Copper Ankle Bracelet For Women

-seven years ago- They saw the first Demon Nest after five weeks of floating west by northwest, following the Iblesca Archipelago and crossing over Sirentera before turning due north towards the interior highlands Eyninyao had once called home. The land here was rugged, with deep valleys and steep mountainsides covered in dense rainforests. Occasionally a sinkhole, rock outcropping, or yawning cave mouth provided a terrestrial guidepost to match with the stars at night. Oriol had begged the Foreign Trade Council to consider her trip for months, had managed to scrap together a small crew, and had been granted an array of first-time trade goods and barges. This was all riding on her shoulders, and as much as she believed in the risk, she still breathed a sigh of relief at the first sight of winged shapes appearing over the distant hills. She ignored the twinge of anxiety that they were larger than she’d expected. Much larger. It hadn’t been easy to get the Council to approve this trip. Sirenteri told bogeyman stories of the fierce Demani of the highlands, but there hadn’t been much else known. Not until an enterprising little Demon had flown up to Sojourn and stayed with them for three enlightening years, during which Oriol learned his language and was fascinated by the little that Eyninyao shared about his people. The three balloon barges crested a rise, and suddenly the Nest was in view. The Nest was larger than Oriol expected. Much larger. The roads and structures weren’t as obvious as those in human cities, but the land was sculpted in definite geometric shapes, terraces and low walls, trees planted in honeycomb patterns divided by shorter rows of shrubs and herbs, and stepped stone structures with massive doorways and shaded landing zones. Eyninyao had been shorter than she, and while many of the Demons below seemed of similar size to humans, some were much larger. “Holy Azhe!” Lora swore next to her. “That one’s as large as a dragon!” “You’ve never seen a dragon,” Fanna told his son. “I have,” Lor retorted. “A few came to trade from Gold and Green Fields last year. While you were still on Sojourn. Just because you missed half of my life doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” “Gentlewings, please,” Oriol interrupted. “First impressions are important. You can argue on your own time.” The nest had hundreds of workers flying in and out of the large entrances, resting on ledges, walking in well-beaten paths, and tending to the orchards. In distant fields, Oriol could see herdsmen with animals she didn’t recognize. The visible entrances and windows were decorated with extensive artwork and carvings. Further from such openings the artwork continued, but with less frequency. “Time to make a first impression,” Oriol said, baring her teeth in what she hoped would be taken for a smile. “Fanna, signal the other barges to wait on my command before landing.” She plunged off her perch and used her talons to spread the white and silver train, making a wide circle around the largest structure and displaying her banner like a peacock’s tail. She headed for the largest structure on a diagonal, making a full circle with a little loop. “Come on,” she urged, watching Demani below nervously. Some stared back up at her, but only two of the largest Demons flew up to investigate. Oriol hadn’t realized just how big they would be. Two soldiers flew up to meet her, large wings thrumming like a hummingbird’s, powerful tails lashing. She felt like a sparrow surrounded by ravens, but tried not to let the obsidian-pointed spears get to her. Taking a deep breath, she called out in her best Demani. “I come bearing gifts. I would like to establish an economic arrangement beneficial to all sides that would increase the resources of the Nest.” The phrasing was a bit ostentatious to her ears, but Eyninyao had assured her it was the proper address. “Who should I speak to about landing?” The two horned soldiers looked at each other without speaking, faces within inches, before one flew back to the ground. The one that stayed pointed her spear to one side. “Do not approach any nearer to the Nest. We wait for the Nonyaon merchant.” Oriol did her best to glide in a slow, nonthreatening circle, the massive soldier watching her closely. A few more soldiers joined the first, though they didn’t make any threatening motions otherwise. They just formed an obvious line between her, her sky barges, and the rest of the Nest. Finally a smaller Nonyaon flew up, flanked by a pair of the larger soldiers. This one smiled in greeting, though the gesture seemed practiced, like something learned from others. Nevertheless, Oriol was reassured. She assumed this was the *Nonyaon*, which Eyninyao had tried to explain as a specialized working class, but with considerable respect and great variation. Then the Demon flew up right into her face, requiring a bit of fancy near-hovering. Eyninyao had also had the habit of getting within inches of her face to speak; but she hadn’t thought the practice extended to in-flight conversations. The Nonyaon’s face was more mobile and brighter than the dark-visaged warriors surrounding them. “I come bearing gifts. I would like to establish an economic arrangement beneficial to all sides that would increase the resources of the Nest,” she said again. She then indicated the sky barges about a hundred wings behind her. “My companions would like to join me. Is there a place with sufficient room to land and speak?” Again, she spoke in the Demani language. Hopefully speaking the local language would establish her desires for trust and reciprocity. The smaller Demon considered the request a moment. "Landing in the clearing to the left may be acceptable," she said. Oriol nodded in gratitude and turned her head back over her shoulder to look up at the balloons. She whistled a few sharp notes, and received an answer. Moments later the sky barges drifted north towards a large clearing. Oriol turned back to the Nonyaon, still doing her best to hover. "I am Oriol Madenno, and I have heard lovely things about the Nests of the Ayetho. I come from the Nest of Harpies to see if we might trade with one another. My people believe that trade is best accomplished through gifts." "I am Nonemnyes," the Nonyaon, Nonemnyes, introduced herself, before continuing, "Many do not care for our customs." She blinked her nictitating membranes slowly, something harpies would associate with sarcasm. Oriol wondered if it meant the same to the Demani. "To keep trade civil, we will look at your wares, then present ours." Nonemnyes explained. Oriol nodded quickly. "That is agreed. 'To keep trade civil, you will look at our wares, and then present your own.’" Oriol sang the sentence back to Nonemnyes, and then explained. "My people account our agreements through song.” It took about a half hour for the trade barges to land and balloons to deflate enough to anchor them. In that time, Oriol took over directing her crew–twelve humans and five other harpies–to unload their wares. Fanna himself, together with Lora, carried the wide grass-woven mat on their shoulders and unrolled it in a long line before the waiting Demons, Lora glancing up at the larger soldiers nervously the entire time. Oriol’s daughter Lirio carried over a few perches, and Oriol settled onto one, grateful for the extra height which allowed her to look most humans straight in the eye. It put her at the same altitude as Nonemnyes as well. From there, Oriol directed her companions to roll out large woven baskets. One by one the soft man-high baskets disgorged their contents from the multiple pockets each filled with different items. They started with the largest canvas bags, filled with fine woolen fabric dyed with feathered patterns using batik waxing. Then they arranged bags of feathers from tropical birds, and other bags of unprocessed wool. Next to these were placed smaller bags of sugar and bananas, and jars of molasses, tobacco, and tea leaves. On another mat they set up figurines of jade and abalone, clam shells filled with tiny pearls, a pair of volcanic mortar and pestles, and black clay pottery. Finally, they set out smaller amounts of musky verdegris, bottled perfume, and of course chelimbar amber charms. When they were done, Oriol selected a shark tooth the size of one of the massive soldier’s palms. It was carved to resemble two human men in a fishing boat, with the triangle of the tooth as a sail. Eyninyao had been enchanted by it. "We traded with the people of the South Ocean for this. Please accept it as a gift. Examine our wares, and let us know what would be pleasing to you." The Demon merchant accepted the carving with apparent indifference, setting it aside as she looked over the rest of the goods. Oriol’s heart sank. She knew such things had more or less value in different cultures, but she’d thought–but Eyninyao had confessed that, even among his own people, he was an eccentric. She hadn’t realized his love of trinkets was part of that. Despite no words being spoken, a soldier–Oriol vaguely remembered the term “Oaf” or “Aof”–departed, returning shortly after with a gradual trail of other Demons both large and small, each inspecting the items alongside Nonemnyes, as if the examination was a collective endeavor. Despite the obvious interest, they were distressingly quiet about it, not seeming to speak much among themselves if at all, and leaving with the same silence. “This is not going well,” the human woman Tosco worried next to her. Oriol hooded her wings in irritation. “Give it time,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Eyninyao was just as quiet. He expressed interest in other ways.” Oriol believed in this mission. “They didn’t accept your gift.” Tosco said, pointing to the shark’s tooth lying on the soft carpet next to the merchant Demon’s feet. After about a half hour, Nonemnyes seemed to finish her inspection of things. She turned back to Oriol, again face within inches, and said, "We may be interested in some of these wares." Oriol couldn’t help a small sigh of relief, “That is good to hear.” Nonemnyes continued. “The weavers seek the fabric, feathers, and thick fur.” Oriol thought that by that, she meant the wool. “The cooks seek the sugars and fruit. The Tsatsiu seek the dye and gems." Around them, the Demani still walked along the rugs set out with goods. They still didn’t speak out loud, but now Oriol noticed how often they would bring their heads together briefly before moving on. "What do you use the small stick and bowl for?” Nonemnyes asked. “Are the pungent leaves edible or medicinal?” She said, pointing at the jars of tobacco and tea leaves. “What is the pot of liquid flowers for?" She pointed at the tiny glass bottles of fragrance. “The stick and bowl are called a mortar and pestle. They are used to grind spices and herbs to flavor food.” Oriol explained. “It can also be used to crush grains and make a small bread, or to make powders for potions.” She whistled to the human Mafe Biancu-Mara, who saw where she pointed with her lips and brought her the mortar and pestle along with a small bag of leaves. “These leaves are called tobacco. It is a type of herb." She demonstrated with the dried tobacco leaves, crushing them to a fine powder before adding water to make paste in a bowl of pottery. "After it is boiled, use this paste to clean teeth or numb pain. Tobacco can also be burnt in a tent to create a pleasant feeling in those present." Oriol had Lirio fly back to the barges for her small teapot and tripod, as well as a large metal dish on which to start a small fire. While she was gone, Oriol pointed to the next jar of leaves. "The tea leaves are boiled in water to make a bitter drink. I prefer it with some sugar. It leaves one feeling refreshed." She could really use some tea right now. Oriol pauses, remembering how many of the Demani looked at the goods communally. "I can make enough so that 1,012 who wish may try a cup,” she added reluctantly. “But I would need a large pot to boil the water, and they would have to share cups." She reflected wryly that the trip back would be dry without the tea, but if it went over well, it would be worth it. "The pot of liquid flowers,” she continued, “Is used to give the body the scent of flowers. It is very desired among the human nobles." Nonemnyes seemed to consider each of these statements curiously. "We may seek smaller samples of such items," she said at last. “They are more novel, so naturally cause for skepticism, but not to such an extent as to be refused.” Oriol blinked. “Of course,” she said. She wasn’t sure if that was good, or bad. "If it is desired, we shall begin to present goods,” the Demon added expectantly. "It is desired, but there is one last thing I wish to demonstrate," Oriol said. She smiled a bit to herself as Lirio arrived with her tea set. Taking a chelimbar charms in the shape of a flame from her ankle, she held it to the tinder under the teapot. With a word, it burst into flame. Oriol held out the charm for Nonemnyes to inspect. "This is a specialty of my people. These charms can be used by anyone, even if they have no talent for magic themselves." The chelimbar charms were often the most valued items in many ports across Ashagon, though of course some peoples had their own magical culture, or even disliked magic. But Eyninyao had not been one of those. She wondered suddenly about how much she had presupposed from knowing one individual of an entire race. Nonemnyes looked at the flame with interest, holding the charm close for inspection. "This is an interesting gem. Does it only make fire? How many times can it do this?" "This one can be used to make fire five times in a day, and can be used 510 times." Oriol said. "Some can be used more, and some less. This one only makes fire, but there are many charms. Each charm does something different." Oriol gestured to four others out for display. "That one makes wood softer, so that it might be woven like cloth. That one creates a gust of wind for a few moments, aiding in flight.” “That one can be buried in a field or hung in a tree to ward away pests; Although,” she added warily, “It should only be used when the plants are fruiting.” She did not want these new trading partners to blame them for failing crops because the bees would not come to the flowers. “This one can be placed in a bag to cool what else is placed inside. The charms will last longer or shorter depending on the skill of the charmcrafter and how much it is used, but most can last a year or two." The Demon seemed to lose interest again. "We will consider the charms for a future visit." Oriol’s heart sinks. That was her ace, but she nodded her assent anyways. "If it pleases, we would like to see what goods you might wish to trade." Nonemnyes once again seemed to speak to the Demani without more than a few words, and then she and more Demons brought out an extensive variety of foodstuffs. On their own straw mats, Oriol saw arrayed a dizzying assortment of nuts and seeds, ranging in size from that of a pea to the size of her head. There were various large fruits spanning nearly every color of the rainbow, and smaller fruits and berries as well. A collection of bean pods, gourds, roots, and tubers accompanied them. Some flowers, leaves, and bark were also brought forward, more so in the form of powders and spices. The Demons also brought out woven goods, such as baskets, hats, shoes, mats, and even body clothes and bedding, all made of plant fibers. The textiles and woven goods in particular were very ornately decorated in woven patterns, embroidery, and dyes, showing colorful characters resembling Demons performing various tasks. Some particularly notable woods and stones were brought forward as well. The woods showcased included a range from dark ebony to vibrant purples, all the way to a stark white. The stones brought were a seemingly random collection of nonprecious, semiprecious, and precious gemstones, as well as surprisingly clear glass fragments and some natural glasses such as obsidian. Oriol and the harpies and humans who went with her looked on in amazement at the great variety of seeds and nuts and fruits and beans, gourds, and tubers. Some were familiar, like the purple melons and the razeli nuts, but many were unknown. Oriol thought how similar to the Demani they all looked together, talking excitedly to each other about different items that caught their attention. Their two peoples were very different, but in this they were the same, sharing the decision-making as a group. Oriol asked questions about how long each item would last; even with good wind, the trip back to Trezera would take three or four weeks. Nonemnyes told her how long each of the different foodstuffs lasted. Most of the seeds and nuts could keep for months to years with proper storage, but many of the fruits and berries would not last as long unless preserved or dried. When dried, they could last nearly as long as the nuts and seeds. The beans, gourds, and tubers all lasted decently long in storage, though the Demon merchant also advised drying for better shelf life. “Is it permitted to try the unfamiliar items?” Oriol asked. “Tasting what is here is permitted,” Nonemnyes said, gesturing to the spread. “It is only a display.” Anselmo and Desidera were both interested in the bright dyes and Demon-illustrated textiles. Oriol was also interested in some of the tasks the Demani were shown performing, and asked questions about life in the Nest. Here, information was less forthcoming than Oriol would have liked. Questions about the inside of the nest were only answered in general terms. Nonemnyes would say what a specific scene was showing without elaborating where or when, and Oriol soon dropped the topic, as it seemed impolite. Oriol smiled to hear Fanna and Lora exclaim over the different samples of wood. Fanna kept admiring the fine grain of the purple wood, while Lora compared the ebony and the pale wood, almost like fine ivory, hand in hand. Oriol herself moved on to the stones. She knew harpies viewed mined materials differently than many human cultures, placing more emphasis on beauty than rarity or ‘worth’. She wondered how the Demons valued such things. There were a great variety of sedimentary minerals separated into their own baskets. She recognized opals, turquoise, malachite, azurite, chrysoprase, chrysocolla, sapphire, ruby, and many varieties of quartz, chalcedony, rhodochrosite, amber, beryl, and agate. Oriol also noticed several varieties of metal ore being treated as gemstones, particularly ores of silver and copper, but to a lesser extent iron, and nickel, and other ores as well. There were even some geodes and a few fossils. Notably, there were no processed metals. That disappointed Oriol, as metals were vital for continued Trezera independence, but she thought the rest on offer would make up for the lack. None of the precious stones were faceted like human gems. They were either polished or carved, or left in their raw state. Stone was difficult to trade in sky barges, as the weight was often too much to justify the expense. But they were pretty nonetheless. She particularly admired a bracelet of tiger’s eye beads, and a pendant of lapis lazuli carved in a design she did not recognize. Perhaps she might persuade some Pesci traders to make a journey upriver. Loud laughter brought Oriol’s attention behind her, to where a few of her younger tradesfolk, including her daughter, were trying on the samples of Demani clothing with mixed success. Though many of the Demons were near human in size, their powerful tails and wings meant they left large openings at the back and buttocks. Tosco tried one garment on, leaving her behind bare, and was slapped by Luca. Her shriek of outrage and subsequent chasing of the laughing Luca, all while showing her backside, and Lirio egging it on, had apparently caught the interest of several Demani. The Demons did not seem offended, however, so for the moment, Oriol let them be. The hats looked somewhat silly, but they might make for some interesting curiosities to the younger folk of Trezera. Nearby, Oriol heard Fanna using his own stuttering Demani to ask a nearby Demon about the types of trees used to produce the wood, face inches away and gesturing animatedly as Lora looked on uncomfortably from the side. Elefio did not seem nearly as comfortable with Demani closeness, though her mastery of the language was better. She was practicing with one of the smallest Demons, a friendly and helpful child spattered with paint. Lora and a few of the others kept glancing nervously at the largest, Aofi, though the Demons did nothing more than one would expect from any other guard entourage, simply standing on watch. Oriol wasn’t sure, but she thought they even appeared somewhat relaxed. Dejaberto and her husband sang records of each item, while the human man Ansovina Macca made a similar inventory in writing. Once they were done, Oriole and the other merchants took time to confer with each other before returning to the trading carpets. "Truly, the Demani are blessed with many useful and beautiful things," Oriol said. She gestured to the wool, feathers, and fabric. "I offer these to your weavers. There are more in my homeland, but here we have twenty pelts of wool, ten bags of feathers, and fifty yards of fabric. If it is pleasing, we may return in two or three month's time." "We will prepare an appropriate landing place for your next visit," Nonemnyes replied; a positive response. "Take what samples interest you, if you so choose." "We are grateful for the gift," Oriol replied, relieved. "Likewise, take the sugars and fruit, the dye and the pearls. Do you also wish for the tobacco or tea? Or the mortar and pestle?" "We will accept your gifts," Nonemnyes answered, “Tobacco, tea, mortar and all else which is offered.” She paused. “Maybe not all the tea though, unless you insist on parting with it.” Oriol almost laughed. “We can work together to make sure neither side is overburdened with gifts.” As the day wore on, they hammered out the finer details of the trade, which items were considered most valued to the Nest and which were most likely to be valued by the markets of Trezera. Precise amounts were negotiated tactfully. When all seemed settled, Oriol said again, "Among my people, such an exchange is remembered with a song. The song is sung by both peoples to maintain harmony. I can sing the list of items, and then we sing the chorus together. If you do not agree with the list of items, or believe I have left something out, we change the song. Is this acceptable to you?" Oriol asked. "This is alright." Nonemnyes raised her hands, palms up. "If you do not need to leave immediately, we may provide a written account as well." "That is agreeable." Oriol doubted she could read it, but it'd be helpful to have regardless, for learning the Demani script. Oriol then sang the song of the trade, the contare, listing each item in Demani and Trennu, as well as the quantity. Despite the length of the lists for both sides, it went faster than might be expected. The speed, scale, and tones of the notes provided greater context for the trade, but Oriol did not expect that to be understood as yet. As she sang, she activated a charm to record the song in two copies. One would be given to the Demons before they left. And so, the pair made the contract verbally through song, and made some smalltalk while the physical contract was prepared. Oriol looked over her tired entourage, and had one last request to make. “Would your Nest mind hosting us for an evening meal and a night of rest? It is a good time to get to know one another.” She cocked her head to the side, brooding at the setting sun. The Demons might not like letting them into the nest, considering how evasive they were with questions of the inner Demani life. It was a calculated risk. "It is important to know what a new trading partner finds offensive, and what is acceptable or even well-regarded. It is also an opportunity to rejoice and show pride in our respective peoples." "Very well," Nonemnyes said, after a moment. “You are not a large group. Oriol and her party were led to the Nest proper, able to see more and more clearly the immensity of the structure. It was built on and into a mountainside, with freshwater access cascading through channels and into pools. The ground entrance was quite large, the opening upward of several meters, more than even the Aofi guardians would ever need. It was ornately decorated with carvings and bright painted and encrusted with jewels into various characters and patterns. Oriol and the other harpies landed and hopped along gamely, conscious of how humans often perceived flying indoors, though Lirio grumbled about having to walk. “We’re not children, after all.” “You think only children walk?” Fanna chuckled. “What must you think of us poor humans?” Oriol herself was interested in the carvings and paintings. "Your structure is very colorful," she says to Nonemnyes. "Are these stories? Writing?" "Some are. Others are simple well wishes or just art." Nonemnyes didn’t explain in much detail, and Oriol dropped the subject again. Inside, the artistic renditions continued through every hall in sight. Countless Demani moved back and forth, both walking on the floor and flying overhead. Some Demani, noticeably smaller than even Oriol, were actively working on new artworks too. Maybe, she thought, it is nothing more than indulging in the artistic endeavors of children. Oriol interrupted her conversation with Nonemnyes to whistle down one of the younger harpies, Arrona, when he stretched his wings to start flying. “I don’t want you flying off where you might not be welcome.” She scolded. Nonemnyes didn't comment on the fluttering younglings, only waiting long enough to make sure they followed along. The group didn't go far from the entrance before entering a suitably sized dining hall. Once again, nearly every surface was decorated in some manner, even including the furniture. The furniture consisted of a low table. Seating was cushions only slightly raised off the floor. Though the room was large enough to fit over a hundred, no more than a dozen Demons either sat or reclined at the low tables. One or another would pause briefly to look at the newcomers before returning to their own meals. The low tables and cushions looked similar to what the harpies and humans had at home, and they sat with grateful sighs after a long day on their feet. Oriol instructed her cohort to watch how the Demani conducted themselves and imitate them. She still remembered vividly the northern court where she and other harpes had been called barbaric and disgusting for eating with their feet. Nonemnyes sat with them, and they followed her motions. The Demon sat with her legs to one side and her tail balancing her against the floor. For eating, there was limited dishware, but each guest had a personal plate and spatula-like utensils in front of them. Serving plates held the foodstuffs, with smaller bowls for sauces and containers for spices. Nonemnyes ate the solid foods by hand, and used her spatula to take whichever sauce she preferred to her food, scraping it clean with the lip of her plate when changing between sauces. Dry seasonings were done by hand as well, by taking the small container and gently tapping out a preferred amount. Oriol asked for bowls of water to wash their feet and hands, and was readily accommodated. The humans washed more out of custom, but for harpies it was a need to keep their foodstuffs clean of dirt or other things touched on the walk here. Removing their foot gloves and sitting gratefully on the cushions provided, they washed their foot-hands before carefully using the provided utensils to handle food. They sampled the different dishes, with Oriol asking about the method of preparation. Fanna also offered a bottle of wine and some carefully selected cheeses to add to the meal. Nonemnyes accepted both with grace, though the Demons seemed to have no other alcohol available. Oriol made a mental note about that as well. When asked about the scarcity of Demons in the meal hall, Nonemnyes explained that it wasn't a standard mealtime,“So there is little activity outside yourselves.” Some Demani would tip their heads inside at the visitors, their sizes ranging wildly from shorter than the harpies to taller than the tallest human in the merchant's crew. There were strange looks, but also curious ones, and ones that were indifferent. Each individual had their own reaction, even though all seemed to move about work together with that eerie, silent communication. Most dishes were bland, inoffensive bases for the sauces and seasonings to then bring to life. The majority had a variety of nutty and fruity flavors, in no small part due to the available foodstuffs to the Demani. Oriol found one spicy sauce very enjoyable, and asked how it was prepared. There was no meat, however, which Oriol found both curious and somewhat reassuring, considering the fearsome reputation of the Demani. Not all in their party felt that way about the lack of meat, but they luckily had enough sense to keep their opinions to themselves. While they ate, Oriol did her best to entertain her hosts with stories of Trezera and the lands she had visited, though she could tell the stories were not always well received. It was not so much that she sensed hostility as she sensed a polite indifference, or perhaps a lack of shared experience. She asked what kinds of things were offensive to the Demani, and there got a more definite response. “Do not ignore the territorial boundaries,” Nonemnyes told her, explaining how to recognize them. “And do not disrespect any of the superiors,” seemed to be the two primary concerns. Oriole hastened to assure Nonemnyes that they would do their best to avoid either. After the dinner, Nonemnyes showed them to a room for rest. Rather than separate quarters for men and women, it was a single large bedroom with prepared sleeping mats and crevices, enough for everyone. Having spent over a month in close quarters on the sky barges, the relative privacy of the crevices felt like a luxury. After asking for where to relieve themselves at night, Oriol and her companions settled in, discussing the day's activities once they were sure they were alone. "I'm not sure about this trade deal," Lora said, shifting uncomfortably on his mat. "They're not very friendly, are they? Not warm at all." "They were very polite," Dejaberto retorted. "Didn't say a word about us eating with our feet. You know how rare that is?" "We've traded with plenty of more hostile neighbors in the past," Oriol reminded them. "The real question is if these goods are worth two months of travel." They listen to the unfamiliar sounds of the Nest around them. Then Fanna speaks. "They are a very harmonious people. I saw no discord between the small and the large. And they did not attempt to use coins or cheat us with poor goods, though we are strangers. They treated us with great hospitality." One by one the rest gave their opinions. Most were positive. A few expressed curiosity to see more of the material culture that had created such impressive underground structures. Even those wary of the Demons could see some benefit. Finally Oriol nodded. "I knew an exchange between our peoples would be mutually beneficial. As we develop this relationship, we can learn better how to communicate, and what each side most wants. And of course, everyone will have a chance to report to the Council when we return with these gifts. If it is agreed, I will recommend that we return again." -edited for formatting submitted by /u/PhoebusLore to r/createthisworld [link] [comments]

I just want to share this because I know there’s more out there, I’ve spoken to credible sources, I’ve done the calculations and mapped the distance. I know what’s out there now, I know this is all one big Truman show for the fallen. Less the show, more the little bubble of a world he was unknowingly living in. Read the scriptures and not just the ones they tell you about, dig deep, find the ones they removed, don’t take their word for what they say, read the word for yourself and come to your own conclusion. There’s only one truth. The truth. I learned about the 201 fallen including Satan, the children of Cain/synagogue of Satan, all the fallens religions, look at romes “gods” they’re all fallen angels, all of the “myths and religions” are fallen angels or nephilim. Even the Quran came from a fallen angel. I learned who Noah’s people really were, being the Tartarians everyone’s been talking about for years and branded “conspiracy theorists” yeah we should change that word to critical thinkers cause they’ve been spot on for everything else that’s been going on and have been called crazy for years, now everyone else looks like the dumbass. This current plan, has been in motion for over 500 years. Thousands of years even. But you’re not beating someone who invented time, oxygen, the ground you walk on, the creator of everything. More significant then any man or woman who has ever lived in terms of inventors. He is The Inventor. The Tartarians didn’t disappear in the 1700s by the way, the fallen just tore down their biggest buildings that survived the flood during something called the “World Fair” to prepare you for their great deception thinking they were backwards and you’re the future, dumbing the people down over generations, shortening lifespans to make the generations go quicker. Making you believe in cavemen. And Neanderthals, and “evolving from apes”. And gaslighting the world into believing we’re somehow better off dying at 100 years old or younger when the original humans were dying naturally at 900 years old+. They spray your food with poison (pesticides) to keep other animals from eating it, and then feed it to you. They pump chemicals into your water, spray your skies with who knows what, and wonder why you croak it at 100 if you’re lucky, centuries before your natural expiration date. It’s almost as if, you spent 100 years getting slowly poisoned everyday. The Tartarians left when the flood hit. The pyramids were also built pre flood which is why they look corroded. And yeah they were built all over the world by Tartarians. Noah’s population didn’t look very differently to today, all kinds of people, all the tribes of the world, they had technology, phones, cameras, cars, vehicles, airships, free energy, it’s half the reason nobody listened to Noah, because they were too obsessed with all the cool stuff the fallen gave them and I’m over here like, dude all of this stuff is in heaven, where do you think the fallen got it from? You’re giving up eternity with God for some trinkets he’d give you for free anyway. Why wouldn’t he? We’re his children. And all this was going great for them right? Yeah no. Right up until the nephilim started growing in numbers with their insatiable hunger and now consuming millions of humans a day, and you’d think the Tartarians would’ve noticed right? Like America noticed 300,000 children going missing a year? Millions of innocent children worldwide? Like that? and between that and the crossbreeding like “Ra”, “Anubis” and the likes started devouring entire continents and everything that lived on them. Human, animal, nothing was safe. If you know about the anakim, you know the nephilim even started devouring the own brethren because of a Great Rebellion. The Great War of Tartary. Yeah that’s where the whole rebellion thing comes from by the way, Satans crime was impregnating Eve, and defiling Adam, and breaking Gods laws, hence the first nephilim Cain being born, and Adam committing the first sin of homosexuality, which look at the world now, they managed to convince everyone to do it, Sodom and Gomorrah, just missing the crossbreeding and we’re on our way to the part where fire comes down. Then the 200 watchers did the exact same thing as Satan. The Tartarians built the pyramids, but they didn’t design them or originally know how they were to be built. That was all the fallen. They also brought weapons, war, makeup, taught humans how to lie and deceive, almost exactly like what Hollywood does in every movie and tv show. Los Angeles - City of Angels. You’ve gotta be blind if you can’t see it. The Tartarians who weren’t devoured by the nephilim escaped the flood, all 20 of them, but not all of them were on the ark, so how did they get out? That’s a question you gotta seek the answer to and ask the lord to guide you to the answer, oh and when they’re done cloning Gilgamesh/Nimrod, you know the one world government nephilim/giant, Tower of Babel, all that right? which is why the war in Iraq really happened, right? Yeah, get ready for pre flood 2.0, that’s when the world becomes dinner by the way, except this time we know they succeed, for a little while, unlike when they failed to do it in Sodom and Gomorrah, and now they’re doing it worldwide and what happened to those cities? Burned to the ground. But don’t worry, they’ll make you believe in Aliens before that happens so get ready to see “space ships” that fly without thrusters and move at incredible speeds and have unlimited energy but we haven’t reached that point yet so for now, trust in the Lord, read your scriptures, prepare for what’s coming so you don’t have a heart attack