#m. magister
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INCREDIBLE new footage from John Sanders at Redondo!!!
Here's why:
The question is up in the air as to whether the bluntnose sixgill shark (Hexanchus griseus) is a primarily a predator or scavenger. The answer is likely both when looking at other predators in its niche, but this footage is another key to confirming the hypothesis that they are primarily scavengers.
In the past, H. griseus has been recorded ingesting crabs and spitting them out at a bait station specifically for the crabs. This was interesting to me because crustaceans supposedly make up a decent portion of their diet. Why wouldn't the observed shark eat the crabs even if it couldn't get the fish meat inside the trap?
A more recent study, which I also wrote about, found tissues from a young dolphin in the stomach of an H. griseus from the western Mediterranean Sea. These are not fast sharks. There were not brittle stars or other scavenging organisms in the stomach, suggesting that the shark got to the dolphin before the others, if it was scavenged and not predated. Among other little details that I go into further detail in that post.
To the point: In this video, we see three H. griseus at a bait station crowded with pacific spiny dogfish (Squalus suckleyi) and red rock crabs (Cancer productus). There was one Dungeness crab (Metacarcinus magister) and one flatfish that may be a rock sole (Lepidopsetta bilineata) or an English sole (Parophrys vetulus). All gathered to feed on the salmon meat placed by the divers. Repeatedly in the footage, we see the H. griseus ingest crabs and spit them out alive.
Why? Well, it appears that they are only interested in the salmon flesh and may have been trying to steal the morsels that the crabs were pinching away at. In one instance, an H. griseus goes for a whole gathering of crabs. Doesn't eat a single one. Now, to draw any conclusion from this would require a lot of assumptions. I assume that these crabs had salmon meat in their claws and I assume that the sharks got the flesh before spitting the crabs out. That need not be the case to still support my hypothesis that these sharks are primarily scavengers.
These sharks had multiple opportunities to eat any number of the other visitors to the feast. In one moment, an S. suckleyi was right at the rostrum of one of the H. griseus and the latter didn't even try to eat the former. This could be because S. suckleyi has venomous spines; perhaps it is learned or instinctual not to try and eat them. But then there's the C. productus. Other that having a slippery carapace, there is little the crab could do that would prove fatal if eaten live. And then there's the flatfish, which has no natural defenses or hazards.
All of this points to scavenger behavior.
I am blown away by this footage (and extremely envious of this diver). Even though my ROV is OOC, I still get observe these sharks in one way or another.
#eukarya#animalia#chordates#chondrichthyes#elasmobranchs#selachimorpha#hexanchiformes#hexanchidae#hexanchus griseus#h. griseus#c. productus#cancer productus#red rock crab#metacarcinus magister#m. magister#dungeness crab#pacific spiny dogfish#squalus suckleyi#s. suckleyi#english sole#parophrys vetulus#p. vetulus#rock sole#northern rock sole#southern rock sole#lepidopsetta bilineata#l. bilineata#john sanders#redondo#wa
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Satansplain #056 – Past Occultism, 7 Hermetic Principles, Creationism
Occultism of the past! The 7 Hermetic Principles! The cosmic questions of human origin! Hear why none of these things are really applicable to Satanism.
Satansplain #056 – Past Occultism, 7 Hermetic Principles, Creationism
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#7 hermetic principles#aleister crowley#anton lavey#atheism#Church of Satan#creationism#evolution#hermeticism#intelligent design#levi#magister bill m.#occultism#raelian movement#raelianism#satanic bible#Satanism#Satansplain#thelema
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“I was all alone now– on my own. My throat was dry, my heart pounded, and my mind fought to stay focused. I pulled on a pair of short black leather gloves and stepped to face Charley. He looked into my eyes with love and trust and formally surrendered by inclining his head to my chest. I embraced him.
Slowly, trying not to look like a nervous colt, I moved around behind Charley and began to caress his broad, muscular back, which was stretched flat from his arms being bound and extended. With my right index finger I began to draw a pattern on his back. The roomful of men was quiet but restless and questioning. What was the kid doing? These were unfamiliar gestures. Running a fingertip over someone’s back might be odd, even kinky, but was it sadism? They kept quiet and watched.
What no one knew was that I had embedded a razor-sharp scalpel into the fingertip of my glove. The tracery I was creating on Charley’s back was being gently cut into the topmost layer of his skin– not quite deep enough to raise blood but just enough to split the skin. It only took a few minutes to create the design but to me those moments seemed like hours. Then I stepped back, picked up a broad leather paddle, and with all the force I could muster, smacked the paddle flat against Charley’s back three times. The impact caused the skin to split open and the blood to rush to the surface and fill the thin lines that I had cut into his back. Slowly at first and then more quickly, the blood oozed out until the full design became clear to everyone in the room. I had cut a large, smiling sunburst into my lover’s back. Under the sunburst were the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY. A little humor can go a long, long way. The gasps of wonder and amusement in the room were my reward. I had begun the evening as a lanky kid but now I had earned my place among serious men.
