frame…

Why are both Akutagawa and Fyodor Naruto running today???

“So you’re doing this for that woman.”

What is “Mukurotoride”? I don’t seem to remember…maybe I never learnt what it was. Update: Apparently a tower in Dead Apple is called Mukurotoride.

Conspiracy time! This book sounds like Kunikida’s Ability…so imagine if it were under Dazai’s nose the entire time…

Fruits Basket 9

I love how the synopsis for this episode goes, “Kyo fights Yuki, Yuki fights a cold…”

Hatsuharu’s wearing such an ostentatious fluffy jacket…LOL, I love it.

Holy cow (LOL), I forgot how old Hatsuharu is…so that means he’s 15-ish, right?

Come to think of it…I see Fruits Basket characters in Ro Te O, which I started writing at about this time in 2013. The Azrael of that time was a hybrid of Hatsuharu, Ritsu and Ayame, Tetsuya is basically Yuki and Ryou is Kyou…hmm.

Apparently, Shigure had in the 2001 anime a song that went like, “High school girls, high school girls, cute high school girls for me.” So that’s where it was??? (Context: I haven’t seen Fruits Basket 2001, but read the entire manga.)

Kimetsu no Yaiba 9

Recap time, recap time…so the lady’s in the back room and Tanjiro conveniently forgets the man is in the basement…? Wuh?

Moya was complaining about how repetitive this show can get when it comes to the script (i.e. it repeats itself because it doesn’t trust its audience, but I think that’s because this is originally serialised on TV week by week that people may forget if they’re not bingeing, taking notes or following the manga). I’ll talk more about that in my KnY collab post, I guess…

When Yushiro said “watch your back”…he really meant it, huh?

Temari are the balls, but kemari is when you kick the balls.

“…the eyeballs on his hands are creepy.” – LOL.

Shield Hero 22

The ep title just says “Hero Council”…not specifically that there are 4 of them.

My stream’s been buffering more than usual, so I went “like mother, like daughter” before Naofumi did…

It would’ve ben massively funny to hear Melty call Malty either “Trash” or “B****”…especially the last one, because that’s always a fun way to end a sentence (especially for a girl as young as her). Update: She does, but the way she does it isn’t as funny as I thought it would be (and she doesn’t end her sentence with her sister’s new name).

Wait, I thought they got rid of her slave pact??? I thought it was only for the duration of her trial that she needed it for.

L’Arc and that lady seem like they’re foreshadowing for later…hmm. Update: The next-episode synopsis says “yes”. So does that new visual.

Sarazanmai 9

I can’t believe this show’s almost over…That means I gotta get a move on with RobiHachi, but to be honest? Non-anime things are probably going to kep me busy until…a few days from now. So I’ll get RobiHachi watched then.

Characetrs are dying en masse in this episode, aren’t they??? I saw a spoiler that (well, SPOILER) Chikai’s gonna die, but I don’t know about Enta or Keppi…Update: To be honest, I thought Chikai was going to become the next monster – a gun monster, perhaps. Maybe now that I’ve finished the episode, he’ll become a real zombie. (Hey, see what I did there with the bolding…? How’s that for hiding spoilers, eh???)

Oh yeah…I forgot Enta’s sister was Kazuki’s teacher…

There was a sign behind Masa that said”Hinode Asakusa” – “hi no de” meaning roughly “under the sun” or “leaving the sun”.

Tokarev…? The gun? Gun monster, maybe? Is this a critique of the American gun…(exaggerated voice) Nah, can’t be…this is Japanese.

Lionel…Lionel…for some reason, that name in relation to soccer seems familiar...I just can’t put my finger on who it reminds me of, though. Update: Is it, perhaps, Messi…? Yes, I think that’s the guy I was thinking of…!

Aw…I’m not crying, you are…But these words were running through my head before Toi chucked the bag of money away and yelled, “F***!”: “Everything I do, I do it for you.” Isn’t that cute…?

Bungou Stray Dogs 34

“…one by one?” Junban means “sequentially”, so I don’t see why you have to use the phrase “one by one”. Or “one at a time” would also work.

Hardbank…to contrast Softbank (a phone company in Japan).

Face-stealing aliens strike again…(re: Atsushi)

Oh flip. This reminds me of my Kunikida fic…yeah, I bet you don’t remember it.

Hey, this dude! Apparently he’s from one of Kunikida’s stories. I really am approaching the end of what I know of canon…*gulp* Update: Oops, we already passed that part…

I wonder if the real Fyodor could play cello…? Or is this just a thing to make him ominous and villanous…?

The cross on the wall behind Kunikida…makes this show more like Eva than Kekkai Sensen…exquisite. Absolutely exquisite, isn’t it?

Another cool cross, behind Tanizaki!

What’s a tatamigatana? Also, I didn’t know other people could be synchronised using Doppo Poet and Ranpo’s deduction…

Does Kouyou mean (by “the one I most despise”)…Chuuya? Or herself? It’s definitely not Ace.

Kimetsu no Yaiba 10

Headpats for Yushiro as well! Headpats for everyone!

There’s a lot of Tanjiro being terrified in this episode…

Wait…Kizuki? I thought they were the 12 Moons? (Well, “tsuki” means “moon”, but then what’s the “ki”?) Update: The “ki” means “demon”, so the Kizuki are the 12 Demon Moons.

Being alone with the body…that’s always a scary thought in murder mysteries…for the people who dissect them to determine the cause of death, that is.

Considering the name of the episode is “Together Forever”…nup, I don’t see Nezuko and Tanjiro separating anytime soon…

The Kasugai crow is what happens when you can’t turn off your Google Assistant…or GPS…or Siri.

If Tanjiro knows the name of his crow, how do the crows get their names? Do their trainers (is that the right term for a crow breeder in this case…?) give them names?

OPM S2 Ep 9 (Ep 21)

LOL, that one shot of the ants…JC Staff really don’t care about this series, do they…?

I kinda forgot about Genos after a bit more than a week…sorry, I was watching other anime in between. (More than usual, at least. I started playing Chibi Tamago – a forum game for AniList where you collect badges for watching anime - that’s why.)

Did he (Pri-Pri Prisoner)…store his phone in his butt…?

#simulcast commentary #Bungou Stray Dogs #one punch man #Sarazanmai #Fruits Basket #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #the rising of the shield hero #Chesarka watches Tate no Yuusha no Nariagari #Chesarka watches BSD #Chesarka watches OPM #Chesarka watches Sarazanmai #Chesarka watches KnY #Chesarka watches Furuba #Tate no Yuusha no Nariagari

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tailahjanbash · 6 years

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Dare to Dream

Have you ever had a dream? You know, a perfect picture of everything you’ve ever hoped to accomplish. Maybe yours is helping children out of human trafficking. Or maybe it’s becoming a mom, or owning your own business. Mine is looking out into a crowd of people singing words I wrote to connect with Jesus.

Ever since I picked up a guitar at 12, and started writing songs, I’ve gotten little glimpses of this dream. I didn’t get the whole picture all at once, but God began to plant little seeds here and there, guiding me in the direction He designed for me. I low-key think of it as that scene from Monsters Inc. where Sully is leading Boo around the house with cheerios. Haha.

Since the tender and oh so awkward age of 12, I have experienced pain, rejection, heart break, and have had some doors shut in my face.

I imagine you have too.

But something the Holy Spirit reminded me tonight, was that stops, shut doors, and rejections actually help you get where you’re going.

Yeah, you heard me.

God is not shutting doors, laughing at you while dangling your dreams in front of your face. That’s what the enemy wants you to think, but we must remind ourselves that he is the father of lies. The accuser.

When you hop in the car and plug that destination into your GPS, you are going to hit red lights. You are going to stop at stop signs. There is an order to our road systems that allow you to get from point A to point B. If you speed through traffic, ignore the signals you need that tell you when to go, slow down, or stop, you will get in a car accident.

How foolish would it be if you were to hit a red light and assume the light would never change? Or your car would immediately shut off and never turn on again?

Yes, they can be frustrating. You may not get to where you want as fast as you’d like, but delays do not mean you are never reaching your destination. They are not denials. They are not punishments.

They are a product of God carefully orchestrating the details because the bible says that He delights in the details of your life (Psalm 37:23). That His plans are not to harm us but to give us hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11).

Delays are not denials

And maybe you’re like me. Maybe you have Disney Princess syndrome. No matter how ugly, dark, or bleak circumstances may seem, you can’t help but be optimistic and dream. This has definitely gotten me hurt more than once, not gonna lie. But we can’t let life harden our hearts and steal our joy.

Being optimistic in the face of darkness means that you have a tender heart and you want to believe the best in others. That is how God wants our hearts! Hardened hearts cannot stir up faith. They cannot be moved, touched, or hear the sensitive whispers of Holy Spirit.

It is no secret that the world can be a dark place, and the enemy longs to destroy every ray of light and purity in it. If he can manage to surround you with toxic people who belittle and put down your dreams, feed you lies, and incite fear, it is the most effective way to abort your dreams—while they are still in seed form. It is much easier to remove a plant when it has not sprouted roots and begun to grow.

The bible says that satan prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for anything and anyone to devour. He hates you with a burning passion, because whenever he sees you, he is reminded of his future and everything he could never be.

You see, up in heaven, he used to be a beautiful angel. Lucifer wanted to be like God—he wanted to be worshipped. This allowed sin into his heart, and he rebelled soon after and was thrown from the heavens.

Fast-forward to the creation of man. The word says that we were made in His likeness! In the image of God! They very thing the enemy desired and was punished for, God freely gave to us. Not only that, but He lavished His love upon us freely without any expectation. You see why he hates you? Your calling and purpose threaten him and his agenda. When we are called out and purposed by God, the enemy tries everything in his power from keeping our destinies from manifesting because he knows as God’s final plan unfolds, it will be the end of his reign here on earth.

Now that we know fear is just a liar and the enemy wants to abort our dreams because he is afraid of God’s purpose on our lives, we can guard our hearts more effectively.

Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life. Proverbs 4:23

Guarding that hope, faith, and trust in the Lord is what will guide you as you walk along the path He has planned for you.

If you are struggling with faith and believing the promises and dreams in your heart, I would encourage you to read Hebrews 11. This whole chapter lists out biblical legends and accounts for many of the crazy faith stories in scripture. How the saints believed in the words God spoke, even though their miracle was literally impossible.

I also want to stir your faith a little bit before I close out this post. Last Tuesday, my friend Hannah and I were praying, and as I was praying for her, The Lord showed me a picture of her on a stage, facing rows of women. She was speaking to them and teaching them the word of God. I described the scene in more detail as we prayed, and afterwards she told me that she had seen that exact same picture in her mind ever since she was a little girl, and always found herself going back to this vision. She had told me that the past couple years had been hard for her in this area, and she felt as though she had lost her ability to dream.

What good news it is that the God we serve is not dependent on the possible and circumstances in the natural. He is not bound by time, is infinite and abounding in wisdom and knowledge of the past, present, future, and is love.

He showed me on Tuesday that He goes out of His way to make sure His children feel loved and are able to open up their hearts and dream again.

And finally, remember that everything you need is found in Him. Those dreams and goals and things we pray for—those wonderful desires He placed in us—they’re just the icing on the cake.

The real peace and fulfillment doesn’t come from temporal and earthy achievements, but from intimately knowing the living God and having a deep relationship with Him.

“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her!" Luke 1:45

Prayer:

God, thank you for placing these desires and dreams into my heart. I thank you that you are not man that you should lie, but instead a promise keeper and a way-maker. Even though I may not see my dream or my miracle right now, I thank you that you are bringing it in Your perfect timing. Teach me to lean into you when I hit these stops in the road. Holy Spirit, I ask that you would minister and speak to me in the wait. That you would refine me, teach me, and hone me so that when I get where need to be, I will be ready. Lord, I give you my fears, my doubts, and pain and ask that you replace my heart of stone and give me a heart of flesh. A heart that beats only for you that is full of faith, hope, love, joy, and optimism. Holy Spirit I invite you into every area of my heart and life, and ask that You have your way in me, Lord. In Jesus name, amen.

#dream #love #bible #god #holy spirit #faith #jesus #christ #bible study #devo #devotional #christian #hope #dreams #self care

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tessacamiahfmp · 3 years

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tpanan · 3 years

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My Holy Saturday at the Easter Vigil in the Holy Night of Easter Daily Blessings

Apri 3, 2021

Be still quiet your heart and mind, the LORD is here, loving you talking to you...........

Holy Saturday at the Easter Vigil in the Holy Night of Easter Daily Blessings Lectionary: 41, Cycle B

First Reading: Genesis 1:1-2:2

In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless wasteland, and darkness covered the abyss, while a mighty wind swept over the waters.

Then God said, "Let there be light,"" and there was light. God saw how good the light was. God then separated the light from the darkness. God called the light "day," and the darkness he called "night." Thus evening came, and morning followed—the first day.

Then God said, "Let there be a dome in the middle of the waters, to separate one body of water from the other." And so it happened: God made the dome,

and it separated the water above the dome from the water below it. God called the dome "the sky." Evening came, and morning followed—the second day.

Then God said, "Let the water under the sky be gathered into a single basin, so that the dry land may appear." And so it happened: the water under the sky was gathered into its basin, and the dry land appeared. God called the dry land "the earth, " and the basin of the water he called "the sea." God saw how good it was.

Then God said, "Let the earth bring forth vegetation: every kind of plant that bears seed and every kind of fruit tree on earth that bears fruit with its seed in it." And so it happened: the earth brought forth every kind of plant that bears seed and every kind of fruit tree on earth that bears fruit with its seed in it.

God saw how good it was. Evening came, and morning followed—the third day.

Then God said: "Let there be lights in the dome of the sky, to separate day from night. Let them mark the fixed times, the days and the years, and serve as luminaries in the dome of the sky, to shed light upon the earth." And so it happened: God made the two great lights, the greater one to govern the day,

and the lesser one to govern the night; and he made the stars. God set them in the dome of the sky, to shed light upon the earth, to govern the day and the night, and to separate the light from the darkness. God saw how good it was.

Evening came, and morning followed—the fourth day.

Then God said, "Let the water teem with an abundance of living creatures, and on the earth let birds fly beneath the dome of the sky." And so it happened:

God created the great sea monsters and all kinds of swimming creatures with which the water teems, and all kinds of winged birds. God saw how good it was, and God blessed them, saying, "Be fertile, multiply, and fill the water of the seas; and let the birds multiply on the earth." Evening came, and morning followed—the fifth day.

Then God said, "Let the earth bring forth all kinds of living creatures: cattle, creeping things, and wild animals of all kinds." And so it happened: God made all kinds of wild animals, all kinds of cattle, and all kinds of creeping things of the earth. God saw how good it was.

Then God said: "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. Let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the air, and the cattle, and over all the wild animals and all the creatures that crawl on the ground." God created man in his image; in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. God blessed them, saying: "Be fertile and multiply; fill the earth and subdue it. Have dominion over the fish of the sea, the birds of the air, and all the living things that move on the earth."

God also said: "See, I give you every seed-bearing plant all over the earth and every tree that has seed-bearing fruit on it to be your food; and to all the animals of the land, all the birds of the air, and all the living creatures that crawl on the ground, I give all the green plants for food." And so it happened. God looked at everything he had made, and he found it very good. Evening came, and morning followed—the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth and all their array were completed. Since on the seventh day God was finished with the work he had been doing, he rested on the seventh day from all the work he had undertaken.

Responsorial Psalm: Psalm 104: 1-2, 5-6, 12, 13-14, 24-35

"Lord, send out your spirit, and renew the face of the earth."

Second Reading: Genesis 22:1-18

God put Abraham to the test. He called to him, "Abraham!" "Here I am," he replied. Then God said: "Take your son Isaac, your only one, whom you love,

and go to the land of Moriah. There you shall offer him up as a holocaust on a height that I will point out to you." Early the next morning Abraham saddled his donkey, took with him his son Isaac and two of his servants as well, and with the wood that he had cut for the holocaust, set out for the place of which God had told him.

On the third day Abraham got sight of the place from afar. Then he said to his servants: "Both of you stay here with the donkey, while the boy and I go on over yonder. We will worship and then come back to you." Thereupon Abraham took the wood for the holocaust and laid it on his son Isaac's shoulders, while he himself carried the fire and the knife. As the two walked on together, Isaac spoke to his father Abraham: "Father!" Isaac said. "Yes, son," he replied.

Isaac continued, "Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the sheep for the holocaust?" "Son," Abraham answered, "God himself will provide the sheep for the holocaust." Then the two continued going forward.

When they came to the place of which God had told him, Abraham built an altar there and arranged the wood on it. Next he tied up his son Isaac, and put him on top of the wood on the altar. Then he reached out and took the knife to slaughter his son. But the LORD's messenger called to him from heaven, "Abraham, Abraham!" "Here I am!" he answered. "Do not lay your hand on the boy," said the messenger. "Do not do the least thing to him. I know now how devoted you are to God, since you did not withhold from me your own beloved son."

As Abraham looked about, he spied a ram caught by its horns in the thicket.

So he went and took the ram and offered it up as a holocaust in place of his son. Abraham named the site Yahweh-yireh; hence people now say, "On the mountain the LORD will see."

Again the LORD's messenger called to Abraham from heaven and said:

"I swear by myself, declares the LORD, that because you acted as you did in not withholding from me your beloved son, I will bless you abundantly and make your descendants as countless as the stars of the sky and the sands of the seashore; your descendants shall take possession of the gates of their enemies, and in your descendants all the nations of the earth shall find blessing--all this because you obeyed my command."

Responsorial Psalm: Psalm 16:5, 8, 9-10, 11

"You are my inheritance, O Lord."

Reading III

Ex 14:15—15:1

Exodus, CHAPTER 14 | USCCB

CHAPTER 14 1Then the LORD spoke to Moses: 2Speak to the Israelites: Let them turn about and camp before Pi-hahi...

Responsorial Psalm

Ex 15:1-2, 3-4, 5-6, 17-18

Reading IV

Is 54:5-14

Isaiah, CHAPTER 54 | USCCB

CHAPTER 54 The New Zion 1Raise a glad cry, you barren one* who never bore a child, break forth in jubilant song,...

Responsorial Psalm

Ps 30:2, 4, 5-6, 11-12, 13

Reading V

Is 55:1-11

Responsorial Psalm

Is 12:2-3, 4, 5-6

Reading VI

Bar 3:9-15, 32--4:4

Responsorial Psalm

Ps 19:8, 9, 10, 11

Reading VII

Ez 36:16-17a, 18-28

Ezekiel, CHAPTER 36 | USCCB

CHAPTER 36 Regeneration of the Land. 1As for you, son of man, prophesy to the mountains of Israel and say: Mount...

Responsorial Psalm

Ps 42:3, 5; 43:3, 4

Epistle

Rom 6:3-11

Responsorial Psalm

Ps 118:1-2, 16-17, 22-23

Gospel

Mark 16:1-7

**Meditation:

Early Sunday morning the women went to the tomb to pay their last tribute to a dead body. The disciples thought that everything had finished in tragedy. Neither were ready to see an empty tomb and hear the angel's message, "Do not be amazed; you seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen, he is not here; see the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going before you to Galilee; there you will see him, as he told you." (Marke 16:6-7). The angel urged them to believe that Jesus had indeed risen just as he had promised. In joy then went to share the good news with the other disciples. Is it any small wonder that it was the women, rather than the apostles, who first witnessed the empty tomb and the resurrected Lord? Isidore of Seville, a 7th century church father comments on this: "As a woman (Eve) was first to taste death, so a woman (Mary Magdalene) was first to taste life. As a woman was prescient in the fall, so a woman was prescient in beholding the dawning of redemption, thus reversing the curse upon Eve." The first to testify to the risen Lord was a woman from whom Jesus had cast out seven demons. What is the significance of the stone being rolled away? It would have taken several people to move such a stone. And besides, the sealed tomb had been guarded by soldiers! This is clearly the first sign of the resurrection. Bede, a church father from the 8th century, comments: "[The angel] rolled back the stone not to throw open a way for our Lord to come forth, but to provide evidence to people that he had already come forth. As the virgin's womb was closed, so the sepulcher was closed, yet he entered the world through her closed womb, and so he left the world through the closed sepulcher." (From Homilies on the Gospels 2,7,24) Another church father remarked: "To behold the resurrection, the stone must first be rolled away from our hearts" (Peter Chrysologus, 5th century). Do you know the joy of the resurrection? It is significant that the disciples had to first deal with the empty tomb before they could come to grips with the fact that scripture had foretold that Jesus would die for our sins and then rise triumphant. They disbelieved until they saw the empty tomb. Bede explains why the Risen Lord revealed himself gradually to the disciples:

"Our Lord and redeemer revealed the glory of his resurrection to his disciples gradually and over a period of time, undoubtedly because so great was the virtue of the miracle that the weak hearts of mortals could not grasp [the significance of] this all at once. Thus, he had regard for the frailty of those seeking him. To those who came first to the tomb, both the women who were aflame with love for him and the men, he showed the stone rolled back. Since his body had been carried away, he showed them the linen cloths in which it had been wrapped lying there alone. Then, to the women who were searching eagerly, who were confused in their minds about what they had found out about him, he showed a vision of angels who disclosed evidences of the fact that he had risen again. Thus, with the report of his resurrection already accomplished, going ahead of him, the Lord of hosts and the king of glory himself at length appeared and made clear with what great might he had overcome the death he had temporarily tasted." (From Homilies on the Gospels 2,9,25)

One thing is certain, if Jesus had not risen from the dead and appeared to his disciples, we would never have heard of him. Nothing else could have changed sad and despairing men and women into people radiant with joy and courage. The reality of the resurrection is the central fact of the Christian faith. Through the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Lord gives us "eyes of faith" to know him and the power of his resurrection. The greatest joy we can have is to encounter the living Lord and to know him personally. Do you celebrate the feast of Easter with joy and thanksgiving for the victory which Jesus has won for you over sin and death?

Lord Jesus Christ, you have triumphed over the grave and you have won new life for us. Give me the eyes of faith to see you in your glory. Help me to draw near to you and to grow in the knowledge of your great love and power.

Sources:

Lectionary for Mass for Use in the Dioceses of the United States, second typical edition, Copyright © 2001, 1998, 1997, 1986, 1970 Confraternity of Christian Doctrine; Psalm refrain © 1968, 1981, 1997, International Committee on English in the Liturgy, Inc. All rights reserved. Neither this work nor any part of it may be reproduced, distributed, performed or displayed in any medium, including electronic or digital, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

**Meditations may be freely reprinted and translated into other languages for non-profit use only. Please cite copyright and original source.