when things go down caught with your lamps put out and your trousers down, don’t trust any satanist/pagan worshipping “Christian” who wouldn’t know the bible front to back if they read it 24/7 trying to deceive you into thinking scriptures can be canonised and non canonised by a bunch of child eating pedophile half nephilim spawn of Cain, do your own research, and don’t let Google divert you from the truth, dig deeper then that, find older bibles, physically older, 200+ years, 400+ years, etc. Use those big beautiful brains God gave you, that brain of yours is a tiny universe, use it. Stay away from relying on AI to do everything, use your own natural abilities that God gave you. He made you in HIS image, in HIS likeness. Trust the true Israelites, they’re the ones who will lead the world to New Jerusalem. This is why they’re the most attacked, sterilising the water in Alice Springs, Australia 1980s-1990s, funneling drugs into black neighbourhoods in America 1960s, so many other things in other countries where they were scattered. The Israelites were put on ships and scattered around the world. All the black people of the world are Israelites, they’ve tried lighting them up by mixing, they don’t know who they are, we don’t know who we are, if the eldest brother doesn’t know who he is, how are the younger brothers gonna know who they are and what to do, and Satans running circles around us. I’ll explain below. Bare with me. Everything will make sense in time. First these “aliens” will give us the free energy, the flying cars/ships, everything will be dirt cheap, peace will be everywhere for a little while and this is the part where we gotta go, this is when we leave, this is when we hit legs, it will be as it was in the days of Noah. And then the mark shows up and everyone will take it no worries in exchange for all this cool stuff and peace and safety even though the bible describes this and all the masses will get it but all the Christian’s will go “yeah I read something about that once, I don’t think so” and then a terminators gonna walk in and shred that dude and everyone’s gonna be horrified and scared but the news won’t say a word about it, everything you post about it will be censored “for violating the terms and conditions”, and they may even come for you for attempting to post about it. And while they’re doing that and hopefully before it, we will be like yeah nope, imma go see the Lord Yeshua in New Jerusalem protected by the fire with Mountains of Pure diamond and roads of Gold, thanks for the “space” ship that’ll get me there, Lord take me home, then we’ll all be flying straight there. Brought up to the skies, with the lord in our minds, heading to New Jerusalem. This isn’t spiritual, this is Physical. And those who stay, well you’re gonna meet the T-800 terminator in real life or take the mark and be damned with the fallen for 1000 years and then eternity, I for one wouldn’t recommend that, I would however suggest this great plan, the salvation 9000 package from our Lord Yeshua, Son of God, pardons you of all sins and gets you a lovely spot with free entry into Heaven and New Jerusalem here on earth all included, paid for in full by our Lord Yeshua, Son of God. All that’s required, belief in the Lord, Yeshua, Son of God that he came here to die for your sins and be your salvation and that he was, is, and always will be, Our Messiah. And that he was indeed the Son of God, sent to us by God. All terms met. Welcome to Team God, On God Sir as these young patriots are saying now. Wait for the ships to show up on the market, sell everything you own to buy one, (they’ll be dirt cheap, even people in poverty now will be able to afford one) and then board them and get out of Kansas. Take food, water, some snow gear incase it gets cold, and the clothes on your back, and the ship, that’s it. Dip like a thief in the night. All of the other things will be provided for you. All you gotta do is leave and take as many Christian’s with you who believe. If you can afford a bigger ship, buy one, if you can’t afford a ship that can carry people, buy one. I would assume if these are like the Tartarian ships, they’ll have temperature control in the cockpit and bays and they’re incredibly fast and manoeuvrable. All of this has happened before, except this is the second last time it’ll happen. Satan and the other fallen get out one last time but then that’s the last time permanently. They think they’re scheming right now and that he doesn’t know what they’re doing, but right now they’re executing his will while they’re doing their own, and cementing the survival of his children and the damnation of them and theirs. The wicked have chosen what they’ve chosen, those who truly seek the face of God, will see it. This is why a lot of the people in the church can’t see the truth while a lot of people who don’t even go to church are humble believers in the most high, God, creator and ruler of the universe. This is why they can see it, and the church goers who aren’t committed to God can’t. Because you’re not committed to God, you’re committed to a church, to a building, to a pagan statue of a man who looks nothing like the Son of God. And even if it did, that’s idolatry. Do you pray to a statue or do you pray to the living Yeshua, Son of the living God? A man who’s alive and on this earth right now sitting on his throne in New Jerusalem ready to receive your prayer, who do you think is sending angels to cast demons out of you when you pray? To cast pestilence out of you while you pray, to cast pride, greed, lust, sloth, envy out of you when you pray, cause these aren’t just sins they’re traits of demons, all you gotta do is pray to him and he will send you help, he’s on his Throne in the Kingdom of God on earth, as it is in heaven waiting for the time. Instead you pray infront of some man depicted crucified on a cross, a horrible thing to have depicted in a “holy place” By the way just like the flood didn’t happen because humans were bad, the Arabs didn’t cause 9/11, stupid, misled maybe, not bad necessarily. Although in all honesty, misled stands more for the Muslims then stupid, the Tartarians were dumb as. They built the stargates but didn’t understand how they worked because they didn’t design them, Enoch was the one few of the Tartarians who was actually brilliant, didn’t trust none of them and God welcomed him, but everyone else was just cooked. That’s why he’s coming back with Elijah as the two witnesses. About to put humanity in their place. They’re both Israelites by the way. I mean, the Tartarians didn’t notice all their people going missing until like 20-40 of them remained in the entire world. Just like you didn’t notice 300,000 children going missing in the United States every year for decades, millions of children around the world. Every. Single. Year. That is some dumb stuff even I’m guilty of being oblivious to it. I learned who the custodians and the Anunnaki really are. I’m being shown all of this and I’m like okay okay, angrier and angrier with the more I learn and I’m like wait a minute, let’s calm down a minute, he may stop showing me stuff if he sees me stepping. Let’s have a bit of humility, and then I learned about the 12 tribes of humanity, and that’s when my blood started boiling, but now I’m like okay, okay, now I need to get the Israelites to remember who they are, I feel like that monkey in the Lion King. “Remember who you are, Simba” When I learned that we’re all one family tree, 12 tribes, 12 branches, 12 groups of 2 that start the line. This is why we all have a “first” man, but Adam was the first man. White people - Snow, Tan people - Sand of all kinds, bronze/light brown - clay of all kinds. Together, forms the 12 tribes. The Israelites descend from Adam. Now Adam was formed from the dust of the ground, from where? Snowy mountains? A desert? No. A Garden, The Garden. What’s the ground in a garden? Soil. Adam was black. The Israelites are black. Yeshua (Jesus) was bronze/light brown, why? Because he has non Israelites in his bloodline. The rest were black. The people living in isnotreal, are the children of Cain. Half human, half nephilim. Everyone eating human flesh in the Epstein files? Yep, half human, half nephilim 🎤 drop. But now when it comes to dreams, the Lord says, there will be a surge of prophecies, dreams and visions among his children all over the world, I already know what’s coming, he’s shown me that, he’s shown me what was, what is, and now he’s showing me what will be and when I tell you, it is beautiful, it is pure, far more beautiful then I could have imagined, I think this is where we go first before heading to New Jerusalem. And if this is what a place near New Jerusalem is like? Oh I can’t wait to go home. It’s only a matter of time, soon, we go home. At first I was thinking, what a strange dream, but I’ve turned away from sin, I’ve turned away from all of that, I’m devoted to God and now my subconscious and my conscious are on the same field. Now I’m like okay, okay, document what you saw while it’s fresh. So now I’m seeing this gorgeous breathtaking place, i could physically feel my sensations, I felt like I was physically there, the best way I could describe anything even close to what I was seeing, is Naboo from Star Wars, the way everything was luscious and colourful, and there was a whole city and yet there was so much greenery and life built into the city it was like the city was somehow energising the life around it, I don’t know how else to explain what I was seeing. I knew this wasn’t New Jerusalem, as the bible depicts it pretty accurately, it’d be hard to miss. This place is somewhere else. I just don’t know where. The buildings were a creamy stone, there was copper on the domes and towers of the buildings, it looked like a mix of every structure humans have ever built with like antennas sort of, airships landing on the tower but just touching it. And ships like triangle shapes in the skies, I don’t think they need to refuel, like think stars wars destroyer but way smaller then a destroyer, same shape though. Everything was silent, the machines had no noise, there was absolutely no pollution. The air was fresh in a way I couldn’t explain it, it was like I’d been breathing through my shirt the whole time I’d been alive. Everything was luscious, I could’ve hear children laughing and playing, couples walking down the street openly inlove, people eating fruits I’d never seen and laughing, although I couldn’t tell you what they were talking about, they were talking in a language my best guess would be Latin or old Latin, i know a little bit of Latin and I understood one word or so she said which is the only reason I say Old Latin, i watched a lot of Merlin as a kid and learned some Old Latin, most of which I’ve forgotten but i remembered enough to narrow down the language, it was definitely not a language we speak today, but definitely one we should learn, as well as Aramaic and the other Hebrew/semetic languages. Everything was overgrown but beautifully, like it’s naturally structured in a way I haven’t seen before. I was wearing clothes that looked old but not old as in raggedy but old fashioned like centuries ago how people dressed, I would say my clothes looked more piratey/knight while everyone else was in like old fashioned suit wear, long tailcoats, hats, canes, the women were in these beautiful dresses that looked like they would cost a fortune here, covered in gold and jewellery accessories I guess but not like we have, with bronze bracelets, copper maybe? Seemed to be a lot of copper. The men had canes and the women had bracelets and other items. I had a cane in my hand and it was doing something everytime I touched the ground. I felt like electricity was going through me but not painfully but like I was being refueled, I felt my body healing, sores on my hands closed up as I was looking at them, but at the same time like a connection was being made with me and the Earth itself. The structures I was seeing, the water being this pure blue and it felt amazing, the soft sand like I couldn’t describe it, like play dough but sand but also not as soft as play dough, you could walk on it and it was firm enough to hold you but soft, made me question why the sand here is so hot and hard. And the sunsets are breathtaking, and the grass. I remember feeling itchy, like you used to when you were a kid? Playing in the grass and you’d get itchy legs? It only touched my ankles when I walked into an area that was quite overgrown but you don’t feel that anymore? What’s up with that? Anyway there’s this tree and it’s beautiful I mean the wood is brown like it looks alive, the leaves look like they’re alive, it looks like all of our trees are being poisoned, like that’s the level of difference I saw. And I’m seeing this tree, the cane in my hand made me feel some kind of connection with it and I’m going this is a gorgeous tree, it’s perfectly brown and healthy and the wood just looks alive and healthy, so obsessed with the richness and health of this tree. I’ve never felt so connected to something like a tree. And that’s all I remember, I woke up and spent most of my remaining time looking at a tree that this cane led me to feeling a connection with not just this tree but everytime this cane was in my hand and in the ground. I felt connected to everything, I could feel everything around me. Even the people, and my mind was quiet. A quietness I didn’t even know I needed. But the minute I touched the tree I woke up. When I felt that tree, I knew why they took our connection to the earth away, because if we felt what their poison is doing to them, we’d stop them and we would be furious beyond measure. That’s how strong this connection was, I would’ve cut down anyone who hurt it and it wasn’t like if you cut the tree for wood, it was more like I saw it as life, and I know the natural cycles and stuff but it wasn’t just wood. If I was to cut it down, it would have to be useful and valued, not to be wasted and thrown away like it’s nothing. And this is where consumerism would have failed. If we could feel the earth crying out to us from all the poisons, if we were truly connected to the earth, we would burn these corporations to the ground to protect the earth. The fallen don’t just hate humans, they hate all of Gods creation. They want to see this world burn just as much as all of you. I have a theory that I haven’t lived it yet, but I will soon. As I said, my clothes were uniquely me, I would have stood out in a crowd there, and no one really seemed like I was really there like I could see them but they couldn’t see me, the cane was even to my style, my hair had grown out a fair bit longer then it is now, indicating this is yet to happen. Months from now. Maybe even a year, it was quite long, but it has grown faster lately so I could be wrong about that. No man knows the hour or the day. Not even the angels in heaven, only the father, God. Time is relative, everything’s already happened and nothing has happened. When you realise that, this world becomes even more crazier but even more clear. That’s how God views the universe, and how we should too. submitted by /u/Biglezstoner to r/conspiracy [link] [comments]

I just want to share this because I know there’s more out there, I’ve spoken to credible sources, I’ve done the calculations and mapped the distance. I know what’s out there now, I know this is all one big Truman show for the fallen. Less the show, more the little bubble of a world he was unknowingly living in. Read the scriptures and not just the ones they tell you about, dig deep, find the ones they removed, don’t take their word for what they say, read the word for yourself and come to your own conclusion. There’s only one truth. The truth. I learned about the 201 fallen including Satan, the children of Cain/synagogue of Satan, all the fallens religions, look at romes “gods” they’re all fallen angels, all of the “myths and religions” are fallen angels or nephilim. Even the Quran came from a fallen angel. I learned who Noah’s people really were, being the Tartarians everyone’s been talking about for years and branded “conspiracy theorists” yeah we should change that word to critical thinkers cause they’ve been spot on for everything else that’s been going on and have been called crazy for years, now everyone else looks like the dumbass. This current plan, has been in motion for over 500 years. Thousands of years even. But you’re not beating someone who invented time, oxygen, the ground you walk on, the creator of everything. More significant then any man or woman who has ever lived in terms of inventors. He is The Inventor. The Tartarians didn’t disappear in the 1700s by the way, the fallen just tore down their biggest buildings that survived the flood during something called the “World Fair” to prepare you for their great deception thinking they were backwards and you’re the future, dumbing the people down over generations, shortening lifespans to make the generations go quicker. Making you believe in cavemen. And Neanderthals, and “evolving from apes”. And gaslighting the world into believing we’re somehow better off dying at 100 years old or younger when the original humans were dying naturally at 900 years old+. They spray your food with poison (pesticides) to keep other animals from eating it, and then feed it to you. They pump chemicals into your water, spray your skies with who knows what, and wonder why you croak it at 100 if you’re lucky, centuries before your natural expiration date. It’s almost as if, you spent 100 years getting slowly poisoned everyday. The Tartarians left when the flood hit. The pyramids were also built pre flood which is why they look corroded. And yeah they were built all over the world by Tartarians. Noah’s population didn’t look very differently to today, all kinds of people, all the tribes of the world, they had technology, phones, cameras, cars, vehicles, airships, free energy, it’s half the reason nobody listened to Noah, because they were too obsessed with all the cool stuff the fallen gave them and I’m over here like, dude all of this stuff is in heaven, where do you think the fallen got it from? You’re giving up eternity with God for some trinkets he’d give you for free anyway. Why wouldn’t he? We’re his children. And all this was going great for them right? Yeah no. Right up until the nephilim started growing in numbers with their insatiable hunger and now consuming millions of humans a day, and you’d think the Tartarians would’ve noticed right? Like America noticed 300,000 children going missing a year? Millions of innocent children worldwide? Like that? and between that and the crossbreeding like “Ra”, “Anubis” and the likes started devouring entire continents and everything that lived on them. Human, animal, nothing was safe. If you know about the anakim, you know the nephilim even started devouring the own brethren because of a Great Rebellion. The Great War of Tartary. Yeah that’s where the whole rebellion thing comes from by the way, Satans crime was impregnating Eve, and defiling Adam, and breaking Gods laws, hence the first nephilim Cain being born, and Adam committing the first sin of homosexuality, which look at the world now, they managed to convince everyone to do it, Sodom and Gomorrah, just missing the crossbreeding and we’re on our way to the part where fire comes down. Then the 200 watchers did the exact same thing as Satan. The Tartarians built the pyramids, but they didn’t design them or originally know how they were to be built. That was all the fallen. They also brought weapons, war, makeup, taught humans how to lie and deceive, almost exactly like what Hollywood does in every movie and tv show. Los Angeles - City of Angels. You’ve gotta be blind if you can’t see it. The Tartarians who weren’t devoured by the nephilim escaped the flood, all 20 of them, but not all of them were on the ark, so how did they get out? That’s a question you gotta seek the answer to and ask the lord to guide you to the answer, oh and when they’re done cloning Gilgamesh/Nimrod, you know the one world government nephilim/giant, Tower of Babel, all that right? which is why the war in Iraq really happened, right? Yeah, get ready for pre flood 2.0, that’s when the world becomes dinner by the way, except this time we know they succeed, for a little while, unlike when they failed to do it in Sodom and Gomorrah, and now they’re doing it worldwide and what happened to those cities? Burned to the ground. But don’t worry, they’ll make you believe in Aliens before that happens so get ready to see “space ships” that fly without thrusters and move at incredible speeds and have unlimited energy but we haven’t reached that point yet so for now, trust in the Lord, read your scriptures, prepare for what’s coming so you don’t have a heart attack when things go down caught with your lamps put out and your trousers down, don’t trust any satanist/pagan worshipping “Christian” who wouldn’t know the bible front to back if they read it 24/7 trying to deceive you into thinking scriptures can be canonised and non canonised by a bunch of child eating pedophile half nephilim spawn of Cain, do your own research, and don’t let Google divert you from the truth, dig deeper then that, find older bibles, physically older, 200+ years, 400+ years, etc. Use those big beautiful brains God gave you, that brain of yours is a tiny universe, use it. Stay away from relying on AI to do everything, use your own natural abilities that God gave you. He made you in HIS image, in HIS likeness. Trust the true Israelites, they’re the ones who will lead the world to New Jerusalem. This is why they’re the most attacked, sterilising the water in Alice Springs, Australia 1980s-1990s, funneling drugs into black neighbourhoods in America 1960s, so many other things in other countries where they were scattered. The Israelites were put on ships and scattered around the world. All the black people of the world are Israelites, they’ve tried lighting them up by mixing, they don’t know who they are, we don’t know who we are, if the eldest brother doesn’t know who he is, how are the younger brothers gonna know who they are and what to do, and Satans running circles around us. I’ll explain below. Bare with me. Everything will make sense in time. First these “aliens” will give us the free energy, the flying cars/ships, everything will be dirt cheap, peace will be everywhere for a little while and this is the part where we gotta go, this is when we leave, this is when we hit legs, it will be as it was in the days of Noah. And then the mark shows up and everyone will take it no worries in exchange for all this cool stuff and peace and safety even though the bible describes this and all the masses will get it but all the Christian’s will go “yeah I read something about that once, I don’t think so” and then a terminators gonna walk in and shred that dude and everyone’s gonna be horrified and scared but the news won’t say a word about it, everything you post about it will be censored “for violating the terms and conditions”, and they may even come for you for attempting to post about it. And while they’re doing that and hopefully before it, we will be like yeah nope, imma go see the Lord Yeshua in New Jerusalem protected by the fire with Mountains of Pure diamond and roads of Gold, thanks for the “space” ship that’ll get me there, Lord take me home, then we’ll all be flying straight there. Brought up to the skies, with the lord in our minds, heading to New Jerusalem. This isn’t spiritual, this is Physical. And those who stay, well you’re gonna meet the T-800 terminator in real life or take the mark and be damned with the fallen for 1000 years and then eternity, I for one wouldn’t recommend that, I would however suggest this great plan, the salvation 9000 package from our Lord Yeshua, Son of God, pardons you of all sins and gets you a lovely spot with free entry into Heaven and New Jerusalem here on earth all included, paid for in full by our Lord Yeshua, Son of God. All that’s required, belief in the Lord, Yeshua, Son of God that he came here to die for your sins and be your salvation and that he was, is, and always will be, Our Messiah. And that he was indeed the Son of God, sent to us by God. All terms met. Welcome to Team God, On God Sir as these young patriots are saying now. Wait for the ships to show up on the market, sell everything you own to buy one, (they’ll be dirt cheap, even people in poverty now will be able to afford one) and then board them and get out of Kansas. Take food, water, some snow gear incase it gets cold, and the clothes on your back, and the ship, that’s it. Dip like a thief in the night. All of the other things will be provided for you. All you gotta do is leave and take as many Christian’s with you who believe. If you can afford a bigger ship, buy one, if you can’t afford a ship that can carry people, buy one. I would assume if these are like the Tartarian ships, they’ll have temperature control in the cockpit and bays and they’re incredibly fast and manoeuvrable. All of this has happened before, except this is the second last time it’ll happen. Satan and the other fallen get out one last time but then that’s the last time permanently. They think they’re scheming right now and that he doesn’t know what they’re doing, but right now they’re executing his will while they’re doing their own, and cementing the survival of his children and the damnation of them and theirs. The wicked have chosen what they’ve chosen, those who truly seek the face of God, will see it. This is why a lot of the people in the church can’t see the truth while a lot of people who don’t even go to church are humble believers in the most high, God, creator and ruler of the universe. This is why they can see it, and the church goers who aren’t committed to God can’t. Because you’re not committed to God, you’re committed to a church, to a building, to a pagan statue of a man who looks nothing like the Son of God. And even if it did, that’s idolatry. Do you pray to a statue or do you pray to the living Yeshua, Son of the living God? A man who’s alive and on this earth right now sitting on his throne in New Jerusalem ready to receive your prayer, who do you think is sending angels to cast demons out of you when you pray? To cast pestilence out of you while you pray, to cast pride, greed, lust, sloth, envy out of you when you pray, cause these aren’t just sins they’re traits of demons, all you gotta do is pray to him and he will send you help, he’s on his Throne in the Kingdom of God on earth, as it is in heaven waiting for the time. Instead you pray infront of some man depicted crucified on a cross, a horrible thing to have depicted in a “holy place” By the way just like the flood didn’t happen because humans were bad, the Arabs didn’t cause 9/11, stupid, misled maybe, not bad necessarily. Although in all honesty, misled stands more for the Muslims then stupid, the Tartarians were dumb as. They built the stargates but didn’t understand how they worked because they didn’t design them, Enoch was the one few of the Tartarians who was actually brilliant, didn’t trust none of them and God welcomed him, but everyone else was just cooked. That’s why he’s coming back with Elijah as the two witnesses. About to put humanity in their place. They’re both Israelites by the way. I mean, the Tartarians didn’t notice all their people going missing until like 20-40 of them remained in the entire world. Just like you didn’t notice 300,000 children going missing in the United States every year for decades, millions of children around the world. Every. Single. Year. That is some dumb stuff even I’m guilty of being oblivious to it. I learned who the custodians and the Anunnaki really are. I’m being shown all of this and I’m like okay okay, angrier and angrier with the more I learn and I’m like wait a minute, let’s calm down a minute, he may stop showing me stuff if he sees me stepping. Let’s have a bit of humility, and then I learned about the 12 tribes of humanity, and that’s when my blood started boiling, but now I’m like okay, okay, now I need to get the Israelites to remember who they are, I feel like that monkey in the Lion King. “Remember who you are, Simba” When I learned that we’re all one family tree, 12 tribes, 12 branches, 12 groups of 2 that start the line. This is why we all have a “first” man, but Adam was the first man. White people - Snow, Tan people - Sand of all kinds, bronze/light brown - clay of all kinds. Together, forms the 12 tribes. The Israelites descend from Adam. Now Adam was formed from the dust of the ground, from where? Snowy mountains? A desert? No. A Garden, The Garden. What’s the ground in a garden? Soil. Adam was black. The Israelites are black. Yeshua (Jesus) was bronze/light brown, why? Because he has non Israelites in his bloodline. The rest were black. The people living in isnotreal, are the children of Cain. Half human, half nephilim. Everyone eating human flesh in the Epstein files? Yep, half human, half nephilim 🎤 drop. But now when it comes to dreams, the Lord says, there will be a surge of prophecies, dreams and visions among his children all over the world, I already know what’s coming, he’s shown me that, he’s shown me what was, what is, and now he’s showing me what will be and when I tell you, it is beautiful, it is pure, far more beautiful then I could have imagined, I think this is where we go first before heading to New Jerusalem. And if this is what a place near New Jerusalem is like? Oh I can’t wait to go home. It’s only a matter of time, soon, we go home. At first I was thinking, what a strange dream, but I’ve turned away from sin, I’ve turned away from all of that, I’m devoted to God and now my subconscious and my conscious are on the same field. Now I’m like okay, okay, document what you saw while it’s fresh. So now I’m seeing this gorgeous breathtaking place, i could physically feel my sensations, I felt like I was physically there, the best way I could describe anything even close to what I was seeing, is Naboo from Star Wars, the way everything was luscious and colourful, and there was a whole city and yet there was so much greenery and life built into the city it was like the city was somehow energising the life around it, I don’t know how else to explain what I was seeing. I knew this wasn’t New Jerusalem, as the bible depicts it pretty accurately, it’d be hard to miss. This place is somewhere else. I just don’t know where. The buildings were a creamy stone, there was copper on the domes and towers of the buildings, it looked like a mix of every structure humans have ever built with like antennas sort of, airships landing on the tower but just touching it. And ships like triangle shapes in the skies, I don’t think they need to refuel, like think stars wars destroyer but way smaller then a destroyer, same shape though. Everything was silent, the machines had no noise, there was absolutely no pollution. The air was fresh in a way I couldn’t explain it, it was like I’d been breathing through my shirt the whole time I’d been alive. Everything was luscious, I could’ve hear children laughing and playing, couples walking down the street openly inlove, people eating fruits I’d never seen and laughing, although I couldn’t tell you what they were talking about, they were talking in a language my best guess would be Latin or old Latin, i know a little bit of Latin and I understood one word or so she said which is the only reason I say Old Latin, i watched a lot of Merlin as a kid and learned some Old Latin, most of which I’ve forgotten but i remembered enough to narrow down the language, it was definitely not a language we speak today, but definitely one we should learn, as well as Aramaic and the other Hebrew/semetic languages. Everything was overgrown but beautifully, like it’s naturally structured in a way I haven’t seen before. I was wearing clothes that looked old but not old as in raggedy but old fashioned like centuries ago how people dressed, I would say my clothes looked more piratey/knight while everyone else was in like old fashioned suit wear, long tailcoats, hats, canes, the women were in these beautiful dresses that looked like they would cost a fortune here, covered in gold and jewellery accessories I guess but not like we have, with bronze bracelets, copper maybe? Seemed to be a lot of copper. The men had canes and the women had bracelets and other items. I had a cane in my hand and it was doing something everytime I touched the ground. I felt like electricity was going through me but not painfully but like I was being refueled, I felt my body healing, sores on my hands closed up as I was looking at them, but at the same time like a connection was being made with me and the Earth itself. The structures I was seeing, the water being this pure blue and it felt amazing, the soft sand like I couldn’t describe it, like play dough but sand but also not as soft as play dough, you could walk on it and it was firm enough to hold you but soft, made me question why the sand here is so hot and hard. And the sunsets are breathtaking, and the grass. I remember feeling itchy, like you used to when you were a kid? Playing in the grass and you’d get itchy legs? It only touched my ankles when I walked into an area that was quite overgrown but you don’t feel that anymore? What’s up with that? Anyway there’s this tree and it’s beautiful I mean the wood is brown like it looks alive, the leaves look like they’re alive, it looks like all of our trees are being poisoned, like that’s the level of difference I saw. And I’m seeing this tree, the cane in my hand made me feel some kind of connection with it and I’m going this is a gorgeous tree, it’s perfectly brown and healthy and the wood just looks alive and healthy, so obsessed with the richness and health of this tree. I’ve never felt so connected to something like a tree. And that’s all I remember, I woke up and spent most of my remaining time looking at a tree that this cane led me to feeling a connection with not just this tree but everytime this cane was in my hand and in the ground. I felt connected to everything, I could feel everything around me. Even the people, and my mind was quiet. A quietness I didn’t even know I needed. But the minute I touched the tree I woke up. When I felt that tree, I knew why they took our connection to the earth away, because if we felt what their poison is doing to them, we’d stop them and we would be furious beyond measure. That’s how strong this connection was, I would’ve cut down anyone who hurt it and it wasn’t like if you cut the tree for wood, it was more like I saw it as life, and I know the natural cycles and stuff but it wasn’t just wood. If I was to cut it down, it would have to be useful and valued, not to be wasted and thrown away like it’s nothing. And this is where consumerism would have failed. If we could feel the earth crying out to us from all the poisons, if we were truly connected to the earth, we would burn these corporations to the ground to protect the earth. The fallen don’t just hate humans, they hate all of Gods creation. They want to see this world burn just as much as all of you. I have a theory that I haven’t lived it yet, but I will soon. As I said, my clothes were uniquely me, I would have stood out in a crowd there, and no one really seemed like I was really there like I could see them but they couldn’t see me, the cane was even to my style, my hair had grown out a fair bit longer then it is now, indicating this is yet to happen. Months from now. Maybe even a year, it was quite long, but it has grown faster lately so I could be wrong about that. No man knows the hour or the day. Not even the angels in heaven, only the father, God. Time is relative, everything’s already happened and nothing has happened. When you realise that, this world becomes even more crazier but even more clear. That’s how God views the universe, and how we should too. submitted by /u/Biglezstoner to r/conspiracy [link] [comments]