Jason was the first to grab me. Where, he wondered, had I learned that nasty trick? I explained that I’d thought it up on my own and confessed that I had to practice on my own arms and legs until I developed the right touch. He howled with laughter when I told him that Charley had believed my story about the cuts being cat scratches.
My relationship with Charley deepened and became more profound for us both. It was to be forever in our hearts and minds.”
–From the essay One Among Many: the Seduction and Training of a Leatherman by Thom Magister, from the book Leatherfolk: Radical Sex, People, Politics and Practice, edited by Mark Thompson
This excerpt is from the author’s debut as a S/M top into his 1950s leather community, & I thought his invention of a proto-vampire glove was really interesting! The whole essay is thought-provoking, romantic, & sexy.
#Leatherfolk#Thom Magister#s&m literature#leather literature#gay literature#kink tag#robin book club#dial p for post
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Miles M.14a Magister P6382/G-AJRS, Old Warden, 07-09-2014 by Gordon Riley
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A warm warning ☢️. Desert Blister Beetle (Lytta Magister)
Shot on OLYMPUS E-M10 Mark IV M.60mm F2.8 Macro
#nature#photography#environment#arizona#nature photography#naturemaxxing#macro photography#beetleposting#desert#orange#black#bugs#insects
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happy pride people of the internet
is your gender a bit fucky? are you tired of the same old same old honorifics? are you simply just bored and looking for some reading material? well youre in luck!
in my scouring of this site ive yet to find one giant list of alternate honorifics/prefixes/titles or whatever you want to call them (maybe i didnt look hard enough, who knows) so i decided "fuck it! let me make my own." it took a while to find these and i definitely have to thank the gender census for a lot of them. (note: this is probably not all possible prefixes! these are just what i could find and what i could find pronunciations for (excluding part 4). feel free to mention any others & their pronunciations!)
anyways! continue below the part
part one: matching
these honorifics/prefixes/titles look similar enough to mr/ms/mrs/miss while also not being those. and no, its not just mx! note: for space purposes there may be a list of titles with one pronunciation
1. m.
can be pronounced em, mist, messer, master, or magister
2. m*.
pronounced miss-star
3. ma.
pronounced mistra
4. me.
can be pronounced mew or messer
5. mg.
can be pronounced mage or magister
6. mir.
pronounced mir
7. msc. ; misc.
pronounced misk, shortened from miscellaneous
8. mist. ; mrm. ; msm. ; mtr.
pronounced mistrum
9. ml.
pronounced mistrel
10. mm.
can be pronounced mistum or mistrum
11. mn.
pronounced mine
12. mnt.
pronounced mount
13. mq.
can be pronounced mick or marquis
14. mre.
can be pronounced mistree or mystery
15. mrsr.
pronounced merser
16. mrw.
pronounced morrow
17. mry. ; mse. ; mys. ; myst.
pronounced mystery
18. msr.
can be pronounced messr or misser
19. msry.
pronounced misry
20. mssr.
pronounced messer
21. mst.
pronounced mist
22. mstr.
pronounced master
23. mt.
can be pronounced mount or mistrum
24. mtx.
pronounced matrix
25. mu.
pronounced as written
26. mv.
pronounced maverique
27. mw.
can be pronounced mew or morrow
28. mx.
can be pronounced mix, mex, mux, mixter, mistrum, or monselle
29. mxr.
pronounced mixer
30. myr.
pronounced myster
31. mz.
pronounced miz
32. mzr.
can be pronounced mezzir or mezzer
part two: branching
these honorifics/prefixes/titles are the same as part one, but they look different from the "default" format. so many letters. note: for space purposes there may be a list of titles with one pronunciation
1. an.
pronounced any
2. c. ; cap. ; capt. ; cpt. ; cptn. ; ct.
pronounced captain
3. cd. ; cde. ; cmd. ; cmr. ; cmrd. ; com.
pronounced comrade
4. cit. ; ctz. ; cz. ; czn.
pronounced citizen
5. cnst.
pronounced constellation
6. cr.
can be pronounced comrade or cryptid
7. de.
pronounced done
6. div.
pronounced div, shortened from individual
7. dm.
pronounced dame
8. dr.
pronounced doctor
9. drst.