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gospelmusic · 3 years

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Catholic Daily Reading + Reflection: 9 February 2021

Mass Readings for Tuesday February 9, 2021

Week day (5) Vestment: Green Today’s Rosary: Sorrowful Mystery St Josephine Bakhita NNEWI: Tomorrow is the 19th anniversary of the Episcopal Ordination of Most Revd Hillary Okeke, February 10, 2002 (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

FIRST READING

“Let us make man in our own image, after our likeness.” A reading from the Book of Genesis (Genesis 1:20-2:4a) And God said, “Let the waters bring forth swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the firmament of the heavens.” So God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that moves, with which the waters swarm, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. And God blessed them, saying, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth.” And there was evening and there was morning, a fifth day. And God said, “Let the earth bring forth living creatures according to their kinds: cattle and creeping things and beasts of the earth according to their kinds.” And it was so. And God made the beasts of the earth according to their kinds and the cattle according to their kinds, and everything that creeps upon the ground according to its kind. And God saw that it was good. Then God said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.” So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. And God blessed them, and he said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.” And God said, “Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food. And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food." And it was so. And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, a sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them. And on the seventh day God finished his work which he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from till his work which he had done. So God blessed the seventh day and hallowed it, because on it God rested from all his work which he had done in creation. These are the generations of the heavens and the earth when they were created. The word of the Lord. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});

RESPON SORIAL PSALM Psalm 8:4-5.6-7a.7b-9 (R. 2ab)

R/. O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name through all the earth! When I see the heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you arranged, what is man that you should keep him in mind, the son of man that you care for him? R. Yet you have made him little lower than the angels; with glory and honour you crowned him, gave him power over the works of your hands. R. R/. O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name through all the earth! You put all things under his feet, all of them, sheep and oxen, yes, even the cattle of the fields, birds of the air, and fish of the sea that make their way through the waters. R.

ALLELUIA Psalm 119:36a.29b

Alleluia. Bend my heart, O God, to your decrees, grant me mercy by your law. Alleluia.

GOSPEL

“You leave the commandment of God, and holdfast the tradition of men. ” A reading from the holy Gospel according to Mark (Mark 7:1-13) At that time: When the Pharisees gathered together to Jesus, with some of the scribes, who had come from Jerusalem, they saw that some of his disciples ate with hands defiled, that is, unwashed. (For the Pharisees, and all the Jews, do not eat unless they wash their hands, observing the tradition of the elders; and when they come from the market place, they do not eat unless they purify themselves ; there are many other traditions which they observe, the washing of cups and pots and vessels of bronze.) And the Pharisees and the scribes asked him, “Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders, but eat with hands defiled?” And he said to them, “Well did Isaiah prophesy of you hypocrites, as it is written, ‘This people honour me with their lips, but their heart is far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines the precepts of men. ’ You leave the commandment of God, and hold fast the tradition of men.” And he said to them, “You have a fine way of rejecting the commandment of God, in order to keep your tradition! For Moses said, ‘Honour your father and your mother'; and ‘He who speaks evil of father or mother, let him surely die’; but you say, ‘If a man tells his father or his mother, What you would have gained from me is Corban’ (that is, given to God) — then you no longer permit him to do anything for his father or mother, thus making void the word of God through your tradition which you hand on. And many such things you do.” The Gospel of the Lord.

Today’s Reflection

In the account of creation that we read in Genesis, human beings are created last, as a sign of our dignity. We are created in God’s image and likeness with intelligence and free will. Male and female He created us. Both genders are fashioned in the image of God, not one greater than the other. We reveal God’s image in us when we show compassion, fidelity and care for others. On the other hand, when we practice violence, retaliation and brutality, we tarnish the image of God in us. When we try to bring order out of disorder; when we seek to grow in our fidelity to God’s law; when we attempt to show our concern for those who are weak and ignorant, we brighten us and grow in the image and likeness of the God who has made us.

Today’s Saint and Quote

St Josephine Bakhita – February 9th (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); - Be good, love the Lord, pray for those who do not know Him. What a great grace it is to know God!

Personal Devotional

"Don't be ashamed in confessing your sins; There is no point in trying to stop a river from flowing" Sirach 5:26 - Make a prayer of repentance from the depth of your heart. - Pray for our hearts to be softened towards one another, so that we can give and receive forgiveness readily within our families, churches and communities. - Pray that God will help us to seek ways to bring reconciliation where there is estrangement, restoration where there is brokenness, and comfort where there is mourning.

Let Us Pray

O Lord, I am weak and broken, surrounded on all sides by corruption and perversion. Lord have mercy on me: protect me from my enemies who devour me, and guide me in the way of perfection. No matter what happens to me, whether it be an attack or a seduction, may my love for you protect me from falling into sin. May I live a holy life no matter what others do around me – Amen. Memory Verse: Isaiah 55:1,2

Please help spread the gospel. Share our posts on social media using the share buttons. He who wins a soul is wise. God bless you abundantly!

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exordiumkrp · 6 years

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ACCESSING PERSONNEL FILE 。。。 ACCESS GRANTED !

RE: CADET #980412 • • • KIM , DOYEON ASSIGNED TO STRIKE , EVALUATION SCORE OF < 310 > POINTS

THOUGH WE ARE IN THE EYE OF THE STORM

o kaiju kings, lead us down into your paradise below the seas and vanquish all who oppose your supreme reign.

she’s only five when it happens: the world rips open and spits out a monster intent on devouring all of humanity until they bring its rampage to a screeching halt. doyeon remembers watching the ordeal on television with her parents, six days of death and destruction, six days of a nightmare come to life, and it feels so far away to her, sitting in her cozy home. but her mother’s fretful voice fills the room as the battle rages on—”it’s not right,” she says. “it’s just not right.”

only years later does doyeon realize her mother’s criticism wasn’t for the kaiju, it was for the people daring to stand up to a god.

at night, doyeon dreams.

restless, bloody, crushing dreams: the seas parting, the ground shaking, the screams and wretched sobbing of the people fleeing the coast. thick, scaled legs crushing cars underfoot, thunderous roars ringing in her ears, the gaping maw of the kaiju right above her—

she wakes up drenched in her own sweat, crying into her blanket. when her mother asks her what’s wrong, she describes the the nightmare while shaking. after a long pause, her mother strokes her head absentmindedly, calming her down. “i know how powerful fear can be,” she says, “but i don’t think you need to fear these creatures, darling. everything in this world has a purpose.”

what is it, she wants to ask, but doesn’t, just grips her mother instead. her comfort isn’t very comforting, and the nightmares persist. she dies a hundred times in her sleep and wonders what the kaijus’ purpose could possibly be.

her father is a military man. his response to the continuing kaiju attacks is to join the newly formed pan pacific defense corps, intent on becoming a ranger. “we have to beat these things back from our shores,” he says with distaste, and her mother stiffens at his words.

“the kaiju are here to cleanse the earth,” she responds. “they will destroy the sinners and create a new world for the chosen ones. if you get into one of those machines, the kaiju will crush you.” doyeon’s eyes stray to the red book of the buenakai, the collected holy words of the kaiju worshipers her mother spends most of her time with these days. they prophesy the end of the world at the hands of the kaiju and call it salvation.

the buenakai flock to the streets in their red robes, proselytizing freely about the kaiju as the messengers of the gods, the advents of a new civilization sent by a higher power. they play on fear and uncertainty to turn people into believers, lure them in with the promise of a better world. but doyeon looks at them and thinks that they scare her almost as much as the kaiju do. they want their ‘gods’ to remold the earth and don’t care how many drown in the process.

“you’re mad,” her father says finally. “there are no gods here, just monsters.”

her mother doesn’t say much after that, but doyeon hears her praying to the sea later in the night. “majestic creatures from beyond our horizons, deliver us from suffering and strike the evil from our hearts.”

doyeon remembers her dreams. she remembers the ruins of san francisco, manila, cabo san lucas, sydney. she remembers the different kaiju, their names slipping through her fingers like their deadly blue blood. what destroys cannot save. she loves her mother, but in this she agrees with her father: kaiju are terrifying abominations that need to be exterminated.

she wants them gone.

in the end, her father doesn’t become a ranger, but he does join the ppdc strike trooper unit instead. her mother still disapproves and the house is filled with tense silences when both her parents are around, but she spends more and more time convening with the local buenakai at their towering churches. she tries to bring doyeon along with her (“think of your soul”) but doyeon would rather be with her father, and her mother only stares past her impassively as she says, “i’ll pray for you.”

her father takes her out shopping and buys her food. at home, he teaches her about the ppdc and their mission, and when doyeon shyly tells him about her nightmares, he takes the time to explain jaegers to her. “look,” he says, pulling out the newspaper and pointing to the headline splashed on the front page. “jaegers are protectors. they take care of the kaiju for us so kids like you don’t have to worry.” doyeon runs her fingers over the pixelated image of the jaeger and bites her lip.

“mom calls them false prophets,” she says. godslayers. the buenakai scorn the attempts of the ppdc to combat the pacific threat and claim they will be punished for defying the kaiju eventually. salvation is hard to swallow, but she has no problems believing that the kaiju can dole out cruel punishments. she worries that jaegers aren’t enough, that her mother is right and they’ll fail eventually.

but her father is confident. “we’re stronger than that.” he’s always believed in people above some kind of higher power. we drive our own destinies and all that. he would be the type to rebel against heaven if necessary, and doyeon finds comfort in his strong, steady presence.

under his guidance, she learns the names of all the active jaegers in the incheon shatterdome. he buys her figurines of jaegers and books on technology with posters of triumphant pilots tucked inside—”keep it a secret from your mom,” he says, winking, and doyeon finds hiding places in the house away from her mother’s sharp eyes, not willing to have her things confiscated and having yet another prayer book forced on her in return.

at night, she thinks about heroes and doesn’t dream at all.

a kaiju makes landfall in busan eventually.

doyeon stands frozen in terror as the alarms start to blare. people stream out of their apartment building, jostling each other and falling down the stairs in their hurry to get away as she watches from the balcony, not sure where to go or what to do. the strike troopers crawl the streets, ushering people into the anti-kaiju shelter as quickly as possible. her father included, who’d held her face before he left and said, “get to the shelter and wait for me. i’ll come get you when it’s over.” but she can’t move and the foundations of the building shake and all she can hear is screaming and—

her mother finally drags her out by the arm; both of doyeon’s hands are clasped over her ears to block out the awful sounds of people dying and the kaiju roaring. she isn’t scared. the look on her face is almost reverent as she gazes at the silhouette of the kaiju in the distance. “we shouldn’t be running and hiding,” she grumbles, as they crowd into the shelter near the buenakai church. “we are the chosen ones; we have nothing to fear.” her voice grows sharper. “only sinners will die today.” the people around her—the believers—nod and murmur in assent.

doyeon crouches down in the corner and tries to block their prayers out, focusing instead on the frantic beating of her heart, the swallow breaths, and recites the names of all the different jaegers in her head to keep from spiraling.

the ordeal spans hours. when they finally emerge out of the shelter, it’s into a different world altogether. little traces of the city she remembers remain, and her knees buckle at the sight of such carnage. amidst the rubble are bodies and pools of kaiju blue. doyeon steps around them and tries not to throw up as she searches for word of her father.

after a week, the ppdc release the names of dead officers. her father’s is on the list. he died helping civilians into a shelter. a heroic end, the kind he would’ve hoped for, but doyeon finds no comfort in that. there’s no body to bury, no ashes to scatter for him, but she kneels in the buenakai church (one of the only places standing) and prays through her tears for him anyway. her mother doesn’t weep at all. “your father was a sinner,” she says eventually. doyeon sees nothing but contempt and religious fervor in her eyes.

she beds down on the church floor at night, fists clenched, trying not to cry for her father and everything they’ve lost.

a few months after the attack on busan, her mother uproots them to the bone slums in hwaseong. the buenakai are building a church in the remains of the kaiju fallen there; they are just a few among the masses of pilgrims flocking to the new holy site. “i don’t want to go,” doyeon protests. she can’t think of any place she’d want to go less, but her mother remains steadfast in her decision. doyeon thinks about running away, leaving her mother and this stupid cult behind, but the truth is, she has nowhere else to go and no one to take care of her.

so she joins the exodus, pretending to be one of them, the well memorized songs and prayers spilling from her lips like acid. once they arrive, her mother is at the mercy of the church–they’re kind, in a way. they clothe, feed, and house displaced believers like them. she spends her days in the literal belly of the beast, trying her best to avoid the daily meditations and lessons the buenakai attempt to force onto her, but she can only run so far in this skeletal compound.

it’s easy to fall into complacency here. at night she recites the names of jaegers her father taught her, follows any news of the ppdc she can get her hands on, keeps safe the dirtied and torn memorabilia she scavenged from the remains of her house, digging through the rubble until her hands bled just for something to turn to for comfort. but it gets harder and harder to believe in the things she used to before—outside, jaegers are falling, pilots are dying, kaijus are getting bigger, bolder, more powerful–

the old fears return along with the nightmares: this looks like the end of the world. she begins believing, a little bit, in the god-like qualities of the kaiju. maybe they can’t be defeated, not permanently. maybe people are stupid to even try. maybe they should just accept that humans can’t best gods and prepare for the end times. maybe everything her father told her was wrong: they’re not strong. the kaiju are always, always stronger.

what is the difference between a god and a monster?

you worship a god. you fear a monster.

at times it becomes the same thing. you worship what you fear because you can’t do anything else.

this is not her.

operation pitfall is a success, but for the people around her, it’s a crushing defeat. still, doyeon sees less despair than she expects to. the believers think this is not the end, that the kaiju will return eventually. “you can’t chain a god forever,” one nun says during morning prayer.

she agrees–the kaiju will return. doyeon has no illusions about how powerful they are. something swells in her chest when she thinks about them. fear, trepidation, awe, and hate coiled underneath all that, burning hot enough to raze the entire church to the ground. but what pitfall taught her is that they’re not helpless. what the operation accomplished is nothing short of a miracle, and she’s reminded of her father and his unwavering beliefs in the capacity of humans to fight. she’s ashamed of having forgotten that.

it’s like… a numbness receding from her limbs, a cloudiness clearing up from her eyes. she can’t stay here longer, wrapped up in prayers and offerings and praises of the kaiju. not when they could be coming back, and not when the world needs to prepare to face them again. because they have been defeated and they can be defeated again, and–doyeon just doesn’t want any part of this cult anymore.

she packs her bags the day she turns eighteen and flees the bone slums, leaving only a note for her mother behind. i don’t believe like you do, she writes. i never have and i never will. i don’t want to submit to these gods, mom. i want to fight. they are lofty words from someone who’s never had to survive in the harsh world on their own, but doyeon learns as she goes.

it’s bitter, and survival skills don’t come easy. but she regains parts of herself she thought she lost in the process, and at night she pulls out the tattered remains of her old jaeger memorabilia and thinks her father was right: the ppdc are protectors and she wants—

to be like them.

WE SHALL STAND STRONG LIKE TITANS

after few weeks of wandering following her eighteenth birthday, doyeon came into contact with a ppdc recruiter in january of 2017 in seoul. initially, her attempts to apply for the jaeger academy training program were rejected, but she persisted until she was eventually accepted into the academy. she suspects her father’s years of service and association with the ppdc as a strike trooper probably helped her case in the end. regardless, she was excited to begin training, though she remained a little self-conscious of the fact that she had no outstanding skills to bring into the program, just her own determination and resolve.

her fascination with the ppdc began when she was young, fostered by her father’s stories about the heroics of rangers, strike troopers, and so on. she idolized them, thought of them as all-powerful protectors, and even when she was losing faith in the ppdc’s capabilities, she still thought the organization was vital. though the kaiju have been defeated, doyeon still believes that it’s a matter of time before they return and doesn’t want to be complacent in that case. while she’s not consciously aware of it, part of her decision to join the ppdc is also motivated by a desire to confront her fear of the kaiju should they return; she doesn’t want to cower in front of them but feel like she has some power to fight back. she also wants to honor her father’s memory by being involved with the ppdc!

truthfully, she’s a bit ashamed of her lack of knowledge compared to the other cadets. like mentioned earlier, she doesn’t bring any special skills or outstanding abilities into the program with her, and when she sees fellow cadets who’re already building weapons or working with tissue samples or were recruited into the academy by staff, she feels inadequate. however, that drives her to work as hard as she possibly can. she’s a grinder; doyeon spends most of her time either hitting the books for theory and basic knowledge or conditioning her physical body. distractions are minimal for her. motivated by the fear of being left far behind all her classmates, she pushes herself to extremes just to keep apace with them.

her skills definitely lie more in the physical sphere; theory is not really her forte, though she’s trying! she doesn’t have much specialized knowledge about engineering and tends to avoid k-science as much as possible, but she likes learning about tactics and studying past engagements between jaeger and kaiju. she has some troubles sleeping and tends to get stressed easily, and exercise and honing her physical skills helps keep her grounded and occupied.

while not the most social person, doyeon has slowly begun to open up to her fellow cadets. to say she has some trust issues is an understatement; for the most part, she remains private about her background and personal life, but she’s recently started to bond with other people and relax a bit more, finding a life outside purely studying. she’s also trying to figure out what she wants to specialize in when the time comes and feels a bit overwhelmed by all the options. one thing is for sure: she doesn’t want to be a ranger since she doesn’t think she’ll be able to let anybody in her head.

#xdr:app #kim doyeon #doyeon #weki meki

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pathofcomet · 4 years

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bride of ice (4)

{dragon age: inquisition | g. | female trevelyan/iron bull | 8.9k}

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533642/chapters/59122414

The first time she allows herself to move further from the camp on an actual Inquisition-related business is to find Mother Giselle. Besides the new-born Inquisition, all other organizations, religious, political or otherwise, have blown up alongside the Temple of Ashes. Usually, when one constant of the world collapses, all the other start at least being questioned, if not following in its steps.

She takes Cassandra, because she’s already used to her fighting style, and Varric because his aim never fails. Solas, because the blanket of his magic is so familiar to her brain already. Scout Harding is already hard at work, a presence so chatty and positive that for a second, the Herald forgets that she’s supposed to get her supplies and head into battle. The minutes are passing by, and each one counts – so Cassandra pulls at her elbow, and hurries her along unmapped paths.

She hasn’t trained for long, but she trained often with the best fighters in the Inquisition – and the difference is already telling. Her skin is rough on her palms and at her heels, and the armour is now more comfortable, her weapons more familiar. She ducks out of Cassandra’s way, to let her bash an enemy to the ground with her shield, and throws one of her daggers between the eyes of another, right as they were getting too close to Solas. She can feel a burst of flame at her back, and she hurries to pick her dagger, refusing to look back at the damage the magic has done.

When she’s in a battle, like this, her life on the line and everything too real, her body’s movements too acute, the sounds too loud, she feels detached. It’s almost mechanic, the way in which she stabs and jumps and drinks her potions. Up until this point, everything in her life has been simulated, and her brain takes a while to catch up with the fact that whatever is happening around her, it is in real time, all stakes raised. So the five seconds after the last of their enemy falls to the ground, the silence that follows feels like her head is underwater, a static noise at the back of her thoughts, a brief pause before she gets moving towards the refugees and Mother Giselle, Varric searching up the corpses for valuables.

The path opens up before her, people hurriedly making way. She doesn’t know if it’s because of the glow in her palm, or the blood splattering her shirt. If there is one thing that the Herald of Andraste does not doubt is the ferocity of people’s feelings. Though she is never sure if they hate her or if they love her, and when.

Mother Giselle, however, is one of the most levelled headed people from the Chantry that she met, and she had enough money and fame hungry individuals search for her attention during her life. The older woman takes a look at this wide-eyed, straight-backed girl and already makes her mind up about humanity’s hero. Around her, people are suspiciously eyeing the both of them, but a smile from her immediately calms them.

She raises a hand, pats the Herald’s head, watches as the younger woman almost breaks down under the kind gesture. Trevelyan feels suddenly so comforted, in a way that all her attempts never managed to. There’s something about a sister of the Chantry, moved simply by her want to do good, that picks her undone. The somewhat reminder that this could have been her life, or her place of belonging.

But then Mother Giselle speaks, and the illusion is shattered, even if her touch never leaves the Herald. Of course, there are people she has to convince of the authenticity of her Mark, and the purpose of the Inquisition – even when she herself doubts them.

“They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe. You don’t need to convince them all, you just need some to doubt.”

Well, that can’t be too hard, can it? After all, she works with spies and seasoned authorities. After all, they need only one look in her direction to realize that the Fade has a claim on her. After all, she’s been a noble, and nobility is notoriously good at bargaining and lying.

The soldiers are busy setting up camp, and the Inquisitor sits next to Mother Giselle, listens to her calm voice as she recites the prayer of the story of how the world came to be; probably a subtle reminder that this is what they’re all fighting for.

The Hinterlands are a calmer area than Haven, the Trevelyan thinks, the weather just a tad bit warmer during the day, though there’s need for blankets and for food – and in the midst of it all, the war between the mages and the Templars rages on. She remembers, how the Templars are supposed to want to protect the common folk, nothing quite like those going on rampant, killing off anyone even accidentally crossing their path. There are enough people hurt in the camp, even more separated from their families and friends, even more just too tired, too traumatized to care.

She wants to focus on finding supplies and food for them first. Slowly, the wounded ones will recover, and they’ll accompany their trek back to Haven, alongside Mother Giselle. All these people called her Your Worship as she passed by, reverently touching the ends of her leather armour; look up to the organization, to her for help. Disappointing them, in this case, means their death. And she knows it’s just the first of such heavy failure burden.

She thought she’s fought her worst when that huge monster popped out of the breach. Turns out, one of the most terrifying sights she’s seen is that of a bear charging at her. For a second, she freezes on the spot: she’s seen a bear in real life only on a visit to Orlais, where one of the eccentric nobles kept one as a pet, chained by heavy iron and scared with magic into submission. Like this, the animal is freaking terrifying. Of course, they bring it down eventually, and Varric carefully puts the fur away. Yet, the tremble in her bones doesn’t succumb for a while. Just another reminder that there’s nothing even similar to her usual normality to be found in the midst of the Inquisition – and sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s a bad thing. Whichever it might be, she has to adjust, shake off the fear, ignore the pain, and move on.

She’s already tired.

She realizes quick into their Hinterlands exploration how narrow her life has actually been so far. Not only is her entire body aching and sweating by noon, the terrain difficult at times, way too many groups to fight on the way. By the third day, she loses count of people she’s killed, she stops feeling like throwing up when she washes away the blood and grim of the day by the end of it. Sometimes she gets lost into the action, scrubs so hard that the tip of her fingers bleed. There’s rumours of a cult – and her hand slips when sharpening her daggers. Then there’s an organized presence entirely too bothered by the Inquisition’s troops – and she slips on her way down a hill, directly into the cold waters of a lake. Even with all the pain, a pain that is vibrantly real, all the other things don’t feel like it. Sometimes, when she tells Cassandra something, she stops mid-sentence, questions if her story and information is actually a thing that truly happened, or she made it up in a dream and never realized the difference.