Howdy! Here's the opening chapter to a novel my cousin and I wrote. It's been rewrtitten, edited, and polished numerous times, but it starts to get hard to know if it makes sense or flows after so much work. We've also had a few beta readers recently and just love feedback. We want to start querying it some time soon but want to know if it is hooky or still needs work. If there is anything majorly wrong with it (slow or janky or boring) we would like to know and what exactly that is. Here's the blurb: Vincent knows his best friend, Scott, didn’t kill himself - he was murdered. The corpse told him so at the funeral when no one was looking. Maybe it’s grief or maybe jet lag, but Vincent promises to crack the case and catch the culprit. Now he’s stuck back in his hometown, Lantern Lake, trying to solve a murder whilst having never solved a damn thing in his life. CHAPTER ONE Thirteen kilometers to Lantern Lake. I flip the radio dial and manipulate the static until distorted guitars and shrieking vocals grind onto the airwaves. A thick forest runs parallel the highway, roadside reflectors lining the edge of the tar like upturned cigarettes. As the sun sets behind the Rocky Mountains, Roger’s voicemail replays in my head. Scott’s dead, Vince. Funeral's next week. The words of a destroyed father, now a haunted husk of who I remember, and a grim reminder of what these ancient fir trees conceal. “Hello out there.” A ragged and familiar voice on the radio cuts my thoughts. “A wonderful night to all those listening. I’m your host Ben and this is Ghost Show Radio, on HOWL one-oh-three.” Big Ben? Wow, he sounds the same. “If you’re on the roads,” Ben continues. “Be cautious, some rain headed our way. Hopefully it’ll help put out some of these forest fires burning in the west. It’s ten-fifty-three and time for more music, here’s another banger for Scott, it's Temple of the Morning Star, on HOWL one-oh-three.” Thunder claps and a wolf wails, clanging guitar fading in behind the cheesy radio call track. An unused railway passes over the highway ahead. It's been nineteen years now since we left our mark on that bridge. Ben was there. Scott too. Thirty feet up on the steel parapet they held my ankles while Tawny kept watch. Upside down, I carved our message in bright pink spray paint for all to see – THIS IS HELL. We were so proud. But passing beneath the bridge, a bittersweet wave falls over me. Our handiwork is gone, vandalized by a kindred pentagram, trails of red paint crying from the tips of the crooked star. Popping a cigarette between my lips, I flick my lighter. Two glints of silver light twinkle ahead. From a gap in the trees a pale face appears, slender and refined - a woman’s face. Her form seems to materialize along the side of the road, where the sutured lines of barbed wire separate the ditch from the untamed wilderness. The fabric of her skirt dances around her ankles in the inky black of night. Her shawl flails in the wind, the blues and yellows and greens licking the air in psychedelic swirls. Her eyes cut the night, holding onto mine as I pass, jet black hair hugging the sides of her face. In an instant the woman is gone, disappearing with the passing trees like a conjured phantom at a brief midnight mass. What the hell was that? A sign buzzes on the horizon - Skinners Taphouse, the letters sandwiched between a sudsy mug of beer and an open straight razor. The neon tubes seem to pull my car towards the dirt parking lot. I suppose I could use a drink, my nerves still tweaked from the specter on the side of the road. Killing the engine, I step out to meet the night. Heavy bass booms from a souped-up Honda a few stalls over. Two party boys in ball caps and track pants lean against the vehicle, the trunk open and subwoofers rattling. Electricity surges in the clouds as a hefty storm swirls above, the damp smell of rain settling in the air. I remember this bar, but I was always too young to go in, a forbidden roadside attraction etched in my memory. The last place I remember on the road out of here, my parents driving us away from town permanently. Built from logs, sawn and stacked, the tap house stretches the length of the parking lot. Yellow light seeps from lamp posts that perimeter the property, their soft glow overpowered by the buzzing purple and pink of the neon sign above. Mounted to the exterior wall above an overfilled ashtray, a plaque declares Skinners a Canadian Heritage Site. Only here would a roadside bar be claimed as a place of national pride. I shove my smouldering cigarette butt into the pile of other stumps, toppling a few onto the ground. Murky light cascades from a small window in the front door, beckoning thirsty travellers inside. Flyers and posters tacked to the wooden slab promote bands and charity events, an ad for Lantern Lake’s Canada Day Extravaganza stapled to the top of the mess. A bell twinkles above my head as I enter the bar. Loud, boisterous laughter erupts from one of the booths along the front wall. As the door behind me closes, the laughter ceases. Heads turn, the patrons alerted to my presence. Three people sit around a table while a well-groomed barkeep hovers over them, a thick twirled mustache above his lip and a white rag hanging from his hip. Taking a seat at the bar, I smile over, the bartender sending back a friendly nod. He returns to the group, reanimating them with a lively story. Once a cozy refuge from the elements, I suspect, Skinners Taphouse has turned into a gaudy dive. Christmas lights droop from the ceiling, illuminating tacky posters and vinyl covered seats - a place for drunks to swallow their sorrows and drink themselves whiskey-dicked. The bare bulbs above the booths scatter the shadows and at the far end of the room a great stone fireplace sits unlit. Unfortunate. “What can I get you, boss?” the bartender asks, the curled tips of his moustache trembling with each syllable. “Rye and ginger,” I say. He turns to the task, taking a bottle from a shelf behind him and filling a glass with amber liquid. “So, this place is a heritage site,” I say, as he sets the drink in front of me. “I never realized Skinners was so special.” He pauses a moment, looking to the door, the other patrons on their way out. The bartender gives a wave as the leaving guests open the door and step into the night, the little bell chiming above their heads. “Oh, yeah,” the bartender says, returning his attention to me. “The building was originally a trappers’ lodge, when Lantern Lake was smaller than a ladybug fart. Eventually the fur trade petered out and the place stood empty for a while. It was bought sometime in the nineteen tens by a man named George Bristow, real big son of a bitch. He turned the place into a general store and dentist.” “Dentist?” “Yeah.” The bartender nods, pointing. Stashed in the corner like a dirty secret, an old dentist’s chair sits mounted to the floor on a rusted pivot. The metal footrest points uncomfortably at me, the worn leather cushions begging to be sat in. “It looks like the kind of thing that would take pleasure in my pain,” I say. The bartender laughs. “Well Bristow was more than a grocer, and more than a dentist. He was a fan of the old fur trade himself. Skinned thirteen people in this very building.” “Fuck off,” I say, laughing. “God’s honest,” he says, raising his hand to the sky. “Peeled the pelt, tanned the hide, and sold it in the store as deer leather. Can you imagine? Finding out your coat was the girl from up the street? Twisted stuff. If you asked the heritage people, they’d say the building’s important because Bristow brought prosperity to the region, blah, blah, blah. But the place is called Skinners for a reason.” “Come on, man. You’re messing around… I mean, I used to live here. My friends and I would have been all over a story like that and I’ve heard none of this.” “How would I know what you know?” he says. “I’m just telling you what I know. It’s the unofficial-official history and another proud Canadian Heritage Moment. This place is full of those. You remember when all those kids were murdered in the woods?” “Any of those Bristow originals?” I ask, ignoring his question and gesturing to the hides and pelts that decorate the wall above the old dentist chair - beaver, deer, and bear, skin spread out like horrid paintings. He laughs, shaking his head. “No. The town burned old Bristow and his handy work in a lynch fire, but the Heritage Committee won’t tell you that either.” “Then why keep the chair?” I ask. “We do haircuts.” “Really?” “Well, Loomis does haircuts.” “He any good?” The bartender smiles, a twinkle in his eye. “You tell me,” he says, pointing to his hair as he leans into the light offered by the bulb overhead. The fade is flawless. No cowlicks or split ends, not one hair out of place, and quite possibly the cleanest, tightest haircut I’ve ever seen. The man’s not even attractive, but with hair like that it doesn’t matter. “What?” I say with surprise. “You got that here? I mean, I noticed when I came in, just shocked you can get such an impressive haircut in a bar. Would it be possible to get one tonight?” “Nope. Loomis ain’t in.” “Oh,” I say, a little disappointed. “When’s he in?” “Don’t know. Went fishing. Could be a few days, could be a week. Depends on what’s biting, you know?” I don’t know but I nod anyway, satisfying the chatting bartender. He asks if I need anything else so I order another rye and ginger. He pours the drink, sliding the glass in front of me, then leaves me in peace. I should slow down; still have to drive into town. But in the depths of my glass Scott’s face grins at me. That silly fuck. He's dead now. Unbelievable. I gulp my drink, Scott and all, and order a third, my bladder telling me to make room. On my way to the toilets, I grab a book of matches from a bowl. Skin on Skin at Skinners, the cardboard cover says in happy letters, along with the same stein and razor from the neon sign out front. The pipes in the bathroom rattle in the walls as I splash water on my face and look in the mirror, my eyes darker than usual. Maybe it’s the travel, or maybe just this town, but I’m tired already. My hair needs a wash, the greasy strands sticking out at all angles. Damn Loomis for going fishing and damn that bartender and his glorious hairdo. And what the hell? Bristow skins? I mean, I knew this town was fucked, but I can’t believe I never heard that one before. Killing the faucet, I wipe my hands on my slacks. A flickering fluorescent above me mutes the black and white colour scheme, saturating my surroundings in unsettling sepia. I push through the swinging door and leave the restroom behind. Two steps into the bar and I stop. The woman from the side of the road has claimed the stool next to mine. One leg over the other, she rifles through her tattered satchel. I guess I didn't imagine her. My feet boogie forward, my heels clicking across the old wooden floor in time with the tune playing on the jukebox - muted horns that sound as though they were recorded in the borderlands between worlds. The bartender emerges from batwing doors separating the bar from the kitchen. He looks surprised to see the woman, but greets her with a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t hear the bell. What can I get you tonight?” he asks her. “I’ll have a Singapore Sling,” she says, as I return to my seat. Her voice is smoky and smooth and soaked in gin. Just like that sling. The bartender nods and taps his knuckles on the wooden counter before setting off to make the mysterious woman’s drink. Whatever’s in her bag rattles as she rummages inside. She notices my gaze and grins, electrifying her entire face. Luscious black curls the color of shoe polish tumble past her shoulders, a single white stripe scarring the front strands - how very Mrs. Munster. “Hey,” I start, an uncontrollable urge to speak to her, my voice coming out louder than expected. “Hi,” she says, smiling again. “If you’re here for a haircut,” I say. “I got bad news. The guy’s out of town.” “I’m devastated,” she says, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “That chair looks like so much fun.” “Fun for the chair.” She giggles. “I saw you on the side of the road,” I say. “I would’ve stopped, it’s just that…” “It's just that I scared you?” Her voice dances through the air and down my ear canal, firing every synapse with delight. “I didn’t even know if you were real,” I say. “You came out of nowhere.” “I came out of somewhere,” she says. “I thought maybe I was hallucinating beautiful women.” “Do you often hallucinate?” she asks with honest curiosity. “Not lately.” Rings adorn her fingers and bracelets loop her wrists, the eclectic array casting streaks of metallic light in compact, fleeting, galaxies. Tattoos scatter her skin, a crescent moon cradled in the crease of her thumb practically beams at me. The bartender delivers her cocktail and resumes his place among the mugs. “Now that I have something to drink,” she says, lifting her glass towards me. “How about a toast?” Her hazel eyes sparkle, flecks of copper buried in the creamy iris. “To what are we toasting?” I say, lifting my own glass. She thinks for a moment, scrunching her face. “To new acquaintances,” she finally says. “Or perhaps new friends, if I may be so bold?” “You may. But I question your intent.” Mock hurt crosses her face. “Just don’t leave me on the side of the road again, buster, and we’ll be fine.” “No promises,” I tell her with a grin. Our glasses clink and smiles widen, then it’s down the hatch with a heavy gulp. My head feels light and my stomach flutters. How much have I had to drink? “I’m Vince, by the way.” “Mona Newlys,” she says, curtseying in her seat. “A pleasure,” I say, unable to look away. “So, what do you do?” she asks, touching my arm. A surge crawls across my skin, spreading from her fingertips and over my shoulder, tingling down my spine in ecstasy. “I draw pictures,” I say, barely holding it together. “How about you?” “Oh, I'm a witch. Wait, you draw pictures? Like a painter?” “A painter?” I say. “Like I paint walls? How dare you.” She giggles. “No, not a painter. Illustrations. Graphic novels and such.” “Oh? Anything I might know?” “Probably not,” I say, chuckling. “But I just sold my first book, so maybe one day you will.” “Impressive.” She raises her glass again, the glint in her eyes spelling trouble. “Well, Vincent. Here’s to success.” She slams back the rest of her drink, setting the glass on the counter. Did she say she was a witch? Her tattoos seem to shift and curl across her skin, is the moon on her hand in a different phase now? Is the room moving? Everything my eyes land upon pulses with life. The lush wood of the bar swirls beneath nicks and scrapes and stains, the colored lights reflecting off the glossy surface like a 1980’s disco. My eyes fall upon the sad, lifeless fireplace. “I wish that was lit,” I say pointing to the cold stone hearth. “Ask Nate,” she says. “Who?” “Mr. Moustache.” “Nate,” I holler, scanning the room for the elusive barkeep. Nate’s head pokes out from the kitchen. “What can I do for ya?” “Can we light the fire?” “I think I’d like it very much if you did,” he says, and ducks back out of sight. “Permission granted,” says Mona with a wink. Taking a few logs from a wood pile on the floor, we make a little teepee, tossing some twigs in the middle. “I've got the flames,” says Mona, before I can reach for my new match book. “Take a seat.” I find a soft cushioned chair close to the fireplace and as my butt hits the cushion, a worship of flames roars up beside me. “Whoa,” I say, leaning back from the heat. “That's better,” says Mona, plopping in the chair across from me. As the flames dance around the bar, the conversation flows as smoothly as the liquor. A few rounds of pool and a spin in the dentist chair, and I've nearly forgotten I'm here for a funeral. “I haven’t seen you around before,” Mona says, as if in my head. “No, you wouldn’t have.” I finish my drink, setting the glass on the bar. “I used to live here, once upon a time. But I’m just visiting. Back for a crappy personal matter.” “That’s no good,” she says. “I'm sorry to hear. But glad to have met you.” She hugs me, squeezing me hard. I relax into her embrace. This is nice. She leans back, releasing her hug and cupping my face in her palms. “Bar-keep,” she half yells, her eyes still locked on mine. “Two Absinthe.” Nate appears through the swinging doors with two glass pontarliers full of bright green liquid. Small slotted spoons rest across the top of each glass, a sugar cube nesting in the concave of the metal. He sets two eye droppers filled with ice water beside each glass. “Enjoy,” he says, and once more he is gone. “How does this work again?” I ask, eyeing the poison. “It’s been a while.” “It’s easy,” Mona says, taking the eyedropper in her hand. “Slowly let the water melt the sugar.” Beads of water plummet from the dropper, saturating the sugar cube, diluting the drink beneath. “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” she says with a wink. I mimic her steps, my own cube of sugar melting and turning the green liquid a sour opaque. “Shall we?” she asks, tapping her glass against mine. The cold licorice taste cools my tongue and burns my throat, warming my body the whole way down. Mona releases a satisfied sigh, her body relaxing. “Wanna get out of here?” she asks, eyeing the empty bar imbued with the vibe we’ve created. “Hell yeah,” I say, pushing off the bar, swaying slightly, not sure if it’s the booze or her. “I got the bill.” Mona tosses a few heavy silver coins down on the bar. “What are you? An eighteenth century Baroness?” I say, chuckling. “Shall we?” she says, taking my arm. I steady my step and with a gentle touch from Mona, we head for the exit. submitted by /u/dr_spirits to r/writingfeedback [link] [comments]

A little over a month ago, I went to the cornfield, a place that feels almost suspended in time. It lies a few hours north of my village, tucked deep beyond the forest that climbs the lower slopes of the mountains in Sulawesi, Indonesia. The air there is cool and crisp, often carrying the faint scent of wet soil and pine from the highlands. My family has been planting corn in that same patch of land for as long as anyone can remember. My grandfather before my father, and my father before me. Every year, when the stalks turn gold and the wind rustles through them like a whispering sea, someone from the family takes turns keeping watch through the night, guarding the field beneath the stars. This year was different, though. It was my first time doing it alone. I had just turned twenty, and my father said it was time I learned what it meant to be a responsible adult. He said it like it was a rite of passage, something every man in our family had to go through. We’ve lost too much in the past to wild boars and macaques. My father says those little bastards can clear out an entire patch in one night if no one’s watching. So, like most farmers around here, we built a small treehouse for keeping watch. Nothing fancy. Just bamboo poles, rusty nails, and an old tarp for a roof. It sits high enough to see over the corn and into the tree line, but low enough to stay steady when the wind howls through the forest. The day before I left, my father was sitting on the porch, sharpening his machete. My younger brother had left for school a few hours earlier, leaving the house unusually quiet. “Make sure you bring enough batteries,” he said. “And don’t sleep too early. You hear something, you shout.” “I know,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” He stopped sharpening and looked at me for the first time. His face was half in shadow. “Something’s been scaring the dogs at night. They won’t even go near the edge of the woods.” I laughed it off. Everyone in the village had been talking about strange noises lately. Low howls, something dragging through the brush, but people say things every harvest season. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” he asked again for the zillionth time that day. “Dad, I got this. You can barely walk straight.” I glanced at his tightly bandaged ankle, courtesy of a reckless motorcyclist who had run into him hard and fractured his shin last month. “They haven’t found the Nangin Boys…” His voice trailed off, and my stomach sank a little. “Dad, those kids probably wandered off and got lost. They’ll find them or they’ll return home in no time,” I said, more to calm myself than him. “Been over a month. How long can they survive getting lost in the woods like that? Just be careful, alright?” he said. “Start a good fire before dusk, and keep it going all night. Don’t let it burn out. It’ll keep the animals and whatever else away. Just don’t go setting the whole field on fire.” “I won’t,” I said in passing. “I’m serious. Keep the fire going all night,” he said in a hoarse high-pitched whisper. “Jesus, dad. I will.” I packed some rice, dried fish, two bottles of water, some packs of Marlboros and my old flashlight. I also brought my phone even though there was no reception out there. It was still good for time-checking and a few offline games. Before leaving, I wiped down my hunting rifle, checked the chamber, and slung it over my shoulder, just in case. Truth is, I kind of enjoy these nights alone in the field; every now and then a wild boar shows up, and if I’m lucky, I get to bring home some fresh meat. I set out before noon, when the air was still warm and smelled faintly of soil and corn pollen. The road wound north through the village, past rice fields and clusters of wooden houses, before narrowing into a rough, uneven stretch where the asphalt gave way to gravel and dirt. I drove my old pickup for nearly two hours, the engine growling as I climbed higher into the hills. The elevation wasn’t particularly high, just enough for the air to cool and thin slightly, but the road that led there was a narrow, winding mess. I had to ease my foot on the gas, keeping both hands firm on the wheel to keep the truck from skidding off the cliffside. I parked near a cluster of pines where the trail ended, killed the engine, and listened for a moment to the hum of cicadas and the distant rush of water. The air smelled of sap and damp earth. From there, it was a steady walk uphill. The narrow path wound through patches of pine trees before dipping sharply downhill again, where it crossed a shallow stream that cut through the valley floor. I stopped by the stream along the way and threw in a line. The water was cold and clear, curling around my ankles as I waited for a bite. As I waited, something caught the light beneath the surface. A small glint, just below my reflection. I leaned closer and reached in, my fingers brushing against cold metal. When I pulled it out, I saw it was an old, rusted button, one of those cheap imitation gold ones that might’ve once been part of a uniform. The shine was long gone, but a faint yellow gleam still clung stubbornly to its edges. I turned it over in my hand, thumb tracing the worn grooves, and a flicker of memory surfaced, me as a kid, standing by this same stream with my father, finding things just like this. Torn scraps of fabric, a dented bracelet, a broken piece of a yo-yo, its paint faded and edges chipped from years of neglect. I even found a gold ring once, dulled by mud and time. I remembered how he’d snatch it from me without a word and hurl it straight back into the river. “Don’t pick up shit like that. You hear me, boy?” he’d said once, the words still sharp in my head. “Things come down from the hill sometimes. Best leave them be.” I stared at the button for a moment longer, then tossed it back into the water. It sank without a ripple, disappearing as if it had never been there at all. After half an hour of waiting, I finally caught two medium-sized mujair for dinner. I gutted them on a flat rock and wrapped them neatly in taro leaves for roasting later. It wasn’t until I bent down to rinse the fish guts from my fingers that I noticed a faint sting between my toes. I looked down and saw three fat leeches, slick and black, clinging stubbornly to my skin. “Damn it,” I muttered under my breath. I sat on the rock and tried to pry them off, but they clung tighter, their bodies swelling slightly with each drop they drank. Remembering what my father used to do, I took a pinch of salt from my rucksack and sprinkled it over them. They writhed and loosened, falling back into the stream one by one, leaving thin trails of blood that swirled away in the current. On my way back to the trail, I gathered a bundle of dry sticks and pine needles for kindling, the sharp resin scent clinging to my hands. The path cut through a shallow gully carved long ago by the river, narrow and uneven, its narrow floor streaked with red clay and scattered stones, with rocks and ferns jutting out along the sides and wild grass growing between them. During the rainy season, it filled with runoff from the hills, and sometimes, when the river swelled past its banks, with overflow, turning the gully into a fast, churning stream. But now it was mostly dry. Just a few damp patches and the faint smell of wet earth lingering in the air. I followed it uphill, stepping over roots and loose stones, until the ground leveled out again near the cornfield. By then, the sky had turned a dim copper, the last light bleeding softly through the haze. The cornfield lay atop a gentle knoll, encircling a small clearing where the old treehouse stood like a quiet sentinel above the golden stalks. From up there, the view stretched across the rippling field and down toward the north, where the land sloped lazily toward a stream I had stopped by earlier in the day. Here, the water ran wider and slower, winding through a narrow band of reeds that shimmered in the afternoon light. The air smelled faintly of sun-warmed corn and damp earth, and somewhere in the distance, cicadas droned in the trees that lined the foothills. My treehouse stood on a crooked trunk in the center of the field, offering a clear view of the whole clearing and the darkening forest beyond. I climbed up into the treehouse and looked around. The small mat was still there in the corner, the old hanging lantern swaying gently in the breeze. Even the weathered wooden chest sat right where we’d left it, packed with musty blankets, some half-burned chunky white candles my father had ‘borrowed’ from the church, and a couple of torches. I unscrewed the old oil lantern and carefully wiped each part with a torn, oil-stained rag I’d found in the wooden chest. Once the glass was clear enough that I could almost see my own tired reflection, and the wick trimmed just right, I filled the tank with kerosene and lit it. The soft orange glow flickered to life, casting a warm circle of light that pushed back the dimming shadows around me. Then I set up the can clangers my father had made years ago along the edge of the field. A single rope strung with old tin cans, each stuffed with a few small rocks. One end I tied to a tree at the edge of the forest, the other I ran up to the treehouse. The rope was stretched just above the tops of the cornstalks, loose enough that the cans could swing and clang when pulled, but not so low that they would scrape the plants. Every so often, I’d give it a tug, and the cans would rattle and clang across the rows, sharp and metallic. Loud enough to scare off anything creeping too close and wake up the dead. My father used to say that sound carried far at night, and it was always wise to remind the forest that someone was still awake. The fog had already started to roll in from the stream below, sliding between the corn rows like slow, pale smoke. By the time I spread my mat and sat down, the air had grown damp and cold enough to make my breath visible. My first night was quiet. Too quiet, actually. The forest usually hums after dark. Crickets, frogs, wind in the leaves. But there was a stillness that felt wrong. I thought maybe it was because of the rain clouds gathering somewhere far off. The air was heavy, pressing down. The next day went by quietly. I looked around the field for any footprints or signs of animals but didn’t find anything. The corn stood tall and golden, almost ready for harvest. I’d be picking them by hand, one by one, stuffing them into gunny sacks and hauling them down the hill to my pickup. By midday, the heat drove me toward the stream. I waded in up to my knees and set up a simple fish trap I’d made from woven rattan strips, anchoring it between two smooth stones where the current narrowed. With luck, I’d catch a few mujair by dusk, enough for dinner, maybe even breakfast tomorrow. As I tightened the knots and watched the trap settle into the clear water, a faint breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Everything felt calm. Almost too calm. It started on the second night. Around midnight, I woke to a sound. Soft, deliberate steps somewhere out in the field. At first, I thought it was a wild boar. I pushed myself up lazily and half-dragged my feet to the door, squinting through the bright, flickering glow of the fire outside. The stalks swayed gently in the wind, but nothing moved among them. Then, the steps stopped. I reached over and gave the can clangers a few tugs, the cans clattering in the dark. Then another pull, just to be sure. I waited. The air felt thick and damp, every sound too sharp, too close. After a minute, I heard it again. The same rustle. But this time it came from farther off, like something circling the edge of the field. I grabbed and swung my flashlight around, its beam slicing through the rows, but the corn swallowed everything whole. I shouted, “Hey! Who’s there?” Then a rustle, faster this time, moving away toward the forest. I told myself it was just an animal and lay back down, but I couldn’t sleep. Every few minutes, I thought I heard it again: the faintest whisper of movement somewhere in the corn. At dawn, I climbed down and looked for tracks. I found a few broken stalks near the edge of the field, but no clear prints. It didn’t look like wild boars. The stalks were bent higher up, as if someone, or something, had brushed through standing tall. By the third night, I was already uneasy. The air felt colder, heavier somehow. I sat on the edge of the platform with my legs hanging, rifle resting beside me. I’d turned off the oil lantern inside the treehouse so my eyes could adjust, staring out through the glow of the campfire. The moon hung pale and ghostly behind a veil of thin clouds. After a simple meal of cold rice, grilled fish, and my father’s homemade sambal, I sat by the door, peeling one of the wild mangoes I’d picked earlier near the stream. They were small and greenish, not the kind you’d buy in town, but the kind that grew on old trees deep in the forest. Sweet, fibrous, and too stringy to chew. That’s when something caught my eye. Something was standing near the edge of the field. Or maybe it wasn’t. At first, I thought it was just the moonlight catching on the stalks. The way shadows sometimes knit themselves into strange shapes when you stare too long. But the longer I looked, the less sure I became. There was a shape there, upright and still. Taller than any man I’d ever seen. It didn’t move at first. It just stood there among the trees, maybe thirty meters away, half-hidden by the mist. The breeze stirred the stalks, and for a moment I lost sight of it. When the wind died, it seemed closer. Or maybe that was just my imagination. I blinked hard, rubbed my eyes, but it didn’t change. Still there. Its head was tilted slightly, as if it were listening, or trying to understand something. I couldn’t make out a face, only a vague outline that seemed to waver whenever the wind moved the corn. For a moment, I almost convinced myself it was nothing. Just the corn bending, the fog playing tricks again. But then, even the night seemed to hold its breath. I grabbed my flashlight. Blinked, and it was gone. The corn rippled for a few seconds, then went still. I barely slept that night. The next morning, I thought about going home. But pride or maybe fear of ridicule kept me there. I told myself it was just a trick of the light. I’d been staring too long into the dark. That day, while I was busy stuffing gunny sacks with corn under the scorching sun, I heard my cousin Rio’s voice calling from the path. He’d brought food, fresh batteries, and two cigarette packs. We talked for a while, about the harvest, the weather, nothing important, sharing a smoke as he helped me fill the sacks with the rest of the day’s yield. I didn’t tell him what I’d seen. I just said I hadn’t been sleeping well. Before he left, he warned me to keep the fire going until morning. Then he told me a horrifying story about a mass murder that had taken place in the forest during a period of political unrest decades earlier. According to him, the victims were slaughtered and tossed into a ravine, men, women, even children. Ever since then, he said, no one had dared to venture into the northern part of the forest. I rolled my eyes, convinced he was only trying to frighten me. But that night, lying awake in the treehouse, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said. Something clicked when my mind returned to the old button I had found earlier in the river. The river’s upstream ran north, deep into the mountainous heart of the forest. Whatever relics ended up downstream must have been carried from there. Then I remembered the anger, no, the disgust, on my father’s face when he used to warn me, as a child, never to pick things out of the river. It dawned on me that there was something he had never told me. By the time the clock struck nine, I was drifting in and out of sleep, my eyes fixed on the glow of my phone, until exhaustion finally claimed me. The sounds started earlier than usual. Around ten. I had been asleep when I woke with a jolt, my chest tight and a cold, crawling anxiety creeping up my spine. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the faint, metallic scent of wet soil. Outside, a thin drizzle had begun, soft at first, then steady, and the temperature had dropped sharply, even before midnight, sending shivers through my bare arms. The first rustle came from the far side of the field. Then another, closer. The wind picked up, but the noises didn’t follow its rhythm. They were deliberate, measured, like someone, or something, stepping carefully through wet leaves. I turned off the lantern and crouched low to the floor, pressing my eyes to the gap between the wooden boards. There was movement in the corn again, further away. Something tall and dark, gliding rather than walking. I saw it for a fraction of a second, long enough to show that it wasn’t bending the stalks like a person would. It seemed to move through them, almost slipping between the plants. Then the smell hit me, sudden and overwhelming. It was earthy and cloying, sharp and sour, like rotting fruit steeped in wet soil, and beneath it, something fouler, something unmistakably like decay. My stomach lurched, and I gagged, pressing my sleeve hard against my nose in a futile attempt to keep it out. Minutes passed. I lost sight of it. The forest beyond the field was pitch-black now. The kind of darkness that makes you doubt the ground beneath your feet. Then a new sound: wood creaking, slow and deliberate. My heart skipped a beat. And that’s when it hit me. The fire had died out. It was climbing. The ladder to the treehouse groaned once, then again, louder. My chest tightened. I froze, listening. The sound came again, a slow, deliberate creak, like someone testing each rung. I grabbed my flashlight and pointed it through the door. The weak beam caught nothing. Just mist, tree bark, and corn swaying in the dark. My hands were shaking so badly that the light trembled across the boards. I set the flashlight down by the edge, angling it toward the ladder, and grabbed my rifle. “Go away!” I shouted, voice cracking. The ladder groaned again. I kicked at it hard, the whole treehouse shuddering under my feet. I screamed and cursed for it to stop, to leave me the fuck alone, until my throat burned raw. Then something in me snapped. I pulled the trigger. The rifle thundered, deafening in the small space. Smoke filled the air, stinging my nose. The echo rolled out into the forest and was gone. Heart pounding, I swung the small door shut and jammed the latch in place. For a long time, I just sat there, staring at the flickering beam of the flashlight as it dimmed on the floor. Later, rain returned. The kind of steady drizzle that makes the world feel half-asleep. I wrapped myself in my jacket and listened to the patter on the tarp roof. Around midnight, the rain eased. I must’ve dozed off, because I woke up to silence. The air was cold, and the smell of wet soil and iron hung in the air. I turned off the lantern. I crouched and peeked through the gap in the floor. Down below, at the base of the tree, something was looking up at me. I couldn’t see its face. Just the dark outline of its head and shoulders, slick with rain, its skin so pale it almost glowed. Its arms hung too low, fingers nearly brushing the ground. It didn’t move. It just stood there, head tilted again, like before. Curious. I thought I could hear breathing. Slow and heavy, mixed with the faint sound of dripping water. I scrambled to grab my rifle, heart hammering in my chest, and when I looked again, the thing was gone. A cold dread settled over me as I fumbled with the lantern, finally managing to light it in a panic. The warm glow spilled across the floorboards, a fragile barrier against the darkness outside. Fire, the only thing keeping me safe, felt suddenly too small, too weak to hold back whatever had been there. I stayed up all night, the lantern casting a warm, trembling glow over the floorboards. My rifle sat across my lap, barrel trained on the small door, every creak or whisper of wind making me flinch. The hours stretched endlessly, each one heavier than the last. I tried to keep my eyes open, scanning the shadows beyond the clearing, listening for the slightest rustle in the corn. Every sound made my heart jump. Branches snapping, the distant call of a night bird, the occasional drip of rain from the canopy above. Sleep teased me, hovering just out of reach, until finally exhaustion claimed me. I slumped against the corner, rifle still in hand, and the lantern’s glow flickered across the floorboards as the first light of dawn cracked through the trees. At some point after sunrise, exhaustion hit me like a drug. When I finally stirred, everything was already changing around me, the air cooler, the shadows stretching long across the field. It was just a few moments before sunset. My head throbbed, my muscles ached, and my stomach growled relentlessly from hunger and dehydration. I blinked several times, disoriented, the crimson and orange streaks of the sinking sun painting the clearing in a surreal, almost threatening light. Panic rose with a hollow weight in my chest as I realized with sinking dread that it was far too late to make it back to my car. Any attempt to leave now would be foolish. That thing… whatever it was… would reach me long before I reached safety. My eyes fell on the ladder leading up to the treehouse, and my stomach tightened. Deep, jagged scratches marred the wood, gouged as if something with long claws had tried to climb up during the night. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and shivered, imagining what could have made them. My hands shook as I scrambled to gather dry sticks and branches, moving as fast as I could before the last light disappeared. I piled them a little closer to the treehouse and struck a match. Sparks flared, smoke curled upward, and the fire caught with a crackle. I crouched close, shielding the flame from the wind, fanning it with frantic care. The air smelled of sap and wet earth. I whispered a silent plea for the rain to stay away, because this fire was all I had. Whatever I had glimpsed the night before, watching me from the shadows beneath the treehouse, had been provoked by my presence. Seeing me up close had awakened something in it. Something curious, bold, hungry. And now it was only a matter of time before it returned. By the time the sun had finally slipped below the horizon, the forest around me had become a solid, suffocating black. My fire, the only barrier between me and the shadows beyond, leapt into the sky, sending sparks swirling like startled fireflies. The heat was intense, washing over my face and arms, making me sweat despite the cool night air. Then I climbed back up into the treehouse, swung the door shut, and secured the latch with a firm click. I sank onto the small mat, rifle across my lap, listening to the fire crackle below and the wind whispering through the corn. I tried to force down some of the leftover food my cousin had brought. Stale rice and a bit of dried fish. I needed something in me, some strength for whatever might come crawling back through the darkness. I just had to make it through one more night. If I could survive until the first hint of morning light, I’d sprint down the hill and never look back until I was safely in my truck. I woke to a heavy, suffocating silence pressing in from every direction. My hand immediately fumbled for the phone, hoping, maybe desperately, that it was closer to dawn. 2:15 AM. Fuck. I forced myself upright, my muscles stiff and trembling from hours of tension and exhaustion. The silence was so absolute it made my own heartbeat feel thunderous in my ears. I grabbed my rifle, hands slippery with sweat, and crept toward the narrow gap between the wooden boards. Outside, the fire I had tended so obsessively had almost died. Only a few stubborn embers clung to the last brittle stalks and branches I’d fed it, sending tiny sparks spiraling into the night air. The weak flames flickered and bent with the wind, throwing distorted shadows across the clearing, making the corn stalks sway in slow, ghostly rhythms. Then something moved at the edge of the field, near the treeline. A dark, elongated figure slipped between the trees, blending almost seamlessly with the inky night. It moved with an unnatural smoothness, gliding over the corn stalks like a living shadow, a mass of black smoke hovering just above the plants. I fumbled for the door, my hands trembling as I unlocked the latch and swung it open. A rush of cold night air hit me. I lifted my rifle, cocked it with shaking hands, and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I aimed at the approaching figure, my finger tightening on the trigger. The first shot tore through the night with a deafening bang, echoing across the field and into the forest beyond. The thing hesitated for a fraction of a second, unsure, but it didn’t stop. It kept moving closer. Another shot. This time the bullet flew past the highest cornstalks, rattling them as they swayed in its wake. And now the thing froze. For a moment long enough that I could see it more clearly, more fully. It resembled what I’d always imagined a shadow person to look like. Only taller, lankier, its outline less defined, more like a swirling, smoke-thick humanoid form. It didn’t have a face, not really. Just a mass of dark, shifting shadow that moved with a purpose I couldn’t comprehend. I didn’t know what else to call it. I spun around and stumbled to the wooden chest, my hands shaking so hard I could barely get the latch open. The lid creaked, then slammed back against the wall. Inside were the same old things: musty blankets, stubby candles, and a few makeshift torches we’d made from years ago out of dried rags and broken chair legs. I snatched the torches, then reached for the kerosene tin I kept by the wall, spilling almost half of it in my haste. The sharp, oily smell filled the air as I poured, soaking the rags until they dripped. My breath came quick and shallow. The first match snapped between my trembling fingers. The second flared, bright and sudden. I lit the first torch and stumbled toward the door. For a second, I just stood there, staring out into the swaying stalks and the deep darkness beyond. Then I threw the torch as hard as I could. It tumbled through the air and landed in the clearing below, its flame flashing against the stalks, shadows twisting and lurching like bodies. I froze, my chest tight with panic, unable to look away. My mind refused to accept what I was seeing. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to flee, but my legs wouldn’t obey. I could only watch, paralyzed with terror, as the thing grew bolder, its shadowy hands crawling and stretching toward me like the night itself had come alive. I lit another torch, then another, tossing them one by one into the field as hard as I could. One toward the narrow path that led out of the clearing, another toward the far corner where the corn grew thick and high. I poured the last of the kerosene from the tin onto my final torch and lit it, the flames licking hungrily at the dry cloth. Without thinking, I hurled it toward the shadowy figure as it slithered into the clearing. The torch hit the ground, and instantly the dry stalks around me caught fire. Sparks leapt, flames spread, and within moments the small clearing was swallowed by roaring walls of fire. Thick, black smoke curled upward, choking the air and swallowing the thing from sight. The inferno crackled and hissed around me, and that’s when it hit me: I wasn’t just fighting the creature anymore. I was trapped in my own funeral pyre. The flames licked closer, the heat unbearable, smoke stinging my eyes, and I realized with a sinking, sickening dread that the very fire I’d recklessly unleashed, the fire I thought would protect me, was now a cage. I moved fast. Too fast. I didn’t even think. I jumped from the treehouse, hitting the ground hard, my right foot twisting underneath me with a sickening crack. Pain shot up my leg like electricity. I hissed, clutching at my ankle, the world blurring with hot tears and smoke. For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe. My chest heaved as I looked around, eyes stinging, trying to find a way out. Flames encircled me in every direction, the air heavy with burning ash. Without the treehouse walls to shield me, the heat felt alive, searing, angry, and merciless. Every breath scalded my throat. Good job, I thought bitterly. Now you’re really going to burn alive out here. Then something pierced through the chaos. A faint, sweet smell drifting through the smoke. Grilled corn. The scent hit me like a happy memory. Summer evenings in the field with my father and brother, the crackle of the fire, the laughter, the smell of grilled corn smothered in melted cheese clinging to our clothes. For a second, it didn’t feel like hell. It felt like home. And that memory lit a spark inside me stronger than any fire around me. I turned my head to the right, squinting through the haze. Beyond the wall of flames, I could just make out the small dirt path leading out of the clearing, weaving through the cornfield and down the hill toward the stream. If I could reach it fast enough… if I could just get to the water, I might still make it out alive. My ankle throbbed, but I pushed the pain aside. Maybe I could limp, crawl, hell, even roll my way down like a damn barrel if I had to. Anything was better than standing here waiting to burn. I staggered forward, limping, dragging my bad leg behind me. The pain was blinding, but fear was stronger. Sparks rained down from above, landing on my sleeves and hair. I batted them away frantically and kept going. The sound of the fire was deafening. A violent roar that drowned out everything, even my own shouts. I could feel it eating up the air, sucking the breath right out of my lungs. Then I broke into a sprint, or something close to it. The world became a blur of orange and black. I covered my face with one arm and hurled myself through the wall of fire. For a second, I felt the flames lick my skin and heard the fabric of my shirt crackle. The stench of burning cotton and hair filled my nostrils. I stumbled out the other side, screaming. Not from fear this time, but from sheer, raw pain. I fell into the cornfield, rolling instinctively, crushing dry stalks beneath me as I tried to smother any embers on my clothes. My vision swam. Everything around me was chaos, flames spreading and smoke thick as tar, suffocating me from every direction. I tried to get up. My ankle screamed with every step, but I forced myself forward, half-limping, half-crawling down the narrow dirt path. The hill felt endless, but somewhere below, I could hear the faint, steady murmur of the stream. My only chance. I pushed myself harder, tasting blood and ash in my mouth, until the ground finally gave way beneath me. I slid, tumbling through the dirt and broken stalks, rolling uncontrollably down the slope until the world went cold and wet. The stream swallowed me whole, hissing as the fire on my clothes died out in bursts of steam. I had no idea how many bones I’d broken from rolling down the hill, or how bad my burns were from running through the fire. But I was alive. Somehow. Impossibly. Still alive. But I couldn’t stay down. Not yet. I still had to make it to safety. As I limped forward, every step sending jolts of agony through my body, my hand brushed against the keys still hooked to my belt loop. They jingled softly, the split ring holding them intact. Relief washed over me in that tiny, almost ridiculous sound. I felt a flicker of happiness, glad that I had not lost them. The faint glow from the fire in the distance lit the overgrown path, guiding me. I climbed into my truck, my heart still hammering, and slid the key into the ignition. When the engine roared to life, the whole vehicle shuddered with a soft jolt, and a sudden, almost overwhelming wave of relief washed over me. When the first pale light of dawn touched the horizon, I pressed the accelerator a little more, merging onto a wider road that would eventually lead me back toward my neighborhood. Each bump and dip of the asphalt reminded me just how sore I still was, but the thought of home kept me moving. I didn’t even bother pulling the truck into our spacious front yard. I eased it to a stop on the shoulder of the road in front of the house, killed the engine, and climbed out, every step a painful reminder of the night I’d survived. The light in the living room was on. My father was already awake. I knocked hard on the front door three times, then collapsed onto my knees. When I came to, I found myself lying in a hospital bed, IV lines snaking around my arms and an oxygen mask covering my face. My father’s pained expression hovered above me, his bloodshot eyes watery as he gently brushed my cheek with his hand. The first words that slipped from my lips were apologies for the cornfield, still smoldering in my mind. He shook his head, his voice soft but firm as he told me not to worry about it. The injuries were worse than I’d realized. My shin and ankle were fractured, two ribs were broken, both hands badly scraped and stitched up, and my shoulder dislocated. The burns across my body, though thankfully not life-threatening, had charred the ends of my hair. The medical staff had to shave the burnt strands away to properly treat my scalp Two and a half weeks later, the doctors finally said I was strong enough to go home. When my father came to pick me up, he brought me a clean set of clothes, a soft oversized shirt that wouldn’t rub against the bandages, and a pair of loose pants. The first few days back home were strange. The house felt the same, yet everything in me felt different. Fragile, cautious, aware of every small movement. My room had been rearranged so I could move around easily; my bed now sat closer to the window, and a sturdy chair stood beside it for when I needed to rest after short walks. My father hovered more than usual, always close by when I shifted or tried to stand. At night, the pain would return in small waves. Dull throbs from my ribs, sharp stings from my healing skin. But it was a pain I could live with. Sometimes I’d wake up sweating, hearing echoes of the fire in my dreams, but when I looked over and saw the soft light from the hallway spilling through my half-open door, I’d remind myself that I was safe. Recovery would take months, they said, maybe longer before I could walk without a limp or lift my arm without wincing. But for now, being home, breathing clean air, feeling the warmth of morning light instead of the sterile chill of a hospital room, was enough. I haven’t told my father what really happened in the cornfield that night. And he hasn’t asked me a single question about it either. Maybe he knows I’m not ready to talk. Or maybe he’s seen enough in my face. The way I flinch at sudden noises, or the way I stare off when the nights get too quiet, to understand that some things are better left unspoken. There are nights when I wake up screaming bloody murder, drenched in sweat, a heavy panic pressing down on my chest as if someone were standing right beside my bed, watching. My father rushes in, every time, calm but shaken, his hands gripping my shoulders until I come back to myself. He says I talk in my sleep too, calling his name, calling my brother’s, begging them to check the windows and doors and make sure everything’s locked tight. I was lucky. We all were… that the fire hadn’t spread beyond the knoll, that it didn’t swallow the rest of the forest or the neighboring farms. But the cornfield… it was gone. Blackened earth, charred stalks, ashes where life used to grow. Once the pain in my body dulled enough for me to start walking again, another kind of ache took its place. Guilt. There were no crops to sell in the market this season, maybe not even the next. My father tries to tell me it doesn’t matter, that what counts is that I made it out alive, that no loss in this world could ever measure up to losing a son. I nod, every time. But still, each night, when the house is quiet and the world goes dark, that same thought gnaws at me like an old wound. I failed him. My cousin Rio and a few people from the village went back to the cornfield during my first week in the hospital to see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage of the treehouse. They found nothing worth keeping. My rifle, my phone, and the chest were charred and mangled beyond recognition, melted shapes of what they once were. Strangely, they came across other things scattered across the burnt field too. Torn, dirt-stained scraps of clothing. Dented bracelets. Pieces of rusted necklaces and buttons half-buried in ash. Even a charred fragment of a yo-yo. How did those things end up there? Were there others in the fire with me? Who were they? What happened to them? Where did they go? No human remains were found. Only those strange, timeworn objects. Deep down, I think I already know the answer. Because that night, right before I forced myself through the wall of flames, I saw and heard something that will haunt me for the rest of my life. As the thing moved across the cornfield, trying to escape the fire, its form began to shift. Just for a moment, a flicker between the smoke and the light, I saw it clearly, and that’s when the real horror hit me. It wasn’t just formless shadow. Long, dark hands were reaching out from inside its smoky mass, stretching and clawing as if fighting to break free… or to get to me first. They didn’t move like human limbs. They twisted and bent at impossible angles, folding in on themselves before vanishing back into the darkness, only to reappear elsewhere, jerking, reaching, writhing. And right before I rolled down the hill, I heard them. The screams. High-pitched. Distorted. Whistling like air forced through broken glass. Men. Women. And children too. Their cries rose above the roar of the flames, piercing and unearthly, echoing through the burning field until the night itself seemed to wail with them. submitted by /u/bastard_vampire to r/nosleep [link] [comments]

Urrigon 4th month 294AC The Summer Sea lay flat and bright beneath a deep orange sky, its warmth a far cry from the grey, biting waters of home. They had worked the Sunset sea as sellsails protecting shipping, but their contracts had grown thin, and so with the permission of the Lannisters they had returned to the Old Ways, if only for a short time until work picked up again. Urrigon Goodbrother stood at the prow of Salt Wraith, one boot braced against the rail, watching the horizon with a predator’s patience. The wind tugged at his braids and filled the square sail until it bellied like a living thing. The wind shifted, carrying a heavy, stale smell from the cogs, as if their holds were packed too tight. “They’ve seen us,” called one of the oarsmen. Urrigon smiled without looking back. “Good.” Ahead, three merchant cogs scattered like startled fish. Their helmsmen hauled at tillers, sails snapping as they tried to run for open water. It was a poor choice. The Salt Wraith and her sisters were longships; lean, hungry, built for pursuit. Drums began to beat, a low, steady thunder that set the oars biting deep. Foam hissed along the hull as speed climbed. The chase stretched on, sun climbing higher, sweat stinging eyes. One cog lagged almost at once, its sail patched and heavy with cargo. Another tried to angle south, hoping the wind would favor it. Urrigon tracked them all, measuring distance, judging fear by the way their lines went slack and taut again. The longships kept their pursuit as the sky burned orange behind them, the sun dragging itself toward the horizon. Oars rose and fell in steady rhythm, hours measured not by bells but by breath and muscle. The merchants ran hard, every scrap of canvas straining, their crews nursing what wind they had and praying for night to fall before the gap closed. Urrigon knew the game. If they could keep distance until sunset, darkness might yet save them. He let them hope. Long chases broke weaker crews; fear and fatigue crept in when escape took too long. The Salt Wraith and her packmates gained a little at a time. Slowly but surely Urrigon gained on them. “They’ll turn,” he said. “Soon.” And they did. The slowest cog swung broadside, its sail dropping as men rushed the rail with spears and crossbows. The second followed, courage born of desperation. The third tried to keep running; Urrigon marked it for later. “Helm steady,” he ordered. “Take the first hard.” Arrows hissed. One struck the rail near his hand. Urrigon laughed and drew his sword. Valyrian steel caught the sun and drank it, dark ripples moving through the blade like oil on water. Last Breath, his ancestors had named it, drawn from the sea itself if his grandfather's tales had any truth to them. "To your work lads!" he bellowed, as those amongst his crew not needed for rowing drew all manner of cruel steel weapons; great axes, knives, swords, hatchets and the like. "What is dead may never die!". The ships collided with a crack of wood. Grapnels flew. Ironborn, clad in steel, poured across the gap howling, axes swinging. Urrigon was amongst the first, leaping to the cog’s deck as it pitched. A merchant lunged with a spear - Urrigon stepped inside the thrust and cut once, clean and terrible. The man folded with a gurgling moan as his blood spilt upon the deck. Another came at him with a boarding hook. Urrigon ducked, slashed the haft in half, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him sprawling. He finished it with a downward stroke that split helm and skull alike. More blood ran hot over the planks, slick underfoot. He moved like the tide itself an unrelenting flurry of blows and blocks. A crossbowman fumbled to reload; Last Breath took his hand at the wrist - sprays of blood splashing across both himself and Urrigon. The taste of salt and copper lingered on his lips. Around him, the reaving became a roar - steel on steel, men shouting; the chopping of steel into flesh. The Ironborn took wounds, but ultimately the battle was over quickly. The merchants broke, some throwing themselves to the deck, others leaping for the rail only to be hauled back by laughing raiders. Urrigon wiped his blade on a fallen sailor's tunic and looked up. The second cog was already entangled with another longship, its crew pressed tight, fighting hard. The third still ran, but the gap was closing. As the battle waned the stench came into focus, overpowering as they went below decks. It crept up the ladder ahead of the men, warm and wrong, not tar or bilge or wet rope. Urrigon knew those smells. This was old breath and sickness, the stink of bodies kept where air had forgotten them. The lantern light found the hold. People. Packed in so tight they swayed together when the ship rolled. Ankles raw where iron had rubbed them down to meat. Eyes wide, not pleading yet - too tired for that. Chains whispered as they shifted, a soft, crawling sound that turned Urrigon’s stomach. He gagged once, hard, and hated himself for it. Ironborn took thralls. Every child of the isles knew that. You took them with a blade in hand,by the rules of the sea. You risked yourself, your men, your ship. That was how the Old Way measured a man’s claim; by the strength of his arm and the courage in his heart. But this... this was different. No fight, no risk, no proving of steel or wits. The men below had been bought and packed in like salted fish, kept alive for others to profit while never earning a scar of their own. That was not the Old Way. It was abomination. It smelled wrong, it felt wrong, and Urrigon’s own blood throbbed with impatience. One of his crew muttered a curse; far from the treasures of spice, coin or women most Ironborn hoped for when claiming their prize. They dragged the merchants to the rail. Fat hands. Soft palms. Men who’d never heard the sea scream in their ears while steel came down. Their jangling gold earrings, rings and bracelets offended Urrigon and his crew; jewellery bought by weak men, not claimed in battle. Without being invited to speak they began babbling, first in their native tongue - Myrish he guessed - Urrigon climbed split the man’s face with his fist before the sentence could finish. The all chittered now in as many tongues as they could even a few words in broken Westerosi. They cried then, promised gold - promised other vessels routes and names. Urrigon listened until he was bored his crew waiting to command the fate of the slavers. “Drown them” he said. His crew eagerly enacting his order with varied amounts of creativity. Most were simply bludgeoned over the head and tossed over the side of the ship, though two others were keel hauled to the bottom of the vessel and left there, and a final unlucky sod was drowned in a barrel. When it was done, Urrigon stood dripping at the rail, breathing deep until the stench faded from his nose. They had no food for the many mouths below. Nor space to keep them without rendering his own vessel a similar stinking heap to their own. He had no wish to sieze their malnourished bodies as thralls or to slaughter chained dogs. Urrigon sent two of his crew below with axes and hammers, smashing the chains that bound the slaves to the ship. “Land" he said pointing and speaking slowly to one of the slaves who seemed most alert. "That way." He had no way of knowing if he understood and did not linger to confirm that he did, clambering back onto the Salt Wraith. It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t cruelty. It was what it was. The Ironborn took what they could carry and left the rest behind, the sea rocking the ship gently as if nothing had happened at all. He jumped back to the Salt Wraith as lines were cut. “After the runner.” The pursuit was shorter this time. The merchant captain knew he was caught. He turned, raised what weapons he had left, and tried to make it costly. Urrigon respected that. Fear was common; resolve less so. The boarding was no less brutal than before. The merchant captain - a thick-armed man with a scarred face - met Urrigon at the rail with a curved sword. Their blades rang. Once, twice. The man fought well, driving Urrigon back a step. Urrigon grinned and shifted his grip, letting his blade slide in his hands. On the next exchange he cut through the man's cutlass as if it were tin. The captain stared, disbelief flickering; then Urrigon took his head cleanly from his shoulders. When it was done, the sea was littered with wreckage and the cries of the defeated. This time they had more luck for of the three vessels only this one was a proper trade vessel. The Ironborn moved through the holds, hauling spice chests, bolts of silk, amphorae of oil. Urrigon leaned on the rail and watched the sun dip westward. The thrill of it settled into something deeper, steadier. This was how a man learned what he was - salt spray in his mouth, blood on his hands, the weight of a blade that mattered. Gormond should be here, he thought. The boy would be tall by now, all elbows and hunger, swaggering like he knew the world already. Urrigon could see it plain as day - his nephew on the rail, eyes bright as the ships turned to fight. Another year, maybe two, and he’d be ready. Old enough to learn the truth of steel and sea. Old enough to know that words and walls meant little when the wind favored you. But the boy was far away. In the soft hands of men with easy soft lands; and soft lessons. Urrigon’s mouth tightened. No doubt they were teaching Gormond manners. Reading. Wearing cottons and silks instead of salt-crusted leather and wool. Learning to bow. Urrigon spat over the side. They all had to adapt to the realities of this New Way, even Urrigon had - but he despised the sort of weak cowards the greenlands had a habit of making; and part of him worried how the boy was being shaped. If the world meant to polish the iron out of Gormond Goodbrother, Urrigon would see to it that it failed. He did not know how yet, but he would not let the boy forget who he was. Urrigon watched the last red and amber hues fade into the sea as night settled in, and began planning a course. submitted by /u/YouthfulYeti to r/crownedstag [link] [comments]

Hello! Boy am I nervous posting this. I've had this idea for this fantasy world for years now and tried multiple times to get it into writing. Looking for feedback. Hope you enjoy. :) ------------------------- Tales from Castenia The Knight and the Witch The sun crawled over the horizon like a dying thing, its pale light spilling across the battlefield where mist clung thick as a shroud. The wind keened through the grass, carrying the stench of rot. From the forests of the West rose drums that shook the marrow, and beneath them, chants - guttural, ecstatic, inhuman. The voices were wrong, swollen with madness, syllables curdled into blasphemy. Ironhold’s battalion stood in the East, steel gleaming in the dawn. Knights gripped their spears with sweaty palms, priests shakingly whispered blessings and hymns, and the Elves at the rear fitted arrows, their eyes hollow with sadness and rage, their homeland already lost to the horde. The general sat astride his colossal warhorse, voice thundering empowered words of iron and fire. In the frontlines of the army stood Marcus, just a young man of thirty, trained since childhood yet hollowed by fear. The general’s words blurred into muffled echoes as Marcus drifted back to thoughts of home - of his family, his sister’s laughter, he could feel the warmth of the hearth on his face, a soft smile formed on his lips. His gauntlet groaned as he crushed the shaft of his spear in his grip. A raven’s caw slashed through the haze, dragging him back to reality. A shove of the knight behind sent him stumbling. With the generals words the army started to march forward. boots hammering the soil, banners snapping in the wind overhead. Priests chanted louder, their voices straining against the rising dread. After what felt like ages the general’s hand suddenly rose and the army came to a complete halt. Silence swallowed the world. The drums ceased. Even the wind seemed to hold it’s breath. Something cracked. From the treeline, a ballista of bone and tendon strained its sinew-bound frame pulsing with rot. It loosed a bolt forged from fused spines and skulls, shrieking like a banshee as it soared through the air. It ripped the knight beside Marcus clean in half, his entrails slapping wetly across the mud and his body was nailed to the ground, twitching like a butchered animal. Marcus looked at the knight next to him, flinching, bile rising in his throat. Then the forest spew death. The skeletons came first, their armor corroded to shreds and jawbones clattering as if laughing. Their sockets burned with light green fire, and their swords were chipped but eager. Ghouls followed after skin sloughing in oily sheets, bellies split open so that their entrails trailed after them, while flies swarmed above. They shrieked with animal hunger, claws black with dried gore. Then came the cultists, Men and women -once human- now disfigured by devotion. Skin carved with sigils that bled but never healed. Teeth filed into points. They dragged chains tipped with hooks, knives forged from rib bones, flails dripping with rust and blood. Some whipped themselves raw even as they marched, others carried severed heads on pikes, mouths stuffed with worms. Their chants swelled into a frenzy, prayers to their necromantic master spilling from split lips. And then he came. The necromancer, black cloak fluttering, mounted on a skeletal steed whose bones cracked with each step. His staff pulsed with sickly green light, a crown could be seen on his head, adorned with a black crystal, the source of his power. Every hoofbeat from his undead mount left rot in the soil. The earth itself recoiled from him. Marcus froze. Terror rooted him where he stood. A raven’s caw rang sharp. A cultist lunged, eyes rolled back, tongue split in worship, black ooze dripping from his mouth. Marcus thrust his spear out of instinct. The wood splintered as it rammed through the zealot’s chest, impaling him. The man only laughed, blood and black ooze frothing from his mouth as he whispered a prayer before collapsing. Marcus staggered back, pulling his sword from the sheat, breath ragged. The clash erupted. Skeletons hacked at knights, rusty blades grinding through flesh and steel alike. Ghouls leapt into the ranks, tearing out throats, dragging men down into the mud to feast on their entrails. The priests raised their hands, holy fire spilling from trembling lips - until the cultists fell upon them. One priest was gutted, his belly slit open so that his intestines spilled steaming into the mud. A cultist scooped the coils into his hands, draped them around his neck like a rosary, and shrieked praise to his master. Another priest had his tongue ripped out and raised aloft as an offering, his throat forced open while cultists lapped greedily at the blood spurting from him like wine from a cask. The hymns broke into screams that fed the chants of their killers. Marcus swung wildly, his sword carving into bone, splitting skulls, spilling black ichor that stank of rot. Blood slicked his visor, flies crawling over his eyes. The stench was unbearable - blood, rot and sweat mixing into one choking miasma. He gasped for air, but every breath dragged carrion into his lungs. Through it all, he saw the general. Wings of gold flared in the sun as his warhammer crushed skeletons to shards and pulped ghouls into wet heaps. He was fury embodied, a mountain of platemail and faith, and Marcus felt a flicker of hope. But even mountains can crumble. The dead swarmed his horse, dragging him down in a tide of claws and teeth. He rose, crushing five, ten, more with sweeps of his hammer. The necromancer raised his staff chanted in that guttural tongue, the crystal in his crown shined with a sickening black hue and the corpses of Ironhold’s own knight spasmed, rising with entrails dragging, still armored in the banners of the living. Cultists threw themselves at the general, knives hacking, hooks digging into flesh. Blood sprayed across his armor. Still he fought. Still he roared. Until the necromancer came. One clawed hand touched his chest. His veins blackened instantly, spreading like cracks through marble. The general screamed as blood poured from his mouth and eyes, before collapsing into the muck. Cultists tore him apart, shrieking, hacking his corpse into bloody chunks, smearing themselves in his gore as they chanted louder. Marcus’s heart broke. Without warning a skeleton knight rammed its sword into Marcus’s side. White-hot agony lanced through him, blood gushing down his leg. He staggered, gasping, before he could react, a ghoul’s iron-studded club slammed into his helmet. His skull rang like a bell, vision shattering, and he hit the ground hard. From the mud, dazed and broken, Marcus saw the full horror. His brothers and friends disemboweled, their heads kicked through the mud. Elves gutted, their corpses dragged and nailed upright to crude crosses. Priests hoisted on spears, their entrails wound into grotesque banners that fluttered in the foul wind. Every fallen comrade clawed back to its feet under the necromancer’s will, their screams echoing from twisted mouths as they joined the slaughter. The raven’s caw rang out, piercing the madness. Night fell. The last screams guttered out. Marcus stirred, vision swimming. The battlefield was in unholy ruin - corpses piled into obscene mounds, broken banners fluttering limp in the blood-chocked breeze. From one heap jutted the shattered golden wings of the general, blackened and dripping, gleaming mockingly in the moonlight. A shadow passed. Wings beat overhead. The distinct sound of talons on metal when the shadow landed on Marcus’s chest plate. It tapped on his helmet, three sharp knocks. It pecked at his visor, cawed and quickly flew away. Marcus panicked, tore the helmet free and sucked in air thick with rot, gagging on the copper tang of blood. Pain flared in his side and skull, but he dragged himself upright, still holding his shield in an iron grip. His sword lost somewhere in this chaos. Around him lay nothing but ruin.The raven perched on a nearby banner. Watching. its eyes too sharp, too knowing, to be a bird’s. Step by step, Marcus rose. Broken. Bloodied. Alive, somehow, alive. And beyond the corpses and the buzzing flies, the necromancer’s army chanted still, now even larger than before, voices and moans echoing like the grave into the endless night. Marcus stumbled through the blood-soaked underbrush, each step in agony. His side burned where the skeleton knight pierced him, his head still rang from the ghoul’s blow, and with every breath he took, the pain got more intense. The forest loomed, black and twisted, with branches reaching for the sky like skeletal hands. He felt the weight of the battlefield behind him - screaming, shattered bodies, the stink of death - and every step forward was a battle between pain and willpower. A piercing caw broke through the quiet. Marcus froze, his eyesight blurred, he leaned against a gnarled tree. The raven that had initially caught his attention on the battlefield was now poised ahead, black eyes gleaming with eerie knowledge, wings fluttering as if urging him onward. He lurched forward, the bird hopping from branch to branch, always just out of reach and leading him deeper into the forest. As he faltered, a strange voice entered his consciousness - not uttered out, but clear, sharp, insistent: “Keep going.” Marcus’s heart jumped. He knew it was the raven. Somehow, it was speaking to him inside his head, urging him forward. Pain and exhaustion screamed at him to stop, but the words burned a path through the haze: “Keep going.” Minutes stretched like hours. His legs shook, and his knees buckled. Every breath was strained, every heartbeat was a painful drumbeat. The shadows drew close, and the moonlight sliced through the trees in sharp slivers. The raven’s presence was a tether, black and unsettling, drawing him forward. Finally the bird landed in front of him, its feathers gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Marcus swayed, leaning heavily against the tree behind him, blood trickling down his side, body trembling. The raven cawed sharply, and the air appeared to hum. Then it happened. A startling burst of violet light appeared surrounding the bird. Wings pounded through the shimmer, creating a storm-like sound in his ears. The raven changed before his eyes, feathers melting into hair, claws expanding into hands, talons becoming delicate yet strong fingers. A woman appeared where the raven formerly stood, towering, ethereal, and magnificent. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, her eyes were piercing emerald green, sparkling with power and intelligence, and her lips curved with both warning and appeal, a black cloak trailed behind her, edges blending into shadows. Around her neck an elegant necklace adorned with an emerald crystal, rings around her fingers, in them shined tiny pieces of midnight purple crystals. The rings connected -with thin, delicate chains- to a lattice bracelet, filled with pieces of both the emerald and purple crystals. Marcus’s breath caught. Pain, blood, and amazement all collided. He wanted to speak, to ask why, to beg for answers, but his throat refused. She had saved him. She was here. Alive. And yet, he felt it - her presence was not pure mercy. Every measured movement, every tilt of her head, radiated with resentment, shimmering barley beneath her beauty. “Breathe,” she said, voice like velvet laced with steel. It was soothing and commanding all at once. “You’re not dead… yet.” Marcus’s vision swam as she stepped closer, her violet shimmer still pulsing around her. Her gaze pierced him, sharp and intelligent, and he felt both awe and unease. She was stunning, yes - but dangerous. And he was painfully aware that her mercy was not freely given. He staggered, body screaming for rest, and collapsed against the tree. Darkness was creeping in, and yet, his gaze stayed fixed on her. She crouched slightly, studying him with a mixture of curiosity, impatience, and something more complicated he couldn’t yet name. Her lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smirk. “Next time you fall, I might not bother catching you.” she said, voice low, almost teasing. Her hand pressed lightly to his shoulder, steadying him. The touch wasn’t harsh, but he felt the latent power beneath it, the same dark strength that had pulled him back from the brink of death only moments ago. Before he could fully comprehend, before unconsciousness claimed him completely, he caught every detail: the shimmer of her emerald eyes, the subtle curve of her smile, her flowing raven black hair, the power radiating from the crystals. He would remember her, even as the darkness claimed him. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Marcus’s eyes shot open. He was standing on a battlefield, it wasn’t a field he remembered. Ankle deep in blood, guts and mud, the air was filled with the putrid smell of death and decay. Corpses piled high in mounds, flesh torn and twisted, the bodies twitched irregularly, hollow eyes staring, mouths frozen in eternal anguish. Above the sun loomed, dark red and pulsating, a dying star bleeding across the sky - The Maw of Nyxara, coloring everything a sickly red. It did not shine - it smothered, a hateful eye pressing down on the ruins beneath. The air was heavy, filled with ash and the screams of the damned. Marcus staggered forward, every step making him sink deeper. He managed to turn around, searching for the light, and then he saw it, his heart lurched. There - beyond the mounds of death, past the dead burning forest - stood his village. The outlying houses of Ironhold, the tilled fields where he trained, the crooked old oak tree he and his sister used to play around. His home. In the doorway stood his mother and sister. Terrified, their eyes staring at something approaching. “Mother! Elara!” Marcus’s voice tore from his throat, heavy with desperation. He tried to run, but hands from the ground held him in place, all he could do was watch. Shadows gathered at the edge of the fields. The horde. Cultists in bloodied rags and shuffling undead marched across the farmland, a tidal wave of death. Torches burning bright, bone weapons scarring the ground. Black clouds of carrion flies buzzed above them. “No…” Marcus whispered. Pounding with his fists at the hands that held him, trying to break free. “No, stop!” The undead fell upon the village. His mother’s screams split the air as countless skeleton knights penetrated her with their unholy weapons, dragging her down into the dirt, her screams cutting off in a wet gurgle. His sister fought, tooth and nail, eyes wide with terror - until she too was cut down. The last he saw was Elara reaching for him. He dropped to his knees, the hands let go of his legs and the mounds let out a squelching noise that almost sounded like twisted laughter. His hands sinking into the blood-soaked earth. Tears burning his eyes. The soil felt warm and slick between his fingers. He watched his family die and he could do nothing. “Wake up…” The voice slithered through the dead forest. Faint, soft. For a brief moment of time, Marcus thought it was Elara’s voice, calling to him. His heart ached, and he lifted his head, his vision blurred by tears, he scanned his surroundings. “Wake up…” The piles of bodies began to writhe and twist, limbs twitching and reaching for him, skulls rolling in the blood. A thousand mouths opened in unison, and through them, louder than thunder, the same words escaped. “Wake. Up!” The world went dark, the ground disappeared beneath Marcus he fell for what felt like an eternity. With a scream he sat up in a panic, sweat pouring from his forehead. He looked around, the battlefield was gone, the mounds of rotting bodies gone, he was, inside, a cabin. He was sitting on a bed of fur, it was soft, the air smelled of herbs and flowers. “Mrrp?” Marcus slowly turned to the source of the sound. Next to the bed was a stool, and on the stool sat a big black cat, staring at him, with big, dark blue eyes. When Marcus looked closer, it was as though galaxies were trapped in its eyes - swirling, infinite, pulling at him like a tide. Before he could react he heard footsteps coming closer, the door opened. And there she was, almost radiant, the most amazing being Marcus has ever laid eyes on. “Oh, you’re awake. Good.” She said. Marcus tried to stand up, but the wound in his side had other plans. Pain shot through him like lightning. He choked on his breath and pressed a hand against the wound, his head started pounding, his vision blurred. “Don't move!” Her voice dominating, gaze like green shards of glass cutting through Marcus's eyes. She turned her gaze, grabbed a handful of dried herbs and a vial of something thick and black combining them in her mortar and pestle. “I've treated your wounds as best as I could.” Now with a much calmer tone, stirring around in a big pot above the fireplace. “I might be a powerful mage, but I'm no healer.” She said with a smirk, glancing over at Marcus. “I… uuh…” Marcus tried speaking but the pounding in his head made it hard. In a blink, she dissolved into black and purple mist and reformed before him. A hand pressed on his shoulder. “Lay back down, you need the rest.” Without any effort she pushed Marcus back into the fur bed. And just as fast as she was there she was back at the pot. Mist swirling around her. “How'd you…” Marcus looked at her with confusion. Before he could finish his sentence the cat jumped into the bed, walking in circles, clawing at the covers between Marcus's legs. It laid down with a thump and let out a long sigh. It was heavier than Marcus expected, but it felt safe. “She seems to like you.” The woman said without even looking over. “Her name's Umbra, she's blind - But don't let that fool you.” “I.. never got to thank-” Marcus managed to say through the moments of pain. She was there again, -the air around her gleaming with purple- her presence suddenly before him, and the words got caught in his throat. “Shhh, you need to sleep.” She whispered and in a Swift motion she lifted her hand and blew a fine shimmer of purple dust into Marcus's face. Marcus coughed and everything began to spin. With a thud his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep. Marcus opened his eyes. He felt Umbra’s weight on his chest - but he was used to that by now- it was dark, the wind whispered outside the window. For a brief moment he though he was back home, Umbra’s purr snapped him back to reality. He stroked her gently to wake her up, her soft fur was warm to the touch. She opened her eyes, yawned and stood up to stretch before jumping down on the floor with a thud. Marcus swung his legs over the bed frame to stand up, although the wound was almost completely healed, it still stung a little when he did any sudden move. “Damn it..” He said, sucking air through his gritted teeth. He planted his feet on the cold floor rubbing the scar on his side and made his way to the door. He slowly pushed it open, it creaked softly and the warm light from the fire filled the room. For a few short seconds his eyes had to adjust to the light, but then he saw her, sitting by the fire reading an old, dusty book he’s never heard of. Umbra was laying in her lap. “How did she get there so fast?” He thought to himself. Eiraen - the witch - shot him a quick glance before going back to her book. “there’s soup in the pot, help yourself.” she said and waved him off. “Do you ever sleep?” Marcus asked tiredly as he made his way to the pot. “Someone has been occupying my bed for the last couple of weeks..” She smirked, “But no, not really. I don’t need to sleep like regular humans.” “It’s been a couple of weeks already?” Marcus thought as he poured soup into a wooden bowl. “I need to get back home, I need to-” Marcus stopped himself to venture down that dark path. “Listen, Eiraen. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me. The healing.” Marcus said out loud as he was looking for a spoon. “But come dawn I’ll be heading out. Remember the dream I had?” He heard a loud thud as Eiraen slammed the book shut, he turned around - still expecting her to sit in her chair - but she was inches away, the air around her glimmering with violet light. “You aren’t ready to venture out yet. You’re still too weak. I heard you whimpering in pain in there.” She said, her voice once again dominating. “That dream means nothing, it was a fever dream, nothing else!” “I didn’t whimper…” Marcus muttered. “You’re wrong, I can’t get that dream out of my mind. I need to know if they are okay..” He had a worried look on his face. “Fine… but don’t come crawling to me when you’re on the brink of death again.” Eiraen said her eyes darkened, she snapped her fingers and the bowl of soup in Marcus’s hands disappeared in a flash of purple. “Really, again?” Marcus said annoyingly looking at his now empty hands. “I’ll get a few more hours of rest and then I’m off. You are welcome to follow me if you want.” He said with a nervous smile and walked back into the bedroom. Eiraen scoffed and sank back into her chair, her book floating to her hand. At dawn, Marcus donned the battered remains of his armor and took up his shield. He opened the bedroom door and stepped out. Eiraen was nowhere to be seen but on the table sat a sack simply marked “supplies”. He smiled and said “Thank you!” out loud - he knew she was around somewhere. The front door creaked loudly when he opened it, the brisk forest air hitting his face. He took a deep breath and stepped outside. Just moments later a dark mist glimmering with violet light appeared at the door and Eiraen manifested. She followed Marcus with her worried eyes as he made his way through the forest. Umbra slowly walked over to Eiraen, brushed herself against her legs. “Mrrp” She sat down, staring at Eiraen with her big blue eyes. “No.. he’s on his own.” Eiraen said with a stern voice. “Mrrp?” Umbras head tilted as she kept looking up at the witch. “If he wants to meet death, that’s his problem. I can’t save him all the time!” Eiraen watched as Marcus disappeared amongst the trees, her arms crossed. When Marcus was completely out of view she looked down at Umbra. Umbra just stared back, didn’t make a noise. “I know what he’s capable of… ugh, fine.” She looked back at Marcus’s direction, then back to Umbra. “Hold down the fort will you? Hopefully I’ll be back soon.” Eiraen bent down and stroked Umbra’s head, her purrs filled the cabin. With a violet glimmering mist Eiraen stepped out and became a raven once again. Silently following Marcus into the unknown. submitted by /u/ExquisiteLlama to r/fantasywriters [link] [comments]

Discovery On Friday September 11th 1987 at about 10 am, three men fishing in the Lewis River in Woodland, Washington made a gruesome and unexpected discovery. Floating in some debris and stuck near some rocks, they discovered the headless and legless torso of a young woman. The torso was found in a shallow part of the Lewis River near the S. Pekin Road boat launch, about ¾ of a mile south of the Lewis River Bridge, where Interstate 5 crosses the river. Woodland is a small town which in 1987 had fewer than 2500 residents. It is located about 30 miles north of downtown Portland, Oregon. The torso was a shocking discovery for the small town and police were notified promptly. By Saturday September, 12th, scuba divers from nearby Portland, Oregon were brought in to find additional body parts in the river but none were found. A sniffer dog likewise, found no other remains. Officers at the scene reported to the local paper that the torso belonged to a “dark skinned, unidentified, homicide victim” who was “possibly Hispanic.” That same day the body was transported to an Oregon medical examiner for autopsy. The medical examiner determined that the woman had brown skin and was about 19 to 25 years old, probably closer to 19. He believed she had been in the water for either several days or up to a week. In life she would have been about 5 ft 3 in tall and weighed about 110 lbs. She had no scars or tattoos. She was also partially clothed. In his report he noted that the woman was most likely Hispanic but could have been Native American, or even a light skinned black woman but without a head and in the infancy of DNA testing, her race could not be determined for sure. Her cause of death was unknown but the medical examiner ruled the death a homicide. On Sunday the 13th, a transient man in Portland, Oregon discovered the upper portion of a thigh floating near the east bank of the Willamette river, about 30 miles south of the torso, near downtown Portland. Almost immediately, the medical examiner connected the thigh to the Woodland victim as both body parts showed signs of dismemberment and had the same dark skin tone. On the 14th, the victim’s other leg was found nearby. Interestingly, both legs were found between the Steele and Burnside Bridges, two roadways which abut Interstate 5. On Wednesday the 16th of September, investigators in Cowlitz county announced that the autopsy had revealed that the murder victim was two months pregnant and had given birth at least once in the past. They also announced that scuba divers in Portland had not turned up any additional remains and the woman’s head remained missing. Strangely, the body did not match any local missing persons’ cases and the mystery deepened. Despite Woodland’s low crime rate, not one but two serial killers were active in the general area. In the absence of other leads law enforcement contacted both the Molalla Forest task force in Clackamas County, Oregon and the Green River task force in King County, Washington as both unknown killers were leaving their victims, all young women, in the greater Portland area. Unfortunately neither task force had any leads on the woman's possible identity and investigators were back to square one. On September 24th, 1987 ten days later after the discovery of the second leg, a fisherman standing on the bank of the Cowlitz River just south of the Tennant Way Bridge in Kelso, Washington noticed what he thought was a stuffed animal. On closer examination it was actually the badly decomposed body of a baby girl. She was found floating near a log less than half of a mile from where the Cowlitz flows into the Columbia River. The fisherman promptly hopped into his truck and drove to the police station. After arriving at the scene police believed it was possible that the child had floated downstream, but the fisherman who found the body reported that debris was sometimes pushed upstream by the tidal Columbia, a view the police eventually adopted. Searches in the area uncovered no additional evidence. A local medical examiner determined the girl to be 18 to 24 months old. She was 31 inches long and weighed 25 pounds. She was found wearing a cotton diaper with pink safety pins on the outside, plastic pants, a black or red shirt with black, blue, and white stripes, and pink terry cloth shorts. She was badly decomposed and the autopsy revealed that she had been in the water for about three to four weeks. Although one report states she had been in the water three weeks to three months. She had died from one massive blow to the head, her tiny skull fractured behind her right ear. Like the woman found 10 days earlier, this victim was also determined to be Hispanic or possibly of Native American descent. The baby was found only 19 miles away from the woman's torso. Like other police departments before them, Kelso police had no luck identifying the child. In 1987 Woodland, Kelso, and Portland were all cities with a majority white populations. This fact made the discovery of the bodies even puzzling. Due to the similarities between the woman and child and their discovery only 10 days apart, police surmised that the two cases were related and believed it was possible that they were mother and daughter. Sergeant Wayne Nelson of the Kelso Police department stated “It would be very unusual to have two Hispanic murder victims found in Cowlitz County Waters”... “that are not linked.” He also called both unidentified decedents “victims of violent homicides.” Fingerprints were taken for the child and the woman but no matches were found and samples were sent to a laboratory in Texas, but the samples were delicate so the lab was unable to confirm that the two bodies were related. Detective Thompson of the Kelso police asked for the public's help and pleaded to the local newspaper “we need the public to tell us about women and children not seen in the last four to six weeks.” Despite dozens of leads since the woman was found, none helped the police get any closer to identifying the woman and child. A bulletin was issued to police in all west coast states to check for files of missing mothers and toddler daughters, but the search came up empty. October 9th a man fishing in the Cowlitz River discovered a blood-stained bed sheet which he quickly turned over to the police. The sheet contained blood, human hair, and animal hair and was submitted for testing to see if it could be matched to the unidentified woman and toddler who had been found in September. A week later it was determined that the blood did not belong to a human but rather a deer. At this point no new evidence had surfaced and within several months publicity had fizzled. All in all two victims were found in three separate rivers which don’t flow into each other. However, the locations of the remains were all close to Interstate 5 a freeway which travels north-south through Washington, Oregon, and California. Throughout the late 1980s and 1990s sporadic efforts were made to identify the pair including missing posters translated and sent to Mexico. Police hoped that if the woman was an immigrant perhaps family in her country of origin were missing her. Nearby Indian reservations were also sent posters but again nothing panned out. Articles in the nearest Spanish language newspaper, a periodical in Sunnyside, Washington, likewise produced no leads. In the early 2000s a memo was sent to the RCMP. Although DNA technology was much better than it had been in the 1980s, local police lacked the funding to exhume and DNA test the remains, especially since the samples they had were degraded from initial testing. In 2003 the Seattle Post Intelligencer newspaper ran a story on the unidentified remains from Washington state. Included was a retouched photo and a police sketch of the baby. The article also mentioned the pregnant woman recovered from the Lewis River in 1987, revealing that the woman was wearing a sheer pink two piece teddy nightgown made of nylon, blue-green Hanes brand underwear, two silver bangle bracelets, and had toenails and fingernails which were neatly painted red. It was this article that allowed two separate families in three separate countries to begin to unravel a decades long mystery. Identification To fully understand this story and its context it is necessary to go back to 1874. After a period of turmoil, both internal and external, the newly united Kingdom of Fiji was annexed by the British empire. Fiji was ripe for exploitation. Not only did the island have sandalwood trees, but the climate was right for both cotton and sugar cultivation. But with cultivation comes the need for labor and British India filled that void. Beginning in 1879 Indian indentured servants began arriving in Fiji. Over the next thirty seven years, 61,000 indentured Indian servants were transported to the islands that make up Fiji. After ten years of service, they were free to move back to India on the empire’s dime or stay in Fiji as “free immigrants.” The vast majority chose to stay. The workers were mostly from rural villages but came from all over the sub continent which resulted in a new language, culture, and identity slowly developing. The ethnic group came to be known as Indo-Fijian. By about the year 1900 skilled workers from India began to migrate to Fiji by their own free will, growing the Indian population yet again. In 1920 indentured servanthood was officially outlawed but by 1940, the Indian population of Fiji had eclipsed that of the native Fijians, a trend which continued until nearly 1990. Even today Indo- Fijians make up a large percent of the people living in Fiji. Raj Mati was one of a set of twins born to an Indo Fijian family near Bavevu, in central Viti Levu, Fiji in 1963. Sadly Raj’s twin died at six weeks old but Raj survived and became the youngest of her eleven siblings. The family lived in a metal shack near their 10 acre farm. Known to her family members as “Lalli'' which means little daughter in Hindi, Raj was a companion to her mother and best friends with her brother Biren Prasad. Even though her father died when she was a young child and the family lived in poverty, everyone remembered the family as happy and well adjusted. When Raj was a teenager she attended a newly constructed high school on Viti Levu. Here she had the opportunity to learn to read and write as well as speak English. In accordance with tradition, in 1983, a family friend of some of Raj’s brothers, Ashok Kumar Narain, asked to marry Raj. Ashok was from the same village as Raj and was friends with some of her brothers before he had the opportunity to move to America where he worked as a tailor. Seeing this as a positive opportunity for their sister, Raj’s family accepted the engagement. Both Biren and Jai, another of Raj’s brothers, remembered Ashok as a “normal guy” and considered the pair a good match. The timeline is not perfectly clear but it appears that Ashok had returned to his native Fiji after living in America for a while and planned on returning to America after his marriage to Raj. A huge ceremony was arranged on the family’s farm and Raj was married to Ashok. Within 24 hours Jai Prasad, Raj’s brother, was married to his wife, Caroline. Nine months later sometime in 1984, Raj and Ashok prepared to leave Fiji and begin their new life in America. She was 21 years old, Ashok was about 27. The family packed their things and boarded a bus to Fiji’s international airport to see the couple off. It was a five hour bus ride. At the airport, Raj cried knowing that she may never see her family again. Raj was not only the first of her family to immigrate to a new country, she was the first to ever leave the island of Viti Levu. Her brother Biren encouraged Ashok to comfort a crying Raj but to no avail. Raj and Ashok boarded their plane and moved to Eugene, Oregon, a town more than 110 miles south of Portland, Oregon. (It looks like Ashok had also lived in King Co. Washington at some point in time.) Raj kept in touch with her brothers via letters and sent audio tapes to her illiterate mother. Phone calls were expensive so letters were the best way to stay in touch. According to Jai, Raj sounded lonely. The couple rented a cheap apartment in downtown Eugene, Oregon. Picture here. https://www.google.com/maps/@44.0551171,-123.1034199,3a,75y,91.43h,90t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1stnnQJcK7n7wSIMrLRnp2dg!2e0!6shttps:%2F%2Fstreetviewpixels-pa.googleapis.com%2Fv1%2Fthumbnail%3Fcb_client%3Dmaps_sv.tactile%26w%3D900%26h%3D600%26pitch%3D0%26panoid%3DtnnQJcK7n7wSIMrLRnp2dg%26yaw%3D91.43188!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu&g_ep=EgoyMDI1MDcxNi4wIKXMDSoASAFQAw%3D%3D In 1985, she told Jai about the strange beauty of autumn and how odd it was to see leaves die and fall to the ground. Raj was troubled by the cold weather and bought her first jacket, a gray puffy parka. She sounded lonely, Jai reflected years later. Raj talked about watching television and tending to her husband but seemed to do little else. In another letter she thanked her brother Biren for sending her money so she and Ashok could buy a car, a 1980 Toyota Tercel. She never revealed any problems in her marriage. On June 29th, 1986 Raj gave birth to her first child, a daughter named Kamnee. She and her family were overjoyed and treasured the small wallet sized photo of the girl which was tucked into Raj’s letter. But sometime in 1987, Raj’s letters stopped. At first the family was not concerned, thinking that motherhood was probably taking up much of her time and energy but eventually they began to worry. By 2004, Jai had not heard from his sister in over 15 years. Now living in Sydney, Australia Jai asked his children to help him use the internet so he could search for his sister, but he found no trace of Raj or his niece, Kamnee. He called the FBI to report her missing but the agency suggested he hire a private investigator instead. This may have been because Jai reported that his sister lived in Eugene, California rather than Eugene, Oregon. Either way this did not deter Jai and he continued on his quest. In 2003, the Seattle Post Intelligencer released an article on the unidentified persons in Washington state. Included was a sketch of a baby found in a river in 1987. From the moment he first saw the sketch in April, 2006 Jai Prasad knew it was Kamnee. Furthermore, his woman’s description caught his eye, he knew that silver bangles and painted nails were both something that Raj would have worn. Jai called Kelso police department to report his suspicion. Police were skeptical of the lead as other tips about the child’s identity had led nowhere. Unable to take no as an answer Jai Prasad flew to the United States to give his DNA to investigators. In April, 2006 the same month Jai found the article about Baby Jane Doe, a Robert Narayan of Woodland, California called the Kelso police with a similar story. After seeing the 2003 article he called the Kelso police to report that he believed the baby found in the river was his niece, Kamnee. Moreover, Robert reported that he had not seen or heard from his brother Ashok since 1988. He could find no trace of his sister in law or his niece either. He, like Jai, had been looking for his brother for years. In September, 2006 the body of the two Jane Does found in the fall of 1987 were exhumed and compared to Jai’s DNA. A small group of mourners joined Jai by the graveside and held a small memorial. Jai didn’t need DNA, he knew the bones belonged to his sister and niece. He provided flowers and burial clothes for the pair. Two months later, a match was revealed but Raj’s family did not share this news publicly at the request of police, as they hoped to locate Ashok before the news broke publicly. In September, 2007 the two Jane Does were publicly revealed to be a match and were finally identified as Raj Mati Narain, age 24, and her daughter Kamnee Koushal Narain aged 14 months. The next month in October, Jai was permitted to bring the bodies back to Fiji so a ceremony could be held and their bodies laid to rest among friends and family**.** Over 500 mourners attended the services. With both mother and daughter identified, an investigation into their deaths could finally begin in earnest. Both Kamnee and Raj died in early September 1987, on approximately the 5th or 7th of that month, before being dumped in three separate rivers about 140 miles north of their home in Eugene, Oregon. The first order of business was to speak to Ashok Narain but police quickly hit a brick wall. Ashok disappeared sometime in 1987 or 1988, reports differ, not only in the date of his disappearance but also in basic details. Chief Criminal Deputy Charlie Rosenzweig, who was a one of the men who retrieved Kamnee’s body from the river in 1987, told the Seattle Post Intelligencer that deputies were able to track Ashok in the Eugene area through early 1988, possibly into the spring before Ashok vanished from the area for unknown reasons. Rosenzweig gathered this information through interviews with coworkers, although it should be noted that this information relies on 20 year old memories. Robert Narayan first reported that his brother vanished in April, 1988 and listed the date of last contact as April 1st, 1988. It is unknown if this is a solid date or an estimate. Articles over the next few months of 2007 report that Ashok disappeared from Eugene in “early 1988.” Some modern articles as well as Namus report that Ashok disappeared at the same time as his family in the fall of 1987. Police in Washington state reported that they contacted every single Ashok Kumar Narain living in Washington, Oregon, and California but none of these men are the correct Ashok. Articles seeking information about the whereabouts of Ashok have been disseminated in South Asian newspapers and communities in Canada on the off chance that Ashok escaped to an area with a large Indian or Indo-Fijian community but no solid leads have emerged. Police have also admitted that it is possible that Ashok was also murdered and his body has simply not been found. In 2011 Jai Prasad told the Longview Chronicle newspaper that Fijian immigration authorities told him that a man named Ashok Kumar Narain entered the country on May 12th, 1988 but they have no record of this man leaving Fiji. It is unclear if this is the same Ashok Narain who was married to Raj. To give an example of how common this name is, I found five men named Ashok Narain died in Fiji in 2023 alone. None had the correct birth date as the Ashok Narain who is wanted for questioning in this case. According to the article in the Longview Chronicle, there are several possible explanations for this. First it is possible that this is a different man altogether. A second is that this was Ashok and he is hiding in Fiji either under his own name or with a new identity. The third theory is that Ashok returned to Fiji but then left under a new name or identity. Some amateur sleuths have doubted that this man is the correct Ashok because Fiji is a small place both in size and in population making it an unlikely place to disappear unless he is living under a false identity. Over the years, Raj and Kamnee’s has been featured over the years in Fijian media yet no one has come forth with any promising tips or leads. One newspaper article says that US investigators went to Fiji after learning this and were unable to locate Ashok but this tidbit is not mentioned elsewhere and the article which mentioned this is no longer available online, so please take this information with a grain of salt. Fiji does have an extradition treaty with the US but because Ashok has not been charged with any crimes, he would be under no obligation to speak with investigators or return to the States. Whatever the case, Ashok Kumar Narain has not been heard from in decades. The Kelso police department is keeping an open mind and has not named Ashok as a suspect in his family’s murder. Interestingly enough, Ashok’s vehicle disappeared with him leading some to speculate that Ashok perished inside the vehicle whether from suicide, misadventure, or foul play. Police are still looking for this vehicle, a white 1980 Toyota Tercel with Oregon license plate KUV762. The registration would have expired in 1993. Investigators believe that finding the car could be the key to cracking this case and would like to process it as a possible crime scene. In the years since identification media attention has slowed to a trickle. Jai sometimes gives interviews to the press and tries to keep his sister and nieces’ stories in the spotlight. Jai filmed Raj and Kamnee’s funeral and posted it on Youtube hoping to bring awareness to the murders. He even shared his email address so tips about his brother in law’s whereabouts could be shared. Jai has started an educational scholarship for girls in rural Fiji. He hopes that with education and opportunity women and Fiji will not end up like his sister and will be able to support their families independently. He has also donated money to girls’ orphanages in Fiji for the same reason. Sadly there have been no updates on the case of Raj Mati and Kamnee Koushal since the early 2010s and Ashok remains a missing person. Theories Theories abound in this case and because Ashok is long term missing it is hard to determine if he is the victim, a witness, or the perpetrator of this crime. One theory is that Ashok and his family were all killed by an unknown party and dumped in different rivers to stymie their identifications and that sadly Ashok has not been found. Some have even brought up the idea that this was a hate crime by someone who did not like immigrants. According to the 1990 census, Eugene was 3% Asian but had essentially no south Asian or Fijian community at the time. The second and most common theory is that Ashok killed his family and then fled the area, perhaps going back to Fiji or going to Canada as there is a larger South Asian diaspora there. It is possible that Ashok was a run of the mill family annihilator or abuser who decided who no longer wanted the burden of a wife or children. If this is the case he may have taken his own life after the murders perhaps by driving his car into the water or like mentioned above he may have fled the area. A third possibility is that this was an honor killing. An honor killing is a specific type of crime where a person, usually a woman or girl, is killed by a male family member for disgracing the family’s “honor” due to real or perceived transgressions. Most commonly these so called transgressions are the result of women eschewing standard social, sexual, or marriage norms within their communities. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica, honor killings happen all around the world but are most common in India and Pakistan. Because the Narain family were south Asian ethnically and because Raj was pregnant some believe that this crime could have been an honor killing, perhaps the result of Ashok either not wanting another child, or believing Raj’s unborn child was not his. This theory is not without criticism, however. Despite the family’s ethnic background there are no records of honor killings happening in Fiji. One opinion piece in the Fijian media even calls this notion “a dirty stereotype” about Indo Fijians borne out of ignorance with no basis in fact. Although there is one scholarly article regarding the normalization of minor domestic violence in Fiji, experts claim there are no reports of honor killings in the country or that it is exceedingly rare. Some information on this is linked below. A fourth but unlikely possibility is that Ashok was not involved at all but due to being an immigrant or not trusting the police Ashok fled the area after his family was murdered perhaps even fearing for his own life. Ashok has been ruled out as 10 different John Does on Namus, but I submitted Ashok as a match for a handful of other unidentified descendants. The most compelling matches are Mount Rainier John Doe 1987, and Multnomah Co. John Doe May, 1988, who was found near the spots where Raj’s legs were discovered. Mt Rainier John Doe, 1987 was a short man of unknown race whose body was discovered September 26th or 27th, 1987. According to NPSHistory.com “An unidentified body was discovered approximately 30' over highway embankment.” “Location: HWY 123, 1/4 mile South of Tunnel. Park staff who are investigating the incident estimate victim had been dead for 4-5 days. One .45 caliber shell casing was found along the highway in the vicinity of the body.” Namus and the Doe Network report that this man was dead about two weeks at the time of discovery and his manner and cause of death are reported as “unknown.” This man was 20-30 years old with short, straight black hair that was 7” long. He was wearing a short-sleeved red/black plaid shirt, NIXIT jeans (size 27 long), black Splash shorts, white Hanes underwear (size 28), black leather belt with a silver buckle, one white sock with blue and yellow stripes, one gray sock with red and blue stripes, black boots (size 6D) with the words "1574 All Man-Made Materials, Made in Taiwan ROC." He was 5’5” to 5’9” in height and weighed 120-140 lbs in life. His fingerprints are available in AFIS and dental X-rays were taken. The victim had 32 teeth in virgin condition meaning he may have never been to a dentist in his life. This bit of information seems consistent with Ashok as someone raised and rural Fiji in the 1950s and 60s may not have had access to a dentist. According to the Doe Network the FBI is working with the medical examiner to locate the remains to see if bones could be used for DNA testing but at this time DNA is not available for this decedent. I submitted this John Doe as a possible match to Ashok and law enforcement replied that they would look into it. The second John Doe who has similarities to Ashok is Multnomah Co. John Doe May, 26th, 1988. The decedent’s body was found floating in the Willamette River between the Morrison and Hawthorne bridges in Portland, Oregon, very very close to where Raj's legs were discovered. He was of unknown race and between 15-40 years old. He had straight black hair, was 5’4” in height, about 150-170s lbs in life and had died in 1987 or 1988. His cause of death is unknown, but like Kamnee, this man had a skull fracture in the left temporal area. According to the Doe Network, it was a “wedge-shaped to slightly oval fracture measuring 1 3/4 x 1 inches in greatest dimension. The anterior margin is sharp and slightly depressed.” He was wearing Levi blue jeans, Fruit of the Loom brief-style underwear (size 34-36), long sleeved thermal underwear shirt, olive drab colored waist-length jacket, Western-style tooled leather belt (measures 41 inches), waffle soled ankle high hiking boots with leather laces ("MADE IN SWITZERLAND") and the inside is marked in felt pen "M61/2-2" (probable US size men's 7-8). He was carrying a bic lighter in the left front jeans pocket and Benson and Hedges cigarettes in the right shirt pocket. His dentals are available for comparison. I also submitted this John Doe as a possible match to Ashok Narain, but sadly, the two men cannot be scientifically compared as they have separate identifiers on file. They also replied via email that many people have suggested this as a match. Ashok Kumar Narain has been missing since the late 1980s, last being seen or heard from in 1987 or early 1988 perhaps as late as May, 12th 1988. He is wanted for questioning regarding the deaths of his pregnant wife Raj and his daughter Kamnee. Ashok is described as a South Asian male who was about 31 years old when he was last seen. He has black hair and brown eyes. He stands between 5’2” and 5’7” in height and weighs about 135-185 lbs. He wore a mustache in the 1980s and has thick hair. He is a Fijian citizen. It is unclear what his immigration status was in the United States. He may have returned to Fiji in 1988 or he may have fled to another part of North America, or he may still be in the local area in Oregon or in Northern California. In 1987 Ashok drove a white Toyota Tercel which is a sedan sized car, with the license plate KUV762. The license plate would have expired in 1993. His last name is sometimes spelled Narayan or Naraiin. If you have any information on the whereabouts of Ashok or his car or have any additional information on the homicides of Raj or Kamnee, please call one of the following two numbers. Sadly the murders of Raj and Kamnee are still unsolved and Raj’s head is still missing. Kelso Police Department- (360) 577-3092 Eugene Police Department- (541) 682-5111 Sources https://www.seattlepi.com/seattlenews/article/unmarked-graves-may-hold-his-sister-niece-1213531.php https://www.seattlepi.com/news/article/Part-7-Records-often-are-as-hard-to-find-as-a-1107646.php https://www.smh.com.au/national/o-sister-where-art-thou-20071116-gdrm21.html https://www.seattlepi.com/news/article/Part-7-Records-often-are-as-hard-to-find-as-a-1107646.php https://www.seattlepi.com/news/slideshow/Without-a-Trace-5058.php https://charleyproject.org/case/ashok-kumar-narain https://www.southasianpost.com/article/2850-hunt-goes-vancouver.html https://www.namus.gov/MissingPersons/Case#/7675 https://unidentified-awareness.fandom.com/wiki/Multnomah_County_John_Doe_(May_26,_1988)) https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345367/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis%20river https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345422/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis%20river https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345459/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis%20river https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345899/?match=1&terms=torso%20unidentified https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345422/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1086338027/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/577330965/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1174283670/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1086703983/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345991/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1174288930/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/577320223/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/577345538/?match=1&terms=torso%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1175633744/?match=1&terms=torso%20river%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1178193750/?match=1&terms=torso%20river%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/1178193750/?match=1&terms=torso%20river%20lewis https://www.newspapers.com/image/577090908/?match=1&terms=raj%20mati https://www.newspapers.com/image/577394186/?match=1&terms=raj%20mati https://www.newspapers.com/image/577107875/?match=1&terms=ashok%20kumar%20narain https://www.newspapers.com/image/577107787/?match=1&terms=ashok%20kumar%20narain https://npshistory.com/morningreport/incidents/mora.htm https://unidentified-awareness.fandom.com/wiki/Multnomah_County_John_Doe_(May_26,_1988)) https://pmcarchive.aut.ac.nz/pacific-media-watch/audio-honour-killings-not-part-indo-fijian-culture-7228.html https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/international-annals-of-criminology/article/abs/male-sexual-jealousy-homicides-in-fiji-victims-offenders-and-incident-characteristics/03577C1EB350301AEEF14E3E691ED6DE https://pacific.scoop.co.nz/2011/01/nz-medias-own-fiji-honour-killing/ https://minorityrights.org/communities/indo-fijians/ submitted by /u/Quirky-Motor to r/UnresolvedMysteries [link] [comments]

I couldn’t find this information anywhere so i painstakingly dug through the game files to make this list. This took me WAY more time to make then i would like to admit so i hope it helps someone. Please excuse any bad spelling etc Zones List of zones -BirchForest -DeepForest -FarmLand -Roads -Forest -Organic Forest -Managed Forest -Primary Forest -Urban -TrailerPark -Vegitation Any NUMBER i list after an ZONE is how many rolls the game will give for that specific catagory. For example: Roads 3 under the Animal catagory means the game will roll 3 times give or take for the Animal catagory. When foraging you have many different factors when it comes to what type of item you find. One of said factors is the Zone you are searching. Each zone has an ammount of times it will roll for a item catagory. For example, If you are searching in the BirchForest zone, The game will roll 3 times for the catagory of Dead Animals. If it rolls for a dead animal you will find something from the dead animal catagory. Please keep in mind this is a simplified explanation of my understanding of how it works, there is many other factors that effect your "rolls". I also only have a basic knowledge of reading game code so take all of this with a grain of salt. i am sure some big brain wizard will come in here and correct any mistakes i made. Some of the variables that effect how many "rolls" you get for each catagory: Foraging level Some items mainly food related items such as fruit and herbs etc will not spawn unless you have reached a certain foraging level. How many days have been survived Weather Rain and snow can give an increased OR decrease in your chance of finding a certain item Time of day Some items such as worms for example you have a significantly higher chance of rolling at night time according to the games code. Characters and traits Some traits and characters give bonuses to your chance of finding certain items in different catagories. What time of the year it is Some items do not spawn during certain months of the year, while some items have an increased chance of spawning during a certain time of the year. most of these items are food and animal related items. Categories Categories get a certain number of rolls as default but it is also infuenced depending on diferent factors listed above. Some categories also have sub categories. For example, The weapons category has three sub categories: Uncommen, Rare, And Legendary. Each sub category gets a certain number of rolls. The uncommon sub category gets the most rolls while the legendary sub category only gets a single roll. Below is a list of all the items that can be found in their corresponding category and also which zones give the most and least amount of rolls. Animals BirchForest 15 DeepForest 15 FarmLand 20 Roads 3 Forest 15 Organic Forest 15 Managed Forest 15 Primary Forest 15 Urban 5 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 25 Wild egg Egg Worm Frog Slug Snail Dead Animals BirchForest 3 DeepForest 3 FarmLand 2 Roads 1 Forest 2 Organic Forest 3 Managed Forest 3 Primary Forest 3 Urban 1 TrailerPark 1 Vegitation 2 Dead bird Dead squirrel Dead rabbit Dead rat Dead mouse Berries BirchForest 20 DeepForest 30 FarmLand 15 Roads 1 Forest 30 Organic Forest 20 Managed Forest 30 Primary Forest 30 Urban 5 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 20 Safe berries Poison berries Winter barries Fruits BirchForest 2 DeepForest 15 FarmLand 25 Roads 0 Forest 15 Organic Forest 5 Managed Forest 5 Primary Forest 5 Urban 5 TrailerPark 10 Vegitation 18 Cherry Strawberry Lemon Lime Grapefruit Peach Pear Habanero Pepper Jalapeno Pepper Pineapple Grapes Orange Apple Banana Watermelon Mango Vegetables BirchForest 3 DeepForest 10 FarmLand 15 Roads 0 Forest 10 Organic Forest 5 Managed Forest 6 Primary Forest 6 Urban 10 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 15 Onion Lettuce Cucumber Bell Pepper Avacado Zucchini Corn Eggplant Leek Carrots Broccoli Potato Cabbage Tomato Raddish Daikon Peanuts Pumpkin Cauliflower Sugarbeet Sweetpotatoe Turnip Soybeans Spinach Kale Garlic Greenpeas Mushrooms BirchForest 40 DeepForest 30 FarmLand 15 Roads 0 Forest 30 Organic Forest 50 Managed Forest 25 Primary Forest 25 Urban 5 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 20 Mushroom Forest Rarities BirchForest 1 DeepForest 1 FarmLand 0 Roads 0 Forest 1 Organic Forest 1 Managed Forest 1 Primary Forest 1 Urban 0 TrailerPark 0 Vegitation 0 Campfire kit Camping tent kit HottieZ Tarp Firestarter block Magnesium firestarter Stone axe Perced wood Box trap Cage trap Trap crate Mouse trap Snare trap Stick trap Hiking bag Big hiking bag Cowboy canteen Military canteen Iron ore Insects BirchForest 35 DeepForest 25 FarmLand 15 Roads 10 Forest 25 Organic Forest 35 Managed Forest 25 Primary Forest 25 Urban 15 TrailerPark 15 Vegitation 25 Grasshopper Cockroach Pillbug Centipede Millipede Caterpillars Termites Sawfly Larva Leech Ladybug Medicinial Plants BirchForest 25 DeepForest 30 FarmLand 15 Roads 0 Forest 20 Organic Forest 35 Managed Forest 25 Primary Forest 25 Urban 0 TrailerPark 0 Vegitation 15 Plantain Comfrey Wild garlic Common Mallow Lemongrass Black sage Ginseng Wild Plants BirchForest 35 DeepForest 20 FarmLand 15 Roads 0 Forest 20 Organic Forest 35 Managed Forest 20 Primary Forest 20 Urban 5 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 15 Violets Sunflower head Grape leaves Rosehips Acorn Dandilions Roses Poppies Poppy pods Nettles Ginger root Thistle Marigold Dogbane Tobacco Wheatsheaf Barleysheaf Ryesheaf Flax Wild Herbs BirchForest 15 DeepForest 10 FarmLand 5 Roads 0 Forest 7.5 Organic Forest 12.5 Managed Forest 8.5 Primary Forest 8.5 Urban 1.5 TrailerPark 1.5 Vegitation 7.5 Basil Chives Cilantro Oregano Parsley Rosemary Sage Thyme Chamomile Lavender Mint herb Firewood BirchForest 80 DeepForest 80 FarmLand 35 Roads 15 Forest 80 Organic Forest 80 Managed Forest 80 Primary Forest 80 Urban 10 TrailerPark 10 Vegitation 50 Logs Treebranch Twigs Large branch Broken large branch Pinecone Sapling Stones BirchForest 10 DeepForest 10 FarmLand 10 Roads 120 Forest 10 Organic Forest 10 Managed Forest 25 Primary Forest 25 Urban 15 TrailerPark 15 Vegitation 30 Sharp stone Flint nodule Stone Limestone Large stone Flat stone Clay Crafting Materials BirchForest 5 DeepForest 5 FarmLand 7 Roads 13 Forest 5 Organic Forest 5 Managed Forest 5 Primary Forest 5 Urban 20 TrailerPark 20 Vegitation 13 Aluminum Scrap Copper scrap Iron scrap Steel scrap Fleshing tool Iron band Awl Carpentry chisel Crude whetstone File Handrill Handiknife Heading tool Knapping tool Mason chisel Masons trowel Metalworking chisel Metalworking punch Multitool Sheet metal snips Small file set Small punch set Vise grips Whetstone Bones BirchForest 20 DeepForest 20 FarmLand 20 Roads 1 Forest 20 Organic Forest 20 Managed Forest 20 Primary Forest 20 Urban 1 TrailerPark 1 Vegitation 20 Animal bone Antlers wall Bull skull Calf skull Cow skull Deer doe skull Deer fawn skull Herbivore skull Jaw bone bovide Lamb skull Large animal bone Pig tusk Pig skull Piglet skull Rabbit kitten skull Rabbit skull Ram skull Sheep skull Small animal bone Artifacts BirchForest 1 DeepForest 1 FarmLand 1 Roads 1 Forest 1 Organic Forest 1 Managed Forest 1 Primary Forest 1 Urban 1 TrailerPark 1 Vegitation 1 Sub catagory roll chance 5 Awl stone Primitive scythe Flint saw Stone axe head Stone blade Long stone blade Stone chisel Stone drill Stone mace head Stone maul head Sub catagory roll chance 5 Sharp bone fragment Awl bone Sharp long bone Bone bead large Bone hatchet head Bone needle Bone fish hook Bone whistle Sub catagory roll chance 5 Ballpeen hammer head Claw hammer head Club hammer head Forged fork Forged garden fork head Garden hoe head Hand axe head Hand scythe blade Heavy chain link Hunting kfie blade Forged keyring Kitchen knife blade Hurricane lantern Large knife blade Latch Meat cleaver blade Metal cup Old axe head Old drill Forged pan Pickaxe head Forged pot Rake head Forged Scissors Forged sheep shears Sledgehammer head Forged spade head Forged spoon Wood axe head Sub catagory roll chance 7 Silver coin Sub catagory roll chance 1 Gold coin Trash BirchForest 3 DeepForest 5 FarmLand 8 Roads 35 Forest 5 Organic Forest 1 Managed Forest 3 Primary Forest 3 Urban 45 TrailerPark 45 Vegitation 15 Common sub catagory roll 100 Empty beer can Empty beer bottle Garbage bag Newspaper Plastic bag Empty pop Fountain cup Sheet paper Smashed bottle Empty tin can Unusable metal Unusable wood Scrap metal Screws Paper bag Paper napkins Paper bag (jays) Paper bag (spiffos) Uncommon sub catagory roll chance 30 Aluminum Backgammon board Baseball Bell Basketball Broken fishing net Cat food bag Cat toy Chop sticks Cold pack Cologne Comb Corkscrew Denim Strips (dirty) Dirt bag Dishcloth Dog food bag Open dog food Duct tape Glass tumbler Wine glass Glue Grill brush Hairgell Kitchen tongs Leather strips (dirty) Money Muffin tray Ovenmitt Empty paint bucket Paperwork Plastic cup Plastic tray Plate Scotch tape Spatula Teacup Welding rods Wood glue Rare sub catagory roll chance 10 Bobber Camera CameraDisposable CameraExpensive CameraFilm CandleBox CardDeck Card_Birthday Card_Christmas Card_Easter Card_Halloween Card_Hanukkah Card_LunarYear Card_StPatrick Card_Sympathy Card_Valentine CreditCard Cube Dart DenimStrips Dice DogChew Doll Drawer DryerLint DumbBell Earbuds ElectronicsScrap FireplacePoker Football GolfBall GunPowder Hairspray HandTorch Headphones KatePic KnittingNeedles Leash LeatherStrips Lighter LighterDisposable Locket Matches Mirror Padlock PaintBlack PaintBlue PaintBrown PaintCyan PaintGreen PaintGrey PaintLightBlue PaintLightBrown PaintOrange PaintPink PaintPurple PaintRed PaintTurquoise PaintWhite Paintbrush Paperback Perfume Pipe RubberBand Rubberducky SoccerBall Sparklers TennisBall ToiletPaper Toothbrush Torch ToyBear ToyCar Whistle Yoyo Epic sub catagory roll chance 3 BorisBadger Bucket Fertilizer FluffyfootBunny FreddyFox FurbertSquirrel GardenSaw HairDryer Jack JacquesBeaver Kettle MoleyMole MortarPestle Mugl NailsBox Needle PancakeHedgehog PanchoDog Plushabug RoastingPan Rope Spiffo TarotCardDeck Wire Legendary sub catagory roll chance 1 Empty jar Blank key Jar lid Spiffo mug Spiffo suit Spiffo tail Junk BirchForest 3 DeepForest 3 FarmLand 3 Roads 3 Forest 3 Organic Forest 3 Managed Forest 3 Primary Forest 3 Urban 7 TrailerPark 7 Vegitation 3 Common sub catagory roll 50 Battery Book Bowl BurlapPiece CleaningLiquid2 Clipboard ComicBook Hinge MagazineCrossword MagazineWordsearch Paperclip PaperclipBox Pot ScrewsBox SheetMetal SmallSheetMetal TVMagazine Crayons Journal Magazine Nails Notebook Uncommon sub catagory roll chance 30 Satchel BlowTorch Calculator Candle Cooler EmptySandbag Eraser FirstAidKit FishingNet Handbag Lunchbox Lunchbox2 Purse Saw Soap2 Suitcase Toolbox Tote Twine Unlikely sub catagory roll chance 10 ArmorMag1 ArmorMag2 ArmorMag3 ArmorMag4 ArmorMag5 ArmorMag6 ArmorMag7 Bag_BowlingBallBag Bag_GolfBag Bag_Schoolbag CigaretteSingle CookingMag1 CookingMag2 CookingMag3 CookingMag4 CookingMag5 CookingMag6 ElectronicsMag1 ElectronicsMag2 ElectronicsMag3 ElectronicsMag4 ElectronicsMag5 EngineerMagazine1 EngineerMagazine2 FarmingMag1 FarmingMag2 FarmingMag4 FishingLine FishingMag1 FishingMag2 Flightcase Guitarcase HuntingMag1 HuntingMag2 HuntingMag3 LightBulb LightBulbBlue LightBulbCyan LightBulbGreen LightBulbMagenta LightBulbOrange LightBulbPink LightBulbPurple LightBulbRed LightBulbYellow MarchRidgeMap MetalworkMag1 MetalworkMag2 MetalworkMag3 MetalworkMag4 MuldraughMap PrimitiveToolMag1 PrimitiveToolMag2 RailroadSpike RailroadTrack RailroadTrackPiece RiversideMap RosewoodMap SewingKit SmithingMag1 SmithingMag2 SmithingMag3 SmithingMag4 SmithingMag5 SmithingMag6 SmithingMag7 SmithingMag8 SmithingMag9 SmithingMag10 SmithingMag11 TongueDepressor Tsquare UmbrellaBlack UmbrellaBlue UmbrellaRed UmbrellaWhite WeaponMag1 WeaponMag2 WeaponMag3 WeaponMag4 WeaponMag5 WeaponMag6 WestpointMap Rare sub catagory roll chance 7 BBQStarterFluid BakingPan BakingTray BarbedWire BastingBrush BoltCutters BottleOpener BottleOpener Keychain Charcoal Cigar CigarettePack CigaretteRolled CigaretteRollingPapers Cigarillo CordlessPhone Cork EngineParts Extinguisher Handle Ladle Laser LighterFluid Lipstick Loupe LugWrench Lunchbag MarkerBlack MarkerBlue MarkerGreen MarkerRed Matchbox MeasuringTape MenuCard PetrolCan PlasterPowder Pliers Pocketwatch PokerChips PoolBall PropaneTank Ratchet Razor Saxophone Speaker Sponge Spork Stapler Staples SteelWool Strainer String Tissue Tongs Toothpaste Wallet WateredCan Whisk Wrench Epic sub catagory roll chance 3 AlarmClock2 Amplifier Bellows BookBlacksmith1 BookBlacksmith2 BookBlacksmith3 BookBlacksmith4 BookBlacksmith5 BookCarpentry1 BookCarpentry2 BookCarpentry3 BookCarpentry4 BookCarpentry5 BookCarving1 BookCarving2 BookCarving3 BookCarving4 BookCarving5 BookCooking1 BookCooking2 BookCooking3 BookCooking4 BookCooking5 BookElectrician1 BookElectrician2 BookElectrician3 BookElectrician4 BookElectrician5 BookFarming1 BookFarming2 BookFarming3 BookFarming4 BookFarming5 BookFirstAid1 BookFirstAid2 BookFirstAid3 BookFirstAid4 BookFirstAid5 BookFishing1 BookFishing2 BookFishing3 BookFishing4 BookFishing5 BookForaging1 BookForaging2 BookForaging3 BookForaging4 BookForaging5 BookMechanic1 BookMechanic2 BookMechanic3 BookMechanic4 BookMechanic5 BookMetalWelding1 BookMetalWelding2 BookMetalWelding3 BookMetalWelding4 BookMetalWelding5 BookTailoring1 BookTailoring2 BookTailoring3 BookTailoring4 BookTailoring5 BookTrapping1 BookTrapping2 BookTrapping3 BookTrapping4 BookTrapping5 CDplayer CarBatteryCharger CarvingFork2 CompassGeometry CompostBag ConcretePowder ElectricWire HamRadio1 HamRadio2 HamRadioMakeShift MechanicMag1 MechanicMag2 MechanicMag3 RadioBlack RadioMag1 RadioMag2 RadioMag3 RadioMakeShift RadioReceiver RadioRed RadioTransmitter ScannerModule StockCertificate Timer TimerCrafted TinOpener TireIron TirePump TobaccoChewing WalkieTalkie1 WalkieTalkie2 WalkieTalkie3 WalkieTalkie4 WalkieTalkie5 WalkieTalkieMakeShift Yarn Zipties Legendary sub catagory roll chance 1 Aerosolbomb AerosolbombRemote AerosolbombSensorV1 AerosolbombSensorV2 AerosolbombSensorV3 AerosolbombTriggered BoxOfJars ChokeTubeFull ChokeTubeImproved FlameTrap FlameTrapRemote FlameTrapSensorV1 FlameTrapSensorV2 FlameTrapSensorV3 FlameTrapTriggered HerbalistMag LargeMeteorite Molotov PipeBomb PipeBombRemote PipeBombSensorV1 PipeBombSensorV2 PipeBombSensorV3 PipeBombTriggered SmokeBomb SmokeBombRemote SmokeBombSensorV1 SmokeBombSensorV2 SmokeBombSensorV3 SmokeBombTriggered x2Scope x4Scope x8Scope Junk food BirchForest 0 DeepForest 1 FarmLand 3 Roads 1 Forest 1 Organic Forest 0 Managed Forest 0 Primary Forest 0 Urban 5 TrailerPark 5 Vegitation 1 Allsorts BBQSauce BagelPlain BagelPoppy BagelSesame Baguette BakingSoda Baloney BaloneySlice BalsamicVinegar BeanBowl BeefJerky BeerBottle BeerCan Biscuit Blackbeans Bleach BouillonCube Brandy Bread BreadSlices Burger Burrito Butter CandyCorn CandyFruitSlices CandyPackage Candycane CannedBellPepper CannedBolognese CannedBroccoli CannedCabbage CannedCarrots CannedCarrots2 CannedChili CannedCorn CannedCornedBeef CannedEggplant CannedFruitBeverage CannedFruitCocktail CannedLeek CannedMilk CannedMushroomSoup CannedPeaches CannedPeas CannedPineapple CannedPotato CannedPotato2 CannedRedRadish CannedSardines CannedTomato CannedTomato2 Caviar Cereal Cheese Chicken ChickenFoot ChickenFried ChickenNuggets ChocoCakes Chocolate ChocolateChips ChocolateCoveredCoffeeBeans Cider CinnamonRoll CocoaPowder Coffee2 Cone ConeIcecreamMelted CookieChocolateChip CookieJelly CookiesChocolate CookiesOatmeal CookiesShortbread CookiesSugar CornFrozen Cornbread Corndog Cornflour2 Cornmeal Crackers Crisps Crisps2 Crisps3 Crisps4 Croissant Cupcake Curacao Dip_NachoCheese Dip_Ranch Dip_Salsa Dogfood Dough DoughnutChocolate DoughnutFrosted DoughnutJelly DoughnutPlain DriedApricots DriedBlackBeans DriedChickpeas DriedKidneyBeans DriedLentils DriedSplitPeas DriedWhiteBeans Edamame FishFingers Flour2 FrenchFries FriedOnionRings Fries Gin GingerPickled GranolaBar GravyMix Grenadine Guacamole Gum GummyBears GummyWorms Ham HamSlice HardCandies HiHis Honey Hotdog HotdogPack Hotsauce IcecreamMelted JamFruit JamMarmalade JellyBeans JellyRoll JuiceBox Jujubes Ketchup Lard LemonBar LicoriceBlack LicoriceRed Lollipop MapleSyrup Margarine Marinara MeatDumpling MeatPatty MeatSteamBun Milk MincedMeat MintCandy MixedVegetables Modjeska MuffinFruit MuffinGeneric Mustard MuttonChop NoodleSoup OatsRaw OilOlive OilVegetable Onigiri Pancakes Pasta PeanutButter Peas Pepper Peppermint Pepperoni Perogies Pickles Pie PieApple PieBlueberry PieKeyLime PieLemonMeringue PiePumpkin Pizza PizzaWhole Plonkies Pop Pop2 Pop3 PopBottle Popcorn PorkChop Port PotatoPancakes PowderedGarlic PowderedOnion PowerBar Pretzel Processedcheese QuaggaCakes Ramen RefriedBeans Rice RicePaper RiceVinegar RockCandy Rum Salami SalamiSlice Salt Sandwich Sausage Scotch SeasoningSalt Seaweed Sherry Shrimp ShrimpDumpling ShrimpFried Smore SourCream Soysauce Springroll Steak Sugar SugarBrown SugarPacket SushiFish TVDinner Taco TacoShell TatoDots Teabag2 Tequila TinnedBeans TinnedSoup Toast Tofu TofuFried TomatoPaste Tortilla TortillaChips TortillaChipsBaked TunaTin Vermouth Vinegar2 Vodka Waffles Wasabi WaterBottle WatermelonSliced WatermelonSmashed Whiskey Wine Wine2 WineBox WineOpen Yeast Yoghurt Clothing BirchForest 0 DeepForest 0 FarmLand 0 Roads 1 Forest 0 Organic Forest 0 Managed Forest 0 Primary Forest 0 Urban 7 TrailerPark 7 Vegitation 1 Common sub catagory roll chance 5 Hat_Antlers Hat_Army Hat_BalaclavaFace Hat_BalaclavaFull Hat_Bandana Hat_BandanaMask Hat_BandanaMaskTINT Hat_BandanaTINT Hat_BandanaTied Hat_BandanaTiedTINT Hat_BaseballCap Hat_BaseballCapArmy Hat_BaseballCapArmy_Reverse Hat_BaseballCapBlue Hat_BaseballCapBlue_Reverse Hat_BaseballCapGreen Hat_BaseballCapGreen_Reverse Hat_BaseballCapKY Hat_BaseballCapKY_Red Hat_BaseballCapKY_Reverse Hat_BaseballCapRed Hat_BaseballCapRed_Reverse Hat_BaseballCap_Reverse Hat_BaseballHelmet_KY Hat_BaseballHelmet_Rangers Hat_BaseballHelmet_Z Hat_Beany Hat_Beret Hat_BeretArmy Hat_BicycleHelmet Hat_BonnieHat Hat_BonnieHat_CamoGreen Hat_BoxingBlue Hat_BoxingRed Hat_BucketHat Hat_BunnyEarsBlack Hat_BunnyEarsWhite Hat_ChefHat Hat_Cowboy Hat_CrashHelmet Hat_CrashHelmetFULL Hat_CrashHelmet_Police Hat_CrashHelmet_Stars Hat_DustMask Hat_EarMuff_Protectors Hat_EarMuffs Hat_FastFood Hat_FastFood_IceCream Hat_FastFood_Spiffo Hat_Fedora Hat_Fedora_Delmonte Hat_Fireman Hat_FootballHelmet Hat_FurryEars Hat_GasMask Hat_GoldStar Hat_GolfHat Hat_GolfHatTINT Hat_HardHat Hat_HardHat_Miner Hat_HockeyHelmet Hat_HockeyMask Hat_Jay Hat_JockeyHelmet01 Hat_JockeyHelmet02 Hat_JockeyHelmet03 Hat_JockeyHelmet04 Hat_JockeyHelmet05 Hat_JockeyHelmet06 Hat_JokeArrow Hat_JokeKnife Hat_NBCmask Hat_NewspaperHat Hat_PartyHat_Stars Hat_PartyHat_TINT Hat_PeakedCapArmy Hat_Police Hat_Police_Grey Hat_Raccoon Hat_Ranger Hat_RidingHelmet Hat_RiotHelmet Hat_SPHhelmet Hat_SantaHat Hat_SantaHatGreen Hat_ShowerCap Hat_Spiffo Hat_SummerHat Hat_SurgicalCap Hat_SurgicalMask Hat_Sweatband Hat_TinFoilHat Hat_VisorBlack Hat_VisorRed Hat_Visor_WhiteTINT Hat_WeddingVeil Hat_WinterHat Hat_WoolyHat WeldingMask Uncommon sub catagory roll chance 3 Apron_Black Apron_IceCream Apron_Jay Apron_PileOCrepe Apron_PizzaWhirled Apron_Spiffos Apron_White Apron_WhiteTEXTURE Bikini_Pattern01 Bikini_TINT Boilersuit Boilersuit_BlueRed Boilersuit_Flying Boilersuit_Prisoner Boilersuit_PrisonerKhaki Boilersuit_Yellow BoobTube BoobTubeSmall Boxers_Hearts Boxers_RedStripes Boxers_Silk_Black Boxers_Silk_Red Boxers_White Bra_Strapless_AnimalPrint Bra_Strapless_Black Bra_Strapless_FrillyBlack Bra_Strapless_FrillyPink Bra_Strapless_FrillyRed Bra_Strapless_RedSpots Bra_Strapless_White Bra_Straps_AnimalPrint Bra_Straps_Black Bra_Straps_FrillyBlack Bra_Straps_FrillyPink Bra_Straps_FrillyRed Bra_Straps_White Briefs_AnimalPrints Briefs_SmallTrunks_Black Briefs_SmallTrunks_Blue Briefs_SmallTrunks_Red Briefs_SmallTrunks_WhiteTINT Briefs_White Corset Corset_Black Corset_Medical Corset_Red DressKnees_Straps Dress_Knees Dress_Long Dress_Normal Dress_SatinNegligee Dress_Short Dress_SmallBlackStrapless Dress_SmallBlackStraps Dress_SmallStrapless Dress_SmallStraps Dress_Straps Dress_long_Straps Dungarees FrillyUnderpants_Black FrillyUnderpants_Pink FrillyUnderpants_Red Garter Ghillie_Top Ghillie_Trousers Glasses Glasses_Aviators Glasses_Eyepatch_Left Glasses_Eyepatch_Right Glasses_Normal Glasses_Reading Glasses_SafetyGoggles Glasses_Shooting Glasses_SkiGoggles Glasses_Sun Glasses_SwimmingGoggles Gloves_BoxingBlue Gloves_BoxingRed Gloves_FingerlessGloves Gloves_LeatherGloves Gloves_LeatherGlovesBlack Gloves_LongWomenGloves Gloves_Surgical Gloves_WhiteTINT HazmatSuit HoodieDOWN_WhiteTINT HoodieUP_WhiteTINT HospitalGown JacketLong_Doctor JacketLong_Random JacketLong_Santa JacketLong_SantaGreen Jacket_ArmyCamoDesert Jacket_ArmyCamoGreen Jacket_Black Jacket_Chef Jacket_CoatArmy Jacket_Fireman Jacket_LeatherBarrelDogs Jacket_LeatherIronRodent Jacket_LeatherWildRacoons Jacket_NavyBlue Jacket_Padded Jacket_PaddedDOWN Jacket_Police Jacket_Ranger Jacket_Shellsuit_Black Jacket_Shellsuit_Blue Jacket_Shellsuit_Green Jacket_Shellsuit_Pink Jacket_Shellsuit_TINT Jacket_Shellsuit_Teal Jacket_Varsity Jacket_WhiteTINT Jumper_DiamondPatternTINT Jumper_PoloNeck Jumper_RoundNeck Jumper_TankTopDiamondTINT Jumper_TankTopTINT Jumper_VNeck LongCoat_Bathrobe LongJohns LongJohns_Bottoms PonchoGreen PonchoGreenDOWN PonchoYellow PonchoYellowDOWN Scarf_StripeBlackWhite Scarf_StripeBlueWhite Scarf_StripeRedWhite Scarf_White Shirt_Baseball_KY Shirt_Baseball_Rangers Shirt_Baseball_Z Shirt_Bowling_Blue Shirt_Bowling_Brown Shirt_Bowling_Green Shirt_Bowling_LimeGreen Shirt_Bowling_Pink Shirt_Bowling_White Shirt_CamoDesert Shirt_CamoGreen Shirt_CamoUrban Shirt_CropTopNoArmTINT Shirt_CropTopTINT Shirt_Denim Shirt_FormalTINT Shirt_FormalWhite Shirt_FormalWhite_ShortSleeve Shirt_FormalWhite_ShortSleeveTINT Shirt_HawaiianRed Shirt_HawaiianTINT Shirt_Jockey01 Shirt_Jockey02 Shirt_Jockey03 Shirt_Jockey04 Shirt_Jockey05 Shirt_Jockey06 Shirt_Lumberjack Shirt_OfficerWhite Shirt_PoliceBlue Shirt_PoliceGrey Shirt_Priest Shirt_PrisonGuard Shirt_Ranger Shirt_Scrubs Shirt_Workman Shoes_ArmyBoots Shoes_ArmyBootsDesert Shoes_Black Shoes_BlackBoots Shoes_BlueTrainers Shoes_Bowling Shoes_Brown Shoes_Fancy Shoes_FlipFlop Shoes_Random Shoes_RedTrainers Shoes_RidingBoots Shoes_Sandals Shoes_Slippers Shoes_Strapped Shoes_TrainerTINT Shoes_Wellies Shorts_BoxingBlue Shorts_BoxingRed Shorts_CamoGreenLong Shorts_CamoUrbanLong Shorts_LongDenim Shorts_LongSport Shorts_LongSport_Red Shorts_ShortDenim Shorts_ShortFormal Shorts_ShortSport Skirt_Knees Skirt_Long Skirt_Mini Skirt_Normal Skirt_Short Socks_Ankle Socks_Long StockingsBlack StockingsBlackSemiTrans StockingsBlackTrans StockingsWhite Suit_Jacket Suit_JacketTINT SwimTrunks_Blue SwimTrunks_Green SwimTrunks_Red SwimTrunks_Yellow Swimsuit_TINT Tie_BowTieFull Tie_BowTieWorn Tie_Full Tie_Worn Tie_Worn_Spiffo TightsBlack TightsBlackSemiTrans TightsBlackTrans TightsFishnets Trousers TrousersMesh_DenimLig TrousersMesh_Leather Trousers_ArmyService Trousers_Black Trousers_CamoDesert Trousers_CamoGreen Trousers_CamoUrban Trousers_Chef Trousers_DefaultTEXTURE Trousers_DefaultTEXTURE_HUE Trousers_DefaultTEXTURE_TINT Trousers_Denim Trousers_Fireman Trousers_JeanBaggy Trousers_LeatherBlack Trousers_NavyBlue Trousers_Padded Trousers_Police Trousers_PoliceGrey Trousers_PrisonGuard Trousers_Ranger Trousers_Santa Trousers_SantaGreen Trousers_Scrubs Trousers_Shellsuit_Black Trousers_Shellsuit_Blue Trousers_Shellsuit_Green Trousers_Shellsuit_Pink 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KnifePocket KnifeShiv LetterOpener LongHandle LongHandle_Nails Machete MeatCleaver MetalBar MetalPipe Nightstick PickAxe PipeWrench Screwdriver Shovel Shovel2 SnowShovel SpearCrafted SpearHandFork SpearHuntingKnife SpearKnife SpearScissors SpearScrewdriver Stake TableLeg Machete spear Breadknife spear Butterknife spear Fork spear Icepick spear Letteropener spear Scalpel spear Spoon spear Epic sub catagory roll chance 5 Banjo BaseballBat ClubHammer Crowbar EntrenchingTool FishingRod HandAxe HandFork HandScythe HockeyStick IceHockeyStick KnifeButterfly KnifeSushi StraightRazor SwitchKnife TennisRacket Legendary sub catagory roll chance 1 M14 rifle M16 assault rifle Axe DoubleBarrel Shotgun DoubleBarrel Shotgun Sawnoff MSR700 rifle Katana Sword M9 pistol M1911 pistol D-E pistol M36 revolver M625 revolver Magnum JS-2000 shotgun JS-2000 Sawn off shotgun Sledgehammer Sledgehammer long handle MSR788 rifle WoodAxe Ammunition BirchForest 0 DeepForest 0 FarmLand 0 Roads 2 Forest 0 Organic Forest 0 Managed Forest 0 Primary Forest 0 Urban 3 TrailerPark 3 Vegitation 0 Uncommon sub catagory roll chance 50 Shotgun shells .38 bullets .45 bullets .44 bullets 9mm bullets .223 bullets .308 bullets 5.56 bullets Rare sub catagory roll chance 5 D-E pistol magazine M1911 pistol magazine M16 magazine M14 magazine M9 magazine Legendary sub catagory roll chance 1 .223 box .308 box .38 box .45 box .44 box 5.56 box 9mm box Shotgun shells box Medical BirchForest 0 DeepForest 0 FarmLand 0 Roads 1 Forest 0 Organic Forest 0 Managed Forest 0 Primary Forest 0 Urban 3 TrailerPark 3 Vegitation 1 Uncommon sub catagory roll chance 50 Dirty bandage Bandaid Cottonballs Ripped sheets Dirty ripped sheets Thread Rare sub catagory roll chance 5 Steralized bandage Steralized ripped sheet Alcohol wipes Bandage Pain pills Antidepressants Beta blockers Sleeping tablets Caffeine pills Suture needle Legendary sub catagory roll chance 1 Steralized cottonball Antibiotics Bottle of disinfectant Splint Suture needle holder Tweezers submitted by /u/Ok-Window-5847 to r/projectzomboid [link] [comments]

~ BOOK OF KHALK'RU ~ Khalk'ru is a fictional extra-dimensional creature created by Abraham Merritt for his novel Dwellers in the Mirage. This dark octopoid horror is worshiped as a god by the Uighur people who inhabit the Gobi Desert, and whose ancestors migrated to both Europe (giving rise to the Norse people and their legends of the Kraken) and to Alaska, where they settled within a hidden warm valley, unknown to the outside world. Khalk'ru: The Dweller In The Mirage by Abraham Merritt | Cthulhu Mythos Novel I read THE DWELLERS IN THE MIRAGE way back in 1960, when I was 14, and it made a lasting impression on me! I hope that you, too, are as unsettled, fascinated and astonished as I was. [“People wish to be settled; only as far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.” ― Emerson] I now believe that Abraham Merritt was a prescient magician who cast spells of unquenchable curiosity upon his readers, so please protect your soul by wearing an Iron Amulet around your neck, as well as Copper wrist and ankle bracelets to ensure your safe passage through the deceptive mists enshrouding this lost realm of thrills and chills! Come, if you dare, and walk forbidden paths with the protagonist, American Leif Langdon / Dwayanu, who discovered a lost world of strange denizens populating the alternate reality of DWELLERS IN THE MIRAGE... The Dwellers In The Mirage BOOK OF KHALK'RU 1. — SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT I raised my head, listening—not only with my ears but with every square inch of my skin, waiting for a recurrence of the sound that had awakened me. There was silence, utter silence. No soughing in the boughs of the spruces clustered around the little camp. No stirring of furtive life in the underbrush. Through the spires of the spruces the stars shone wanly in the short sunset to sunrise twilight of the early Alaskan summer. A sudden wind bent the spruce tops, carrying again the sound—the clangor of a beaten anvil. I slipped out of my blanket, and round the dim embers of the fire toward Jim. His voice halted me. "All right, Leif. I hear it." The wind sighed and died, and with it died the humming aftertones of the anvil stroke. Before we could speak, the wind arose. It bore the after-hum of the anvil stroke—faint and far away. And again the wind died, and with it the sound. "An anvil, Leif!" "Listen!" A stronger gust swayed the spruces. It carried a distant chanting; voices of many women and men singing a strange, minor theme. The chant ended on a wailing chord, archaic, dissonant. There was a long roll of drums, rising in a swift crescendo, ending abruptly. After it a thin and clamorous confusion. It was smothered by a low, sustained rumbling, like thunder, muted by miles. In it defiance, challenge. We waited, listening. The spruces were motionless. The wind did not return. "Queer sort of sounds, Jim." I tried to speak casually, He sat up. A stick flared up in the dying fire. Its light etched his face against the darkness —thin, and brown and hawk-profiled. He did not look at me. "Every feathered forefather for the last twenty centuries is awake and shouting! Better call me Tsantawu, Leif. Tsi' Tsa'lagi—I am a Cherokee! Right now—all Indian." He smiled, but still he did not look at me, and I was glad of that. "It was an anvil," I said. "A hell of a big anvil. And hundreds of people singing...and how could that be in this wilderness...they didn't sound like Indians..." "The drums weren't Indian." He squatted by the fire, staring into it. "When they turned loose, something played a pizzicato with icicles up and down my back." "They got me, too—those drums!" I thought my voice was steady, but he looked up at me sharply; and now it was I who averted my eyes and stared at the embers. "They reminded me of something I heard...and thought I saw... in Mongolia. So did the singing. Damn it, Jim, why do you look at me like that?" I threw a stick on the fire. For the life of me I couldn't help searching the shadows as the stick flamed. Then I met his gaze squarely. "Pretty bad place, was it, Leif?" he asked, quietly. I said nothing. Jim got up and walked over to the packs. He came back with some water and threw it over the fire. He kicked earth on the hissing coals. If he saw me wince as the shadows rushed in upon us, he did not show it. "That wind came from the north," he said. "So that's the way the sounds came. Therefore, whatever made the sounds is north of us. That being so —which way do we travel tomorrow?" "North," I said. My throat dried as I said it. Jim laughed. He dropped upon his blanket, and rolled it around him. I propped myself against the bole of one of the spruces, and sat staring toward the north. "The ancestors are vociferous, Leif. Promising a lodge of sorrow, I gather —if we go north...'Bad Medicine!' say the ancestors...'Bad Medicine for you, Tsantawu! You go to Usunhi'yi, the Darkening-land, Tsantawu!...Into Tsusgina'i, the ghost country! Beware! Turn from the north, Tsantawu!'" "Oh, go to sleep, you hag-ridden redskin!" "All right, I'm just telling you." Then a little later: "'And heard ancestral voices prophesying war'—it's worse than war these ancestors of mine are prophesying, Leif." "Damn it, will you shut up!" A chuckle from the darkness; thereafter silence. I leaned against the tree trunk. The sounds, or rather the evil memory they had evoked, had shaken me more than I was willing to admit, even to myself. The thing I had carried for two years in the buckskin bag at the end of the chain around my neck had seemed to stir; turn cold. I wondered how much Jim had divined of what I had tried to cover...Why had he put out the fire? Because he had known I was afraid? To force me to face my fear and conquer it?...Or had it been the Indian instinct to seek cover in darkness?...By his own admission, chant and drum-roll had played on his nerves as they had on mine... Afraid! Of course it had been fear that had wet the palms of my hands, and had tightened my throat so my heart had beaten in my ears like drums. Like drums...yes! But...not like those drums whose beat had been borne to us by the north wind. They had been like the cadence of the feet of men and women, youths and maids and children, running ever more rapidly up the side of a hollow world to dive swiftly into the void...dissolving into the nothingness...fading as they fell...dissolving...eaten up by the nothingness... The Weird and the Wonderful CCXLII: Dwellers in the Mirage by A. Merritt - YouTube https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dwellers_in_the_Mirage Dwellers in the Mirage is a fantasy novel by American writer A. Merritt. It was first published in book form in 1932 by Horace Liveright. The novel was originally serialized in six parts in the magazine Argosy beginning with the January 23, 1932 issue. The Weird and the Wonderful CCXLII: Dwellers in the Mirage by A. Merritt - YouTube submitted by /u/Odd-Mathematician488 to r/LUCIFERSTAR [link] [comments]