pronounced dearest
10. em.
pronounced as written
11. en.
can be pronounced enby or entity
12. ent.
pronounced entity
13. eu.
pronounced eunuch
14. fh.
pronounced fellow human
15. fw.
pronounced fellow worker
16. hm.
pronounced human
17. hon.
pronounced on, shortened from honorable
18. hx.
pronounced hex
19. ind.
pronounced as written, shortened from individual
20. inv.
pronounced inevitable
21. jan.
pronounced as written
22. lic.
pronounced licenciature
23. nb.
pronounved en bee, shortened from nonbinary
24. nl.
pronounced null
25. nr.
pronounced nister
26. nx.
can be pronounced nix or nex
27. per. ; pr.
can be pronounced per or person
28. phl.
pronounced philosophe
29. prof.
pronounced professor
30. rab.
pronounced rabbi
31. rev.
pronounced reverand
32. sai.
pronounced sigh
33. san.
pronounced as written
34. ser.
can be pronounced ser or serah
35. sr.
can be pronounced sir or serrah
36. syr.
pronounced as written
37. sys.
pronounced system
38. the.
pronounced as written
39. tr.
can be pronounced ter or teacher
40. vd.
pronounced void
41. vr.
pronounced ver
42. vx.
can be pronounced vix or vex
43. xr.
pronounced xer
44. zr.
can be pronounced zir or zeester
part three: sir? ma'am?
these honorifics are specifically meant to replace the sir/ma'am words. they feel different than the other ones so they get their own part.
1. boss
2. captain
3. chief
4. comrade
5. friend
6. gentile
7. m'ir
8. sa'am
9. sai
10. tiz
11. xir
12. zir
part four: how do you say...
these honorifics are ones i couldnt find pronunciations for... if you know em lmk please & thanks 🫰🏾
1. sn.
thats it, i couldnt find a pronunciation for it but i thought it was cool 🤸🏾
thats all folks
i might update depending on the responses i get and anything else i find :)
last edits: 3 jun 2024
#pride#pride month#lgbt#lgbtq#lgbtq+#lgbtqia#lgbtqia+#trans#transgender#nonbinary#queer#genderqueer#gender fuck#gender fuckery#alternate honorifics#alternate prefixes#alternate titles#titles#honorifics#prefixes#mr#mx#ms#miss#mrs#add yours
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Rating: M | Category: M/M | Words: 30 839 | Chapters 14/28
Summary:
When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.
From the top
Ch. 14: A Lesson in Responsibility
Snippet:
“The last time the clan travelled through these parts, I was needed with them,” he explained. This admittance held more of that hidden embarrassment, a shortness to the usually even candour of his accented speech. “Even now, we could not spare the people, but then you came along,” he sighed, but the words contained less malice than Dorian had come to expect. “The clan will be moving early, we won’t return until the forest heals. A few seasons, at least. Our hunters needed to come out this way to prepare, and with your —” he faltered, “the help of your people, your supplies…”
And here, Dorian understood. The great upset his witless companions had caused in alighting the forest and abandoning their slaves had benefited him, in a roundabout way. The slaves who wished to join clan Lavellan would now help his people prepare to travel, the supplies and gold taken from Dorian’s looted packs meant that elves of the clan who might have been sent to trade were free to join him, and meanwhile the hunt had to be sent further out. All of it allowed the bright-eyed, story-telling First to set out for the mythic temple he had, apparently, a longstanding fascination with. He had only to chaperone Dorian through the forest, and that too had benefits besides his own winning charm. He was, after all, another mage.
“So… you’re using me, my resources and my people, to do something you wanted to do all along?” Dorian concluded, settling back with the first genuinely smug smile he’d ever been able to direct at this self-important elf.
Daff tags list below the cut
@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance @plisuu
#my fic#my writing#dragon age#dragon age inquisition#da:i#dragon age fanfiction#dragon age inquisition fanfiction#pavellan#dorian x lavellan#canon divergent#enemies to lovers#the hunter the snake and the fox
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Returning Home
The jewel-toned leaves of citrine, topaz and ruby crunched under the heavy footfalls of a child of blood long overdue for their return home. Black boots caked in enough mud, sand and blood made them appear dull, almost gray in appearance. The entire suit of armor had much of the same wear and tear after years of travel. A once pristine black tabard with a red phoenix was layered over the armor, with years of dutiful mending evident on the endlessly frayed and repaired hems.
Stopping just outside of Fairbreeze Village, the weary traveler looked up at the tall inn building. Memories of a past lifetime of chasing little lordlings caused a derisive exhale, though the days of walking had certainly taken a toll. A brief rest for a proper meal couldn't hurt, could it?