Eventually, it is her companions that snap her out of it, slowly and patiently. Varric can recognize a girl haunted by terrors from a mile away at this point, and he gives her his tastiest part of the hunt, starts telling one of his favourite stories. Cassandra is, without failing, always at her back as they charge side by side into battle, and it’s a more comforting act than she probably knows. Solas explains to her about the Fade without being asked before, if only to diffuse her own anxiety over the green glowing mark that is anchoring her to all of this, that is anchoring part of another world to theirs, through her.

However, for her, the Fade is still a foreign, scary realm. There’s nothing that she wants to do with it, and the reverence with which Solas speaks about it, the soft edge in his voice when he talks about the spirits that he encountered, makes her skin crawl with fear and discomfort.

They close rifts, one after another. They set up camps, conquer territories in the name of what they believe in, what they promote as their truth. Trevelyan’s hand itches with the magic it used, and after a week and a bit, they return to Haven for an afternoon, making sure the people under their protection have enough resources, asking Mother Giselle what else she might need in her care for the refugees, setting them up inside the town’s chantry and along the camp.

It’s truly fascinating how, despite the Mark, people still come up to her, ask her if she is the supposedly holy figure at the backbone of the organization. It’s like they can’t quite believe the plain looking woman could stir up so many rumours, could have survived so much in such a short span of time. When she looks down in her water basin, or when she checks her image in the window at night, Trevelyan has the same problem. Still, whenever stopped, whenever asked, she denies any relation with Andraste. Time and time again, she crushes hopes or she strengthens beliefs with her words. It’s a heavy weight to add to her speech.

But, she starts recognizing, as she meets more and more allies, people believe in way more than religion. They believe in other people, in made promises, in their own two eyes, in their ideas about the world, in the force of their weapons way before they trust other’s words. The Templar, Lysette, choosing to be part of the Inquisition, rather than join her people in a self-destroying war of righteousness, makes this very obvious to her.

“I did not join the order to adjust my faith so easily, but I appreciate what the Inqusition’s trying to do, and your role in it. One person trying to do something can make a difference. You should keep that in mind, Herald.”

Trevelyan wonders if this is about herself, and she just uses the Herald as a mirror. Or if this is about the young noblewoman in front of her, pushed and shoved in every direction by the circumstances around her – and her words are just an attempt at comfort. But another thing that she starts recognizing is that one can understand whatever they please out of the words they hear. So the Herald chooses to straighten her back, and received some strength from this – a reason to keep going, when she was almost done with wanting to move at all.

She leaves her findings to Maeve, greets Josephine in-between the messengers making their rounds in her office. She does not expect the direct question about her family, and whether they will be willing to give official support to the Inquisition. She stops, stares at Josephine, heir to her own house, out here doing a job out of her own want – and doesn’t know how exactly to answer.

Of course, her entire house is scrambling for status like they’ve been born and raised in Orlais. Depending on what kinds of words about the Inquisition reached them, her father might be interested to associate his name with their still new organization. Considering one of their sons, a Templar no more, died at the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, they might feel responsible to support the one institution who actively tries to find a culprit for that genocide, and who is devoted to stopping anything like that happening again by closing the Breach. The Chantry is probably equally in shambles back home as well, so there is not much organized action taking place otherwise, and there might be merit in getting involved with the situation early on. And then there’s this – the Mark, her new title, and the honour that comes with having the Herald of Andraste being a Trevelyan, if it’s proven that it is true, that there’s Maker’s touch in her new power, that she can actually seal the rifts and fight the demons.

And then there’s the absence of letters actually intended to her, and she wants to scream in frustration or howl in pain. Instead, she gives the ok to Josephine to reach out to her family. Something must come out of it, in the end.

Her first question to Mother Giselle is about the people; those right here under their symbol, and those far-away who feel equally as lost and pained at the loss of their Divine. If she cannot properly mourn her losses, then at least she wants to allow this luxury to others. And if she is to find comfort in a new purpose, then at least someone (like Mother Giselle with her kind words, or like Leliana with her eye for potential, or like Cullen with brightly burning determination) maybe will be able to offer the same thing to these people as well.

“A task such as closing the breach is a heavy burden. I hope you do not carry it alone. We remember Andraste, but Andraste did not carry the Chant of Light alone. She had generals, advisors… even her husband, for a time. Do everything within your power… but remember those who would help you.”

The Herald thinks of the many people she has met during this time, each with their own individual worries and tasks, fears and motivations – and how she cannot possibly dare to add to their own hunched backs, to their already full schedule. Everyone in the Inquisition has been running around the clock, catching naps in uncomfortable places and at odd times, taking away the piece of bread at their mouth to share with whoever passes their door. Anyone willing to help, is already helping the tens and hundreds asking the Inquisition for protection and guidance. Their last worry should be the religious figure they’re trying to build – when she is just a mere human on top of that. The young Trevelyan shivers in her coat, stares at a statue of Andraste, thinking of Mother Giselle’s words.

“You keep talking as though I’m the equal of Andraste. Do you know how unnerving that is?”

“I can only imagine. But we are all given to our purpose under the Maker. A sword does not ask to be forged. And frankly, if such a comparison gives you pause, I do not see that as a bad thing.”

She thinks if this is truly her supposed path; if the Maker plucked her out of her past life, taken from her what she treasured the most in this life, and put her in this role of sainthood, testing her and the world at the same time. But it seems like such a cruel method, and she doesn’t want to believe that a god would be so happily throwing away its own people. She doesn’t want to believe there’s any higher purpose to her being here – she wants to believe that just wanting to help is enough to justify her presence, or others’ acceptance of her.

She looks at Mother Giselle glistening eyes, as she speaks of her faith, and she knows it’s just wishful thinking, for sure. So she picks up her daggers, gathers her usual teamp, and goes once more on her quests for more power and more influence, more and more.

***

She is tired, hungry and dirty. Ever since they put together their first camp in the Hinterlands, neither her hair nor her clothes had felt the sweet relief of warm water and soap, and it’s been a couple of weeks already. Not only is the area humongous, place after place added to a map that spreads more and more over the table that her captains bend over, but the mages and Templars war is only one of the many threats plaguing it. Bandits and religious cults and organized criminal trade, all blended in with some good old elven magic, berserk lyrium and sacred artefacts and you’ve got the recipe for a very beaten-down Herald.

No wonder people do not believe in her and their institution, when they’re scrambling so hard just to survive. An arrow passes by her head, gets stuck in the neck of the man she was fighting against, who falls to the ground with a strangled noise.

“I doubt that’s the last of them,” Varric says, putting his weapon away, as she searches the pockets of the fallen bandit.

“Thanks, Varric. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He grins back at her, and Cassandra makes a disgusted noise, wiping the sweat off her brow, leaving behind a dirty streak. The last of Solas’ healing magic pulses at their muscles, and she gets ready for the waves of pain, to feel her actual pain unmuted by magic. Maker, she’s so tired.

They meet Mihris near the entrance to the cave, fighting against a shade. Trevelyan is just happy that there’s only one, the Fade thin, but not shredded enough to create a rift. She’s searching for the elven artefact that Solas mentioned, so it makes sense that they should look for it together. It certainly sounds worth investigating.

She’s mourning that, in-between her good teachings, no one ever thought that Elven would come in handy during her life, because she’s sure Solas will never translate his conversation for the rest of them. and neither Mihris will mention exactly what their companions told her. The velfire is just as creepy as anything else stuck in the fade: a memory of a flame that burns in this world only where the veil is thin. She hopes that when it’s her time to go, she won’t have any part of her stuck in the Fade. She’s had her fill of it already.

And yet, she trusts Solas, and his immense knowledge. It’s impossible for one person in the Inquisition to know everything about everything, and so his presence is as essential as that of Cullen training their army, as Leliana gathering spies and secrets, as Josephine speaking beautifully. She has no qualms about asking him to intervene in getting the artefact, exactly because she knows he is the better trained person to figure out its purpose.

Rather than being scared or disgusted at the power that he yields through magic, she is just fascinated. The possibilities of it are endless, and there is much threat in that, but equal opportunities. And if even Cassandra can see that, when one evening in the camp she seriously says your position is a honourable one, and well earned, then there’s much quality in having someone like Solas to call their companion.

Only after they set up all the six big camps for the Inquisition’s forces to get a foothold all across the Hinterlands, do they return back to Haven properly. There’s so much grim under her armour, that Trevelyan almost plunges into the snow for a made-up bath. Instead she grabs at a messenger’s arm, asks for any news or letter, receives his shake of the head instead. Cassandra wants to call her name, but she passes by, furious at her parents for making her wait, furious at herself for still waiting.

“See you at the council room in an hour,” she throws over her shoulder, and moves towards her room, prepares a pot of snow to melt over the fire, for a bath. She asks Harrit to tweak one of the armours she picked in the Hinterlands, because she is not sure the last one can keep up with their battles anymore, or have its stains ever removed. She stops by the tavern just enough to grab half a loaf of bread. She spends maybe a bit too much time on washing and brushing her hair, her semblance of normality and calm in the one braid that she knots together at her back.

She feels more human when she enters the Chantry again, though more rattled by the small conflicts appearing here and there, between the Templars and mages in their own ranks, fuelled by the hate in the Chancellor’s words, in his presence at all. She’d like to throw him out, nothing but a random cleric that’s all bark and no bite, a rat using up their own resourced to be kept fed, only to have the power to complain about their mere existence. She is starting to understand her father’s tantrums at nearby nobility, or how their new task is supposed to be filled with such people.

The rest of the advisors are already waiting for them, and she is glad to see that she’s not the only one who took some time for hygiene, Cassandra’s shirt a new one, her short hair still wet. She drops over one of the chairs, head spinning just a bit with the sudden movement, with how in need of a good sleep, good meal or good coffee she is. She blinks once, hard, focuses on the candlelight – as Cullen moves figurines across the table, updating it according to Leliana’s reports.

Josephine clears up her throat. “Mother Giselle is right; the people should see the Herald for more than just the rumours. Having her address the clerics is not such a terrible idea.”

Everyone in the room erupts at the same time, agreeing and disagreeing at the same time.

“I will go with her,” Cassandra steps in, and now the only one daring to say something back is Leliana, though Cassandra looks at the map on the table, at the calculations scrambled over several pieces of paper, and they all understand what this is actually about before she even continues her idea.

“What choice do we have, Leliana? Right now we cannot approach anyone for help with the breach. Use what influence we have to call the clerics together, once they are ready, we will see this through. We must convince the Chantry to permit us entry into the city so we can show them the Herald of Andraste is not the monster they believe.”

Easier said than done. But after all, what choice do they have? As long as the Chantry publicly works and speaks against the Inquisition, there will be no possible alliances, and most noble houses will avoid any connection with the organization. They’re already struggling as it is, to give enough supplies to their soldiers, to feed all the people in their ranks, to provide for all the refugees seeking their help. If they can make all of it just a tiny bit easier, then they must hone their words and swords and travel to the capital city of Val Royeaux.

***

“Did I tell you I hate this city?” she murmurs next to Varric, at the entrance to the city, as she feels the stares of the people around her at the back of her neck.

He snickers next to her, but it’s broken by a woman’s scream, as everyone else scrambles away in a panic once it dawns on them exactly who the colourful group is. One person trips, brushes past her shoulders, and for a brief second, she makes eye-contact with them, the horror so profound despite the mask they’re wearing, and she feels her skin crawling.

“Just a guess, Seeker,” he calls out to Cassandra, walking a few feet ahead of them. “but I think they all know who we are.”

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric,” she sighs.

The only one welcoming them is one of Leliana’s spy, updating them on the situation in the city. There shouldn’t be anything surprising in the Chantry being together with the Templars, if the latter weren’t stuck in a war already, supposedly to have other priorities.

“People seem to think the Templars will protect them from… from the Inquistion.”

But Trevelyan isn’t blind; she caught the way the spy looked her over for a brief second, and knew its meaning.

“From me, you mean.”

She’s glad she decided to wear the leather gloves today, Mark hidden underneath it. More of a mere human, and less of a religious herald. Whatever these people understood from the events that spread throughout the entire Thedas, Trevelyan is not so certain she will be able to change their minds. She knows from her own experience that the strongest believers are the most resilient to change. Her showing up, wearing their saint’s name like only she owns it, will do nothing to make them have more faith in her.

It doesn’t help that the city is still mourning, bells going off at all hours of the day or the night; those suffering are most eager to find someone to point their finger at. She’d like a bit of respite, maybe just half an hour – disappear for a bit inside the Chantry, pray for her dead brother properly, light a candle in his memory. But that’s a luxury that she cannot have, especially, especially not after becoming the Herald.

There’s already a small audience gathered in front of the Mother, though if it’s curiosity or belief, she cannot tell, especially here in Orlais. As soon as she steps in the market, a finger points at her.

“Behold the so called Herald of Andraste. Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed.”

More words put into her mouth, and now she cannot chew them down, swallow them whole, and her throat constricts with the indignation at such lies being presented as irrefutable truth. She tries though, to say the right words, in the right way, wills her voice not to weaver in front of anyone, puts a bit of her noble voice in it.

“I am simply trying to close the Breach. It threatens us all!”

Cassandra pushes forward, comes to stand next to her.

“It’s true! The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late.”

Relief washes over her: here is someone with so much blinding faith in the purpose of their organization, that they might actually have a chance.

“It is already too late.”

No, Trevelyan thinks, her hand pulsing and itching with the remains of unclosed rifts, her head hurting with the absence of a memory, a phantom pain of something she doesn’t remember owning in the first place. It’s only the beginning. She wants to scream, frustrated. How come no one else sees something that is so obviously true? Whatever the Conclave was, it was only the start – and whatever is to come, must for certain be bigger and worse than that, for it was only a failed attempt.

For a brief moment, as the Templars come up, she thinks this is it. The Templars will just fight them, win by numerical power, and their organization shut down, the war fought to its very end, the breach swallowing up the entire world in the end. Instead, the Lord Seeker simply strikes down the revered Mother, announces his own plans to gather power, and refuses to hear out anyone else. Trevelyan feels like she is a patron at one of Orlais’ absurd theatre, for all she knew about real life up to this point has been once again turned upside down.

Cassandra still tries, because she is Cassandra so of course she does.

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s sent. You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. You should be ashamed of yourself. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

A young Templar at his side intervenes, eyes going from his superior to the members of the Inquisition in a panicked dance.

“But what if she is really chosen by the Maker? What if – “

“You are called to a higher purpose. Do not question.”

And so, they leave. But it’s that last sentence that sounds so familiar to the young lady. She’s been spoon-fed the same idea ever since she was young, reproached with it at each question that had no immediate explanation. If the Lord Seeker is trying to keep the people in his ranks together with that type of mantra, then he will most likely have many non-believers in his midst, or at least enough to question if there are better things to be found somewhere else. If Lucius won’t be reasoned with, then there are surely others in the Order who don’t feel as he does.

And yet, something about the descriptions about him – and his actions now, doesn’t really sit well with the Herald. If he was truly a power-hungry man, then for sure he would have raised to this rank earlier in his life, or at least shown signs of ambition earlier in his ruling.

“Do you think red lyrium might be involved?” she asks, mainly Varric, though she is sure everyone else is also familiar with the Kirkwall story. She remembers those days turned to weeks turned to months, when the Order was in such hectic panic, that her brother couldn’t visit home at all until things calmed over. How scared she was, next to her mother, that her own brother’s addiction might have fallen down the same path.

“Couldn’t really tell, but it’s definitely a theory worth taking into consideration.”

She nods at the answer, turns around so that she can help the revered Mother up. Even if she knows the older woman probably won’t accept it, she stills picks one of her potions and holds it out to her. The woman is bitter and judging, but more than anything else, defeated. Not only have the Templars she was supposed to rely on made a show of abandoning the Chantry and the city, but now the only mercy and understanding she gets is from the underdog organization that she was trying to destroy just a few moments before.

Trevelyan smiles down at her.

“Just tell me one thing,” the Mother says, now helped by other clerics back to her feet. “If you do not believe you are the Maker’s chosen, then what are you?”

“Someone who can help close the breach and end this madness.”

It’s the only still standing truth of her life.

“That is… more comforting than you might imagine.”

“You’re obviously sceptical. What do you believe I am?” She cannot hide her bitterness.

“Our Divine, her Holiness, is dead. I have seen evidence for everything except what would comfort me. For you to be true, a great many things must be false. If you are false, a great many things must have failed.”

The strongest believers are the most resilient to change, of course. But just because the world has been the same during one’s entire life, that does not mean it cannot change. And how easily so many things have blown out like a candle, when the Temple of Sacred Ashes blew up. There is a lot of chaos ahead, for all of humanity – and everyone’s fate is sadly just in the hand of the Maker now. But before the terror comes to all, if there is something that can be done to stop it, then it must be done.

It’s such an obvious, but rare thinking, that when the merchant Belle offers her help, the Herald almost refuses because she is suspicious. So far, almost all the people she interacted with have been more concerned with other matters, than the obvious, glaring gap in the sky. She turns towards Cassandra, asks for her input. I believe she asks you, not me.

Yes, because she is the Herald. But the Inquisition is running on the everyday decisions of way more people than just the Herald of Andraste, and she would have been dead long ago by stress alone if it would have been any different. And yet, there’s something about the bitter, vicious way in which Cassandra said those words, that Trevelyan wonders, if maybe, the Seeker wouldn’t prefer her title instead.

“We need good people,” she tells Belle, and writes a short message for her to show to Cullen when she arrives there, for easier access and a good place to set down.

“I don’t know if I am that, but it will be nice to see.”

An honest Orlesian, well if that ain’t a surprise, she thinks, and just as she is about to leave – an arrow passes by her, missing her cheek by millimetres only. She reads over the note, and turns around to her companions, holding it in-between her fingers. She grins at Varric, a tired thing.

“See? This is why I don’t like Val Royeaux.”

Somehow, from the second you stepped into the city, someone knows your name, your travel purpose, your past, your alliances and where to find you at all times of the day and the night. Some proceed like this mysterious arrow shooter, secret notices in dubiously empty places of the streets. Others prefer flair and style, and send official invitations, much like Madame Vivienne.

Since they are here anyway, they might as well chase down the red handkerchiefs, and attend a dinner party and escape mercenaries sent to kill her before she becomes an even bigger thorn in someone’s side. Trevelyan looks down at her attire, and knows she is about to become the laughing stock of the city for the next month, at least. Orlais is not forgiving even to most religious of the holy figures. And having people wanting to kill her is not a nice feeling, not at all. The fights in the Hinterlands were less about who she was, and the political machinations that come with that, and more about the muscle-memory want and need to remain alive in a battle. She cannot believe she is already missing that place.

Sera is a storm of a woman; not only an incredibly skilled shooter, but absolutely rampant in her speech and actions as well. She is entirely unlike any other young woman Trevelyan has ever met in her life, but it’s the freshness of her that eventually makes her smile at all that speech about breeches.

The blonde lowers her bow, scrunches her nose.

“You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just…. a person. At least you do the whole glowing thing, right?”

The Herald sheathes her daggers, removes one of her gloves, to prove to this rogue, in the simplest way possible, that she is indeed the woman that the rumours keep talking about. But in fact, she does it out of gratefulness. In the midst of all the people that already know her as this holy figure, she’s had no time to consider herself normal again. And yet here Sera is, first time looking at her, and calling her plain. It’s what she has been all her life, really no noticeable feature on her face, a kind of washed-up beauty fitted more for dark portraits than real life attraction, and yet so many people threw away the commonness of her appearance in favour of the blessings the Maker supposedly bestowed upon her, something that she indignantly fought against at each turn.

If someone as scared of the Breach can judge the Herald so clearly, then she is clearly needed in their ranks. Trevelyan feels the acute need to have someone who can look at her, and see beyond the allegations of the faithful – and Sera is the closest thing she has to that, now, even if her eyes glint in a particular way each time she stares at her hand. Then, her arguments are also irrefutable. Even in their own ranks, it’s impossible to know all the people that pass through their camp, and it takes only one low level desperate servant to take apart a month’s worth of work.

Solas shifts at her back, not entirely pleased at the erratic speech or all over the place fighting style of this elf in front of them. But as Cassandra said, they don’t have any real choice – and anyone who is willing to help, is more than welcome. So Sera leaves for Haven, just as the rest of the gang waits for the party to start.

Trevelyan immediately grabs at a drink, no other way to get through an Orlesian party than at least a little bit tipsy – especially as her companions had to stay behind at an inn, invitation extended only to her. Cassandra almost tied her to a chair in an attempt to keep her from going, but Varric helped her see the potential in this partnership, if it was truly extended in true. What’s a bit of life risking, when they could gather the resources of a well-standing mage tied with the Orlesian nobility and one of the last standing Circles, invaluable to their battles and influences?

Still, an Orlesian party is the worst of social gathering, what with their masks hiding their facial expressions, the airy accent in their voices, the way their insults are never spoken like such, so there’s no way you can act offended. Her second brother is somewhere in the city, playing the Game, and she cannot understand what in the Maker’s name he finds interesting at a bunch of political and personal issues being passed around in gossips and love-making.

Of course, usually people in Val Royeaux are never so fast in helping her out. And while the Marquis’ words are indeed offending, he hasn’t done much worse than anyone else she has meet this entire day – so she is ready to brush it off, just as the man is frozen in place by Enchantress Vivienne. The woman is elegance and poise and beauty all in one, and the Herald finds herself taken aback by her presence. She’s also obviously incredibly powerful, both in magic and politics, to have made such a scene, even at her own party, and have none of her guests panic in any way.

She allows the Marquis his life, because really, it’s not like his words were harsher than others’, and follows Vivienne to a more secluded place, to talk. She moves her hands at her side, feels the hilts of her daggers, takes comfort in that, even if she knows she would have been dead already, if Vivienne wanted it.

It’s impossible for the other woman not to know that she talks with a daughter of a Trevelyan, and yet she remains true and proud in her being a mage, and in the places she has reached thanks to that.

“Not all mages have forgotten the commandment, that magic exists to serve man.”

And indeed, what better time to serve, than when the Breach is threatening mankind as a whole? But Trevelyan looks at this gorgeous and deadly woman, who probably has whatever she wants at the tip of her finger, and cannot imagine her in Haven, in the midst of all that chaos and dirt.

“What’s in it for you?”

Vivienne’s expression darkens. “The chance to meet my enemy, to decide my fate. I won’t wait quietly for destruction.”

Isn’t this what all of them are doing, one way or another? And yet, how much courage and pride to actually acknowledge it, deep to the rawest part of it.

“We’ll see each other in Haven then,” the Herald says, curtsying before turning around and leaving the estate, to relay the news to her people.

***

When they arrive, they move directly into a council. Leliana’s spies sent word ahead of their actions in Val Royeaux, but even if they were already aware of the situation, it seems like the advisors have not reached a common ground in the Templar-mages war. Each side is equally powerful and desperate now, and with the Chantry on the brink of falling apart, the Inquisition is the only faction that can still intervene in-between the two of them. The balance is weighing, uncertain in the air, and there’s no side heavier than the other, just yet.

And what’s more troublesome is that all Grey Wardens vanished – and Leliana asking for her help in the matter is a certain sign of things going wrong. If the people working with their spy network, one spread all across Thedas, cannot find a hint as to what is going on with that order, then the issue must be very suspicious indeed.

“Ordinarily, I couldn’t even consider the idea they’re involved in all this, but the timing is… curious.”

Trevelyan shivers under Leliana’s hand, where she stopped and held her close to whisper of her suspicions, and after all who is not involved in all of this, now?

Growing up in a noble household, and one that also prides itself on its religious beliefs, the want to help is somewhat rooted in her upbringing. When Cremisius Aclassi hovers at the entrance to the Chantry, she stops to ask him what his purpose in being here is in the first place. The Inquisition isn’t seeing people in such fine armour every day. Though, true to her noble status, she is also annoyed at the fact that after days of the poor guy trying to reach someone in the organization to listen to him, he somehow ended up to her as well. And yet, the Chargers don’t sound quite that bad. There’s no shame in paying for your help, especially if it’s as good as Cremisius makes it up to be.

“We are loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts. Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work.”

Trevelyan looks around her, at the constant bustling of Haven, at all of her people going about their duties, and realizes that maybe this praise is actually well-deserved.

“What about this Iron Bull?”

She gets the impression that this man in front of her loves to talk, and is honest in his words – especially if he can go on and on about people he’s known for year, who fought by his side and who saved his life more times than he can remember. The cheer and admiration in his voice is so noticeable, that she burns with curiosity by the end of it. The guy surely knows how to sell his job.

“Best of all, he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

Well, that’s surprising. Lately, it’s been her having to chase down allies.

“I look forward to meeting this Iron Bull.”

She moves away before he has time to say anything else. She’s pressed by time; she’d like a change of undershirt before she reads over the records from the Storm Coast and visits the place herself.

***

The sea back at home is calm, and the sun is gentle on most days, the smell of sand and spices filling the air near the open market. The sea on the Storm Coast is an angry, bellowing monster – and the Herald takes no comfort in being present here. The rain falls in such a heavy curtain that it almost hurts where it hits her bare skin, at the nape of her neck and over her hands, and she is immediately miserable and cold. She feels like one of the kittens her brothers loved so much to torment by dunking them in rain buckets. Harding attempts to smile at her, and she’s such a pretty sight.

“Enjoy the sea air. I heard it’s good for the soul.”

Again, Trevelyan wants to say, it’s the sea back at home that always calmed her heart, not this tempest raging on and on, unmerciful. She is glad she decided to go with her lightest armour, because anything heavier would have had her toppling over once wet. And yet, despite being entirely uncomfortable, and despite having her discomfort so obvious to her companions, her interest is stronger, as she considers exactly what the Chargers are capable of.

Bull ducks from an incoming attack, lips pulling into a smirk as he hears the battle growing in numbers, his guests finally making their appearance. When he rises, axe held up ready for a blow, his enemy falls to his feet, and in the blink of the eye, where before there was nothing but air, the Herald of Andraste appears, dressed in blood and looking up at him with the widest eyes he’s ever seen. She looks determinedly torn. Her instincts always at war with her reason, and it seems like she is walking, talking, breathing on eggshells, trying to maintain the balance of her inner self, even as she slashes at the guy’s throat, keeps an eye on her people all the while as they take down another smuggler.

For a moment, as she straightens herself back up, the Herald of Andraste looks like she’s on the brink of collapsing. Then she sheathes her daggers, carefully wiping off the blood on her pants, pushes away the hair falling into her face, braid coming undone in the midst of fighting, and there’s an easier air about her.

“Nice one, Chuckles!” he can hear one of her companions addressing her, and he’s storing that nickname for a later time, but since both of them are busy assessing the other, none turns.

She’s not scared, he realizes. Her pupils are blown open, but it’s just the excitement from the battle still bursting in her veins. She stares at him, but she does not shy away from meeting his eyes, and there’s no second where her gaze strays anywhere else but his face or his weapon.

Smart girl, Bull thinks.

He can notice there’s already a strain forming in her neck, from looking up at him, and he grins. She barely reaches his chest, just a tiny frail human – exhausted from fighting, probably not as well-fed as she should be.

“So you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“You are the Iron Bull.”

There’s something in her voice that he doesn’t know where to place exactly, so he pushes it to the side. She’s really quite plain, as far as women go. There are many mingled stories in her body language, but whatever she’s managed to rewire, her manners are not one of those things – as she takes a seat as far away as possible from him on the tree trunk, head nodding politely in Krem’s direction when he comes up to proclaim his job already finished.

Yet, the Bull wants more time with this holy figure of the Inquisition’s. “I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken, least a bastard knows who his mother was. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?”

Bulls laughs, warmly, and the Herald wonders how much history exactly do these two share to be so comfortable passing around offences like the kindest of words. She is reminded of her brother’s favourite sayings; one he would always mention whenever he’d refer to the other Templers as his other siblings: Constant companionship is the strongest sign of affection. These two, with nothing in common and all the possible reasons to hate each other, instead choose, each day, to fight by each other’s side, to listen to one another and honour their bond above anything else.

She burns with yearning.

“So, you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… and I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

“How much?”

“It wouldn’t cost you anything personally, unless you wanna buy drinks later. Your ambassador – what’s her name – Josephine? We’d go through her and get the payment set up. The gold will take care of itself. Don’t worry about that. All that matters is we’re worth it.”

Trevelyan thinks of the Inquisition’s coffers, not much over the sum the Iron Bull asks in there. But as much as they’d be lacking, she’s sure with such a mercenary company in their ranks, they’ll replace the coin in no time – and she can’t even imagine how easier they’ll go through missions and demands with fighters just that good.

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company.”

Cassandra, from a distance away, looks like she’s about to have a seizure, no doubt having made the same calculation as the Herald to what Krem told her, but coming to a way different conclusion. Varric laughs in the background.

“They are. But you’re not getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is – demons, dragons? The bigger the better.”

It’s been weeks since she’s felt at ease on a battlefield, but just one shout from the Iron Bull, his lance high in the air, put most of her worries at ease. He is a man who obviously knows what he is doing when he fights, and this is exactly the type of people she desperately needs during her missions. She’d stand behind him in front of anything, and although it should scare her how willing she is to entrust her life over to someone she has just met, she is just so tired of coming close to dying in each of her battles, of struggling so hard to bring down men bigger than her, or fear for her life even as she walks on an evening stroll. Iron Bull, acting as her bodyguard in all Inquisition matters, sounds like the best thing that has even happened to her since coming alive out of that damned blast.

Her shoulders sag in relief, there’s a breath of air that comes easier. He is everything she is not. She finds that the most incredible, best thing about him.

“There’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off. Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Trevelyan thinks back to her studies; when Qunari showed up in the Free Marches, on Kirkwall’s shores, her afternoon studies were almost immediately including Qunari culture and history as well, though at that moment she didn’t know she’ll ever need it, directly, like this.

“They’re a Qunari organization, right? The equivalent of their guards and city watch?”

An almost perfect quotation of her teacher, that she is painfully aware, now, was neither Qunari, neither travelled to Par Vollen.

“I’d go closer to spies, but yeah, that’s them. Oh, well, us.”

She appreciates that at least Iron Bull is obviously trying not to piss her off when choosing his words, his tone perfectly neutral, no stray expression on his face. It’s like she is listening to a report, and she cannot quite understand why a Qunari spy just admitted, outright, on their first meeting, to being a Qunari spy tasked to do exactly what he is doing right now. She thinks of his offer, of how good it sounded –

“Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I am on your side.”

Is she okay with that whatever being a spy? Is that promise, of him standing by her side and protecting her, enough to erase the fact that he is a trained spy? Is she okay with knowingly having reports sent about her actions and her choices and herself, about the Inquisition and its people – all of them that she just tentatively learnt to know? And does it make it better that she knows it from the start? That he’s been honourable enough to tell her from the beginning, just like that? And is their information valuable enough to get something equally as valuable from the other Qunari spies across Thedas?

The scale tips in her mind, from one side to the other, yes and no, getting heavier and heavier with each passing second, getting lighter and lighter with each of Bull’s arguments.

“Very well. You’re in.”

Bull smiles at this uncertain, poor woman in front of him, torn apart already by the expectations that her people put on her – and he is trying to calculate for how long is the Inquisition supposed to last like this. Whatever the humans call her, she is nothing but a terrified and overworked noble, who blushes prettily at the simple mentions of his preferences in redheads, who stares after the Chargers with something like jealousy on her face. Then the moment passes, and she starts moving, and there’s nothing of her past burden visible on her while she’s on the go, as she takes the trek back to the Inquisition’s camp, falling in row with the dwarf, nodding her head at Dalish.

She’s a figure who learnt of his secrets and chose to forgive him in advance and to trust him with no basis for it. Peculiar and desperate at the same time, lessons that he thinks she learnt only recently – no real noble would have agreed so easily, with so little coating.

He recalculates the odds of success, now that he is part of the Inquisition too.

#dragon age inquisition #female trevelyan #the iron bull #iron bull x inquisitor #the inquisitor #iron bull x trevelyan #dragon age #da: inquisition #da fic #da: i #my writing

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republicstandard · 5 years

Text

This Year In Jerusalem

My Dearest Comrade,

You asked me in your last letter how we did it, how after the long and bitter struggle we finally put paid to the white man. It's an interesting question. How did this once proud and confident people, rulers of the globe, find themselves at the short end of history, evaporating like morning mist? How conquered by an alien ideology? How did rule Britannia become out of bounds? Who lost America? Now that it's all over, and long since really, I feel free to speak my mind to a friend, though it goes without saying there's no reason to save this in any way, there is no reason our children or their posterity should ever know too much about this, not now that we have prevailed. As a keeper of records I am privy to all kinds of information, some of it astonishing, some of it provocative, the lies, the propaganda, for I like to think a Jew is nothing so much as a sophist, proceeding by misdirection. But, in the interest of time, this will be a truncated version. Does one really need to know too much of the ins or the outs of the Marranos, the Masons, or the Illuminati? Arcane banking records? How we put the squeeze on Cromwell, or ran a slave ship? Marriage certificates, baptismal records? No, the genius of what we did was what we did in broad daylight, the goyim is ever gullible. No less a personage than Spengler spent his entire career without writing anything of what the Jews had done or were doing, remarkable. So much for him. So much for them. And remember as you read this, we did what we did out in the open, and that the crucial factor in our ultimate victory was neither our animal cunning nor our indomitable will, but the fact that we were white. How lucky! Had we been blue or purple or red we never would have got away with it. A star would have done nicely to serve them as a reminder, to remind them of the danger in their midst, and the peril that they faced, but we put a stop to that, amen. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this brief foray, this ex post facto meandering. I am a humble man, and we are a humble people, so if this ever sounds like bragging it just means I get carried away from time to time, apologies ahead of time and all around.

As you know we are an ancient people. Thousands of years and all that. We waxed and we waned like them, and like the others tried our best to increase our power, little of it though there was. However, from nearly the first the other peoples always thought us strange, our famous peculiarity, the dietary laws and the way we clung tenaciously to our ancestral God when they were perfectly willing to share theirs with those of any mongrel people they came across, and we would not let ours mingle freely with the others. Yes, they thought us barbaric and odd, repugnant really, but for the Romans at least, so focused on power, beneath the surface there was an uncanny fear, for we we had a principle other than honor that we would lay down our lives for. They knew of honor but ours was truth so-called—the most risible in their eyes. Yet despite their contempt they couldn't help from feeling uneasy, this they thought was something more than an army, this was either insanity or an enemy to keep an eye on. It's probably apocryphal but it's said that when Pompey cast custom aside and thrust himself into the holy of holies he found an empty and white shining space. Every other people would have cluttered theirs with images of gods or animals, but we had pure emptiness, pure shining white emptiness, and it's said he was shaken, though it's doubtful that dullard had the strength of character to be disturbed. And it's telling that later the rumor went around that in the inner sanctum set on a pedestal was a donkey. They said we worshiped an ass! Ha Ha. He who laughs least laughs best, it's what I hold to.

But other people were stronger, first Greece, then the Romans. We finally became a fully subject people and many of us, understandably, chafed at this. And though I thoroughly disapprove of the hotheads among us the one who threw that torch and caused Rome to level the city did us a favor, looking back. It dispersed us and we could do a lot more good (for ourselves, that is) roaming abroad in search of monsters to destroy than sitting by ourselves in our mountain fastness. We've always excelled as the stranger in the land, casting a cold and jaundiced eye on the natives, always ready to lend a hand to the leaders. We are a numerically small people, so to adapt we let others build what one day we will own. That first holocaust (they say not stone was left on stone!) also gave us the great story (fictional of course) of Masada, which, like the Warsaw uprising, would be put to such salutary use. The plucky little Jew, the eternal underdog, the mouse that roars, wedded to eternal principles, dying for an idea, for their jealous god. Who would believe such rot? Them, that's who.

Perhaps it was the memory of ancient defeat that spurred our later attacks; revenge is after all an underrated motive in history.

Some call it the grace of God, I call it a freebie, but either way, for sure, we got an unexpected and serious break in the person of Jesus Of Nazareth. Some vagabond wanders up the mountain and on his own authority deifies himself and the next thing you know an entire civilization is wrecked. By means of his admittedly somewhat poetic ramblings and, even more so, by means of his bulldog, Paul, we injected a poisoned chalice deep in the heart of Europe, a Trojan horse smuggled in like the taking out of the key beneath the keeper's nose. As I'm sure you know later on it would be the fusion of a universalized Protestantism and an aggressively subversive Judaism which would be the stake in the very heart of these people; which, long story short, makes The Book Of Acts the story of another itinerant vagabond proselytizing the virus of subversion. Freud is said to have said, before disembarking in America, that he was bringing them the plague; so did we for Europe with this alien creed. It didn't start out that way, for though no one could have known it at the time it was Christianity, with it's scribbling monks copying for no discernible reason, with it's unifying power, which strengthened the white race for centuries, made them a towering and indomitable world presence, which one day we would ride and vault on and over; until it turned sour like curdled milk and burned the building down. For when the time finally came we managed to fool them into believing that that great hater Jesus Of Nazareth, that man who walked around terrifying people, excoriating people, and viciously slandering public officials, calling the Jewish power structure irredeemably corrupt, shook dust off his shoes, brought a whip for the money-changers, scared the living daylights out of random passersby, said he brought nothing but fire to this mortal earth of ours, that this tremendous hater had no hate in his heart, that all you need is love. You got that: he had no hate in his heart. Fools like Leo Tolstoy served us admirably here, when he wasn't making shoes that fell apart he was telling the world that Jesus Christ would not have hurt a fly. In truth real self hating Jews like Jesus of Nazareth are a dime a dozen, another madman Bobby Fischer comes to mind, and we know what to do with them. Hitler said to shoot Gandhi. We agree. Killing that man was the best thing we ever did. Like I say, a freebie.

For Europeans Christianity was a mixed bag, it gave them Bach and baizuos, but in the end it's the order they came in that mattered. Wokeness is Christianity's hangover, the after-birth of a once proud religion.

Calvinism and Puritanism were already Judaism, some of Cromwell's men were so forward thinking they wanted to create a Zion on the Thames and thought that the notion of the divinity of Jesus Christ was blasphemy.

Later in the 1870s one of ours named Felix Adler would preach that the Jews should universalize themselves out of existence, for the good of humanity. He got select Protestants to go along, the elect now meant those who commit suicide. Arch WASP (and son of a universalist crank) William James said that moral values supersede survival, and his notion of pluralism later formed the foundation of multiculturalism. As can be expected the Jews declined the offer of race suicide but a century later whites took to it with a vengeance. So you can see when we finally did wreck their country we were plowing in a fertile field. You read about those American cranks in the 1850s on their farms growing rutabagas in their long johns and preaching universal ethics and the love of all mankind, they're portrayed as charming but really they were the first growth of our ideology, they did our work avant la lettre, harbingers of collapse. For after all from Unitarianism to dismantling whiteness is but a step. By the grace of a jealous God, as specified.

We're often called a rootless people but this is wrong, we're not at all, certainly not just just because we had no home, we were at home wherever we were, we made ourselves at home. Indeed, we're one of the few people now who really have roots, they are just not tied to a land, a country, or a nation, little Israel notwithstanding. We're tied to us, not to the idea of us, to the reality of us. We know how to stick together, to work together, to network, to remain ethnocentric, ethno-obsessed, to practice nepotism, over centuries, over time and space, though thick and through thin, over vast geographic areas. Everyone knows of our checkered history, the famous one hundred and nine, the expulsions, the migrations, the conversions, the inquisitions, the pogroms so-called, the burning hatreds, the harassment, ejected, but always returning, always returning. We blend in, we creep up on you when you're not aware, we're blatant as can be but seep into the background. We throw fairy dust in your eyes, or we proceed by indirection. And so it went for centuries. We would ingratiate ourselves with kings, be awarded patronage, be prized middlemen, do their dirty work, earn the ire of the populace, be banished, and brought back. Always brought back because they couldn't do without us, we made sure of that, as useful as can be. And slowly we built up secret and fantastic wealth, fantastic networks, webs of subterranean influence, intersecting directorates, interlocking systems, always moving a little closer to the our goal, never stated but always in mind. We'd drop out of sight, become one of them, convert, and be indistinguishable from what we were subverting. They call us foreign, alien, parasite, and that's not far off; but neither is predator, and for them neither is prey. For these many centuries we were outsiders, we infiltrated the elites, we kept to ourselves, the power behind the throne. But that's never enough when the throne beckons. Which of course it always does, particularly among a people seemingly intent on abandoning it. They were strong when faith was in the saddle but they loosened the reins, and money came in, and us not far behind.

I believe it was that Jew Karl Marx who said that in emancipating the Jews the Europeans themselves became Jews, for all practical purposes. They say he hated Jews but he's in the fold, he's one of us; once a Jew always a Jew's what I say.

In the early nineteenth century the idea of humanity began to spread like wildfire through Europe; now that it's all over we can see that this was the death of them all. We Jews were still on the margins at this time; but a word began to circulate, circulate in the name of humanity: emancipation. It was a deceptive word, meaning freedom. Give freedom to the Jews, let them join civil society, base membership in the clan on an idea. Assent to a proposition! A German was one who lived in the German states. What madness comes from the temples of reason! But for us from then on every year was the Current Year, every year was Year Zero. We would never bow before other Gods but their civil society we'd salute, mingle freely in their society was fine. It was to be ours soon enough in any event. Yes, emancipation, it was certainly an idea whose time had come. It would not be the fist time that freedom could easily be construed as to our advantage.

Some Jews themselves were uneasy with it. But some Jews are fools. Their concern was that if we blended in we'd lose our fervor....we would cease to be Jews, as if that could ever happen. No, they needn't worry, we can go underground for however long is needed and we'll arise on the earth no one but ourselves. Once a Jew always a Jew. Atheist, secular, orthodox, reform, international, indifferent, no difference, always a Jew in the end. In the meantime be baptized, go into the professions, make a mark, become distinguished, become a European, become English or Italian, marry up, call yourself white, become civilized, speak the native tongue, German, French, whatever, abandon Yiddish, cut your hair, dress in a suit, put on a top hat, put on a bowler, wear a tie, whatever it takes, rise, rise, rise, make a pot of gold, interpenetrate the ruling classes, crash the directory, become doctors, lawyers, judges, writers, editors, publishers, reporters, you name it we're there, the more we're them the more we remain ourselves. And so we did. The long nineteenth century was a banner one for us, we came into our own, came into our power, we were the chimpanzee who put on a suit and rolled around on roller skates: see, they said, they're just like us, and so we shattered a world.

Europe was always just a staging ground for America. As early as the 1830s Alexis de Tocqueville saw that Russia and the USA would be the twin stars around which the world would one day revolve. And it was from the so-called pogroms (trumped up as they were) in the latter that we got ejected into the former, it's what led to that poem at the base of that statue, it's what made the liberals cry, it's what made a mass of Jews leave for the New World. We were under siege you see, and for no reason at all. And so we headed out for our new hunting grounds.

Tocqueville said in the 1830s that the 20th Century would belong to Russia and America, eighty years later we controlled both.

When the Jews first came to America from Eastern Europe the Jews that were already there, who had come from Germany, who were a well dressed, assimilated and prosperous lot said: this could be trouble for us. And no doubt those new arrivals must have been quite a stinking crew. But we clean up nice, don't we? Once we had undergone out civilizing ordeal.

America with it's ideals, it's openness, it's all men are created equal, it's nation of immigrants, it's huddled masses, it's making the world safe for, it's dedication to a proposition, it's shining city on a hill, it's exceptionalism, it's missionary bent, it's self-made men, it's rugged individualism, was always immensely subject to hijacking by a determined outsider, and by the end we were pushing on an open door. Otto Von Bismarck said that the most important event in world history was when the first Englishman set foot on the American continent and that was true when he said it; but it was soon eclipsed when the first wave of Jews from Eastern Europe began walking around Manhattan. Just look at the record. An ancient people living in miserable hovels on the spine of Europe, speaking a barbaric and snarling Yiddish, going in wave after wave into a young country, one about to become a world power; going to an intellectually backwards people susceptible to high sounding balderdash; it's young people ready to leave behind the nation of villages; a rather simple and moral people prone to pangs of conscience; we would soon make them a raceless people capable of offering no defense. A country created on paper is eternally vulnerable to someone overwriting their script, when you are created by words someone can come along with different ones, or give new meanings to the old. If a nation is just an idea what happens when we change our mind? What happens when we win the war on the battlefield that is your children's minds? By the end it was like walking into a sacred space and finding it empty, abandoned. No, Hitler had it right: in America we finally found our perfect hunting ground. They even let this alien race scrawl graffiti on their venerable temples.

The end of the nineteenth century was a fatal time. After that there was no going back. It's been said that if the Protocols are fake then a mad unknown genius was in the employ of the czar. That is definitely true. Whoever he was he was a seer, a man after out own hearts, by violence and make-believe we rule the world! Spoken like the poet he was.