Finally, the tattered red hood that covered the traveler's face fell back over her head, settling around her neck much like a scarf. The face of Ina'tha Dawnblade, the once-decorated Knight Lord of the Blood Knight Order, and once-proud Commander of the Phoenix Guard, finally allowed herself to be seen. It was unclear if she'd been hiding her face out of shame for her abrupt and prolonged absence, or her lack of usual dark eye makeup and lipstick. Considering both her pride and her vanity, it was likely both.
With her chin held high, Ina'thia strode right up the ramp and sat a table in the inn. Before the waiter could approach the table, she placed a gold and several silver pieces on its surface.
"A glass of Eversong Red and a fruit and cheese platter."
No please, no thank you. Just the sharp comments of someone who had been away from civilization or entirely too long. Patrons of the Fairbreeze Village inn whispered in hushed tones amongst themselves, and Ina'thia couldn't help but catch one well-dressed man out of the corner of her eye. He had watched her a moment too long, and his chair made a gods-awful sound on the floor as he got up too quickly.
The man hurried outside in a whirl of red and gold robes, speaking quietly into an enchanted gemstone. Ina'thia leveled her one-eyed gaze on him as he left, then sipped at her wine the moment it was brought to her.
"M-Magister… are you there? Magister Everblaze…" the man stammered, covering his mouth so his lips could not be read, "You're not going to believe this. She's here."
@thefugitivemango
#ina'thia dawnblade#bey'ron everblaze#world of warcraft#wyrmrest accord#am i back? maybe idk i just felt like writing
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Homecoming
(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)
written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”
read on AO3
On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.
Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.
In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage.
A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.
Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.
*
“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”
“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”
The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.
“What are our orders?” she asks.
Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.
“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”
If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.
She’s saying: excuse me?
“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”
Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.
“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”
The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.
“Yes, Magister.”
Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.
“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”
Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.
“This is about protecting me ?”
“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”
Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.
“And yet you will survive… him?”
“I certainly plan to. Now - ” Dorian raises an eyebrow - “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.
“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”
The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.
*
In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.
Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.
There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.
Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.
They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.
*
The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.
He doesn’t.
“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”
A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.
As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way.
Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.
“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”
Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.
He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.
He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement.
Hope, even?
No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.
Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.
The amulet vibrates in his palm again.
“Is everything alright?”
He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.
“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”
*
The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it.
This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.
For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.
His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.
The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.
*
The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.
Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.
Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him.
He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.
He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.
Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.
“Would you like some water?” he asks.
The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.
Four years and six months ago.
His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.
“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation - he doesn’t have anything better.
To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.
Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.
“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”
Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again.
Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.
He silently nods and walks away.
More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.
Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.
The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence.
When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.
It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.
He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.
Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.
He wants to ask her a question.
How -
No, why -
Does she -
“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.
There is, at least, a question he can ask here.
“…Why would you want to write to me?“
The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.
Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.
She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.
“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”
“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “
This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.
He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.
Dorian takes a deep breath.
“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”
A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.
“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”
…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.
Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?
Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?
“I don’t know,” Dorian says.
Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.
Judging?
Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.
“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”
It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.
*
A creature walks through an empty hall.
Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.
The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.
Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.
Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.
In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.
*
He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.
The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.
His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.
Tonight is the night.
His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.
Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.
“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”
The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.
A revenant.
His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.
A single word.
“Vhenan.”
Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t -
No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.
“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”
It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.
Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.
“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”
A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.
The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?
Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.
Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.
“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”
The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it.
It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.
The signal. Any second now. Surely -
*
“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.
“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.
His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.
“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”
Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.
It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over.
Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:
“Alright, let him see it.”
He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.
The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.
“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.
“But how do I - ”
“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”
The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.
Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.
Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.
The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:
“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”
A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.
Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.
And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is -
“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”
Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.
It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.
Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.
The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.
For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.
*
A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.
Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.
At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.
“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”
With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.
#dragon age#dragon age inqusition#dorian pavus#dorian x inquisitor#pavellan#inquisitor lavellan#dragon age fanfic#dragon age fanfiction#mild swearing#oc: neilar lavellan#herearedragons writing#IT'S DONE#uh#tw: death mention#tw: grief#tw: blood mention
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34.7% survival rate of high CO2 crabs.J
(A juvenile Metacarcinus magister hiding in the sand)
In this study, the authors aimed to explore the population-level impact of ocean acidification/high CO2 concentration on Dungeness crabs (Metacarcinus magister) during their juvenile life stage. At present, the mean pH level of Puget Sound, where this crab is native to, is 7.8, with some areas reaching 7.2. In this experiment, 222 M. magister megalopae were split up into two different chambers. The ambient chamber best resembled current pH level of Puget Sound (an, in fact, water was pumped directly from the Sound into the chambers), and sat a 400ppm of dissolved CO2. The high acidity chamber was maintained at 2800ppm of CO2, quite the increase. Over 327 days, the crabs were measured and weighed, and the results were bizarre.