The two fatally twinned movements, the movements which contradicted each other, complimented each other, completed each other, competed with each other, fed off each other, grew up together, fought each other, if only one could survive in the end, were Zionism and Scientific Racism. That the latter is world famous and the former confined to the sewers of history is no reflection on their relative merits; ideologies are just masks for power, the power of peoples, and these two were no different; a last ditch effort to save, respectively, the Jews and the Europeans; daggers drawn is war to the knife. These two, in the scope of history, appearing at the same time, were the twin stars in the drama to come, fatally entwined; one the dream of a homeland, the other of annihilation, or vice versa, if you will, for by the time it was all over both dreams were the same for those dreaming it, staying alive and decimating the enemy.

It's said that American scientific racism started on a bison range and ended up in Nuremberg. And it's true, it started on those hunts, ran through conservationism, immigration restriction, birth control, sterilization, progressivism, eugenics, and finally got applied in Germany where it's bible ended up in the famous trial as exhibit 151. If it seems a declining trajectory it's only because we've made it so; had someone wanted you to think it was something ascending and been able to they would have; but they weren't, they didn't; the arc of history bends only towards those who bend it; the rest get crushed beneath it. So even the mention of racism coupled with science sends heads spinning, horrifies and scandalizes; but in truth it is rather elementary, if you are a people who loves nature and beauty and purity why wouldn't one want it to remain unblemished, perfect? The word ecology was dreamt up by a fascist, which was no coincidence, the Nazis were obsessed by personal purity, they banned smoking in public places, they eliminated asbestos, assured that no additives and nothing artificial made it's way into food. In word they wanted to rid the world of it's toxins, anything foreign, anything extraneous to the initial plan, and of course to them what was a more bitter toxin than a Jew? What more alien presence? What more corrosive, like an acid bath? What more foreign pestilence? With the end in view it seems clear that from our first northern migration it was set in stone that we and the Europeans were headed toward a climactic, shattering moment, one where everything would hang in the balance, for a while; we are drawn to flourishing like moths are to flame, we circle like vultures over carrion, over killed carcasses. And when we talk about their trying to protect the astonishing success they had, four hundred years of going purely vertical, we get to a man who sensed this, and of whom I speak with nothing but admiration. For the most part, and once the fighters passed away, it was like playing tennis with the nets down; but earlier, some men had spines of steel. Some were willing to put their very souls in the balance. Some were willing to do whatever was necessary to assure the survival of their race, their people, their country, their culture, their dominance and, as such, were worthy foes. The others, our propaganda to the contrary, are the ones with blood on their hands.

Albert Johnston was a hard drinking newspaperman from a small town in Washington State. When he became acquainted with the elite scientific racists of Manhattan he was gratified to learn that his old fashioned racism was cutting edge theory.

When the 1924 Immigration Restriction Bill was passed Madison Grant told a friend that they had finally got rid of the Jews, but he spoke too soon.

In 1931 in Dyerville, California the world's tallest tree was dedicated to Madison Grant, Grant created the science of wildlife management, and he became fascinated by the possibilities of racism after his successful efforts to save animals from extinction by culling the herd.

The scientific racists in America were jealous of their German friends for having a leader who was finally applying their theories.

Nearly the entire American scientific racism establishment was on intimate terms with their Nazi counterparts, Madison Grant knew the Nazis well too but just before his death in 1937 he expressed an ambivalence about this close connection, fearing it could backfire......

There was a de-lousing facility in Poland used for Jews who might immigrate to America, the Nazis later took it over and supposedly used it for other purposes, after the war they said that limiting immigration was fascist because there once was a facility in Poland for Jews.....

The last people who could have saved White America were the WASP scientific racists of the 1920s, Franz Boas feared that there would be wave upon wave of these men with their spines of steel, but it turned out they were the last of a dying breed, and now their names are mud.

Madison Grant liked to brag that the key to political success was organization, and that he could create a group out of thin air and with the right stationary and the right letterhead he could work miracles, though anyone who knew him could have told you that a cold heart never hurts.

As late as the 1930s Franklin Delano Roosevelt could say that America was a Protestant country, and Jews and Catholics were only there on sufferance.

The list of the accomplishments of Madison Grant is a testimony to an industrious age (and takes one's breath away). He founded the Bronx Zoo, helped build the Bronx River Parkway, was a leader in the movements for immigration restriction, birth control, eugenics, sterilization, led the effort to save the Redwoods, was instrumental in creating the California State Park System, Denali National Park, Yosemite National Park, the Everglades, helped save numerous species from extinction including the elephants of Africa, the Koala, the chinchilla, the gorillas of the Congo, the giant tortoises of the Galapagos, the ibex of Spain, the zebras of South Africa, the elephant seals of Mexico, the giant sable antelopes, the nyalas, the white rhinos, the wisents, and many kinds of whales, though with his one true love, that most charismatic of megafauna, the white race, his luck ran out. Now as far as nature goes I'm with the American President who said "if they think I give a flying fuck about nature—they're wrong"—but white people seemed to care a lot about it, and so did Grant, and so did that entire generation of scientific racists. And, of course, along the way he wrote the book that Hitler called his Bible which, I may say, is praise from Caesar. And more than anything else it was the indefatigableness of the man that impresses. The fact is that nearly the entire American ruling class in the 1920s was racist and in favor of eugenics, then after the war, or before it really, when our propaganda about Nazi "excesses" (so-called) started filtering back to America, they flipped to a virulent form of anti-racism--and so the game was lost. It's that simple. But those men in the top hats in Eastern cities at the turn of the century, they were the last ones who could have beat us. And the reason they could have was that they were willing to do anything that it took. And they had the right idea too-—eliminate us. Don't treat with us, don't try to convert us, don't assimilate us, don't keep us down, don't discriminate against us, don't keep us out of the country clubs, don't keep us out of the colleges, don't stop us from marrying your daughters—or, rather, do all that, but don't stop there—yes, eliminate us, for the game of global domination is the game of total control. Truly astonishing the unadulterated hate they had, they wanted to make us universal outcasts, to separate their lives from ours in every way possible, to banish us from the realm. Grant himself in private is bracing—no nonsense about humanity, no treacle about universal anything. And looking back over the records of my forbears they feared that their advent might spell the denial of their dream, but the fear soon dissipated in the fog of their dying gasp, the last gasp of the final cohort. As they strode their way around Manhattan like they owned the place, because they did, they must have been an intimidating lot, and for a while they went from victory to victory, strength to strength. Their later imitators at best would talk of deportation or remigration, as if it were gentleman's tea, but no one wanted to really do anything about it, or put one's soul in the balance. It still surprises me how people don't grasp the fundamental nature of war. Even after you explain it to them they simply don't get it.

Henry Adams said that when he saw his first Issac or his first Jacob walking on Boston Commons, straight from the misery of a Cracow Ghetto, speaking a barbaric and snarling Yiddish, he identified with the Indian, as one who had been ejected from his heritage. He was right. And had he been born Cohen on the Temple mount, he'd have still had it.

I can say without doubt that the raging battle that was waged between Madison Grant and Franz Boas was the hinge upon which world history pivoted and was, if I can say it, the cross upon which the white man continues to hang. If that seems extravagant, pay attention, if I seem to give it overmuch attention, look again. Consult the record. There were others of course, Dewey, Bourne, Kallen, but it was Boas who knew for certain what was at stake, the man keeled over in Manhattan in 1942 while preaching the evils of racism. Lined up behind Grant was the WASP elite, the American Establishment, prominent politicians, the best people on the East Coast, the media, propagandists, magazine editors, magazine writers, amateur scholars, gentleman scholars, folks across the American political spectrum who had rightly and finally woken up to the prospect of race suicide. But along with Boas was the wave of the future, the Jewish intellectual, some early Protestant misfits, some East Village malcontents, New York Cosmopolites, some professors. But he had one crucial advantage over the long term, the discipline of Anthropology was in it's infancy and he was a professor, a professional scholar, he had made some serious inroads in the universities. And just imagine anyone after the war being taken seriously who was not a professor, a certified scholar, a monkey dressed up in a natty suit and tie, or a Bohemian loser talking down the master narratives, another one of our unsung accomplishments, the professionalization of opinion; and Boas would seed these budding hothouses of nonsense, sedition, truckling, and treason with his own kind and they would carry all before them, eventually. And that, in short, would be that.

America was started by words on paper and has never lived it down, it was the death of them all. There is something inherently blank slatist about a country that begins this way, that is conjured out of thin air in some Quaker meeting hall, and when a more powerful and more determined outsider comes in to overwrite the script there is little reservoir of defense. And this is true, we simply overwrote the script, we wrote our graffiti on the walls of their temples, we unrwote them and wrote ourselves in in indelible ink. That it would be so easy was what was so surprising, it was like, well, pushing on an open door. At first though the enemies arrayed against our race seemed quite formidable, quite daunting. Any dispassionate observer looking on in the early 1920s would have been unlikely to predict the eventual outcome, let alone how much of a rout it was in the end, how we in time went from strength to strength and imposed on them our alien ideology. It's true that a most incredibly acute observer might have observed some cracks in their walls, a crumbling of their facades, some Churches going wobbly, some whites in the wilderness preaching the erasure of themselves, but in the main the fight did not seem fair. But in truth, had one been able to see all the wheels spinning, the issue was already decided the other way...the WASP you see was out of breath...he had become the default position....and no one gets too worked up about a default position. That some among them valiantly and harshly stirred for a last ditch defense is to their everlasting credit. Them we can save. But in the end it was as if they used up every last bit of energy their people had and when they were vanquished (on paper, mind you) they were vanquished the only way you can be, for good. In some outdated history books I have lying around it says that in the old days when a battle was won one person from the losing side would rush the victors, immolating himself in the fire of defeat; they were like that, those great men.

Arthur Gobineau was the first European to talk about the races in a coherent way, he came up with the idea of the Aryans, Alexis de Tocqueville, who was at heart a timid soul, once told Gobineau that with his brilliance he would go far, and with his ideology would do much evil.

It didn't help that frequently the ones who flocked to their banner, though possessing truth, how much truth they knew not, more often than not had a little bit of the crank in them, just a shade of the charlatan. It started with Gobineau, went on to Galton, went through Chamberlain, and finally made it's way to that Valhalla in Long Island, Cold Springs Harbor. I always wondered if reputable circumspect American biologists had come to the fold, professional and even keeled men, who had been measured in saying what they knew, and what they didn't, but argued persuasively that genetics held the keys to the coming kingdom, what would have transpired, had they put racism on a respectable basis. Better for them, worse for us, to be sure. But instead they got bogged down in catch phrases, Nordic, cephalic, unit characters, family traits, which contained kernels of truth, more than kernels actually, but unprovable at the time, and that easily could be portrayed as bogus and which tended to obscure the eternal truth they possessed. They focused on stories about Revolutionary War heroes bedding whores and breeding dullards, they interviewed old timers and took what they said about ancient hair lips as stellar incontrovertible evidence. And so they were like people who possessed gold but muddled the selling of it, and when the gold became obvious generations later our propaganda machine had been so effective, had prevailed so thoroughly, that in Britain the Indian offspring of millennia of high caste genetics could screech in the pages of the Guardian that: race does not exist! Had they put all their money into IQ tests, and rode that horse hard, they likely would have prevailed, I mean you scratch a negro and you get what you scratch right? It wouldn't have taken much to get people to accept that your average African was not going to put on short pants and take us to the moon. But cranks is cranks and if there's anything America perfected it was cranking out cranks, unless it's doing away with itself.

If you got Madison Grant on the subject of cephalic indexes you had a happy man but Franz Boas ridiculed the notion that a cephalic index (the size of the brain) was related to IQ, and as it wasn't provable then his ridicule won out, when years later magnetic resonance testing proved the racists right it made no difference, so completely had Boas prevailed.

Among the genteel scholars Mr. Grants stands out. No petering out for him, he knew that with an indomitable will, and a vicious hatred for the alien races, victory could be his, and it was, for a while. When I look back on his career the thing I think most is that at one point in the early 1930s he began to warn of the Southern Border and the Mexican Menace, and said to close the border now, and everyone looked at him like he had three eyes. What a visionary! What an implacable will! What industry! The question is always was the decline and burial of the WASP murder or suicide and of course it was both, it was assisted suicide, it was euthanasia, but if the patient had seen clearly what was happening and got up off the table in time the doctor would have been eliminated. Well, our Mr. Grants sounded the toscin, raised the alarm bell in the night, his conscience is clear. There is absolutely no blood on his hands.

It truly is amazing that just as we were coming into our power a small committed minority of them were as well. They advocated forced sterilization (in fact three generations of imbeciles is three too many), protected the environment, advocated both positive and negative eugenics, came out against smoking, against drinking, saved species, saved trees, went in for birth control, preached the Great War as the White Civil War, warned of the rising tide of color, identified the Jews as collectively a mortal threat to the white race, saw that Jews acted corporately, moved to restrict all non-Nordic immigration, spoke of race suicide, in a word—seers. But for the final showdown not enough of them could keep up their head of steam. They should have knocked us out while we were relatively weak. They could have done it easily. Instead they let us slip through their fingers. And the thing about a Jew is if you give us two chances we'll never need a third.

I assume Franz Boas was a sincere man, meaning he was an idiot. But of all the Jews he was truly the Jewiest, that is, he did us an incalculable service, he put paid to the America Of The Villages. There is really no one close. Against every ounce of common sense that most people had he argued that the concept of race, which had been so universally accepted for millennia that most never even thought about it, had no existence whatsoever. No existence and yet they are all equal! It would be some time before this absurdity would be amplified to it's logical absurdity by saying not only don't they exist and are all equal but that some are more equal than the others, more equal than whites that is, but an immortal race has nothing but time. And, moreover, he argued, that race had no impact whatsoever on anyone's capacities or characteristics or proclivities or tendencies, or brains for that matter, eons of evolution and man had somehow-—broken free! Everyone was a tabula rasa. Indeed, looking back on it those environmental anthropologists resemble nothing so much as the creationists that at the time they deemed the most absolute know-nothings. You see, for them, a person's personality and capabilities sprung ex nihilo from the social world, environment was all, take the most benighted Australian Negroid and put him Berlin at just the proper moment, and he'll be composing sonatas, just like that, as if sonatas weren't bred in the bone. And Boas took this cock-eyed idea, that there were no races or that there was only one race, the human race, and he beat them down. And you see the thing about it is, if environment is everything, and there is no human nature, if man is infinitely plastic, totally malleable, if you think about it, there can be no limit to our tyranny.

When it came to Americans at large and the nature-nurture question there was always something latent boding well for our side, Lincoln in the log cabin and all that ridiculousness, every man a king, the optimism of a people always starting over, always lighting out for the territory, wiping the slate clean, picking up stakes, assuming new identities, as it were, so they were particularly stupid when it came to the big picture. And of course the depression we engineered (banking minutiae) played into our hands, normally when things get scarce people turn on each other, but such was the brilliant homogeneity of the American people at that time that hard times actually drew them closer, in deep sympathy one with the other, and no one was wanting to hear about a master race, a hard doctrine, I'll admit. In fact, since 1933, really, we ran the show.

So Grant and Boas had their little duel. It played out in University Anthropology Departments, in access to government grants, in magazines, in newspapers, on boards, in meetings, in letters, in government institutions. Each of the two would review a book of the other, or have their proxies or surrogates do it, they vied for votes on committees, each circling the other warily, knowing that the other was too respected in certain quarters for an all out assault. Relative to the other they generally kept their mouths shut in public, though in private one was the worst thing of all—a Jew, an alien—and the other was the worst thing of all—a non-scientist, a charlatan. What particularly galled Grant and his circle was that Boas was turning Anthropology into a study of the marriage and sexual habits of savages, they'd travel thousands of miles to see the ritual aspects of some defunct tribe—why study a beaten people? Why romanticize an extinguished race? Prior to that Anthropology was always the study of race and now it was the study of what?—pottery shards? What galled Boas and his henchmen and henchwomen was the smugness of them all and that they weren't practicing--wait for it--science!

And to give you an idea of how the wind blew over time Grant's protege Lothrop Stoddard was a widely respected writer in the 1920s and could speak comfortably against Jews in popular magazines, the everyday Jew hate of the average man in the street, the small change of life, really; but by the mid 1930s he confided in friends that the subject had become delicate and he found himself watching his tongue on the matter. In his lectures at the Army War College he dropped the subject of Jews altogether and after Hitler's racial ideology was beaten he would die socially discredited and in obscurity in 1950. This is how this country remembers it's prophets and great men. And Linbergh, whose prestige was unparalleled, found himself at the short end of our wrath and paying the price for his untoward and ill-timed words about us. In private letters Anne Morrow said that even though she agreed with him she wished her husband hadn't said those things about the Jews, that nothing was worse than the prospect of pogroms on Jews in America, nothing was worse than anti-Jewish violence, that even war was better than that, even losing one's country was better than that. Better to die, apparently, than to hate! Better to die than to live! Lindbergh! This was a man who to wake himself up on his way to Paris dipped his craft into the troughs of the waves to have the water splash his face. But we are fiercer than any ocean.

It didn't help them that we (we being the Jewish media arm) glossed over the much worse things the Soviets were doing and pointed to the little upsets of Germany. In the 1930s the Soviet Union had murdered murdered millions of people and for these pains the Roosevelt's administration recognized their government, and spoke warmly of them. Hitler knocked off a few of his own followers and broke some windows and in the American media (see Jews, above) they were a byword for pure evil. We could point to the interlocking directorate between Nazis and the Americans, normal business of a people who wish to survive, and they fell all over themselves with a sickening remorse. And then there were those those trodden on little Jews, that ship that got turned back! We could say: you don't want to be like Nazis, do you? Do you?

How Boas did it was by working through the very institutions that not too many years prior would have barred us outright (when they still possessed sense). We really did, you see, overwrite the script. While the young discipline of Anthropology was still growing and the opposition was allied with the government and putting out periodicals Boas was seeding with his acolytes the vanguard of the future—the universities. While they had great stationary and sterling names on the letterhead and were taking Rockefeller money Boas had students and soon heads of departments all over the country—and they were teaching the next ones, to control the future control the minds of children, for the minds of children are eternal and universal battlefields. And it must be said the race scientists, though they had eternal truth on their side, were preaching a hard dogma, we an inviting one. As a poet who was no fan of our race said truly: human kind can bear very little reality. And nothing was more inviting than equality, universal brotherhood, egalitarianism, a fair chance for everyone, all men are after all created equal. It says so right there on the dotted line. Would Thomas Jefferson lie?

Of course we had more work to do but in truth the deal was done. It amuses me to no end to read the books of the early 21st century and see how they describe "race science", admittedly a forbidding name, as discredited. Most of those scholars are Jewish, of course, and take their cues from one ours, a true hack but serviceable for sure, Gould, but even the ones that are not are obedient to the general plan, knowing all too well how bread gets buttered. But how such "scholars" can be so ignorant of the epochal work going on even then in genetics, and now even more so, is beyond me. Or perhaps they knew but wanted to keep it under wraps, with humans the race between stupidity and duplicity is always a close run thing. Either way, they kept repeating the bromides. It's been discredited! Everyone knows it! You're not a Nazi, are you? But they served their purpose in the last push of the great awakening. They are gone now, of course; being of no use.

On the eve of the Second World War the race scientists were all dead or were outcasts, or soon to be. Men in top hats were already dinosaurs. Their name was mud, we dragged them through it. Boas as mentioned died during the war keeling over in Manhattan inveighing against them. But his pupils lived on, his ideas lived on. And were about to make a killer entrance into the annals of history.

In the 1920s men who held the views of a later time's Dissident Right were deeply respected, socialized with Presidents, sat on boards, referred to FDR in letters as "Dear Frank", thirty years later men with the same views were nearly universally looked on as moral monsters.

The question remains, how did it happen? Into the early 20th century the American people were a materialistic people but a stern and a forbidding one. We think of Rockefeller handing out thin dimes to street urchins. But if there is one thing true about immigration it's that every people you mix in effects the blend, changes the people in ways subtle and unsubtle, and there is no doubt that by the 1920s the Americans, with their novel and at times exotic mix of ethnics, were fast becoming a sensual people, a ravenous people, a lazy people, the tone got lowered, as is said. And with the Depression they became a frightened people, and when a sensual people becomes a frightened people they do not go looking for bad ideological news, it's only hope and optimism that they can bear. So the flinty Yankee gave way to the little dark eyed brunette—and all soon being swept up in the rancid patriotism of the war so that the nation of villages was left behind, left behind once and for all, without really too much of a look back.

Now to the annals of history such as they are, such as they were, for we Jews are nothing if not sophists, we proceed by misdirection.

Germany was the end of the line for the universalizing mission of Rome, they got ambushed in a forest and had to give up, had to turn back, wept over their legions, but we had better luck. For it's true that until the end of time (last week) the German people had always been the bone caught in the throat of anyone who would rule the world. For any universalizing mission it's always Germany that must perish.

Hitler was always the horse we always wanted to ride, no sooner was he dead than we symbolically dug up his corpse and have ever since continually paraded it around the public square so when anyone gets out of line we can point to it and say don't forget, Hitler....

I'm not saying he wasn't our implacable foe, he was, or that he was a pilgrim, he wasn't, or that he didn't cross and re-cross a line or two, or engage in excesses, he did, that much is obvious, but just that unlike the reports of his death the reports of his crimes, such as they were, were greatly exaggerated. Did he have blood on his hands? Hardly. For is it a crime to want a country of your own? Is it a crime to want your people to survive? Is it a crime to want to secure one's future for oneself and one's posterity? It would seem to me the real crime is the opposite, a crime unprecedented, to deliver your people to being replaced by another. No, we fought Hitler with all our might and main, and then turned him into the ideological gift that keeps on giving not because he was a criminal, he wasn't. We did it because he was in our way. It still surprises me how slowly some are to grasp the laws of war, the laws of biology, and the laws of demographic conflict, and how shocked they are to hear them.

Nazism was an experiment in applied eugenics. It was putting the broad, solid, eternal laws and principles of biology to use for social and political life, in the service of the people.

Written in 1925 The Great Gatsby is the only book published prior to 1945 that contains both the words "holocaust" and "swastika", my staff assures me of this, they've done the cross-checking of this seeming anomaly. Fitzgerald complained to Ed Wilson that the southern Italians were practically Negro (there goes the neighborhood!), and that American naturalization should be limited strictly to English and Swedes. In Gatsby Nick enters Manhattan in a car and sees, he says, two black bucks being chauffeured by a white man and notes, accurately, that one never knows what one will see when one enters Manhattan. And of course there is Wolfsheim, the predator, the Jew to out Jew all Jews. And of course he was published by Scribners, the same firm that published Grant and Stoddard, the latter being famously being referenced in the novel, unless it was that other guy the allusion was about, the one who wrote about the hair lips and the morons, even my excellent staff can't yet say for sure, so we'll put a pin in it, for now. Thus it's not a leap to put two and two together, that this great American novel is not in anyway about something as banal as the fragility of the American Dream, as untold numbers of English teachers, obedient to the general plan, have said, but rather how the clean green breast of the New World was destroyed and desecrated by Jews, Blacks, and assorted mongrels, causing decent folk to retreat to the German Midwest. That's the theory, a least, but one I hold with. They got to beat us down.

The Passing Of The Great Race was exhibit 151 at the Nuremberg Trials. It started on a bison hunt.......

The USA entered the First World War only after Britain promised a homeland in Palestine to the Jews and the Jews gave the signal to Wilson that it was safe to make the world safe for democracy, that is, safe for Jews. Hitler remembered this perfidy of Albion perfectly well, having cause to.......

After the war we concocted the allegation that Hitler was supposed to have said near the end that he never loved Germany, by then we had a cross between a stranglehold and a death grip on world media so the famous last words slipped into the realm of history, people only know what they read in the papers, our papers......

The message to the Germans was: neither should you, you shouldn't love Germany either. Had we wanted them to believe something else they would have.

If someone was in in the mood they might have thought that equally on trial those months in Nuremberg was the scientific racism of the Americans in the 1920s, that the so-called liberators were the real Nazis; in this way we had our view to the future. We brought in the American sterilization laws, the three generations of imbeciles is enough, the various eugenics movements, the close connection between German and American racists, and so we planted seeds that would bloom in a million flowers in the glorious anti-racist future. We got them thinking: were the liberators really all that different from the ones they conquered? Indian Genocide? Slavery? Jim Crow? The Klan? The color line? Weren't they just part and parcel of the same authoritarian system, all far down on the F Scale? White man Nazi, that was the lesson and message, one the white man learned all too well in coming years, being an eager and obedient student, an apt pupil—white man Nazi. Patton is said to have said that the trials weren't cricket--that they offended his Saxon sense of fair play—indeed they must have! What a world of difference between Saxon fair play and eternal Jewish victory. As for Patton himself he is said to have said some bad things about some little Jews, and it must have been quite a shock for such as him to discover that he and his men had been used as a blunt instrument in the furtherance of an international criminal conspiracy. Imagine his chagrin! But we all need to wake up sometime, smelling the coffee is good for the soul. And had he lived he would have been a minor irritant, at most, his prestige was enormous, but we had laid the groundwork with how he treated the men, that slap was truly unfortunate, boo hoo hoo, etc. Even he would have seen that there are some things you just can't say about us, at least not with impunity. But he didn't live, you'll recall.

When one starts thinking one starts thinking about Adolf Hitler.

Hitler! Now there was a man! One after our own hearts, who saw things as we did, eye to eye, a brother under the skin. To have utterly defeated such a worthy foe makes the victory all the sweeter. Had he never existed it certainly would have been necessary for us to have invented him. Yeoman's work for sure he did us, he's the gift that keeps on giving. I had one of my students who was looking through the archives wonder if the H Logo for the long defunct History channel stood for Hitler and, clever as I am, I said no, it stands for Holocaust. When I think of Hitler (which is the beginning of wisdom) I think of the question: could it have been different? For certainly Hitler was their very last stand, the last thing that could have possibly withstood us, compared to him even Grant and the rest were bush league, for we could not make peace with that, we could not possibly let the white man have a country to call his own. And they couldn't have a country to call their own with us. It's as simple as that. The old us/them binary, who/whom and Jew/Gentile, the selfish gene is an amoral monster pursuing a blind and relentless will to power. Could it have gone different? If perhaps he had had the later concept of whiteness and brought the whole flock into the fold he could have prevailed, perhaps; and had he, prevailed that is, there would be statues of him in every city in Europe. But now, alas, his name is a byword for absolute evil.

It was always the German people who got in the way of every international dream, and we were not going to make Rome's mistake and get bogged down in some godforsaken German forest, where they say Freedom was born (though it was stillborn), that we could not allow. Anyway it was never by arms but always by make-believe that we rule this world, an uncanny something that is more than any army. How many divisions do we have? How many have you?

Germany must perish! A rallying cry, no doubt. When I think of how history was falsified on the spot, at the time, how little the American people were allowed to know. Hitler wants an alliance with the white world, I can't hear you, Hitler wants peace with Britain, scrambled in the telling. We bamboozled them, really. Only let filter out what was consonant with the general plan. But we knew, and our surrogates in government knew, and that was all that mattered. Hitler had to be stopped. Germany needed to be pastoralized, pacified, they were our ancient enemy of only a century or so. And, really, it's fascinating that we even had the chance, that we could stand up on our hind legs and say: we're Americans! American as you, or more American, really, we believe all are equal, and we have our right to our opinions. And in our opinion the Nazis represent the apex of evil and American boys (our boys!) should drive them from the face of the earth, they should be used crudely as a blunt instrument in furtherance of our international criminal conspiracy.....

In the 1920s there were three components to the Democrat party: rural Southerners, Northern Ethnics, and Jews. When we all hit the jackpot in 1933 the first two clamored for jobs and patronage, lined up dutifully at the trough, but not us, instead we became very interested in foreign policy, for as a people we always keep our eye on the main chance.......

And the timing was something, how we made our nearly vertical and sudden ascent up the back of America, letting it launch us into the stars, how we came from miserable Cracow ghettos speaking a snarling Yiddish, and nearly found ourselves, just like that mind you, atop the world of this brand new colossus—and no sooner had we than---came a man who could stop it. It really was a pretty brilliant pas de deux, it was because we were we and you were you! When you think about it he was the only one who saw clearly what was happening and was willing to put his soul in the balance, if that was even necessary, to redress it. Worthy adversary! Implacable foe! Many can talk but who can kill? Who is willing to take the existence of his people in his hands and kill for it? Animals in the wild have no compunction. He saw that with our infinite network we were circling the globe, that finance was becoming a god, the rabble as bankers, that markets would soon suck in everything that was not firmly rooted, and even that would be a close run thing, we'd jar that loose too in the end; that we had the rising power of the West, even if we would ultimately lose that of the East, we had this stupid rising power, this Goliath in short pants, wrapped around our gold ringed fingers, in our deep pockets. And we would stand atop it. And with this wind at our backs, after centuries of scheming and manipulation from mere pockets of power, what could we not accomplish? Everything, that's what. The whole world would be at our feet. And he saw with crystal clarity that it must be stopped, now not later, there was no time after the present. He saw that what was needed was more than autarky in one country but, at the least, autarky in one continent. There came a movement in the teens of this century of those claiming that the European Union was nothing but Nazism writ large, a direct lineage and genetic descendant, but they mistook means and ends, two men may get in an identical hand basket but only one will be going to hell. And for our incipient EU (one world is enough for all of us......), our game of global domination, Hitler knew that Germany needed to assert a rival reign to supplant it, to combat it, if not defeat it, this was really the stuff of high drama, the true story of that war, the crucial one, it would make great reading were anyone alive to tell it. Instead we got syrupy pablum, stories of Democracy and Tyranny, and pious speeches at Normandy, and old battle-axes and womanly men preaching and screeching about the liberal order even as it crumbled at their traitorous feet. For the propaganda surrounding the Second World War, then as well as now, was that it was a war against totalitarian dictatorship and for freedom, but really it was that a sharp eyed Germanic people saw clearly the net that was being thrown over the world by us and tried to elude it, but missed. The rest of it is just catnip for the masses. Of course we covered that up in Old Glory, our new calling card, and the UN, and world peace, and boo hoo hoo about the Jew and his six million, and anti-communism when it came to that and, well, you know the rest. No, Hitler is a man we can respect, and not even begrudgingly, a man after our own hearts, a man who fought for his people, as we fought for ours. It would make no more sense for us to bear him any personal ill will than to be upset by animals killing in the wild. For surely at this late date it is a truth universally recognized that a people who are unwilling to defend themselves deserve to perish. He was never that, God bless him.

When I think of him now I think of him as a man with tremendous courage, who educated himself to the truth, the truth of what we were doing, and said it plain. Of course it was easy to brand him as a lunatic, as a clown, the ludicrous dictator, because who could believe we were doing such a thing, or who could admit to it, it seemed so warped, even as we were doing it right out in the open. No, by that time we had trained them well to hate Jew hate above all and even the smallest hint of it was in bad odor among their elites, it's why the Lindbergh wife dreaded it, better they perish than hate. I can tell you, comrade, as one who has savored it, there is no more perfect crime than getting away with it and calling all who object criminals and insane ones at that, it really is looping the loop, getting your victims to defend you, a species of madness some used to call the Amy Biehl syndrome, named after a seditious white women who went to help the blacks in South Africa, and paid the predictable price (help the coal, pay the toll, as was once said). Ms. Biehl's parents later traveled to the rainbow nation and forgave the ones who hit their daughter in the head with a rock (one liberal, one grave). As for us cranking up the propaganda machinery to enforce a general obedience to the general plan, and a Talmudic taboo against deviating from it, take Hitler's book. If you believe what we say about it his style was poor, shoddy, and disjointed, pedestrian at best, his thoughts confused, but of course few read it, though it's sold freely on the open market. But when one reads him with an open mind one finds him to be perfectly lucid, workmanlike perhaps, with the faults of the self-educated, but a fine serviceable workingman's style nonetheless. And, needless to say, a penetrating analysis. But we've attached the stigma to him, that he was some unlettered bumpkin, an unreconstructed racist rube rallying the racist rubes, an atavistic reversion, some self made monster, when in fact he was nothing of the kind. He was a man who looked at things slowly and deeply, scratched his head, stared at them, stared at them again, studied them, took deep breaths, went back over and over them until it was all finally clear in his mind, and so over long periods of time worked things out for himself. But if you only read the papers, our papers, you'd never know the truth. Indeed, his book shows that he did have a great struggle, had a great overcoming, to see though everything, and elucidate it perfectly, and then get cast as a joke, a criminal. It's ironic that his last inheritors and imitators would label the intermediary world that we cast over the old one, that we overwrote the script with as "clown world", which is getting close to the bone. But of course to the honest observer he was anything but a clown, though one of ours pictured him as the clownish dictator. It's true, he had no pedigree, no lineage, came from common stock, but then Lincoln was born in a cabin, and his high sounding phrases were stultifying and stupid--—dedicated to a proposition indeed, any nation not dedicated to it's own survival will be gone soon enough. When he arrived on the scene we knew we had to handle him with special care, to go all in on defaming him, on anathematizing him, on placing him well beyond the pale, off the reservation, others wrote him off but we never did. When the reprisals started we knew that this was to be a war to the knife, we knew that he and we were fatally entwined, knew that this was the final showdown, winner take all, and everything would be swept before it. For instance how much of the ultimate reaction against scientific racism came from it's association with Hitler? See, we said, this is what it means, see? This is what it comes to. Few had the stomach for it when you put it that way. Indeed, in the annals of subversion the 1930s are an underrated time, textbooks were changing, history was being re-written, public officials were being re-educated, mouths were being closed, people were being shut up, a chill went over the land vis-a-vis the Jews, what one could say about us was being curtailed, the story line was subtly changing, and all from our perspective, all at our behest. If anyone objected we said: Hitler? That's not what you are is it? And so quickly, before he even did a thing, we ratcheted up our propaganda to warp and wailing speed, and he became the world historical monster of our own making. I tell you had he never existed it would have been necessary for us to invent him, which we did after all. Which we did.

Seen from a certain angle it's easy to see Hitler as barbaric, certainly his racial ideology has gone out of fashion, at least when it's articulated, we live it of course as a matter of course as do you my dear friend. But the ideology's passing was only because in the years following the war civilization had reached a kind of plateau, one from which it was really impossible to see the past, the war had been a cataclysm no one wanted to peer back over except to be rid of it. When the state of war returned, or at least an intimation of it, things looked somewhat different. What no one could think at the time was that he was doing what was necessary, he was acting in the extremity of the future, his future, his people's future, seeing the cold hand of total defeat that his people were being subtly dealt; but then such is the general fate of visionaries, we forget too easily that the canary in the coalmine as often as not comes up dead.

There's a scene in The Stranger (1946) when an ex Nazi played by Orson Welles in order to cover his tracks tells Edward G Robinson that the German is incorrigibly evil and must be destroyed and driven from the face of the earth. Mr. Robinson emigrated to the USA and fabricated some personal small-scale pogrom he witnessed in the old country, not his country, but the old one, and said when he came to the USA at age ten he felt for the first time free. I'll bet he did, I know many people felt the same way, many people like Robinson, who were Jewish, more than a few up my family tree.

Gemany Must Perish! We laid it on with a trowel, it's true, you can never lay it on too thick. Germany Must Perish! My god, read from the perspective of a later humanity what a dreadful book that was, one probably unwise to publish, but we got a away with it, we always do. We were on the side of the angels by then, or damn close to it. What was the small change of life regarding what you could say about us not ten years before was now viewed with distaste, and so Jew hate was driven underground, where it belongs, if you could say boo about the Jew by then you could just say it barely. And in the first glow of our slow acceptance we made Hitler the pariah he is today; we truly created a monster, anathematization on a cosmic, industrial scale. Prior to that a man such as Lindbergh would think nothing of getting a service cross pinned to his chest by Nazi officialdom, little did he know that soon enough he would be seen as having supped with Satan with an exceedingly short spoon! How could he have known? He was just following the protocols of the Knights of old. But the reins were about to loosened, faith dimmed, chivalry dead; this new world we were creating was not going to be cricket.

But they had the right idea alright, they were taking hygienic caution, it was a racial prophylactic, they were seeing the world with clear eyes and taking the measures that were necessary for survival. One can only laud that, most people want to live, though when not faced with having to prove it most will deem it a reversion, they are a squeamish lot; looking back there were the race suicide prophets in America, the alarm bell in the night about the rising tide of color, which by the fifties simply seemed odd; but everything in the post war world blurred reality, the battle between Russia and America froze it in an ice from which it was released in 1989, history resuming just as the neoliberals were saying it was ending; but the ones who saw clearly in 1940 knew that they were at the choking point, and theirs was the only way to save a civilization, a culture, people, a race, a way of life. For what we have now is not that, a civilization that is. The machines goes on like before but no one can really distinguish it from the operators.

Germany did perish, thank god. With them out the way it was smooth sailing, for the most part. Some unreconstructed Southern racist was no match for our Fuhrer. We wailed at the dogs on chains, and the water hoses, and the lunch counters, and cried them rivers about the back of the bus, and the eternal corpse of Emmett Till (may God rest his useful soul), but a man who can walk into a hospital and put patients to sleep-—that man means business, that man would throw fire down on a school rather than let a black girl walk in.

But, comrade, I must leave dear Adolf for now, otherwise I'd go on forever, he is truly inexhaustible. Here at the Ministry I have employees look up and bring me odd arcana about him, I think I must be one of the few remaining experts on him, for most he's just some vaguely evil spirit from a dead past, something with which to startle the horses and scare the womenfolk from time to time but little more. I have the misfortune to be an historical man in an unhistorical age. And now that all the tension has gone out of history it's hard to understand that at one point, when the outcome was not apparent to all, any political or social issue could be resolved by reference to him, it was as if he had subsumed in his person everything from the past and brought it to it's primal and irreducible level. His thought and his life are the gifts that will always repay attention for he brought history down to it's focal point, shorn of everything superfluous, in his itinerary is the entirety of human existence; his works, his words, his deeds are endless. Even I, old cynic that I am, learn something new from him now and again, from time to time. But basically he reminds us of the law of life, prevail or perish. And one should never feel any guilt for wanting to prevail or for prevailing. Otherwise you have been captured by an eighteenth century paradigm, when the living was easy. That, I assure you, was never our problem.

William James said that for a people being moral is more important than survival. Jean Raspail said that if the white man was to survive he was going to have to do things that will put his soul in the balance. I suppose that is true for everyone, either way, you must choose. Hate or die? Which will it be?

Before we turn to the post war era, the era of desultory mopping up, there's one last question I have for Adolf. Was he wise in all he did? The question is asked again and again. A last gasp is one thing but a foolhardy thrust is another. HP Lovecraft was thrilled by Hitler's emergence, by his advent, he said that he thought that the man could and would rejuvenate the European peoples. That was in 1933 but just before his death in 1937 Lovecraft said he worried that Hitler was becoming too extreme in his policies and in the end he might have the exact opposite effect of what he intended, which he did, we know by now. Was he right? History has many cunning passages....could he have taken the Junger route? Drawn a circle around Germany and wished the world of color away? Simply expelled the Jews? Got them a homeland in Palestine? Made a nice little white country of his own? I think not. I think he sensed not only the gravity of his situation but the finality of it, that after him was the deluge. Hitler was an impulsive man, but in this instance I think his impulse was correct. He sensed which way the wind was blowing, he saw the French pour coloured troops into Germany, he saw anti-colonialism rearing it's ugly head, he saw the various ideologies of race-mixing being bandied about and finding a receptive audience among fools, he saw the American Negro looking for a place in the sun and, above all, he saw that we Jews were getting more and more powerful every year. The white world around him was becoming morally weak and no country is an island, and unless the rot was excised then or soon it would soon engulf them all. Look at Eastern Europe in the 20s, they made their stand, they had their mini baby booms, but were unable to withstand the rising tide of...what do we call it...color...yes, color....they made their half-hearted try but our markets swamped them in the end, they were small peoples unable to withstand the tsunami. Hitler rightly knew or sensed that racial autarky was an incredibly difficult thing to maintain, amidst prosperity that is, prosperity coupled with moral weakness, that race is that promiscuous thing, it's hard to make it impermeable, there's always someone sneaking off to the hay bale, that unless it is vigorously and jealously guarded it always bastardizes, it always becomes unstable, there is always a fox in the hen house somewhere, and there's always a negro in her wood pile, safe to say. And we held the Anglo world in our clutches and Weimar, well, Weimar was just dormant, incubating, ready as ever to return, break out, a virus poised to become an epidemic. So it was, as the Americans used to say, when they were a much more confident lot, do or die. And who knows, if he had punched through to the oil fields the world might have become a very different place. If he had went pan-white, perhaps? Of course there was the bomb, the Jew Bomb. Would goy have bombed goy? Gentile on gentile? Would they have been that obedient to the general plan? Ah, who knows. History not only has many cunning passages, it always deceives by vanity in the end, but now no more, not now that it has ended. But who can think of anything more dramatic, a man, a great man, a world historical man, the world historical man, makes one roll of the dice for the white man, come up snake eyes, but just barely; and the die is cast. It's a story someone really ought to tell.

There are other theories too, that Weimar wasn't so bad and would have reformed, that Strasser could have threaded that perfect needle, Hitler never should have abandoned Feder, etc, that Nietzsche detested petty bourgeois anit-semites, the same old tripe, and I notice that the people who promote these theories tend to be over-serious Christians, so see poisoned chalice, see Trojan Horse, above, if you even bother.

Once Hitler was presumed dead and we put those pictures of bulldozed bodies on American movie screens History, with a capital H, was over. Just like that, amazing. We eternal sophists had to blind our eyes. Even we were a little startled by the suddenness of it. It's true that the Holocaust, with a capital H, and that stands for trouble, did not emerge for some time, but one belt, one road, right? All we have is time, we are the immortal race after all. And now that we have allied with our equally stout and unwavering Han brothers (who also wanted to live forever and never hesitated for a single moment as to how to deal with their undesirables) all we have is the future. Standing there in 1945 for all intents and purposes we might have seemed a defeated race, but for all intensive ones we had prevailed, we were on the cusp of a true breakout. Who could see it? A few. Patton belly-ached....but what could he do? He was dead, not having been obedient to the overall plan. The others had been discredited. No one knew or cared, but L. Stoddard lived on until 1950, a relic, a vanquished relic, an ideological husk. Our enemies had been vanquished before us, our moral enemies, our mortal ones, and the world breathed new air, the air of An American Dilemma, a watered down American Creed, and the UNESCO statement on race. Safe to say that no one had a good word to say for racial ideologies, or racism or, even, race, that non-existent thing. Oh, racism had turned Europe into a field of ruins, but anti-racism would level it all, we made sure of that. We would soon make genocide a right of the peoples, we would clothe tyranny in tolerance. And it really wasn't all that hard when you're dealing with a weakened people. If you want to destroy a people you sever their roots, you destroy their history, you destroy their classics....you know the drill. Soon dead white males would be the red headed step children of the world. But let us not move too fast. Let us linger over the intervening four decades, the beginning of what was really little more than a clearing of accounts.

With Hitler dead and buried we had our totem, our talisman, our bogey-man, our thing-that-goes-bump-in-the night, our salutary example to the goyim, with him in our pocket there is nothing we could not do, he was truly the horse we always wanted to ride.......

No one writes history any more as we don't like to overmuch burden our youth with useless trivia but if one were to write the history of Modern America they should divide it like this:

1890 to 1950: Softening Up

1950 to 2000: The Great Unraveling

2000 to 2030: Knock Out Blow

2030 to Present: Death And Burial

One theory of social movements is that they succeed to the extent that their leaders possess "social capital" in the form of ties to the mass media, corporate cultural intermediaries, and the state intelligentsia---where dominant interpretations of reality are generated.

Of course we were a racial movement not a social one and we didn't have ties, we were it. After the war we had New York, Hollywood, the universities, newspapers, all were in our pockets and we generated the dominant interpretation or reality which was of course: white man bad; and later on, when the time was right, white skin bad, dark skin good. We like to keep it simple, by make believe we rule this world.

What happened in the decades after the war was not a cultural revolution it was something much more, and much better, it was a social revolution, everything solid melted into air. If in 1960 one wanted to see pornography it was certainly possible but one would need to go to the weirdo part of town, to the weirdo theater, or to the weirdo book shop. In short, one would be a weirdo. A half century later not only would one be saturated with pornography, up to one's eyeballs in it, filled to the very gills with it, by watching it one would not be a weirdo, the weirdo would be the one who still said you were a weirdo (hang-ups you see). A world turned upside down is one that can be ruled by violence, and of course by make believe, inversion is the best kind of magic.

They had rights but we gave them human rights in order to take them away.

And that's all it ever really was from May, 1945 on, a mopping up exercise, an index on the end-ex, a collecting of our winnings. Just how massive was the win? As a for instance it's a sign of how America was overtaken by an alien ideology that what for over a century was an icon of Liberty was changed to mean they must submit to being invaded by alien races whose rule over them meant the end of their Liberty.