Ocean acidification is proving to be a serious issue affect marine ecosystems. The effects of elevated CO2 on invertebrates species have been studied, but there is much more to do. M. magister zoea were discovered to suffer as a result of increased dissolved CO2. The next step was to determine how it affected later stages in life.
(A M. magister zoea)
Despite the megalopae being near ready to transition to juveniles at the time of capture and at the beginning of the experiment, megalopae survival rate in both chambers were above 95%. They appear to be resilient to higher CO2 concentrations, but given the brief exposure period of several days before transition, nothing definitive can be established.
(M. magister megalopae)
The juveniles who were kept in the high CO2 chamber actually had a greater survival rate than the crabs in the ambience chamber. But they also did not grow as large as their ambient conspecifics. In addition, high acidity crabs molted faster from stage J5 to J6 (J meaning juvenile, with the number representing the number of molts thusfar). High acidity crabs also had a higher resting metabolic rate, though the rate decreased as they progressed through molting stages. There was no significant difference in weigh, but shape was also influenced, with ambient crabs being 9% longer at stage J6.
Between stages J1 and J2, ambient crabs were over four times more likely to perish. Of the 99 crabs subjected to ambience CO2, only 18.9% survived to the end, as opposed to the 34.7% survival rate of high CO2 crabs, meaing the odds of dying were twice as high in ambient levels.
The authors propose three hypothesis’ to explain the results. The first is the cryptic pathogen hypothesis. Based on research from other biologists, they deemed it probable that some unknown (and untested for) pathogen carried in from the Sound had a harder time surviving in the high-acidity chamber, which allowed those crabs to be exposed to a lesser number of the pathogen. Inversely, crabs in the ambient chamber were fully exposed to the pathogen, thus reducing survivability.
Microbial abundance can decrease in high CO2 concentrations, and evidence from a study on oyster parasites shows that low pH levels resulted in a decline in the parasite’s numbers. Virus’ are also less abundant in low pH environments.
Though in contrast to all this, crabs have actually displayed a suppressed immune response when exposed to high CO2 levels. The only major difference in survival of the crabs was the first molt, which would suggest that the pathogen weeded out the unfit and had a harder time affecting the remaining population. It could also mean that crabs are more vulnerable at J1. The last explanation is that the pathogen was snuffed out in the later stages of the experiment.
The second hypothesis is that juveniles are adapted to survive in acidic environments. The pockets of low pH water and the generally more acidic conditions of the substrate they hide in would support this. However, this would imply that juvenile M. magister would struggle in low-CO2 environments. This is a counter-productive trait. Another point against this hypothesis is that the high-CO2 environment had negative physiological effects on the crabs, such as the high metabolism and smaller size. Since this species is susceptible to cannibalism, any trait that would inhibit the natural defense of being larger would be selected out.
The third and last hypothesis is that a strange combination of physiological trade-offs were at play, though for the reasons above, this is also speculative and likely. This leaves the first hypothesis as the most likely. Should the opportunity to reproduce the experiment present itself, the chamber’s water should be regularly examined for signs of pathogens.
The metabolic rate is another area that warrants investigation. A potential explanation of the increased metabolism observed in high-acid crabs is that there is a greater physiological cost associated with maintaining an internal pH balance that is further from the pH of the environment.
To conclude, high-CO2 levels had a positive impact on survival rate, but a negative impact of growth rate. in the wild, the protection from pathogens offered by acidic water would has little impact.
Higher CO2′s relatively minute effects on juveniles rules out this stage of the specie’s life being an indicator for ecological impact of ocean acidification of the population; despite the smaller overall size potentially resulting in increased vulnerability to predation.
Megalopae appear to be resilient of acidification. Zoea remain the most vulnerable stage of M. magister.
Overall, it was a fascinating paper, even if the statistical methodology section literally put me to sleep.
#metacarcinus magister#m. magister#dungeness crab#eukarya#animalia#arthropoda#brachyura#crustacea#pleocyemata#cancridae#2022#puget sound#paul mcelhany
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Satansplain #055 - Realm of Satan film, February 1, 2024
News on the new film “Realm of Satan”! Also, addressing false claims about serial killer Richard Ramirez and the Church of Satan (no, he was never a member, nor practiced what we believe), and answering listener questions about the Universal Life Church and Satanic weddings, membership privacy, and other topics.