We overwrote the script. Let me say that again: we overwrote the script. A country created on paper, out of thin air, created in a Quaker meeting hall, was particularly subject to this horrible indignity. Better for a nation to be born in the mists of time beyond recall, any nation created on a rational basis will evaporate like morning mist.

We employed a long term and multi-faceted strategy to destroy White America but it boiled down to this, our strategy was very simple, very simple from beginning, from the time we washed up on their shores: it was to mongrelize the in group until there is no in-group, mongrelize the in group until they have lost not just the ability to survive but the will do it.

Leslie Fiedler said that in the 1950s in Manhattan every gentile who came to the big city to become a big intellectual immediately started taking on the role of the little Jew, dressing like a Jew, acting like a Jew, speaking like a Jew, assuming the aspect and accents and affect of a Jew, and in this way American culture become thoroughly Jewish, which is an homage to power indeed......

We of course had our Frankfurt Group, our Adorno, our F scale, but I'd like to point out one that is often overlooked. It was the Civil Rights movement after all the was the dagger in their hearts, the subversive movement that was the paradigm for all the insanity that followed, it took their rights away and racially degenerated them. And it was Brown v. Board which was the camel's nose in the tent, little black boys and girls and little white boys and girls and all of that disgusting nonsense, our lawyers saw to that, we Jewed up the Courts until they buckled like a cheap suit. They dragged their feet on implementing it, but it was the principle that mattered, nine robed visionaries properly shamed and coaxed could degrade the racial character of a nation of 200 million. And behind that scam was an actually fairly little known (and less read, understandably) book by a guilty Swede, Myrdal's An American Dilemma (funded by the Carnegie Corporation, Yaweh love it). A stealth bomb that book, the unheralded keys to the kingdom.

Myrdal himself was a rather obtuse fellow, and his theory was that America was racist and had always been racist, and that in order to remove this stain it had to stop being racist. They were wrong to defend themselves he says. The color line, the only thing standing between anyone and the abyss, was made anathema. It was written in 1944, weighing in at a dull thousand plus pages, just at the time the stampeded goyim were doing our dirty work in Germany; and the Swede did a number on America's elite, not hard you say, and you're right, they were a thinned out and rather unimpressive lot. It's also the book that gave us the phrase "The American Creed" (see countries created out of thin air, above). The book had a unique and undue influence in all the right quarters and was the key to Brown, etc., indeed a generation of white folk were inculcated in the idea that there should be no white folk. The Swedes, my god, what a godforsaken people.

And some time in there, a little before or after, was the UNESCO statement on race, that there are no races and that they are all equal, that miscegenation does not lead to racial decline, that race was a social myth, etc., all of it certified by FDR's ghost, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Alger Hiss. That nominally serious people could have taken so seriously such child like fantasy beggars belief, it wasn't even high sounding balderdash, it was low-brow balderdash, but what was said of the Germans was true of white folk in general, they were always at your throat or at your feet. Indeed, if we had a guiding star, it was that there are no races, that there was only one race, the human race, and that racism, something endemic and perfectly natural to humans, so natural that for thousands of years no one gave it a second thought, was anathema. We are racialists preaching anti-racialism, racists selling anti-racism, even as we are sophists proceeding by misdirection. But then if you can believe that Ashley Montagu is a reasonable sounding name for a Jew you'll believe in anything, however far-fetched it is.

Civil Rights (meaning no rights for the white man) was the vanguard but so much came in it's wake, and though it was ostensibly for blacks you can be sure we Jews lawyered the shit out of it. And it's true: equality is a weapon. If we had a theory it was if it was standing knock it down, knock it down until there was nothing left, nothing left for them but their eyes to see their own destitution. Kinsey, the Pill, free speech, psychedelics, rock and roll, imagine there's no country, race riots, assassinations, Miranda, no payer in schools, feminism, women in the work place, the two parent trap, outsourcing, abortion, gay rights, trans rights, the Loving ruling, pornography, the sexual revolution, the cultural revolution, the social revolution, globalism, libertarianism, Vietnam, anti-racism, no fault divorce, Dead White Males, the patriarchy, affirmative action, anti-colonialism, black power, Chicano Power, nothing comes between me and my Calvins, fists in the air at the Olympics, Stonewall, Lady Chatterly, Playboy, Jackson Pollock, Pop-Art, modern art, an end of the great narratives, I could go on but, safe to say, to the average white man watching this all on television it must have been one massive indignity after another. It was the great unraveling. Everything solid melted into air........

Somewhere in there too (1976) a Jewess with a jaw-locking prose style named Judith Butler announced to the world that biological sex did not exist but rather there was something called gender which existed only in the mind. Only in the mind, mind you. By the time she died she had been given every award a society can give to a scholar and so in the end we did to the sexes what we had done to the races, first we fused them and then we simply made them disappear.

If you want to destroy a people you destroy their heritage, you destroy their history, you destroy their classics, their past, their heroes, their culture, their language, their literature; perhaps in the end you leave them only with their eyes so they can witness their destitution. A people who are without the voice of their ancestors are like a plant that has been uprooted and is living above ground synthetically with chemicals. Without lineage, without blood, without time, without identity, they are just a cipher waiting for a more dominant interpretation of reality.

Now that the Germans were gone we knew that the final bone in our throat would be the American White Man, White America. They never had a full blown policy named after it, and that was the problem. We turned all of our attention to him, to make him a stranger in his own home. We knew that the white man in the end would always stick to his mores, his traditions, that after years of their being submerged, he would stick to them even more. We always knew that the white man was the last obstacle to our universal dreams, the very last. And, as such, he had to go. He had, after all, or so we put it about, blood on his hands, and tomorrow belonged to us.

The author of that defeatist Serenity Poem (a favorite of losers everywhere) was Reinhold Niebuhr, in the 1950s he also authored the so-called "truce" between the big three religions, essentially gutting any notion of religion in the public square, thus removing another ancestral claim of the white man to his own country. Two percent and we got a rabbi at all of the governmental functions, "Judeo-Christian"--what a crock and what a coup, put a menorah on the White House lawn and call it surrender.

When I think of yeoman's work being done I think of little Emanuel Celler, in Congress at the time of the 1924 immigration restriction act, a brand new congressman from Brooklyn, on the losing side, but sticking around and re-emerging 41 years later to lend his Jewish name to the stake put into the heart of White America. Imagine that! Forty-One Years! Being a little pipsqueak Jew speaking up bravely to the WASP establishment, taking a drubbing, then not so much licking his wounds as rubbing his hands, and watching as the long decades rolled by, and as his enemies became more and more deracinated, their identity thinned out, more and more in disarray, more and more exhausted, more and more demoralized, waning while we were waxing, dying out and dying off, until that great day in New York Harbor where, as referenced, the representative of a once great Anglo-Saxon nation referred to the 1924 Act as a "cruel and enduring wrong", a "harsh injustice", and an affront to the American Creed of judging every man on his merits. Imagine it! A cruel and enduring wrong! Injustice! Merits! A people wanting to survive and have a country of their own cruel! He spoke like one of us, or he was as dumb as Texas cow shit. And of course little Manny Cellar, Jewish little Manny Celler, was there that day and had to hold in cold contempt the people who would sign their own death warrant in full view of the Statue Of Liberty, a veritable suicide note it was. As for the poem at the base, that was a fine bit of work, which reminds me that no self respecting people lets aliens scrawl filthy graffiti at the base of their temples. That poem, barely literate and indicative of suicidal tendencies for anyone who would adopt it, had started out inside the statue getting no attention, until a rich WASP socialite named Georgina Schulyer paid for it to go at the base. It continued to sit there in obscurity until we played it up as of 1938 in order to get more of us in from Europe, and then a half a century later it was holy fucking writ, it was damn near the law of the land, a statue become like statute. And on that fateful day when the America President, charged with protecting a 90 percent white nation, signed that people's suicide note, the Vice President chimed in too and he said the Act would prove that in America there were no second class citizens; he was wrong though, that designation was reserved for the white man. It would not upset the ethnic balance of the nation, it was said, it was not a revolutionary bill, wrong on all counts, we are liars and we operate by misdirection. We were fully aware that we were delivering the death blow, that we got the unsuspecting white man to herald it as the triumph of the American spirit, and to do it in full view of Lady Liberty, that was just insult to injury.

If your ideals can be used against you you have the wrong ideals.

And that poem of course was occasioned by the so-called Russian pogroms that were largely fictional, we sold those too via innuendo, rumor and lies. By make believe we rule this world.

The first way we work is by means of race-mixing, race-mixing in the sense of miscegenation (the flood of images of white women and black men coupling) and race-mixing in the sense of mixing the races together, multi-racialism, multiculturalism. We flooded their nations with nearly sub-human mongrels, we mongrelized the nation until there was no nation left, the destruction of White America was beautiful to behold. In 1960 it was a nice white country but by the year 2000 it was a disparate amalgamation of alien races, an international flop house, and more importantly a machinery had been set in place whereby over a million green cards were issued each year, a vast machinery for nation wrecking and, short of the political will to stop it, and there was none, it would go on til the crack of their doom. We turned this nice white country into little more than a legal entity, an economic zone, and a universal refuge situated at the crossroads of the world. Everything that was solid melted into thin air....evaporated like morning mist.....

The money spigots of the neoliberal order are free trade, open borders, and war, the exact things which were the death of White America.

Amazing too is how slowly we got the left to be outriders for global capital, in the name of humanity they did the work of the ones they once called robber barons, and in a final reduction to absurdity even unions got on board with mass immigration and the decimation of the working man.

For most of American history a tariff was a reasonable idea, but we moved around a lot so for us the free movement of people and goods became our ideology and our God, free trade and open borders, to reject these ideas meant a people wanted to have a country of their own, and if they were sane enough for that the Jews knew they'd be the first to go.

Open borders, and free trade, behind these twin ideas we put an enormous amount of effort, the jobs went out, the people came in and so all sides conspired against the middle, and so in earnest the American middle class was hollowed out. We made "industrial policy" into a dirty phrase, but all industrial policy is is a people wanting to have a country of their own, so we made it a dirty phrase and free trade became a god, finance became a god, the usual neo-liberalism being the preferred method of societal suicide. We had charts, graphs, a wide variety of voodoo, and luckily the Americans were suckers for anything with the word free in it. You could take the rattiest old couch in the world, toss it out on your curb and slap the word free on it and it won't be too long before some asshole will come along to pick it up.

There is a reason after all they say Uncle Sucker.

The neoconservatives were Jews who started out as Marxists, moved on to Trotsky, when the USSR became anti-jew they turned cold warriors, they didn't like the hippies so they became conservatives, whereupon they proceeded to hijack the Republican Party and led them happily into social liberalism and eternal war.

Neoconservatism was simply the realization on our part that we needed to play both sides of the fence, that to destroy White America a pincer movement was required.

We worked from the right via neo-conservatism and after all the good work the traditionalists did to build up the Republican Party we hijacked it just as that great friend of ours, that great nitwit Reagan, took over the country. We stole the Republican Party like the key from under the keeper's nose! Just like that, as is said. And by the mid eighties we had the three-legged stool, we tossed in social conservatism just to keep the rubes interested, but sending that great gentleman and scholar Mel Bradford packing was a sign of which way the wind blew—at our backs. Ah, the Paleos—we did them in with our amen corner. War, trade, open borders, it's not that hard to bring a once mighty people to their knees (simultaneously loosen social and economic controls). You see after the war America was really the only one left standing, everyone else was wading through the rubble, and it was a golden age for the average person, and we worked hard on the re-proletarianization of them, never forget that the etymology of that word is the making of slaves. And so the left got rid of social controls, the right got rid of economic ones and we played all sides against the middle---some things are so nice you need to write them twice.

And you my young friend, you know this drill better than anyone, your people bled America dry there for a while, they should have left you stagnating in your billions but they were a greedy lot, they couldn't leave well enough alone, global order and all that suicidal rot. Indeed, after letting us in bringing you into the world economy was their biggest mistake, perhaps they could have survived the one, or the other, but that one-two punch was deadly. The jobs went out, the people came in, the wages went down, the price of a housing went up, the fertility rate went down, men didn't make enough money for women to want to marry them, however counter-revolutionary that is, so bring more people in, more people in, wash, rinse, repeat, kaput. It really was that simple. It really was Satan's circle. Combine it with the rising of other countries which their foreign policy facilitated, the web of finance needs so to become global, and then when we threw in automation on top of it, it was too much for them to withstand, they buckled then they collapsed, eating bugs in sparsely appointed pods. Though I must say on the robots we held back a little, slowly in the wind and all that, there was never any reason to startle the horses or scare the womenfolk, better to let them slowly and gradually get acclimated to and even somewhat comfortable with their extinction. Satan's circle has all the time in the world to spread it's basic message.

The left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones.....

Sometime in there a famous movie was made called Falling Down. The hero is your average white collar white guy who's had enough and isn't going to take it any more and he starts mowing people down. It was adduced as an example of the angry white male phenomenon. But let's not forget that the movie was called Falling Down.

Middle American Radicals they were called. They had the right idea, of course. Go third position on us, resurrect the dead ghost of the even then living Junger, it would have been very popular in the right hands, could have carried a lot before it. A leader can always arise. But we had a stranglehold on the parties, so it was a no go, we made sure of that, donors, networks, the media, the networks, the newspapers, the magazines, the schools, we had a tight little control on things. From time to time those of us still interested in such things in the Ministry (and there are fewer and fewer as I grow old) ask each other: when was it finally over? There are still some among us that say Hitler's death was not the end and that, in theory at least, they could have sublimated the racism for the new age and have slaughtered us hard from the left and the right. It could have worked, true, in theory; but it was always an odd brew, that chimerical Third Position, that unicorn world-view, that gossamer ideology as fool's errand; and anyway no one picked up the cudgel. Well, in truth Duke did and Buchanan did, and Perot did, at least a little, taken together they were by hook and by crook honing in on a white man's third position, but they faded away and no one seemed interested in taking up a viable mantle. The problem was they were small fry and, like I said, we had a stranglehold on the parties. And so we were able quell democracy, take over the courts, make the living constitution the death of them all, and split the sides against each other; where if a leader had emerged to join the far left and the far right and bring a lot of the heartland along they could have given us a run for our money, maybe. And you know why they couldn't? Race, that's why. It was race that the conservatives were scared to deal with, wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, it was race that the far right made frightening, and that the left treated the way vampires treat holy water. The far right and the far left were naturally matched, almost peas in a pod, they were anti-Jewish, anti-Israel, anti-capitalist, anti-corporation, anti-war, anti free trade, anti-establishment, anti-finance, but race got in the way. That's what kept these perfectly natural allies from greeting up and making one last stand: race. How funny. The issue of race will always be the cross upon which they will always hang. And it's why our basic strategy was so sound: mongrelize the in-group; and their's should have been always keep it white, through thick or thin, my god, just keep it white, and all will be well, all manner of things will be well......

And it was not really true to say that whites were being dispossessed, not all of them, many came over to our side and did fine with their possession, were fine with being obedient to our general plan, it was the Paleos, the nationalists, the white nationalists, the supremacists, the middle American radicals, the alt-righters and the right dissenters, the average white man, in short, who got disestablished, but then those are just other names for the losers. That is, what was dispossessed was nothing less that whiteness itself, for they were always a people in themselves, but never for themselves, alas.

And it's not too much boasting to say we decimated the middle class. There was a time when a man could work, the wife stay home, and they could have a nice white life in a nice white city and in a nice white country, take nice white vacations, have nice white neighbors, look forward to nice white retirements, but then suddenly it all vanished, things got pinched and both husband and wife needed to work and even at that they couldn't meet the standards that they had before. How did that work? Fortress America could have saved them, autarky on one continent. But the jobs went out, the people came in......

When the epitaph of America is written it will say that this was a people who loved freedom but who from the first slave ship, to all the steamships, and to the last special exemption visa loved cheap labor more. True that.

The left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones, the jobs went out, the people came in, and all sides were played against the middle.

America really was a husk of itself by this time though it continued to live off it's admittedly dwindling accumulated capital before the law of diminishing returns took effect, something you were too young to see. If not quite eating bugs they were experiencing power outages, crowding, housing prices through the roof, under our tutelage it's always inevitable that Metropolis becomes Modern Times becomes Soylent Green....

Make Room! Make Room!

Internationally, anti-colonialism had the same goal of targeting the white man wherever he was and the promotion of the rising tide of color. White skin bad, dark skin good, we had our mantra, simple is as simple does. Rhodesia, South Africa, two once thriving white countries that we turned into test cases, then black basket cases. And you'll notice how the white power structure all around the world heaped massive opprobrium on the only countries who had the right idea, the ones with the spines of steel, their backbones still intact, the ones who could have resurrected the chances of the white man, in embryo true, but one must start somewhere. But to get the white man to kill the white man's chances, to sell out their brothers in arms, it's rather easy when you've ruled rule Britannia out of bounds. We know who lost America.

We might pause here to say: and the Jews were behind all of this? Yes, we were, we were very much indeed, we most emphatically were. I don't and won't supply footnotes to this, but safe to say find a movement, a tendency, an attempt to tear down something Christian, something traditional, something American, something white and behind it you're sure to find more than a few Jews in the woodpile, we have our fingers in every pie, if none in the dike. After us, my lord, the deluge.

Someone once asked me what my social philosophy was and in lieu of anything else I told him: dark skin good, white skin bad. And though we don't believe a word of it it's true: our stroke of genius was to get enough white people to believe that white people were immoral, there was the slavery, the colonialism, the treatment of women, the Indians, the aboriginals, it's life you say, but we made them hate life, made them hate living, made them hate their people. So naive were they, so enmeshed in a bubble of their own making, that they believed the nonsense, believed the lie. The white man immoral! But who isn't? One shoots Gandhi doesn't one? The American generation that came of age in the mid sixties will go down as simultaneously the most lucky, the most stupid, and the most evil ever born; they literally inherited the world and their response was to fuck in the mud. What can one say about such a people save good riddance?

We hit our true genius, really, well after the miraculous decade of the 1960s. When did it start? When is the fist time you heard the phrase political correctness? When did you first hear that even more important phrase: dead white males? Dead white males, more of them please! In a very real way the madness that came to fruition in the teens of the next century, all of it, can be traced back to that single phrase from the 1980s: dead white males! smash the patriarchy! down with the classics! Hey Hey Ho Ho Western Civ has got to go! It seemed harmless or amusing at the time to many but these were our poisonous growths that bore deadly fruit. That a so-called serious nation would countenance such refuse is justification enough for it's demise but here's the truth: they ate it up, the flagellants ate it up, or enough of them did. When a nation becomes busy abrogating it's past perk up your ears, something big is going on. It's true that in the grand scheme of things the 1960s made the splash but my heart's always been with the 1980s, for the sheer audacity of subversion. That's when multiculturalism and the "studies" revolution got into full swing, that's when immigration hit it's ongoing fever pitch, when neoconservatism made it's vertical ascent, that's when the American mind finally closed. Reagan and Thatcher were supposed to be leading some kind of counter-revolution but in fact those two were not even speed bumps on the road to degeneracy: they were it's necessary accelerants, neo-liberals always are. Mr. Enoch Powell once told the Thatcher woman that he'd defend England to the death were it to become communist, which baffled Maggie, which is the difference between a being a real racial patriot and being a mercenary bitch.

And here we get to the heart of the matter, or near it, or near enough. When you can get them codify their own racial destruction, to exalt it as their ideal, to grant it the legitimacy of an ideology, to get them them to work for it and defend it as moral, you've achieved something. And such was multiculturalism, the famed French living together. Some time in the 1950s some idiot came up with the theory called Contact Theory. He had noticed that racial tensions seemed endemic to all societies and he thought that it was because the races didn't really know one another, and that the more they did, the more they lived among one another, the more they lived together, the more contact they had, the more the tensions would be eased or erased, the more contact the more getting along; but of course he had it basackwards, the tension was due to the fact that they knew each other all too well, and contact theory was a theory that was stillborn, dead in the cradle, contact theory was a theory that did not survive it's first contact with reality; life is nothing but a state of nature, a state of war, the war of all against all, is nothing but demographic conflict, no matter how much prosperity papers it over, for a while. Which is why, of course, we went in so big for the mixing.

The remarkable thing about Bowling Alone is not that it shows that the presence of diversity means that there is less social trust between the groups, that much is obvious, but that even within the groups the trust decreases, as if the presence of several out groups makes the in group turn on themselves........

It's what we counted on.

I've heard that multiculturalism was just an ex post facto rationalization for the surprise of diversity. This doesn't give us enough credit. We've known from the beginning that the 90 percent white country was bad for us, that every bit of white racial decline meant our power grew; and if society was split up among many factions we would be the most powerful, it really was as simple as that. It took us half a century but when the civil rights movement made race hatred out of bounds, how could they deny their tolerance to the rest of the world? Of all the things that happened in that era it was the one on October 3, 1965 which was the most important. Everything else could have come later, would have come later, eventually. But once starting out on the road to race diversity, to race mixing, to race amalgamation, to social miscegenation, to the destruction of White America, there was no turning back. And we did it at the time when their wealth had put them asleep and when they woke up they found that their decline and then demise was completely entrenched in the system, it was an unstoppable and vast machinery of undermining the fabric of the country, Mr. Johnson signed a suicide note......

Pavlov was never prouder of his dinner bell than we were of our "racist"—salivating is one thing but making them grovel is a difference of an order of magnitude.

In the 1970s a moderate form of scientific racism returned in the guise of sociobiology, the so-called return of human nature. It was a measure of how successful we were that when Nixon called Dan Moynihan to discuss Herrnstein's book the first thing that the latter says is be sure no one in the White House knew he was reading it, Nixon agreed, as if he were reading a dirty book, which he was, which he was.

Richard Dawkins was the man who put forth the idea that genes were amoral monsters blindly pursuing a relentless will to power but who in his dotage became a dreamy humanitarian. So much for him, so obedient to the plan.

And you have to admit that in our time period it was a real coup d'etat, though the outlines of it could not be seen until years later. It was even more, truly, than an overwriting of the script, it was the engrafting of an alien ideology onto a healthy host, a healthy body. And it was a real rout. The master narratives were dead and we placed chaos at it's heart. If it was standing we knocked it down. In 1997 President Bill Clinton said that his country was on the cusp of the third great American revolution, when America ceased to be a European Country. The first two had been disasters, the third would mean death, but his Oregon audience of young white people applauded their own demise, they clapped not for themselves, and certainly not for their posterity.....