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#Church of Satan#compassionate Satanism#magister bill m.#membership#Privacy#Realm of Satan#Richard Ramirez#satanic statements#Satanism#Satansplain#Scott Cummings#The Satanic Bible#Universal Life Church
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Happy Friday! How about “I care about you! Do you hear me?” for Fenhawke?
Thank you so very much for this prompt. I saved this in my backlog already, and finally got down to answer it x3
@dadrunkwriting
Pairing: Fenris/mHawke
Rating: M (just for mention of ingame blood)
Length: 705
They had done it. Danarius was finally dead and, nothing more but a corpse lying at his feet.
He had worked so many years towards this exact moment. He had sacrificed so much. So why didn’t he feel any difference? Why did he still feel as miserable as he had before? He was free now, wasn’t he?
Shouldn’t he feel relieved instead?
His shoulders trembled as he stood above the lifeless body of the man who had haunted him for so long while his sword was still dripping his blood. He’d lived for vengeance for so many years, but now that he finally had it, he couldn’t help but feel anything but emptiness.
“Fenris…” Hawke’s voice echoed within the tavern, reaching him even beyond the drumming within his ears.
“Not now.” His reply was harsher than intended as he wiped the blood from his sword. “I.. need a moment alone,” he added, his shoulders slumped as he walked past the group of misfits.
He just needed a bit of air and a moment to think.
But that moment became longer than intended as he found himself lost inside the city he’d lived in for many years. He still remembered the night he met Hawke.
They had been strangers at that point, nothing more but hirelings that Anso had recruited for their endeavour.
But Hawke’s little group of misfits had become so much more to him in such a short time. He’d never looked for the strange family he’d found within that weird little group, but there hadn’t been one day when Hawke hadn’t made him feel welcomed.
And then there had been that one night that changed it all.
His stomach turned at the thought of Hawke’s face when he’d fled the bedroom. He’d never seen the man so hurt before, and he’d lie if he said he hadn’t felt his heart breaking at the same time.
Hawke had never been anything but welcoming and loving to him, but he had ruined it.
Of course, Hawke never stopped to show his care, but he always saw the hurt sitting in those amber eyes, alongside the fear that Fenris might shatter anytime. He hated himself for putting Hawke in such a position.
By the Maker, leaving the man had been the hardest choice he’d ever made.
Maybe his inner turmoil brought him to Hawke’s mansion. All he knew was that he found himself standing in front of the Amell estate around nighttime. He’d been walking around aimlessly for some time it seemed.
“Fenris?” Hawke’s surprised voice made his ears twitch before he turned around. It seemed he wasn’t the only one just showing up on the doorstep. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?” the mage added swiftly.
He couldn’t help the soft chuckle escaping him at the sight of the man.
“No.” His reply was curt before he reprimanded himself. “I just got here as well. I am sorry. I hope it wasn’t too much to clean up the mess,” he added, referring to the bloodshed in the Hanging Man.
“Naah, don’t worry about it. Varric handled it. He seems to be in good graces with the owner.” Hawke’s smile shifted, his amber eyes not leaving Fenris’s face.
“What about you? Are you alright?” Concern laced his voice as he asked. Sometimes, Fenris couldn’t help but question how that man could be as strong and forgiving as he was. He probably wouldn’t have forgiven himself.
“I’ll be fine.” The answer came more pressed than he wanted. “Don’t worry about me,” he added a tad softer, his lips stretching into a warm half-smile.
“Alright. But I do care about you! Do you hear me?” Hawke reached out with his arm, only to stop in the middle of the motion with a yearning smile on his lips. “A lot of people care about you.”
“I know,” Fenris answered softly this time. “Thank you,” he added swiftly, knowing that most people would have sided with a powerful Tevinter Magister like Danarius.
But then again, Hawke wasn’t like most people, which made this man special in so many ways. He probably was the first man who made his heart skip a beat or two whenever they smiled.
“Any time.”
#dragon age#dragon age fanfiction#prompt#writing#dadrunkwriting#fenhawke#dragon age 2#hurt and comfort#I just love these 2 so much#unedited
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Tagged by @mystery-salad ! Tagging anyone who wishes to do it too!
-- B A S I C S
Name: Athinri of Twilight
Nicknames: Thin, Petal (Trahearne & Caithe)
Age: Unborn at Fighting the Nightmare, 12 currently
Birthday: sometime in 1325 (Dec 13)
Race: Sylvari
Gender: Female (She/her)
Orientation: Asexual, Panromantic
Profession: General of the Pact, Magister of the Durmond Priory, Tailor in Cragstead
-- P H Y S I C A L A S P E C T S
Hair: Magenta
Eyes: pink
Skin: grey with pink pattern
Tattoos/Scars: blade and blood scar/marking from Wynne's death, and arrow/burn scar under marking
-- F A M I L Y
Family: Pale tree (mother)
Siblings: none
Grandparents: Mordremoth
In-laws and others: Braham (Husband/mate, alive), Eir (mother in-law, deceased), Borje the Sun Chaser (father in-law, deceased) Unnamed Charr son (Future Adopted son), unnamed norn daughter, (future adopted daughter).
Pets: Orchid (Sylvan Hound)
-- S K I L L S
Abilities: Mesmer, apprentice thief, self taught virtuoso, extremely skilled at teleportation and portals
Hobbies: tailoring, reading, gardening, and dancing
-- T R A I T S
Most positive trait: friendly, quick to befriend, trusting, compassionate, protective
Most negative trait: doormat, naive,
-- L I K E S
Colors: purple, pink
Smells: fire, smoke, cooking, smell of air in the woods
Textures: anything fluffy, Braham's scruff, Orchid's coat, petals.
Drinks: water, milkshakes
-- O T H E R D E T A I L S
Smokes: no
Drinks: sometimes (usually when she's celebrating or drinking at home with Braham)
Drugs: no
Been arrested: no
#guild wars 2#oc: athinri of twilight#sylvari#ask game#also whoops i forgot about the pets part for spite
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I think Abigail is the Wizard's daughter. And I think Caroline didn't cheat on Pierre either.
The evidence for Abigail being M. Rasmodius's (which I think is a title and stands for Mage or Magister but that's a separate conversation) daughter is clear: she claims to have not dyed her hair in some time and it remaining purple, the same hue as the Wizard's;
Pierre asks the farmer if she "looks anything like [him]" and says he suspects he's not the father (though this could simply be a result of the jealousy issues Caroline ascribes to him);
Caroline says she spent time near the Wizard's tower when first moving to Pelican town and conceiving Abigail after 2-4 months (allowing for premature or late birth) in town;
the Wizard outright admits that he suspects one of the locals to be his daughter and that his wife left him after an unspecified "mistake" (a common excuse for infidelity, despite a drawn out and actively hidden relationship being quite a bit more work than most mistakes).
Of the marriageable villagers, only Abigail and Penny have the possibility to be the Wizard's daughter, with the unknown father of Penny, while Emily, Haley, and Leah being from out of town makes them unlikely and Maru resembling her father. Jas is another possibility, being Marnie's niece (though having lived with her since a very young age, as evidenced by Secret Note #11), having purple hair, and her home being near the Wizard's tower. However, Jas presents as an entirely normal young girl (despite a somewhat troubled home life) and closely resembles her cousin Shane's dark-purple hair, indicating a family trait. The Wizard only mentions a daughter, not a son. If he had had a child with Shane, then Shane would more easily claim her as his daughter, not goddaughter. Penny has no resemblance in looks or demeanor to the Wizard, and though that is possible in families it would also not give him reason to suspect her.
There are a few things that stand out to me. First, Caroline admits to having spent time near the Wizard's tower in the time Abigail was conceived- something she would be unlikely to admit if she had been having an affair, placing herself at the "scene of the crime" as it were. Second, she says she wishes Abigail would "stop" dyeing her hair, and that it resembled her grandmother's hair, "light chestnut-colored hair", like Pierre's.
Abigail confirms that the purple was not her original color, but that "it never fades from this color". But what makes me think the Wizard didn't cheat on his wife is the line, "It's rare, but it does happen." He could be referring to a birth control method failing, but frankly I'm dubious that a small town could have a woman become pregnant with no available father and have no one comment on it (such as Marnie, with no mention of past partners). The gravestone for Mona makes no mention of motherhood, which is almost inevitable on women's gravestones, which makes her unlikely in my eyes, and if she were his "other woman" it would be fairly obvious to him.
The fourth uninteractable gravestone gives us no information and so must be disregarded. I think that Caroline's time near the Wizard's tower during her conception time frame exposed Abigail to the Wizard's magic and contaminated (for lack of a better word) her. His magic changed her, making her his child just as much as Pierre's and Caroline's. Caroline would have no reason to suspect this, and so no reason not to admit to the farmer she was near the Wizard's tower. Pierre would notice that his child resembled another man, despite her similarities to him while younger, and draw conclusions. The Wizard would be unsure of it (while having had sex with the mother would make it very likely) and have reason to comment on its rarity. The Wizard's wife left him after a "mistake"- perhaps a mistake like not containing his magic enough.