If we have just left the long period of the great unraveling, we now move on to the penultimate one, the Knockout Blow (2000—2030). Unfortunately by the time the 2010s had arrived the catch phrase "cultural revolution" had been taken; really it was perpetual; perhaps we could call it the Social Revolution. Some of have said it was that old American favorite, a Great Awakening, with more than a few burnt-over districts.

In 2005 Sam Huntington, scion of The Mayflower generation, wrote his civic nationalist screed Who Are We? He opened it with flags in Boston which reminds me by then more than a few had been ejected from their heritage. The flags had come out in honor of 9/11, and it was good that we channeled the righteous anger into good old fashioned patriotism that was as American as your mother. A smarter country would have seen that it was the very notion of exceptionalism that had brought on this discontent, the belief in mission, the universalizing mission, the making the world safe for, the shining city on a hill, the dedication to, all to be tied bewilderingly, if not inexplicably, to the idea and reality of the Jewish state (miracle of god). When Truman recognized us in 1948 nearly the entire American foreign policy establishment was against it, they knew America was hooked in with the oil and why antagonize 100 million people? But that ex-Klansman was the same guy who said that the 1924 Immigration Restriction Act went against the wishes of no less a personage than Jesus Christ himself and he wanted to be King Cyrus, the fool.

Decades later, and decades ago, a similar irrational orgy of Old Glory broke out in your province of Hong Kong, and as I saw it on the television I had to laugh up my sleeve, these Hong Kongers unfurling a symbol that was by then long dead, by then no one on the left believed it, no one paying attention on the right did, only a few old war horses dreamt of Ronald Reagan in the night, wave it for the Gipper, you know, but those protesters they were just the pallbearers of a dead ideology, appealing to a defunct ghost.

A smarter country would have become a hermit kingdom, would have created Fortress America, would have thrown up walls, and tariff walls, closed the draw bridges and brought everyone home, instead they plunged into the world and brought in more Muslims and more of everyone than ever, suicidal tendencies die hard.

We are a patient people and we had our Witzes and our Bergs, and our Wolfs, and our Steins in the Defense Department for decades, blueprinting little Israel's wars as America's wars, it took us a while but soon enough we cashed in; our amen corner is very powerful; when Patrick J. Buchanan opposed the first Gulf War he said only two groups favored it, the IDF and that American amen corner; when he opposed the second we brought in one of our own from Canada to call him un-American which, in hindsight, was laying it on a little thick, that was one glint-eyed black Irish who would kill for America. But it worked, the war fever brought out the worst in them, discredited the Paleos, to the point where some of them must have been thinking they used to be outraged by the allegation that America was the Great Satan but now they saw the point, it's a phrase that has traveled well. And so they got bogged down in endless, pointless, expensive wars, our wars, wars without end, the ones we inveigled them in, split the country further; Huntington noted that the flags on Beacon street eventually dwindled but the chaos we left behind endured; it always does.

I myself was ambivalent for a while about the value of Israel. It put us too much on the radar, it was nice to flee to, but why wave a flag to point out how obvious what one is doing. But I think I was wrong, broad daylight was best, flagrant is the best disguise, and we had those Americans groveling at our feet, hands on that wailing wall with a look on their face like they just had a religious climax, small hat on head, ours, ours, all ours; one elected official once said that they got their morality not from government but from us, yes sir. And when they fought our wars, sent their very own children, flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood, to die for us it just put the most emphatic of periods on the last words of their suicide note.

The word goy does not strictly speaking mean cattle, that's a sort of slang, what the word means is one who is a little dim, a little obtuse, not too quick on the uptake, not the brightest star in the firmament, nor the deepest river in the forest, is too trusting, and with a singular inability to detect deceit.

The neocons were a strange breed, flagrant in their allegiances, they started out as anti-American reds, but when the USSR turned on Jews they got on board with the liberal establishment, wormed their way in you may say.......

In 1981 Hollywood made a television movie called Skokie, with several major stars, celebrating the fact that the ACLU defended the rights of Nazis to march through what they called a Jewish neighborhood filled with Holocaust survivors; the chances of Hollywood making such a movie forty year later were exactly zero. See obedient comma general plan.

And yes from 1981 to, say, 2017, was a real sea change (consult the demographic charts for the reason). Some put the great awakening in the year 2013, which is as convenient as any. It's when we cast any caution aside and began to dismantle whiteness in a big way, brick by brick, really, so that no one stone was any more atop the other. And when they asked me later why we wanted to dismantle whiteness I always said that every criminal wants to be rid of the evidence of their crime, especially when they have no plans on fleeing scene, having long since taken possession of it.

Look at free speech. Look at the record. Mario Savio went to a sit in, and they clamored for it. Hollywood made a film by one of our own celebrating the First Amendment, The People v. Larry Flynt. As long as we were injecting them with degeneracy, lies, subversion, and filth we loved free speech, fought to the death for it, but if they tried to defend White America we put them in a cage. Safe spaces became the fashion, making the world safe for us.

Some cry out as they strike you, others say sorry as they're struck.

And what happened at this time was really phenomenal. It was as if every poisonous fruit that had been stored since the mid sixties had suddenly threw off perfect spores and bloomed--—the 'woke' arose as one to reap their rewards. Statues were toppled with abandon, genders blurred, reputations smeared, pictures taken down, heroes debunked, streets re-named, whiteness pilloried (from pillar to post), murals from the 1930s were trashed, masculinity was reviled, books were banned, people were purged, channels were deleted, anti-semitism was deplored, anti-racism took center stage, fascists were de-monteized, campuses were taken over, professors were shouted down, Nazis were punched, conferences were cancelled, speech was curtailed, it was a Talibanic orgy, I tell you if it was standing we knocked it down, a great erasure was in place, as whiteness every where was under assault. Imagine that! Whiteness under assault! White America was no more! No self respecting people allow a race of aliens to scrawl graffiti at the base of their temples, and no self respecting people allow themselves to become servants in their own homes. But we were not dealing with a self respecting people; we were dealing with a fentanyl addled, opioid addicted, self-flagellant, guilty, cringing, dying race, a defeated people having been ejected from their heritage. There were exceptions, of course, there always are. But just because some take to the hills doesn't mean we haven't pacified the countryside.

The retroactive criminalization of the past is a sign post of revolutionary dictatorship, it says as much right there in our manuals.

And somewhere in their too capital got woke, and antifa became the ground troops of the establishment, the left became complicit in global capitalism, in the new world order, no mean feat really, that. It is a truth universally recognized that mass immigration is nothing more nor less than a transfer of wealth from the working class to investors. I always imagined some multinational CEO watching the left scream for open borders, and the cold contempt that he must have for them as they did his bidding, did it with such vehemence. Well, they were doing our bidding too, as was the CEO, as was nearly everyone, let me repeat again, the left got rid of social controls, the right economic ones, and all sides ganged up on the middle. But the way in which Big Technology, the corporations, went left, if in name only, how they bought off the radical's complaints, how they were somewhat taken aback by Occupation Wall Street, so went all in on men in women's bathrooms and drag queens flashing little children in public libraries to nip an outbreak of class warfare in the bud, was a thing to behold. The Democrat Party became the party of the rich, the Republican party remained a hand maiden and we, as ever, prevailed.

The thing about the Great Awakening was it's burnt-over areas, it's moral puritanism. People need to believe in something, and unlike us, they were not able to believe in their race. So they glommed on to a "morality" which was fine as long as their morality was the morality we spoon fed them—"white skin bad, dark skin good". And they took it up with a vengeance, as if to our manner born.........

And of course every action has a reaction but by this time everything was dyed in the wool. I say the ship had sailed for Europeans in 1945 but my more cautious colleagues in the ministry say they still could have resisted, that 1990 was more like it. They could be right. But certainly the so-called "populist movements" which reared their ugly heads in 2015-2016 were a pop gun in a thermonuclear blast. They were going to take back their countries! As if they weren't already ours. Reporters went on safaris in the hinterland of Pennsylvania to see what the natives were thinking which was: we're fucked. Ah, by then they were walking across moonscapes filled with opium eaters. And to be fair, of course, to get the chronology right, you can trace the lineage back before that, there were the old school die-hard and preeminent racists like Oliver and Pierce, hell, at his death the latter, who had taken over an ill run and defunct organization, was raking in millions a year—but he died. As for Oliver, their true crown prince, the pristine defender of whiteness in it's purest form, our boy Buckley put paid to him like he did so many, it's always nice to see an exaggerated high WASP accent so in sympathy with our needs. And of course their ilk had the right idea but we had so prevailed that they were the skunks at the garden party, pariahs to our paragons, their names were mud. And as specified you had your Paleos and then the alt right and then the Dissident Right and then the—again on the right track but Hitler sent his goons to bust up our shops due to one of ours being an assassin—it was a far cry from that, you need broad popular support and a leader to kill your enemies. As for the populists they were supposedly White America fighting back, but it was a last gasp of a dying people, as the next decade proved. If you want your people to survive keep a ninety percent majority, and stay in fighting trim, that's what I would have told them at the time, had they asked.

They would have been better off had they resigned themselves that they were not going to stop society's leftward drift, they were not going to stop globalism, they were not going to stop the market's voraciousness, they were not going to reverse white demographic decline, they were not going to deport thirty million people, and instead put all their efforts into becoming an unreconstructed white minority that would become the sharp bone that gets caught in our throat, which we could neither swallow nor digest. But they wanted to get their country back, not realizing it had long since been lost.

That arch racist Jean Raspail wrote a novel called Who Will Remember The People? It is about the eradication of an indigenous South American tribe as the result of repeated encroachment and invasions, and he wrote it because he believed that nothing on earth is sadder than to witness the passing away of a people, any people, or to witness the passing away of a distinct way of life.

And indeed the year 2020 was the year that anyone who had been following the bouncing ball could see everything clearly, it was after all our jealous god who made this joke. And of course the 20s were the watershed, when it went from this to that, and after that, truly, the deluge. Prior to that the man on the street may have thought the matter was in doubt (it wasn't) but by the middle of that decade everyone had thrown in the towel. They spoke of civil war, they spoke of boogaloo, but too many were obedient to our upward drift, and using a gun was getting increasingly legally perilous. We had the full might and main and force of the most powerful government in the history of the world at our backs, we had the technology companies, we had the entire media including the controlled opposition, we had the entertainment complexes, we had the universities, the secondary schools, we had the internet channels, we had both parties, and each and every one blared out the slow drum beat of a victorious and irreversible world-view and, as a backstop, should things ever get dicey, we had the military, we had the big city police departments. And too we had totally completed the job of labeling anyone and everyone who spoke the truth as a thought criminal and worse. The back of the American people was totally broken, though not all really realized it, they thought they were being moral; but nothing is more degrading than being a servant in your own home, or enjoyable than ruling in a stranger's land.

And over time we amped up our war on the thing we hate the most, hate. We perfected our algorithms to the point where if you searched for Adolf Hitler you got redirected to Yad Vashem.

And oh how they took to canceling whiteness, that incubating virus, that cancer of world history (or so we said). They had their invisible knapsacks, their white skin privilege, they handed over microphones, they granted everyone else special privileges, they honored foreign races, they enshrined minority heroes, they ruled themselves out of bounds, they sat in the back of the bus for a change, they made way for their replacements, they dug their own graves, they deemed themselves immoral, they befriended their daughter's rapist, they forgave their child's murderer, they paid for their own demise, they universalized themselves out of existence, they excused themselves for living, they broke faith with their ancestors, they anathematized their own history, they took down their own statues, they erased their heritage, they surrendered to the tyranny of guilt.

We made up the word genocide, so it seems like it's up to us to employ it. And the thing about this White Genocide (for let's drop the charade and call it by it's proper, formal name) is that when you've combined humanism and genocide you've really accomplished something, if there were to be any future historians they would surely see this genocide as unique among genocides in that they would take as a given that the perpetrators are the good guys. And of course I don't need to tell you that there are plenty of white people around, you see them every day, but whiteness is a dead letter, it's kaput, has crapped out. We don't ask for much in exchange for living, just obedience and attention and a good word for ourselves now and again.

Human rights was our battle cry, but it was human rights turned upside down, to commit a crime against humanity in the name of humanity is quite a feat, to dress up tyranny as tolerance, enslavement as freedom, standardization as diversity, genocide as the rights of peoples. By violence and make believe we conquered the world.

There were pockets of resistance, of course, there always are, some dyed-in-the- woolers routinely take to the hills for their ritual Masada, as we said there is always the pruning of the weeds and the mopping up to do, from time to time, now and again, one must mow the lawn. The nationalist populist movements of the teens fizzled out, still born in their cradle, the last gasp of the white man before the death rattle could be heard clearly by all. Those dissenters online, the tin pot Nazis, liked to play name that Jew. Occasionally some white man would go armada like into one of our places of worship and mow down a couple dozen but they were pariahs before the fact, and whatever last rights to guns they had would be curtailed further in the fire and brimstone hysteria we cranked up in the wake of it. The fact is they were like the alleged folks at Masada, no match for the Romans in a mood. And as you know even these are now few and far between, symbolic Germany has finally been pastoralized, the people subject to a universalizing mission, to complete pacification. And, really, what is a score of slain Jews placed along side eternal victory? At the drop of hat I'd buy it cheap even as I'd sell it dear. Hell, I'd pledge six million if forced, not that we did, but if we had to, mind you. Wave that bloody shirt boy, wave it until the cows come home, call it a steal at the price. We no longer cry out as we strike them.

Somewhere in there an aging aesthete gave the bootless cry: you will not replace us!, and this big replacement of his gained a tremendous currency in dissident circles, and was ridiculed by us, articles were written, etc., umbrage taken; we of course laughed up our sleeves knowing that we replaced him long ago; portrayed him as a Nazi and responsible for all sorts of crimes, standard operating procedure, pretty perfunctory. And this was the same man who a little while previously had glorified random sex with rough trade in the bushes, he did our work for us when he had the chance, he was fully obedient to the general plan; and then on the other end, to soften the cushion of his graceless fall from society, he ran around screaming that the replacers were the real Nazis—while the opposite was apposite—at least the torch bearers had the courage to name names: Jews will not replace us! Jews will not replace us! The magic word! Talmud and Taboo! But you, you sly fox, you of the large replacement, you aging aesthete, you Gay Icon, you changed it to You. Good one. So much for him, so long Marianne.

The Great Replacement was the most important event in world history. When the first Englishman stepped foot in Virginia it rocked the world, but when English culture went it was ten times as shattering.

Relative to their present mongrelization it's interesting that a first century Roman described his beloved city as the universal pot into which the cloaca of the entire world is emptied. It's what happens when you become nothing more than a legal entity, an economic zone, and a universal refuge, situated at the crossroads of the world.

And truly all of the so-called Greats, the Great Plague, The Great War, and the Great Depression, were all small relative to this Great Replacement (because of course the theory was true): and what antiquarians there are will wonder is how this once proud and confident people ended up getting History's backhand. Low numbers can't explain it. With that large a lead they could easily have set a glide path for themselves, doing decolonization, say, in the 1970s rather than the 1950s, parceling out rights gradually, under tutelage, white man's burden, etc., and slapping them down in the meantime, but they didn't have the stomach for it. Had they, their future would have been secure. But, oh, they were greedy bastards and they engaged in the Great White Civil War, and then it was my God what have we done!---and they self-immolated in an orgy of self-recrimination. A man can survive anything except a bad conscience.

And so we created the universal slum, the global favela. Make room! Make room! We were going to have them living in pods and eating bugs which, while not quite true, was nice to slip into the stream, paranoid fantasies are the stuff of future plans. But we did and have proletarianized the masses, and they are on their way to being the coffee colored serfs, docile and compliant, that we've always wanted for our world-wide plantation.

And in so doing what we did was make the world safe for Jews. Can there be any other proper aim for a people? We proscribed them, we outlawed them, we made them illegal, we de-platformed them, we de-monetized them, we branded them as criminals, we stigmatized them, we made them unacceptable in polite society, we held hearings on them, we called them immoral, we called them evil, we targeted them, took down their channels, we demoralized them, we banned speech, we banned words, we banned hand gestures, we cancelled people, we made certain that everyone knew that it was certainly not ok to be white, and left them in disarray, and all of this in their own home. Our home now. Who's even going to think about saying boo about a Jew? No one: that's who.

As for your people and mine, comrade, we reached an honorable stalemate, one could not do without the other, the chessboard was complete and no further moves to be made. And so we reached our accord, our separate peace. When you think about the great peoples of the world, the Japanese, the English, the Germans, it's only us who will last and that's really the only metric that matters. You'll run the machine and we'll be your lawyers and media consultants, you'll supply the violence, we the make believe. For after all a master race is one that masters.

Now that whiteness is little more than a rumor.

Any country created on paper is subject to hijacking by a different people with different words or that can give new meanings to the old ones.

And that my good friend is about how we did it. If I went a little rapidly over the latter years it's because I know that was when you came of age and at that time your country still paid particularly close attention to the baiuzo, as a curiosity, as a weakness to be manipulated or exploited, though now they are smart and don't teach much history other than the bare minimum, like we won, they lost and so forth. Like us you are a practical people and don't go around digging up graveyards, the past is now just a fable we dreamt up.

But to answer your very good question: how did we put paid to the white man?

Two police officers in No Country For Old Men are in a Texas diner in 1980 and one says he saw a boy with green hair and a hoop through his nose, never thought he'd ever see such a thing, never thought he'd see the like, and the other one says well, once they stop saying sir and ma'am, everything else follows.

It's so true, it's the little things that count.

Few individual in history have the honor of being simultaneously utter geniuses and complete nincompoops. Leo Tolstoy is one, John Lennon another. A third is Thomas Jefferson. So befuddled was he that when he got one of his state of the art coaches from London and found he didn't have the cash he was surprised to be told by his creditors that his slaves could serve as collateral; and he signed them over forthwith, pleased with the discovery. He did invent the swivel chair, however, to his eternal credit. As a matter of fact I'm sitting on one right now.

The white man had a good run in North America but it didn't take, it turns out it wasn't just the republic they couldn't keep, it was the continent

Jefferson was going to Germanize the Great Lakes in this endless farming republic of his, freedom would be reborn in the city of Big Shoulders. Herrs and Fraus up to their eyes in liberty and manure, all the live long day. But in fact it was mild mannered professors in that second city who would drive daggers into that wonderful creation of his, that beautiful small scale nation of villages.

If there was one idea which served us in good stead, did us yeoman's work (in honor of the sage of Charlottesville) it was that America was a proposition nation. A people become an idea! Universalize oneself out of existence! Rather a people is blood, time, history, heritage, lineage, ancestry. The railsplitter and logic chopper came along and said that his nation was better than those that came before, it was dedicated to a proposition. Better it should have been dedicated to itself. Had it been it might have lasted.

And so we return to our old question, your question, or two really. How did we do it? The answer to that is to answer when there was no turning back, when it was written in stone, when did the white man prove to have his identity graven in water?

It was all right there in the beginning really—that ill advised rhetorical flourish—all men are created equal. It did us yeoman's work, stillborn, dead in the cradle.

Some people are born in the mists of time; others in a Quaker Meeting Hall.

As you know working in the ministry I have access to all kinds of records, deep in the minutiae, and from time to time I have time on my hands. When I do one of my underlings who knows my sense of humor will send me something. Just the other day I found in my box an old commercial that ran for a while on one of our Jew networks. It was a white man, a southerner by lineage, one of our collaborators, a traitor obedient to the general plan, a middlebrow historian of some repute, the kind of person they trotted out when something serious was going on, the way in the old days you knew it was important when they served you up that hoary old bag of bones Doris Goodwin. His voice over was simple, the message was clear. He said that America was not a nation founded on a birthright but on the ascent towards an idea, an idea enshrined in-----

An ascent to an idea, an assent to an idea, I could not have put it better myself had I tried.

Whites created the civilization that we inherited, it's their world, but we are the only possessors, the only inheritors, and what succeeded their civilization is not a civilization but an anti-civilization, an anti-culture, an anti-history, the machine goes on as before but becomes more and more indistinguishable from what operates it.

It's one thing to be able to create a world but it's another thing to take it over. We were a numerically small people so our adaptation was to feast on what other's had made; from a survival point of view it makes perfect sense, finding the niche that expands to a world; because what is survival but inheritance, being an inheritor?

And when I take in the grand sweep of this history it takes my breath away. A small people hemmed in all sides by enemies, beaten back by all, but always pushing back and making gains, but still by the beginning of 20th century most of us were mired in miserable Cracow ghettos and speaking a snarling and barbaric Yiddish, or just filing off of the boats in New York Harbor and catching a first glimpse of the green breast of the New World. A hundred years later we controlled the levers of government, the commanding heights of the culture, the movie studios, the technology companies, the universities, had the military committed to making the world safe for Israel-—you know the list. Yes, we went straight vertical, hoisted ourselves on the petard of this new colossus, it was always the horse we were going to ride.

Yes, it was our century, just as the present one will be yours and mine.

That once they got a taste of capitalism China would morph into a Western style democracy was classic neoliberal folly, steeped as it was in a defunct 18th century paradigm, they were baffled that race, blood, history, time, lineage, ancestry are all older than ideologies which they've already vanquished.

It is impossible for two percent of the population to generate a country's dominant ideology without millions upon millions of collaborators. A people unwilling to defend itself deserves to perish. They say that every nation builds it's monuments and writes it's epitaph, but in their case they built them, we tore them down and, in the end, we wrote it. It went: we wish die.

Seemingly eons ago some egghead and fool announced the end of history, just when it was resuming. The cold war had locked it in amber but glasnost was appearing—and we were just coming into the completeness of our power. But now history has come to a close, we have ended it. They went gently into that good night in the end, what else could they do, we having won the game of global domination; we had to, really, win it that is, because we realized early on that the future is much too important to leave to humanity.

Tomorrow belongs to us.

The arc of history bends toward those who bend it. Those who believe otherwise bend beneath it.

Those who knew Bill Pierce remarked that he seemed to bear no personal animosity towards the Jews, it was as if he knew that to do so would be as absurd as to be outraged that animals kill one another in the wild when that is simply the nature of what they do. I agree, there was never anything personal about it, nothing personal at all, it's just that it was always going to be us or them. You see, they were in our way, and I really hope there are no hard feelings.

A thousand year Reich is child's play to the likes of you and me, a perfect example of shot term thinking—a sprint. Which is nothing for an immortal race. Only the strong can inherit the earth, only the ascendant can possess it.

And here we come to an end, their end, though our beginning. This turned out longer than I hoped, though I could have gone on; I hope I haven't bored you. If against my advice you do choose to keep a copy of this I flatter myself that I've hit the nexus of it, and that in some future time some recondite scholar of odd lore may think it contributed perhaps a little to this vexed and fascinating question.

But anyway, enough of them---to us, comrade--a glass!

Yours Obediently,

Jacob

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