And what curse does she cast on the farmer? Putting a strange, changed chicken in their nests, and changing their slimes unnaturally.
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Before work this morning I read a book chapter about same-sex desire and the development of modernity in early modern Germany and, like you do if you're talking about capital-M modernity in Germany, it started off with the Faust legend, pointing out that homoeroticism has been part and parcel of the Faust corpus even back when Magister Georg Helmstetter, aka Sabellicus, aka Faustus junior was traveling across Germany causing problems on purpose, even without a Mephistopheles to fuck that old man.
I fear it is gauchely anglocentric of me, but I did raise an eyebrow at the brief survey of sub- or super-textually gay Fausts skipping directly from Faustus Georg to Goethe to Mann (both Manns) without even a nod across the North Sea to the first serious dramatic treatment of the story, however. I mean, yes, it's a chapter focused on Germany but Marlowe was only a couple of steps removed from the German source material (the 1592 English Faustbuch is pretty close to the 1587 Spiers). Granted I don't think Doctor Faustus was much known on the continent, even much later--Goethe read it some time after he finished Faust I--but I think it probably supports the larger point that of all the playwrights working in early modern England it's Marlowe who gloms onto that particular subject matter, even without the German social context. Worth a footnote, anyway.
(NB. I am not seriously offended, just to be clear)
#hot faust summer#faustus georg#doctor faustus#sodomite and necromancer#author also says scholarship doesn't comment much on this#which may have been true in 2006#(it's definitely not true of marlowe though and was not in 2006 either)
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friends, do consider this delightfully eccentric syllabus that i’ve stumbled upon in Steven Moore’s The Novel: An Alternative History (& that was built around the unorthodox masterpiece that is Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel):
“With the motto "Do What You Will," Rabelais gave himself permission to do anything he damn well pleased with the language and the form of the novel; as a result, every author of an innovative novel mixing literary forms and genres in an extravagant style is indebted to Rabelais, directly or indirectly. Out of his codpiece came Aneau's Alector, Nashe's Unfortunate Traveller, Lopez de Ubeda's Justina, Cervantes' Don Quixote, Beroalde de Verville's Fantastic Tales, Sorel's Francion, Burton's Anatomy, Swift's Tale of a Tub and Gulliver's Travels, Fielding's Tom Jones, Amory's John Buncle, Sterne's Tristram Shandy, the novels of Diderot and maybe Voltaire (a late convert), Smollet's Adventures of an Atom, Hoffmann's Tomcat Murr, Hugo's Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Southey's Doctor, Melville's Moby-Dick, Flaubert's Temptation of Saint Anthony and Bouvard and Pecuchet, Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Frederick Rolfe's ornate novels, Bely's Petersburg, Joyce's Ulysses, Witkiewicz's Insatiability, Barnes's Ryder and Ladies Almanack, Gombrowicz's Polish jokes, Flann O'Brien's Irish farces, Philip Wylie's Finnley Wren, Patchen's tender novels, Burroughs's and Kerouac's mad ones, Nabokov's later works, Schmidt's fiction, the novels of Durrell, Burgess (especially A Clockwork Orange and Earthly Powers), Gaddis and Pynchon, Barth, Coover, Sorrentino, Reed's Mumbo Jumbo, Brossard's later works, the masterpieces of Latin American magic realism (Paradiso, The Autumn of the Patriarch, Three Trapped Tigers, I the Supreme, Avalovara, Terra Nostra, Palinuro of Mexico), the fabulous creations of Severo Sarduy and Reinaldo Arenas, Markson's Springer's Progress, Mano's Take Five, Rios's Larva and otros libros, the novels of Patil West, Tom Robbins, Stanley Elkin, Alexander Theroux, W. M. Spackman, Alasdair Gray, Gaetan Soucy, and Rikki Ducornet ("Lady Rabelais," as one critic called her), Mark Leyner's hyperbolic novels, the writings of Magister Gass, Greer Gilman's folkloric fictions and Roger Boylan's Celtic comedies, Vollmann's voluminous volumes, Wallace's brainy fictions, Siegel's Love in a Dead Language, Danielewski's novels, Jackson's Half Life, Field's Ululu, De La Pava's Naked Singularity, and James McCourt's ongoing Mawrdew Czgowchwz saga.”
(+ it seems that someone has even gone out of their way to combine all of these into a goodreads list, if that’s your cup of tea!)
#*#personally speaking i'm nearly swooning over it#i'm familiar with a fair share of those titles but oh. not all of them. definitely not all of them.#the thrill of literary discovery!#syllabuses
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