📚 Previous chapters: • Chapter 1 – The Shadow’s Mark • Chapter 2 – Drifts & Chains • Chapter 3 – Shadows and Promises • Chapter 4 – The Shape of Smoke • Chapters 5 & 6 – Dust and Whispers / The Mask of the Fox • Chapters 7 & 8 – Ash and Names / Drift and Knives Chapter Nine – Fox and Fang “I walk through rot and ruin, not because I must, but because I chose this path. The city shows me what hides beneath civility — and in the choosing of my mask, I reveal who I am.” Bravil - 14th of Frostfall, 3E 433 Bravil doesn’t rise from the mud. It clings to it, like a desperate breath held too long. The city leans away from itself, as if ashamed to be seen. Roofs sag, weighed down by years of rain and neglect. Walls weep moss and rot. The streets aren’t streets — they’re veins of mud and cracked stone, sinking and rising with the rain. The air smells thick — wet wood, riverweed, and the sour bite of cheap ale left too long in wooden casks. This place is the poor man’s refuge and the desperate’s prison. Rich men avoid it, and the Legion doesn’t care enough to tighten their grip. Corruption flows freer here than the Niben beneath the rotting docks. Even the statue in the plaza — an old woman frozen mid-blessing — looks like she’s mocking us all, her cracked face frozen in a sneer. It’s as if she knows the city is dying, and finds the spectacle amusing. The river’s chill won’t leave me, even now, sitting by the fire. My pack is heavy beside me, filled with promises unfinished. A Khajiit fisherman across the room narrows his eyes at me. I narrow mine back. Here, suspicion is the only greeting worth having. Behind me, the Bloated Float drifts away in the night — cursed by chance, stained by blood. S’Krivva will know of it. She does. “You survived the Float,” S’Krivva mutters, not looking up from her steaming bowl of something that smells like boiled pepper and onion peel. “Most guests check out. You checked who else stays.” She sits coiled on her cushions like a lounging panther, tail wrapped twice around her side. Her fur is dusky charcoal, sleek but not pampered. One ear is nicked. Her eyes are yellow and narrow — not suspicious, but calculating. Her claws click faintly against the ceramic bowl as she eats. “And?” I ask. She slurps, shrugs. “Pirates are noisy. You were louder.” “I didn’t start it.” “You ended it.” I say nothing. She glances up now. Just briefly. “You cut throats in close quarters. With no warning, no hesitation. That tells me more than any letter of recommendation.” “It was self-defense.” “Mm.” She licks broth from her claw, slow and deliberate. “Self-defense can leave bruises. You left corpses.” “They were armed.” “Weren’t we all?” I shift my weight. The cushion beneath me smells faintly of burnt incense and wet fur. “I did what I had to,” I say. “No.” She sets the bowl down with a soft clack. “You did more.” Her voice loses none of its calm, but something sharper curls beneath it now — not quite praise. Interest, perhaps. Or quiet disapproval, wrapped in velvet. “Armand sent you here — said you’d assist me with some business,” she says. “But the Guild needs more than survivors. It needs discipline.” “You need thieves.” She bares her teeth. “Prove you're both.” Her den is somewhere between a ruin and a shrine. One side is crumbling plaster. The other, lined with shelves — scrolls, stolen ledgers, a few rusting blades. Behind her, incense smokes from a cracked cup. “You’ll start small,” she says. “Bravil has fleas to pick.” — I work the next three nights in silence. One coinpurse from a drunk outside Silverhome. One copper bracelet lifted from a merchant’s saddlebag. One bundle of moon sugar moved through Dro’shanji, who grins at me like we share a joke only he remembers. He’s fast, loud, and covered in wind-knotted fur. Has a habit of muttering in Ta’agra when he thinks no one’s listening — or maybe hoping someone is. Varon Vamori is different — smooth, even charming. Dunmer with a city-born accent and a gift for flattery. He’s got secrets buried under his pride, though. I can see it in the way he watches S’Krivva — like someone waiting for a leash or a knife. And then there’s Luciana Galena. She runs coin through the alleys like water through fingers — quiet, competent, dangerous. Her house doubles as a ledger’s graveyard and a fence’s dream. I sell my first real take to her: a silver brooch from an out-of-town noble too distracted to feel it go. She counts the coins carefully. “You don’t look like a Bravil thief.” “I’m not.” “Good,” she says. “Bravil has enough ghosts.” — Only after a week of clean work does S’Krivva call me back. She offers no preamble — just a folded letter sealed in dark wax. “This came through Galena. From Leyawiin. A contact.” “Who?” “Ahdarji. Khajiit. Our primary contact in Leyawiin — a spymaster of the city, so to speak. Still loyal to the Guild, but her methods... less predictable. Someone stole from her. She demands restitution.” “What was taken?” “A ring.” “Small for all this.” S’Krivva hisses softly — not at me. At the name. “The ring is not just a trinket. It is old. Sacred to her. She stole it fair from the Countess of Leyawiin herself.” “And someone stole it from her?” “An Argonian. Not Guild. A freelance fool who tried to ransom it back to the Countess. The Countess arrested him. The ring remains inside her walls.” “And the thief?” “Alive, we think. Imprisoned. His name is Amusei.” I freeze. S’Krivva watches me carefully. “You know him?” “We’ve crossed paths.” She flicks her claws through the air. “Retrieve the ring. Leave the lizard to rot. Unless he’s useful. But Ahdarji—she may not agree. She has… strong feelings.” — Leyawiin is not Black Marsh. But it remembers it. The air here is thick, heavy with swamp and decay. Trees knot their limbs into tangled shadows that swallow the sunlight. Insects hover in restless swarms, never settling — as if the city itself holds its breath, waiting for something to break. The Blackwood Marsh creeps right up to the city’s edge like a beast lurking just out of sight, waiting to reclaim what stone once stole. This place feels like a memory half-remembered through muddy glass — familiar and foreign all at once. The city walls rise high and polished, but their shine feels desperate, like a mask held too tightly. Guards in silver-trimmed armor patrol the streets with faces blank and bored, their eyes watching for trouble but their hearts far away. Argonians and Khajiit move through the city, but not as equals. They are tolerated — barely. Spat on in the marketplaces, eyed with suspicion in narrow alleys. The air tastes of fear and resentment, thicker than the swamp fog that rolls in at night. The Countess rules with an iron fist, her laws harsh and her curfews strict. The Argonians and Khajiit are blamed for every crime, every sickness, every unrest. Their homes are cramped and their freedom is a lie. In the market, a butcher steps back from me, his face twisted in disgust. It’s a reminder — no matter the laws, no matter the orders, this city has no place for me here. Leyawiin is a city of shadows and whispered threats. To survive here, you learn to move like one — silent, unseen, always watching. — I find Ahdarji in a garden near the canals — long-limbed, silver-furred, coiled around a bench like it’s her throne. Her tail flicks when she sees me. Her eyes harden. “I expected anyone but you,” she says. “An Argonian?” “You smell like Black Marsh and old mistakes.” “You’re not wrong.” She clicks her tongue once. “The ring was mine. Stolen fair. Then that swamp rat took it — tried to ransom it back to the Countess. Idiot. He got caught. Now she has it.” “Where is he?” “In the castle dungeons.” “You want the ring back.” “I want his tongue in a jar.” “No.” She rises. “What?” “I’ll get the ring. I won’t kill him.” Her claws twitch. “You protect your own.” “I don’t protect fools. But I don’t murder them for sport.” She leans close. Her breath smells of crushed leaves and contempt. “Then do it fast, lizard. Before I change my mind.” I nod once. She watches me go like someone measuring the distance between revenge and regret. — The castle looms at the north end of the city like a clenched fist. Guards pace the balconies. Watchtowers burn through the night. The Countess's banners drip gold over stone. I move toward the shadows — where windows wait unlocked, and the stories begin. Chapter Ten – The Ring and the Fang “In her chamber, nothing is hidden — only ignored. Silence isn’t absence, it’s complicity. I saw pain and chose not to look away. That choice makes me.” Leyawiin Castle Leyawiin Castle watches its city like a cat watches birds — not with hunger, but disdain. The walls are too clean. The towers too tall. The banners drip gold, but the stone beneath them smells of damp and ash. Guards patrol in stiff lines, faces blank. Their boots echo through the halls like judgment. This is not a place for thieves. It is a place where people like me vanish. I study the grounds from the city’s rooftops for two days. I memorize torch cycles, servant paths, where the guards pause too long and where they don’t look at all. The Countess — Alessia Caro — retires late, rises early. Her bedchamber is just above the throne hall. Curtains like blood. Windows like arrow slits. They say she sleeps with a dagger under her pillow. They also say she never screams. They’re wrong. — The dungeon air is thick with mildew and the stink of rot. The walls sweat. The chains groan even when no one moves. I find Amusei by the third cell. His snout is bruised, one eye swollen nearly shut. He’s lying on the stone, muttering to himself. He looks up as I approach, eyes widening with shock. For a moment, disbelief clouds his swollen gaze—he thought he’d rot here, forgotten. “You’re here,” he rasps, voice shaky. “I didn’t think… anyone would come.” “You talk too much.” “Not to them, I didn’t. I swear it. I kept the ring secret. I just thought… maybe they’d pay.” “They didn’t.” “No,” he chuckles bitterly. “They broke two ribs instead.” “I need information.” He nods quickly, lips cracked. “Countess keeps it near. A red box. Ornate. Always on the stand beside her bed. Guards rotate every two hours. One sleeps with her. The others just pretend not to notice.” I reach for the lock. Amusei blinks. “You’re letting me go?” “You’re not worth leaving here.” I crack the lock in silence. The door groans open. “I’ll get out,” he mutters, standing with effort. “I’ve learned.” “No,” I say. “You haven’t.” Then I disappear. — The upper halls are colder. Velvet tapestries shiver on the walls. The sconces flicker low, as if unsure of their own fire. I scale the servant’s stair at midnight, slip through a side door, and enter the Countess’s chambers like a breath lost in sleep. She lies in the center of a massive bed — silks draped like funeral cloth, one hand curled beneath her chin. Her hair is bound tight in coils. A dagger rests beneath her pillow, its hilt peeking out like a secret she assumes no one sees. The ring sits in a crimson box beside the bed, half-open. I reach for it. Her eyes snap open. Her breath catches — not a gasp, but a sharp inhalation, like a blade being drawn. I see her eyes before I hear her voice. Wide. Cold. Awake. Then she screams. A long, high wail, too loud for one throat. It fractures the room. It wakes ghosts. I move. I crash through the inner door as shouts rise in the hall. Steel unsheathes. Boots thunder across marble. I sprint through the suite’s narrow passage — one built for servants or secrets — and descend into a stone chamber beneath the bedchamber. That’s when the smell hits me. Iron. Piss. Old screams. The room is narrow, caged, lit only by a single hanging lantern. Hooks line the walls. Chains lie slack but stained. There’s a drain in the floor, too large, too eager. And the blood — fresh and dried — clings to everything. I hear shallow breathing — ragged, weak. Not the steady rhythm of life, but a gasp clinging stubbornly to the edge. A figure lies on the floor — Argonian, half-flayed and shackled. His skin torn and raw, muscles exposed. His eyes are open, glassy, barely aware. He doesn’t scream. He can’t. I move faster. I drop into the chamber and my foot slides — blood. Still wet. I catch myself on a rusted chain, but not before a hook grazes my palm. My blood mingles with the Argonian’s on the floor. For a breathless second, I can't tell us apart. There’s a second exit — narrow, meant for waste. I crawl through, scraping my shoulder against the stone, and drop into the outer gardens just as guards flood the upper halls behind me. No one sees me leave. Only the half-dead Argonian does. — I find Ahdarji by the canal where she always waits, cloaked in shadow and jewelry. She sees the ring before I even show it. I toss it to her. She catches it like a mother catching a child mid-fall. “You found it.” “I did.” “And the thief?” “Gone.” “You let him go?” “I don’t kill fools. I just survive them.” Her smile curdles. “You lizard-souled traitor,” she hisses. “I should’ve let the Countess keep the ring. At least she knows what lizards are worth.” My hand twitches toward the dagger at my belt. But I don’t draw. I just walk. Silence can wound better than steel. She hisses. Not words — just sound. But she keeps the ring. She always would. — I return to Bravil before dawn. The fog rises with the river, curling around my ankles as I walk. Even in the dim light, I can see the old woman’s statue in the plaza — her cracked stone face still frozen mid-blessing, as if mocking the city’s slow decay. Luciana Galena opens her door before I knock. She looks at me once and says, “You’re colder than when you left.” I nod. She lets me in. I sit in the corner. I count the coins. I clean my blade. And I don’t think about the Argonian in the Countess’s basement. I only think about how close it was. And how much closer it’s going to get. Chapter Eleven – Tension and Smoke “Every breath I hold is mine to release. The threats in the air, the fear in their eyes — they don’t control me. But how long I remain silent… that’s on me.” Bravil Bravil doesn’t change. It just waits. The fog still curls along the canals. The walls still weep from the inside. The people still look at you like they’re checking how many coins you’ll spill if you die in front of them. But something is different. Me. — I return to S’Krivva without fanfare. She doesn’t offer tea. Or threats. Just a long stare from behind her half-lidded eyes. “You brought the ring to Ahdarji.” “Yes.” “You let the thief live.” “I let him try.” She tilts her head, fur catching the lanternlight. “You’re cold now,” she says. “Colder than when you arrived.” “You sent me south to burn,” I reply. “Don’t be surprised by the smoke.” Her eyes narrow. “And yet, I still wonder if you’ve learned anything... or if you’re simply harder to see coming.” “If I’m either, it’s because I learned from watching.” That gets her to smile. Barely. “We’ll see how much you learn when you have to lead.” She doesn’t say more. But I feel it. She’s watching. Listening. Wondering who I’ll become. And who I’ll threaten. — Luciana Galena finds me the next day. We sit in her shop’s backroom, where crates of stolen wine rest beside ledgers that burn under moonlight. She pours me a half-glass. Not for friendship — for ritual. “Ahdarji’s furious,” she says. Luciana tilts her head. “That kind of honesty gets you stabbed. Or worse — remembered.” I ask her if she’s warning me. She shakes her head. “No. I’m just wondering when someone’s going to try you. And whether they’ll make it out the door.” She leans in before I leave, brushing imaginary dust from the ledger beside her. “There’s a rumor,” she murmurs. “Ahdarji’s been spreading your name — not for failure, but for arrogance. Some don’t like how quiet your rise has been.” I nod once. “That’s the thing about whispers,” I say. “They travel better than screams.” — I spend five days working quiet jobs. Dro’shanji catches me in a narrow alley one evening, a knowing grin on his face. “You ever think about how much skooma sells in this city?” he asks, voice low and calculating. I say nothing. He shrugs, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. “Easy money, if we bothered. But the Guild’s too busy picking pockets and stealing trinkets.” Later, Varon Vamori sidles up to me near the docks, a cocky smile on his sharp features. “I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes gleaming. “There’s a noblewoman — drinks alone, sleeps soundly. I’m going to charm her, slip her coinpurse right off her wrist while she dreams.” I raise an eyebrow. “You think she’ll wake?” He laughs, low and sure. “No one wakes in Bravil when I’m around. But even if she does… well, that’s just part of the game.” I don’t tell him he’ll fail. He already knows. Bravil lives and breathes in these strange, broken men and women. I begin to understand them. Not like friends. Like reflections — each warped by something else. — On the sixth day, I get the message. Folded in Methredhel’s handwriting. “Lex has doubled patrols. Waterfront’s choking. Armand’s gone underground again. No contact.” I read it once. Then burn it. — I meet her by the river that night. She’s wet from running, mud on her sleeves. “They’re stopping every cart. Dragging beggars into cells. Calling us ‘gray rats’ in front of children.” “Armand?” “Last seen near the Waterfront Lighthouse. Gone before dawn.” She looks at me like she expects orders. Like she already knows who’s going to give them. “We can’t fight them,” she says. “No,” I agree. “But we can humiliate them.” I let the pause hang. Then: “We hit them all. At once. Four corners. Four jobs. No blood. No trace.” Methredhel exhales, half a laugh, half a question. “Who leads?” “I do.” “You’re not who you were when you joined,” she says. No smile. “And you are?” “I wanted Armand’s job,” she says. “Once. But they gave me locks to pick and told me to smile. Now I watch you climb — silent, fast, alone.” “Do you want me to stop?” “No,” she says. “I want to know what you’re becoming. So I know whether to follow, or to run.” She just nods. And the plan begins. submitted by /u/Bulky_Head231 to r/oblivion [link] [comments]

Unit 3: Bengal School & Modern Trends in Indian Art (10 Marks) Chapter 5: Bengal School of Art (Slide 50: Introduction - Origin & Development) Bengal School of Art (Unit 3, Ch 5) Topic: Origin & Development Pre-British Art: Statues, Temple walls, Miniature paintings, Manuscript illustrations, Mud house decorations (STM - Statues, Temples, Miniatures & Mud) British Style: Academic Realism (BR - British Realism) (Slide 51: Decline of Indian Painting under British Rule) Indian Painting (decline): Weak imitation, Dead end (WD - Weak & Dead) British Rule Impact: Lowest point of development (LP - Lowest Point) Propaganda: Indians convinced - No cultural heritage (NCH - No Cultural Heritage) Art Movement: Indian painters raised voice, separated from Western realism (RV - Raised Voice, Realism Vanished) Nationalistic Reaction: Swadeshi movement linked (NS - Nationalistic Swadeshi) Prof. E.B. Havell: Principal, Govt. Art School, Kolkata - Cooperated (HE - Havell Encouraged) Havell & Abanindranath Tagore: Calcutta, leading artist (HT - Havell Tagore) Havell's view: Against copying European painting (NCE - No Copying Europe) (Slide 52: Havell's Actions & Wash Technique) 1904: Havell removed European painting specimens, Western relics (RE - Removed Europe) Placed Indian Art: Ajanta, Bagh, Ellora, Rajput, Mughal (ABERM - Ancient Beauty Encouraged Revival of Mughal) Encourage Indian Art: Ideal & plentiful in Indian life (II - Ideal Indian) Havell & Abanindranath Tagore: Vice Principal, Govt. Art College, Calcutta (HT VP) New Painting Type: Indian (subject & style) (NIN - New Indian, Indian) Havell & Abanindranath Tagore: Curriculum - Indian techniques & themes (HT CITT - Curriculum Indian Tech & Themes) Abanindranath Tagore: Watercolor techniques - Japanese artists + European = "Wash Technique" (AT JW EW = Tagore Japanese Wash European Wash) Wash Technique: Hallmark of Bengal Paintings (WT HB) Raja Ravi Verma: Academic style oil painting examples (RV AO - Ravi Verma Academic Oil) Ravi Verma's Themes: Ramayana, Mahabharata (RRM - Ravi Verma, Ramayana, Mahabharata) Ravi Verma's Popularity: Copied as oleographs, market, calendar images (COC - Copied Oleographs Calendars) (Slide 53: Bengal School as Revival & Renaissance) Bengal School: Influential art movement, Bengal (Kolkata, Shantiniketan) (BS BKS - Bengal School Bengal Kolkata Shanti) Flourished: Early 20th Century, India, "Indian Style of Painting" (E20 IS - Early 20th Indian Style) Bengal School = Revival School (BS = RS) Vision: Independent India, strength from rich culture & heritage (II CH - Independent India Culture Heritage) Bengal School: Renaissance in Indian Art (BR - Bengal Renaissance) Renaissance Spread: Bengal -> Bombay, Madras, Delhi (BMD - Bengal Madras Delhi spread) (Slide 54: Indian Society of Oriental Arts & Disciples) Efforts: Havell, Abanindranath Tagore, Gagendranath Tagore, others (HTGT - Havell Tagore Gagendra Tagore) Indian Society of Oriental Arts: Founded (ISOA) Aim: Encourage traditional Indian Art, progressive artists (ET IPA - Encourage Traditional Indian, Progressive Artists) Disciples of Abanindranath: Nand Lal Bose, D.P. Roy Chowdhury, K. Venketappa, Asit Kumar Haldar, M.A.R. Chugtai, Shailendranath Dey, Sharada Charan Ukil (NLB DPR KV AKH MARC SD SCU - Long list, group by first letters and artists to remember) Techniques - New heights to Indian Art (TNH - Techniques New Heights) Dr. Anand Coomaraswamy: Exhibitions of Indian paintings (other countries), appreciation & recognition (AC ER - Anand Coomaraswamy Exhibitions Recognition) Lady Herringham: Ajanta paintings copied by Nandlal Bose, Asit Kumar Haldar, K. Venkatappa (LH NAC - Lady Herringham Nandlal Asit Copy) Published in: Indian Society, London (ISL) Influence: Ajanta & Bagh (clear in Bengal Paintings) (AB BP - Ajanta Bagh Bengal Paintings) Linear delicacy, rhythm, grace of Ajanta (LRG - Linear Rhythm Grace) Mughal & Rajasthani school impact (MR - Mughal Rajasthani) Bengal School: Foundation stone of modern painting (BF MP - Bengal Foundation Modern Painting) (Slide 55 & 56 & 57: Characteristics of Bengal School of Painting - Themes) Characteristics of Bengal School 1. Religious Theme: Ganesha, Shiv - Parvati, Mahakali, Krishna & Gopis, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Buddha (GSP MK KG RMBB - Gods, Shakti, Krishna, Ramayana, Mahabharata, Buddha) 2. Historical Theme: Death of Shah Jahan (Abanindranath Tagore - AT DSJ) Jahanara at Taj (M.A.R. Chugtai - MARC JT) Buddha and Sujata (Abanindranath Tagore - AT BS) 3. Patriotic Theme: Bharat Mata (Abanindranath Tagore - AT BM) Awakening of Mother India (Asit Kumar Haldar - AKH AMI) Many other paintings (patriotic theme) 4. Literary Theme: Meghdoot (Rai Gopal Vijayvargiya - RGV M) - Famous 5. Social Theme: Daily life paintings, social life of India Hardware merchant, Beggar, Tiller of soil (Nandalal Bose - NLB HBT) Santhal Family (Jamini Roy - JR SF) 6. Depiction of Birds and Animals: Beautiful & expressive Journey's End (Abanindranath Tagore - AT JE) - Camel Deer, Cat and Lobster (Jamini Roy - JR DCL) 7. Influence of Ajanta: Soul of Ajanta visible, Mughal & Rajput impact (AMA - Ajanta Mughal Ajanta) 8. Technique: Wash Technique (Japanese watercolor wash) (WT JW) 9. Style & Theme: Full of Indian Tradition (FIT - Full Indian Tradition) - Main aim 10. Colour Scheme: Attractive, soft & glowing, harmony, no gaudy colours (ASG - Attractive Soft Glowing, No Gaudy) 11. Composition: Simple & Clear, contemporary, simplified, easy to understand (SCC - Simple Clear Contemporary) (Slide 58 & 59 & 60: Journey's End - Painting 1) Title: Journey's End Artist: Abanindranath Tagore (AT) Medium: Water Colour on Paper (WP) Technique: Tempra and Wash (TW) Period: Bengal School (BS) Collection: National Gallery Of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Tired & overloaded camel, collapsed Posture - Everything finished Reflection of human life Composition/Description: Masterpiece, expressive visual language Published in Prabasi (Bengali Magazine) Life of camel - End after long journey Background/Sky: Subtly coloured (yellow, orange, red), wash technique - sunset effect (YOR Sunset) Massive load - Symbol of exploitation Expression/posture - Look real and lively Temperament/sufferings: Weak, tired, hungry, thirsty camel (WTH Thirsty) Listless body, half-opened eyes "Journey's End", clenched teeth (Body Listless, Eyes JE, Teeth Clenched) Selection of colours - Harmony with subject, sun going below horizon, camel's journey end (Sun Horizon, Journey End) Yellow-brown camel, goods on back (cords - blue, black, brown, yellow colours) (YB Camel, Goods Cords - BBBY) Tint of blue - Stones, camel falling, knees folded Reflection of human life, deep feelings Entire painting - Rhythm & expression of deep feelings Both forelegs bent down - Head & neck on ground Head slightly from ground - Desire to get up Details of dying camel - Exceptionally studied, intense study Excellent example - Wash Technique, hallmark of Bengal Paintings Human Life Values: Master kind & caring to animals Animal's loyalty to master (Slide 61 & 62 & 63: Radhika - Painting 2) Title: Radhika Artist: M.A.R. Chughtai (MARC) Technique: Wash Technique (WT) Medium: Water Colour on Paper (WP) Period: Bengal School (BS) Collection: National Gallery Of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Vertical painting, young Indian girl, shy posture Hindu Mythology based Composition/Description: Most beautiful wash painting (MARC) Gifted artist - Indian Renaissance Attractive Indian girl - Delicate & flexible Radhika - Walking away from lighted lamp, gloomy background, trance or remorse (Lamp Gloomy, Trance Remorse) Profile Head down, half opened eyes, sharp eyebrows, soft & delicate lines (Head Down Eyes Half, Eyebrows Sharp) Braid of black tresses - Flowing down back Lotus flower in both hands, right hand down, softly holding lotus, honey bee on flower (Lotus Hands, Honey Bee Flower) Other hand - Touching flower to face, feels tenderness (Touch Flower Face) Very delicate lines, flexible shape, great grace Ornaments: Pearl necklace, bangles, pendant, rings (Pendant Bangles Rings Necklace) - Beauty enhanced Very attractive: Red blouse, purple lehnga, yellow odhni (RPY - Red Purple Yellow) - Indian style Detail of each fold of costumes - Beautiful impression, rhythmic form & flexibility (Costume Folds Beautiful) Lamp in corner - Mughal influence Burning flame & smoke - Lamp going upwards Light of lamp (yellow red wick) - Illuminating lady, touch of divinity (Lamp Yellow Red, Divinity) Background - Blend of fusion colours, uniform & tonal gradation (Fusion Tonal) Human Life Values: (Not mentioned explicitly, but implied: beauty, grace, tenderness) (Slide 64 & 65 & 66: Shiva and Sati - Painting 3) Title: Shiva and Sati Artist: Nand Lal Bose (NLB) Period: Bengal School/ Modern (BS/M) Technique: Tempra and Wash (TW) Medium: Water Colour on Paper (WP) Courtesy: National Gallery Of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Narrative mythology - Shiva and Sati Famous work - Indian mythology Sati married Shiva (against father Daksh) Daksh organized Yajana, intentionally did not invite Sati & Shiva Daksh insulted Sati - Cruel, harsh words (atheist, cremation dweller for Shiva) Sati ended life - Intrinsic powers, burning body (through fire) Sacrificed life - Husband Shiva's self-respect Composition/Description: Dead body of Sati in arms of Shiva (sitting) Shiva - God representation, halo behind head Shades of light in white colour - Foreheads of both, body of Shiva Sati - Red saree, earrings, necklace, armlets, bracelets (Red Saree Ornaments) Colour scheme - Monochromatic brown (Mono Brown) Background - Tones of yellow and browns (YB Background) Foreground - Tones of violet, browns and white (VBW Foreground) Shades of light in white - Foreheads, body Shades of Brown to yellow - Background, depth to main figures Monochromatic painting, inspired by Ajanta paintings (Mono Ajanta) Human Life Values: Self respect and dignity (Slide 67 & 68 & 69: Meghdoot - Painting 4) Title: Meghdoot Artist: Ram Gopal Vijayvargiya (RGV) School: Bengal School (BS) Time Period: 1940 A.D. (1940) Medium: Watercolour on Paper (WP) Technique: Tempra and Wash (TW) Courtesy: Lalit Kala Academy, New Delhi (LKA) Theme/Subject Matter: Play "Meghdoot" by Kalidas (Kalidas Meghdoot) Meghdoot story - Yaksha exiled by master Kuber (1 year) 8 months after exile - Yaksha yearning, convinces cloud to be messenger (Beloved awaiting return) Pain of separation visible (Yaksha's face) Composition/Description: Meghdoot series painting (favourite subject - RGV) 50-70 paintings (Meghdoot series) Handsome male figure - Sitting on rocks, clouds around, emotional mood (Rocks Clouds Emotion) Tears in eyes Writing feelings on rock (right hand) Holding white flower (left hand, delicately) (White Flower Hand) Depicted with tears in eyes, pain of love visible on face Features beautifully moulded, youthful softness Half-closed eyes, thin shaped arms, long tapering fingers (typical Bengal school) (Eyes Half, Arms Thin, Fingers Tapering) Gracefully carved body of Yaksha Yellow colour dhoti, cloth draped on left shoulder, upper part of body bare (Yellow Dhoti Bare) Figure wearing earrings & necklace (pearls) Background - Well composed dark blue sky, three birds flying, hut behind cluster of trees (Dark Blue Sky, Birds Hut Trees) Two wave-like clouds (sky blue) - Swirling, composition from back to front Colours soft & light - Subtle glow (Soft Light Glow) Human figure - Perfect proportion Human Life Values: Emotion of loneliness Emotion of love Emotion of commitment and faithfulness (LLC - Loneliness, Love, Commitment) Chapter 6: Contribution of Indian Artists in the Struggle For National Freedom Movement (Slide 70: Introduction) Chapter 6: Contribution of Indian Artists - Freedom Struggle Indian Artists' Role: Crucial - Inspire patriotism, reflect social issues, promote aspirations (PPA - Patriotism, Promote Aspirations, Address issues) Late 19th - Early 20th C: Extreme phase - Freedom struggle influence artists (Late 19th - Early 20th) Freedom Struggle as subject: "Swadeshi" & national movement (FS SN - Freedom Struggle Swadeshi National) Contributions: Raise awareness, cultivate national pride, encourage collective action (ARC - Awareness, Pride, Collective action) (Slide 71: Abanindranath Tagore - Bharat Mata) Abanindranath Tagore: Founder - Bengal School & Indian Society of Oriental Art (Founder BSI) Famous Painting: Bharat Mata (Mother India) - India as mother goddess (BM MG - Bharat Mata Mother Goddess) Symbolizing aspirations for freedom (Freedom Aspirations) Bharat Mata Painting: Young woman, originator "roti-kpda-makan" theme (later India) (YWRKM - Young Woman Roti Kapda Makan) Bengali peasant woman: Saffron draped (head to toe), four arms (BPW Saffron 4 Arms) Arms represent India's needs: Food (grain), Clothing (white cloth), Education (book), Prayer (rosary) (FCEP - Food, Clothing, Education, Prayer) Art represented: Nurturing mother seeking liberation (through children) (NM Liberation) (Slide 72: Amrita Sher-Gil & Purna Ghosh - Bharat Mata) Amrita Sher-Gil - Bharat Mata: Depicted struggles of rural women (Rural Women Struggles) Poor peasant woman, children - Sadness & harsh realities of poverty (PPW Children Poverty) Purna Ghosh - Bharat Mata: Version of "Bharat Mata" - Inspiration from song (Dwijiendra Lal Roy - "Bharat Janani") (PG BM DLR BJ - Purna Ghosh Bharat Mata Dwijiendra Lal Roy Bharat Janani) Bharat Mata rising from blue sea, Himalayas crowning glory, blue sari, sheaf of ripened paddy (Sea Himalaya Sari Paddy) Symbolizing India's agriculture (India Agriculture) (Slide 73: Nandlal Bose & Gagendranath Tagore) Nandalal Bose: Famous linocut print - Gandhi walking with staff (Gandhi Staff Linocut) Iconic image - Non-violence movement (Iconic Non-Violence) Portraits of national leaders, Congress events decoration (Leaders Congress Decoration) Gagendranath Tagore: Caricature - Jallianwala Bagh massacre (Jallianwala Bagh Caricature) Emphasized brutal treatment of Indians by British (Brutal British Treatment) Work highlighted - Need for freedom and justice (Freedom Justice Need) (Slide 74: Asit Kumar Halder & Others) Asit Kumar Halder: Documented cave art of Ajanta, Ellora, Bagh (AEB Cave Art Doc) Brought ancient Indian art to wider audience (Wider Audience Ancient Art) Collaborated with Nandlal Bose, support from Lady Herringham (NB LH Collab) Promoted work in Europe (Europe Promotion) Vinod Bihari Mukherji, M.A.R. Chugtai, Bireshwar Sen, Devi Prasad Roy Chowdhury: Painted themes - Struggle for independence (Independence Struggle Themes) Artworks depicted - Social unrest, inspired masses to fight for freedom (Social Unrest Freedom Fight) Chapter 7: Evolution of Indian National Flag and its Symbolic Significance (Slide 75: Stages of Indian National Flag) Chapter 7: Evolution of Indian National Flag & Symbolic Significance Stages: First Stage - 1906 (FS 1906) Middle Stage - 1921 (MS 1921) Last Stage - 1947 (LS 1947) Size of Flag: Ratio 3:2 (Length:Width) (3:2 Ratio) - e.g., 3m length, 2m width (Slide 76: First Stage - 1906 Flag) First Stage - 1906: First National Flag - Hoisted Aug 7, 1906 (Aug 7 1906) Meeting: Congress committee, Parsee Bagan Square (Green Park), Calcutta (Congress Parsee Bagan Calcutta) Composed of three horizontal strips: Green, Yellow, Red (GYR Strips) Upper most green strip: 8 white lotuses (eight provinces) (8 White Lotuses Green) Middle yellow strip: Vande Mataram (Hindi, dark blue colour) (Vande Mataram Yellow) Lower red strip: Sun (right), Crescent (left) - white colour (Sun Crescent Red White) (Slide 77: Second Stage - 1921 Flag) Second Stage - 1921: Second flag prepared - Freedom fighter (Pingali Venkayya, Andhra Pradesh) (Pingali Venkayya 1921) Indian National Congress session (Vijayawada/Bezwada - 1921) (Congress Vijayawada 1921) Made of two colours: Red and Green (RG Colours) Green strip - Muslim community (Green Muslim) Red strip - Hindu community (Red Hindu) Gandhi ji suggested - White strip (remaining communities) (White Communities Gandhi) Charkha (middle, blue colour) - Symbolize progress of nation (Charkha Progress) (Slide 78: Third Stage - 1947 Flag) Third Stage - 1947: July 22, 1947 - New flag of free India hoisted, adopted by constituent assembly (July 22 1947 Free India) Modification - Make acceptable to all parties & communities (All Acceptable) Made of three proportional horizontal coloured strips: Saffron, White, Green (SWG Strips) Uppermost strip - Saffron (Saffron Top) Middle strip - White (White Middle) Lower strip - Green (Green Bottom) In the middle - Ashok Chakra (Ashok Chakra Middle) (Slide 79: Symbolic Significance of Flag Colors & Dharma Chakra) Symbolic Significance: Saffron Colour: Strength, courage, sacrifice, common & religiously significant (Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain) (Strength Courage Sacrifice Religious) White Colour: Truth, honesty, purity, peace of nation (Truth Honesty Purity Peace) Green Colour: Prosperity, happiness, faith, chivalry, fertility, growth, auspiciousness of land (Prosperity Happiness Faith Chivalry Fertility) Dharma Chakra (Ashok Chakra): Wheel of cosmic law, Sarnath pillar of Ashoka, constant change & dynamism, continuous progress of country (Cosmic Law Change Progress) 24 Spokes: Centre - 24 hours of whole day, 24 hours commitment to duty (24 Hours Duty) Chapter 8: Modern Trends in Indian Art - Paintings (Slide 80 & 81: Rama Vanquishing the Pride of the Ocean - Painting 1) Chapter 8: Modern Trends - Paintings Title: Rama Vanquishing the Pride of the Ocean Artist: Raja Ravi Verma (RRV) Time Period: Late 19th Century (Late 19th C) Medium: Oil colours on canvas (Oil Canvas) Collection: Chitrasala, Mysore, Karnataka (Chitrasala Mysore) Theme/Subject Matter: Mythological oil painting, Valmiki Ramayana (Valmiki Ramayana) Rama needs to build Setu (bridge) to Lanka Rama's anger - Ocean not giving way to Lanka Description/Composition: Rama - White dhoti, rock shore, angry mood, bow in left hand, arrow in right (White Dhoti Rock Angry Bow Arrow) Warns ocean to eradicate Angry Rama - Sternly standing, profile face, eyes popping out (Angry Profile Eyes Pop) Bolt of lightning - Dark cloudy sky, effect of upcoming rage of Rama (Lightning Cloudy Rage) Rama's clothes fluttering - Strength to wind blowing over ocean (Clothes Fluttering Wind Strength) Waves hitting rocks - Shore, Rama stands, thick foam (Waves Rocks Foam) Angry Rama - Sternly standing, profile face, eyes popping out (Repeated for emphasis) Three human figures - Distant waves Lord Varuna - Large figure (centre), shown raising both hands, requesting Rama not to dry ocean (Varuna Centre Hands Request) Raja Ravi Verma - First Indian painters to use oil paints, master of lithographic reproduction (Oil Paints Lithograph First) Effect of light and shadow, European style art qualities (Light Shadow European Style) Colours - Soothing (Soothing Colours) Composition - Well-balanced & dynamic (Balanced Dynamic) Natural elements - Portray concept (lightning, strong winds) (Natural Elements Lightning Winds) Lines, forms, proportions - Impressive (Lines Forms Proportions Impressive) Human Life Values: Always demonstrate humility Ability to take & execute hard decisions (right path) (Humility Hard Decisions) (Slide 82 & 83: Mother and Child - Painting 2) Title: Mother and Child Artist: Jamini Roy (JR) Time Period: 1930 A.D. (1930) Medium: Watercolour on paper (WP) Technique: Tempra (T) Collection: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Expression of unconditional love - Mother for child (Unconditional Love Mother Child) Timeless Painting (Timeless) Description/Composition/Arrangement: Vertical painting (Vertical) Mother standing - Rhythmic posture, holding baby in lap (Standing Rhythmic Lap) Mother's head tilted towards child (Head Tilt Child) Holding child - Left hand (left side of waist) (Left Hand Waist) Faces - Cup shaped, eyes elongated, stylized (Pala School influence) (Cup Face Elongated Eyes Pala) Child - Similar eyes, thick eyebrows (Child Similar Eyes Eyebrows) Infinite love - Mother and child (Infinite Love) Mother - Beautiful bun on head, child also small bun (Bun Mother Child) Mother - Wearing saree, child naked (Saree Mother Naked Child) Saree - Single line border, simple design (Simple Saree Border) Background folk motifs - Rural life simplicity (Folk Motifs Rural) Plant-like structure (lines) - One side (Plant Lines Side) Decorated folk motifs - Bengal folk tradition influence (Folk Motifs Bengal) Colour scheme - Earthy but glowing, mostly Indian red, yellow, ochre, green, grey, vermillion, blue, lamp black (Earthy Glowing Indian Red Yellow Ochre Green Grey) Lines - Very sharp, thick, fully expressive (Sharp Thick Lines) Human Life Values: (Implied - Unconditional love, maternal affection) (Slide 84 & 85: Haldi Grinders - Painting 3) Title: Haldi Grinders Artist: Amrita Sher-Gil (ASG) Time Period: 1940 A.D (1940) Period: Modern (Modern) Medium: Oil on canvas (Oil Canvas) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject: Honest portrayal - Domestic Indian household (Domestic Household Honest) Women - Routine chore, grinding turmeric (common spice) (Women Turmeric Grinding Routine) Description/Compositional Arrangement: View through 2 tree trunks - Frame main figures, focus (Tree Trunks Frame Focus) Two women - Covered heads, profile, grinding stone grinder (traditional way) (Women Covered Profile Grinding) Three figures - Center picture, sitting profile (3 Figures Center Profile) Young girl - Sitting next to them, resting head on tree trunk (Girl Tree Head Rest) Fourth woman's head - Visible (far end), veiled & unclear (Woman Veiled Unclear) Sarees - Bright yellow, red, white (Yellow Red White Sarees) Heads covered, faces dark - No emphasis facial features & expressions (Heads Covered Dark Faces No Emphasis) Jewellery worn in feet - Show in detail (Feet Jewellery Detail) Background - Dark, bring focus to figures (Dark Background Focus Figures) Contrast - Dark & bright (Dark Bright Contrast) Whole picture - Actual setting village household, rural Indian women life (Village Household Rural Women) Colours - Flat & earthy, intense reds, ochres, browns, yellows, greens (Flat Earthy Intense Red Ochre Brown Yellow Green) Influence: Female forms - Simplified & abstract (modern style), foreign upbringing & bringing (Abstract Simplified Foreign Influence) Influence - Basohli & other miniature traditions (visible in colours), details of leaves (Rajput & Pahari influence) (Basohli Miniature Rajput Pahari Leaf Details) Human Life Values: Simple Living Hard work (Simple Living Hard Work) (Slide 86 & 87: Mother Teresa - Painting 4) Title: Mother Teresa Artist: M.F. Husain (Maqbool Fida Husain) (MFH) Medium: Oil on canvas (Oil Canvas) Time Period: 1980's A.D (1980s) Period: Modern (Modern) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: From series "Mother Teresa" (MFH Series Mother Teresa) Symbolically represented Mother Teresa - Served poor & homeless (Symbolic Mother Teresa Poor Homeless) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Horizontal composition, divided into three parts (2 uneven vertical pillars) (Horizontal 3 Parts Pillars) Pillar colours - Yellow and light brown (Yellow Brown Pillars) Left side - Mother taking care of infant (lap) (Left Mother Infant Lap) Central figure - Seated mother, grown-up, helpless, sick man (Indian red colour) resting on lap (Centre Mother Sick Man Lap) Mother's raised right hand - Blessing gesture (Right Hand Blessing) Behind mother's head - Another saree-clad head (no blue border) (Saree Head No Blue Border) Symbol - Other nuns (similar work for poor & needy) (Nuns Symbol Poor Needy) Third part - Kneeling woman touching arm of sick man (Third Kneeling Woman Sick Man Arm) Depicts Mother Teresa - Symbolic representation, white saree (bold blue border), Universal Motherhood (White Saree Blue Border Universal Motherhood) Colour, age, religion not important (No Colour Age Religion) Selfless, ageless person (Selfless Ageless) Human Life Values: Unconditional love and care - Poor and destitute (Unconditional Love Poor) Selfless service - Poor and needy (Selfless Service) Rise above religion, work for welfare of society (Above Religion Welfare) Chapter 9: Modern Trends in Indian Art - Sculptures (Slide 88 & 89: Triumph of Labour - Sculpture 1) Chapter 9: Modern Trends - Sculptures Title: Triumph of Labour Artist: D.P. Roy Chowdhury (Devi Prasad Roy Chowdhury) (DPRC) Time Period: 1953 A.D. (1953) Medium: Bronze and Cement (Bronze Cement) Courtesy (Bronze): Marina Beach, Chennai (Marina Beach Bronze) Courtesy (Cement): National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA Cement) Theme/Subject Matter: Triumph of labour sculpture - Labour at work, human spirit, triumphs over hardship, Unity (Labour Triumph Unity) Marks celebration - Labour Day (1st May every year) (Labour Day May 1st) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Shows four men - Trying to move rock, rendering importance & contribution of human labour (4 Men Rock Labour Importance) Draws attention - Hard-physical work of labour class (Hard Work Labour Class) Strength and effort - Felt through actions & strained body muscles (Strength Effort Muscles) Labourers - Loincloths, two covering heads (piece of cloth) (Loincloths Head Cloth) Two bent forward - Applying force with hands (Hands Force Bent) Other two - Wooden log, pull boulder away from base (Log Boulder Pull) Splendid sculpture - Inspiring example teamwork, labourers engrossed in strenuous work (Teamwork Strenuous Work Inspiring) Statue depicting - Dignity & triumph of labour, soul & sweat of back-breaking effort (Dignity Triumph Labour Back-Breaking) Human Life Values: Unity is strength Teamwork and coordination - Win over impossible (Unity Strength Teamwork Coordination) (Slide 90 & 91: Santhal Family - Sculpture 2) Title: Santhal family Artist: Ramkinkar Baij (RKB) Time Period: 1938 (1938) Medium: Cement and Concrete (Sand and Gravel) (Cement Concrete Sand Gravel) Collection: Kala Bhavan, Shantiniketan (Kala Bhavan Shantiniketan) Theme/Subject Matter: Santhal family - Free-standing round outdoor sculpture, poor family (Santhal Family Outdoor Poor) Migrating - Belongings, another location, search of work (Migration Work Search Belongings) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Scene - Santhal man carrying children (double basket joined by pole), wife & dog walking alongside (Man Children Basket Wife Dog) Man - Lifting bahangi (shoulder) - Purpose of carrying loads (Bahangi Shoulder Loads) Loving baby - Front scale pan, establish balance (Baby Balance Front Scale) Woman - Walking beside man, hand pan on head (Woman Walking Hand Pan Head) Holding child - Left side body, arm (Holding Child Left Arm) Evident - Insufficient, body-clinging clothes, little luggage, extremely poor (Insufficient Clothes Luggage Poor) Man - Rolled up gamchha on head, lady rolled up mat (top of basket) (Gamchha Head Mat Basket) Sculpture - Low pedestal (part of same space) (Low Pedestal Space) Significance - First public Modernist sculpture in India (First Modernist Public Sculpture) Artist avoided - Traditional medium (marble, wood, stone), preferred cement (symbol of modernization) (Cement Modern Marble Wood Stone Avoided) Figures textured bodies - Symbolic significance, contrasts surrounding environment (Textured Bodies Symbolism Contrast) Figures taller - Normal human life (Taller Human Life) Human Life Values: Family values of togetherness and unity (Togetherness Unity Family Values) (Slide 92 & 93: Cries Unheard - Sculpture 3) Title: Cries unheard Artist: Amarnath Sehgal (AS) Time Period: 1958 A.D. (1958) Medium: Bronze (Bronze) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Sculpture "Cries unheard" - Poor family, raised hands, shouting for help (distress) (Poor Family Hands Up Distress) Expressions symbolize - Suffering & exploitation (society) (Suffering Exploitation Society) Injustice & exploitation - Rich & powerful people (weaker section of society) (Injustice Exploitation Rich Powerful) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Artist depicted - Deplorable condition family (man, women, child) (Deplorable Family Man Woman Child) Poverty & effects - Shown by figures (Poverty Effects Figures) Three figures - Raised heads & hands (trying to almighty for help - distress) (3 Figures Heads Hands Almighty Help) Figures sculpted - Tall and stretched, hollow, dull, meek, distorted faces (Tall Stretched Hollow Faces) Long figures, hollow dented cheeks, deformed faces, raised hands to sky - Screaming "Oh God!" (Long Hollow Cheeks God Scream) "Nobody cares about us on this planet; exploitation, tyranny, corruption; easy prey" (Nobody Cares Exploitation Tyranny) Scream of statue - Loud in 1958, Amarnath Sehgal - India's "Gold Plaque" Award (1958 Loud Gold Plaque) Human Life Values: Empathy and love - Poor and needy (Empathy Love Poor) Need for economic equality (society) (Economic Equality Need) (Slide 94 & 95: Ganesha - Sculpture 4) Title: Ganesha Artist: P.V. Janakiram (PVJ) Time Period: 1970 (1970) Medium: Oxidized Copper Tin and wires (Oxidized Copper Tin Wires) Collection: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Sculpture Ganesha - Abstract sculpture, Hindu god Lord Ganesha (Abstract Ganesha Hindu God) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Ganesha - Famous work oxidized copper, two-dimensional/frontal sculpture (Oxidized Copper 2D Frontal) Depicts Lord Ganesha - Dancing posture, six hands (Dancing 6 Hands) Holding Veena - Two hands (Veena 2 Hands) Holding Shankh, Chakra, Gada, Padma - Other four hands (Shankh Chakra Gada Padma 4 Hands) Lord Ganesha's body - Balanced on left foot (bent at knee) (Left Foot Bent Knee Balance) Right leg - Also bent, resting close to ankle (left one) (Right Leg Bent Ankle Rest) Trunk - Broad and Flat plane (Broad Flat Trunk) Details - Sculpture & technical blending of material, reveal meticulous craftsmanship (Details Craftsmanship Blending) Sculpture - Amalgamation of folk and traditional craftsmanship (Folk Traditional Amalgamation) Human Life Values: Love and devotion - Divine (Love Devotion Divine) Chapter 10: Modern Trends in Indian Art - Graphic Prints (Slide 96 & 97: Children - Graphic Print 1) Chapter 10: Modern Trends - Graphic Prints Title: Children Artist: Somnath Hore (SH) Time Period: 1955 - 1970 A.D. (1955-70) Technique: Etching & Aquatint (Etching Aquatint) Medium: Copper Plate (Copper Plate) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Artist depicted - Pain, struggle, starvation, sufferings, wounds (war & Bengal famine) (Pain Struggle Starvation War Famine) Print - Injustice of society towards weak and innocent people (Injustice Weak Innocent) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Print - Five meek figures, standing close (5 Meek Figures Close) Print - Black & white, protest against rich & ruling class (Black White Protest Rich) Children - Abnormally thin, rib cages, bloated stomachs, large heads, white horrifying hollow eyes (starvation) (Thin Ribs Bloated Stomachs Hollow Eyes Starvation) Child - Meagre clothes, necklace (Meagre Clothes Necklace) Mother - Malnourished, behind them, protective hands (Malnourished Mother Protective) Background - Tall ghostly figure, hands on both sides head (Ghostly Figure Hands Head) Girl (back) - Left side composition (Girl Back Left) Human forms - Divided into cubist style geometric planes (Cubist Geometric Planes) Human Life Values: Empathy and love - Those in need (Empathy Love Need) Economic equality - Society (basic essentials - food, clothes, shelter) (Economic Equality Essentials) (Slide 98 & 99: Devi - Graphic Print 2) Title: Devi Artist: Jyoti Bhatt (JB) Time Period: 1970's A.D. (1970s) Technique: Etching (Etching) Medium: Brass Plate (Brass Plate) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Portrait of Devi/shakti - Centrally placed iconic image (Devi Shakti Iconic) Two-dimensionality - Words & motifs around portrait, Tantric philosophy (2D Tantric Philosophy) Power - Kundalini (serpent goddess), asleep (base of spine), coiled three and a half times (first chakra) (Kundalini Serpent Coiled Chakra) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Composition - Combination two rectangles (rounded corners), coiling & spiralling serpentine form (2 Rectangles Coiling Serpentine) Upper rectangle - Bold face (centre), Durga (Durga Bold Face) Lower - Two circles (one human figure each), separated by tail (2 Circles Human Figures Tail) Brilliant vermilion (Red) Bindi - Eye forehead (Devi face upper rectangle), symbolizing Indianness & womanhood (Red Bindi Indianness Womanhood) Wide-open eyes - Durga idol like (Wide Eyes Durga Idol) Devi's head - Shape of decorative pendants (Pendant Head) Interesting writing (both pendants) - Artist's name, "Pseudo Tantric Kundalini" (Writing Pendants Artist Pseudo Tantric) Human Life Values: Importance of spirituality - Become one with Divine (Spirituality Divine) Union with Supreme - Ultimate goal of human being (Union Supreme Goal) (Slide 100 & 101: Of Walls - Graphic Print 3) Title: Of Walls Artist: Anupam Sud (AS) Time Period: 1982 (1982) Technique: Lithograph (Lithograph) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Representation of poverty and loneliness (Poverty Loneliness) Remembrance of past days (childhood) (Past Childhood Remembrance) Description/Compositional Arrangement: "Of Walls" - Most symbolic & meaningful graphic work (Symbolic Meaningful) Monochromatic lithography print, woman shown (bare feet, sitting one side) (Monochrome Lithograph Bare Feet Woman) Wearing untidy looking saree (Untidy Saree) Face shown - Black colour (no expression), no existence, lost significance (Black Face No Expression No Existence) Back - Brick wall (without plaster) (Brick Wall No Plaster) Folk type white line drawings - Wall, scribble art by small children (White Line Drawings Scribble Children) Foreground lower portion - Male figure (perfect anatomical balance), near woman (deep sleep or dead) (Male Figure Foreground Anatomical Sleep Dead) Temples like structures - Visible back wall (Temples Structures Back Wall) Powerful work - Against inhuman rules of society (Powerful Inhuman Rules) Protest - Society discrimination women (Protest Discrimination Women) Human Life Values: Need for social equality - Women in society (Social Equality Women Need) (Slide 102 & 103: Man, woman and tree - Graphic Print 4) Title: Man, woman and tree Artist: K. Laxma Goud (KLG) Time Period: 1980-1990 A.D. (1980-90) Medium: Paper (Paper) Technique: Etching and aquatint (Etching Aquatint) Courtesy: National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi (NGMA) Theme/Subject Matter: Depiction of village life - Artistic memories of rural & tribal life (childhood) (Village Life Rural Tribal Childhood) Vertical print - Human emotion and deep attachment to nature (Emotion Nature Attachment Vertical) Description/Compositional Arrangement: Vertical graphic print - Human emotion, deep attachment nature (Vertical Emotion Nature) Man and woman - Deep conversation, forgotten outside world, become one with nature (Conversation Nature One) Background - Rural scene, four tall trees (Rural Scene Tall Trees) One left side, three right side trees - Branches only top of trunk (Trees Top Branches) Foreground (right side) - Woman (saree), sitting under single tree (Woman Saree Single Tree) Wearing traditional ornaments - Nose ring, necklace, two bangles (Ornaments Nose Ring Bangles Necklace) Man - Sitting opposite to her, under another tree, looking at her (Man Opposite Tree Looking) Both separated - Small plants, flowers and shrubs (Plants Flowers Shrubs Separate) Simple villagers - South India (Simple Villagers South India) Soft palate - Monochro submitted by /u/SuspiciousWeekend41 to r/12tards [link] [comments]

I see them every day. The Arnaldo family, a tapestry of love and ambition woven into the very fabric of their opulent home. For over twenty-five years, I have been their steadfast caretaker, a silent witness to the intricate dance of their lives. My name is Ador—Mang Ador, if you wish to be respectful—and I am but a humble servant, a son of Cebuano origin, molded by the sun and soil of Negros. My family toiled for the wealthy hacienderos, and perhaps that is the fate I was destined for, a "son of a poor penis," as the colloquial saying goes. Yet, despite my age, I remain fit, my body honed by the daily labor of maintaining the Arnaldo estate. The house itself is a marvel, a sprawling edifice that rises like a fortress against the backdrop of the lush landscape. Its walls are adorned with intricate carvings, each telling a story of the family’s heritage. The grand foyer, with its high ceilings and sweeping staircase, is a testament to Ricardo’s vision as a builder. Sunlight filters through the stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished marble floors. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine from the garden, a fragrant embrace that welcomes all who enter. Ricardo, a mountain of a man at six-foot-four, is ruggedly handsome, his mestizo features a blend of strength and grace. A former basketball player, he never reached the professional league, his dreams stifled by the weight of family expectations. Instead, he took the reins of his father’s construction business, pouring his heart into every project, every brick laid. His wife, Amelia, is a vision of elegance, her movements imbued with a certain glow that captivates all who cross her path. A mestiza of Chinese descent, she hails from a wealthy family in Binondo, her parents once determined to keep their lineage pure by marrying her off to her third cousin, Jackson. But Amelia, with the fierce spirit of a rebel, defied their wishes, choosing love over obligation when Ricardo swept her off her feet during their sophomore year at De La Salle University. Together, they forged a life filled with laughter and ambition, welcoming their only daughter, Stella, into the world. Now eighteen, Stella is a breathtaking blend of Spanish and Chinese features, a living testament to her parents’ love. She walks through the halls of La Salle, leaving a trail of awestruck boys in her wake, yet remains grounded, respectful, and devoted to her studies. Her parents have instilled in her the wisdom of patience, warning her that not all early marriages are destined for happiness. But one fateful day, everything changed. I was in the kitchen, the aroma of adobo simmering in the air, when I heard the front door slam. The sound echoed through the house, a jarring note in the symphony of our daily lives. I rushed to the foyer, my heart pounding, and there she stood—Stella. Her clothes were a tattered mess, streaked with dirt and grease, her hair a wild halo of disarray. Bruises marred her porcelain skin, each one a silent testament to a story she was yet to tell. I felt a chill creep down my spine as I took in her disheveled appearance. The house, usually filled with warmth and laughter, suddenly felt cold and foreboding. Her parents were away on a tour of Europe, leaving her alone in the sprawling estate. Despite their wealth, the Arnaldo family had always preferred a simple life, eschewing the trappings of excessive security. It was just me and Nena, who was out grocery shopping, leaving me to confront the mystery of Stella’s distress. “Stella, what happened?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as if the very walls were listening, eager to absorb the secrets of the day. She looked up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of fear—a shadow that danced just beyond the reach of her words. “I… I don’t know, Mang Ador. I was just walking home from school, and then… something happened.” The air thickened with tension, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. What could have possibly transpired in the safety of our neighborhood? I motioned for her to sit, my mind racing with questions, but deep down, I knew that whatever had happened was only the beginning of a much darker tale. The house, with its lavish design and hidden corners, suddenly felt like a labyrinth, concealing secrets that were waiting to be unearthed. As I listened to Stella’s trembling voice, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows lurking in the corners of the Arnaldo estate were not merely figments of my imagination. Something sinister had breached the sanctuary of their home, and I was determined to uncover the bottom of it. The grand clock in the library chimed, its hollow toll reverberating through the halls like a funeral dirge. Stella’s trembling hands clutched a porcelain teacup I’d offered her, the steam curling into the air like ghostly fingers. We sat in the solarium, a room of glass and wrought iron where Amelia often read, sunlight now replaced by the ashen pallor of twilight. Outside, the garden’s jasmine twisted in the wind, their perfume suddenly cloying, suffocating. “It wasn’t… someone,” Stella whispered, her voice fraying at the edges. “It was… something. Like a shadow. But alive.” Her gaze drifted to the stained-glass window above us, its vibrant depiction of Saint Michael slaying a dragon now fractured by cracks—a detail I hadn’t noticed before. A hairline split ran through the saint’s sword, as though the blade itself had faltered. I followed her stare, unease prickling my skin. “Where did this happen, anak?” “By the old gazebo,” she said, referring to the crumbling structure near the property’s eastern edge, half-consumed by bougainvillea. Ricardo had always dismissed repairing it, calling it “a relic of sentimental rot.” Now, the words felt ominous. Before I could press further, the lights flickered. A low hum shuddered through the house, the kind that vibrates in the teeth. Stella froze, her cup clattering against its saucer. The solarium’s glass panes rattled, and in the distance, the gazebo’s iron gate screeched open—a sound I knew well, though it hadn’t been touched in years. “Stay here,” I said, rising. My voice betrayed none of the dread coiling in my gut. The halls stretched before me, the marble floors reflecting the stormy sky like a black mirror. As I passed the library, a cold draft snaked through the air, though the windows were sealed. Books lay scattered on the floor, their pages splayed like wounded birds. A first edition of Rizal’s Noli Me Tangere, Amelia’s prized possession, lay spine-cracked beneath the mahogany desk. I knelt to retrieve it, but a faint sound froze me—a wet, guttural whisper, as if the house itself were breathing. It came from the east wing, where the family archives were kept. Ricardo’s father had stored blueprints there, yellowed maps of properties long since demolished. The door to the archive room stood ajar, though it was always locked. Inside, the scent of mildew clung to the air. Moonlight bled through the barred windows, illuminating a mahogany chest in the corner—a piece I’d never seen. Its carvings were strange, almost pagan: serpents swallowing their tails, skeletal trees with roots like veins. As I approached, the lid creaked open on its own. Inside lay a bundle of letters tied with faded silk, their seals stamped with the wax emblem of Amelia’s family—a phoenix rising from a lotus. The topmost envelope bore a single name in spidered script: Jackson. Footsteps echoed behind me. I turned, but the hall was empty. Yet on the desk, fresh ink glistened on a sheet of parchment, as though someone had just written— She should have married him. The words dissolved as I touched them, the ink bleeding into the paper like tears. Back in the solarium, Stella was gone. Her teacup lay overturned, the liquid pooling dark as blood. The cracked stained glass cast a jagged shadow across the floor, forming a shape that made my breath hitch—a horned figure, its hand outstretched toward the garden. And there, in the mud beneath the gazebo, glinted a gold pendant I recognized: Amelia’s heirloom locket, engraved with her family’s phoenix. The one she never took off. But Amelia was in Europe. And the locket’s chain was snapped, as if torn from her throat. The locket felt unnaturally cold in my palm, its gold tarnished to a sickly green at the edges. Amelia had worn it every day since her grandmother, Lola Esmeralda, gifted it to her on her wedding day—a relic passed down through generations of women in their Binondo dynasty. But why was it here, buried in the mud, when Amelia had taken it to Europe? Stella found me at the gazebo, her face pale as moonlight. “I didn’t tell you everything,” she said, her voice trembling. “Before Lola Esmeralda died, she gave me something. A… box. She made me swear never to open it until my 19th birthday.” “Where is it now?” “Hidden. In the one place Papa never goes—the attic above the archives.” The attic was a crypt of forgotten things. Dust-swollen trunks, moth-eaten gowns, and a portrait of Amelia’s ancestors glaring down with oil-painted eyes. Stella pulled a small iron chest from beneath a rotted tapestry, its surface etched with the same serpent-and-tree motifs as the mahogany box in the archives. Inside lay a jade comb, its teeth sharp as claws, and a folded parchment sealed with the phoenix emblem. Dearest Stella, If you are reading this, the shadows have found you. Forgive me. The locket was never a blessing, but a prison. Our bloodline made a pact long ago, a trade: beauty and fortune for a debt owed to the Unseen. The comb is the key. The mirror is the gate. Do not let them— The letter ended abruptly, torn. Stella lifted the comb, and the attic’s single mirror—a tarnished oval framed in blackwood—suddenly rippled like water. Within its depths, a figure materialized: Lola Esmeralda, young and radiant, standing in the gazebo with a man who was not her husband. Jackson. “They were lovers,” Stella breathed. “But the family made her marry her cousin instead. She told me once that love was a ‘dangerous ghost.’” The mirror’s surface convulsed. The image shifted to Lola Esmeralda weeping, burying the locket beneath the gazebo as a wisp of shadow coiled around her throat. A voice slithered from the glass, speaking in archaic Hokkien: “The debt remains. The first daughter must pay.” Stella stumbled back. “The locket… When Inay gave it to me after Lola died, she said it would protect me.” But the truth hung in the air, rancid and sharp. The locket hadn’t been a gift—it was a chain. And whatever Amelia’s grandmother had unleashed now clung to Stella, hungry. As we descended to the archives, the house groaned. The mahogany box’s lid yawned open again, its letters replaced by a single photograph: Amelia, Ricardo, and a toddler Stella, standing in front of the gazebo. But in the image, a fourth figure loomed behind them—a tall, faceless shadow, its hand resting on Stella’s shoulder. Outside, the wind howled. Somewhere in the garden, the jasmine withered to ash. The revelation struck like a blade. In the fractured reflection of the mirror, the shadow figure’s form shifted, dissolving into a scene from another era—a palatial courtyard drenched in the copper hue of dusk. A man in embroidered silk robes knelt on stone, his face gaunt, eyes hollowed by suffering. His hands, delicate yet scarred, trembled as soldiers clamped irons around his wrists. Behind him, a woman hung from a wooden frame, her beauty obscured by blood and bruises, her silence more piercing than any scream. The head eunuch, I realized. His name had been scrubbed from history, but his title lingered in the whispers of Amelia’s family—Lian, the Willow. He had served the Jade Emperor, a ruler whose cruelty was eclipsed only by his paranoia. When the emperor discovered Lian’s secret kinship to the concubine Meifeng—his own niece, sold into the palace—he ordered her flayed alive for “sedition.” Lian, tasked with overseeing her punishment, had instead tried to free her. He failed. The mirror’s vision deepened. Lian’s fingers were crushed, his tongue severed, yet he refused to die. In the dungeon’s filth, he carved symbols into his flesh with a shard of porcelain, chanting in a language older than the Forbidden City. When the executioner’s axe finally fell, his blood pooled into the shape of a phoenix—the same emblem now etched into Amelia’s locket. “The curse,” Stella whispered, clutching the jade comb. “It wasn’t just a story. Lola Esmeralda’s ancestors… they were descended from the concubine’s line. The eunuch bound his vengeance to their blood.” The attic trembled as the specter’s voice slithered through the walls, speaking now in the eunuch’s fractured Mandarin: “The Willow bends but does not break. The debt is paid in flesh.” Below us, the mahogany box began to rattle. Inside, the serpent carvings writhed, their wooden scales shedding to reveal strips of yellowed parchment beneath—pages from Lian’s lost diary. Stella translated the brittle text, her voice unsteady: “The Jade Emperor believed lineage purified power. Let his descendants choke on their own blood. Let their firstborn daughters carry my suffering, generation upon generation, until the phoenix burns the lotus to ash…” A cold gust extinguished the attic’s lone bulb. In the dark, the mirror glowed faintly, reflecting not our faces, but the gazebo outside. There, beneath its sagging roof, stood Lian’s specter, his form flickering between the elegant eunuch and the mutilated wretch he’d become. In his translucent hand, he held the missing half of Lola Esmeralda’s letter, the characters glowing like embers: “…Do not let them take you to the gazebo. That is where he waits.” Stella’s breath hitched. “The comb—it’s not just a key. It’s hers. The concubine’s. Lian wants it back.” As she spoke, the jade comb grew warm, then scalding. Stella dropped it, and the teeth sank into the floorboards like fangs. The wood splintered, revealing a hidden compartment below—a shriveled lotus flower, its petals threaded with human hair, rested atop a miniature portrait of Meifeng. Her eyes, painted in exquisite detail, were now scratched out. The specter’s wail tore through the house. Downstairs, the stained-glass saint shattered, and the shadow of Saint Michael’s fractured sword pointed accusingly toward the garden. “The lotus must burn,” Lian hissed, his voice splintering into a dozen tongues. “Burn it, and the phoenix rises. Refuse… and she joins me.” Stella reached for the lotus, but I gripped her wrist. “No. This is what he wants—to trade your soul for hers.” Outside, the gazebo’s bougainvillea burst into crimson bloom, the flowers oozing a viscous, dark liquid. The specter materialized at the attic threshold, his form solidifying. Half his face remained the composed palace steward; the other half, a skeletal ruin. He stretched a clawed hand toward Stella, the air reeking of decayed lotus and iron. “The comb,” I urged. “The mirror—use it!” Stella seized the jade teeth, slicing her palm. Blood dripped onto the comb’s spine, and the mirror’s surface hardened like ice. With a scream, she plunged the comb into the glass. The reflection exploded into a maelstrom of voices—Meifeng’s cries, Lian’s chants, Lola Esmeralda’s warnings. The specter recoiled, his form unraveling like smoke, but not before his skeletal hand grazed Stella’s cheek. Where he touched her, a lotus mark bloomed, black and pulsing. “You bear the debt now,” his voice echoed, fading. “The phoenix comes… for its due.” As dawn bled through the shattered windows, Stella and I stood amid the wreckage of the attic. The mirror was sealed, the comb’s teeth lodged in its heart like a dagger. But the lotus on her skin throbbed, a ticking shadow. Somewhere in Europe, Amelia’s locket turned to dust in her suitcase. And in the garden, the bougainvillea began to die. The morning after the specter’s attack, I found Stella hunched over the archives desk, the blackened lotus on her cheek throbbing like a second heartbeat. Her fingers trembled as she traced the phoenix emblem on Lola Esmeralda’s letters. “We need help,” she said, her voice hollow. “The ones who know the old stories… Inay’s family in Binondo.” I hesitated. The Binondo Lims had not spoken to Amelia since her elopement, their resentment as thick as the mahogany walls of their ancestral home. But desperation outweighed pride. In the study, I unearthed a rusted iron key from Ricardo’s desk—the one that unlocked the estate’s sole telephone, a relic reserved for emergencies. The line crackled as I dialed the number Stella recited from memory. A woman answered in sharp Hokkien, her tone like a slamming door. “Lím ka têng. State your business.” “This is Ador, the Arnaldo’s steward. Put Gōng Lao on the line. It’s about the locket. And the curse.” Silence. Then shuffling, followed by the labored breathing of Amelia’s uncle, the family patriarch. “Speak,” he rasped. I told him of the specter, the comb, the lotus. Of the debt written in blood. When I mentioned Lian’s name, the old man choked, as though the word were a noose. “Foolish girl,” he hissed, though I couldn’t tell if he meant Stella, Amelia, or Lola Esmeralda. “We will come. Do not let her sleep. Do not let her near the gazebo.” The Lims left Binondo at noon in three black sedans, their engines snarling through Manila’s sprawl. Gōng Lao brought his eldest sons, a Taoist priestess, and a lacquered box containing what he called “the countermeasures.” But the highway had other plans. Near the Bocaue River, a fog descended—thick and green, reeking of rotting lotus. The lead car’s driver swore he saw a figure in flowing silk standing in the road, his face half-eaten by crows. He swerved, plunging into the ravine. The second car braked, only to be struck from behind by a truck carrying sacks of rice, its driver later found catatonic, muttering about “a willow bending in the wind.” The third car, carrying Gōng Lao and the priestess, vanished entirely. Police found it abandoned on a dirt road, its interior smeared with ash and the scent of jasmine. The doors were locked from the inside. Stella stared at the radio in the parlor, her knuckles white as the announcer detailed the “freak accident.” The lotus mark had spread, its tendrils now snaking down her neck. “They’re gone,” she whispered. “Because of me.” “No,” I said, though the word felt brittle. “The curse did this. And we’ll break it.” But the house seemed to disagree. The floors groaned as we passed, and in the mirrors, our reflections lagged a half-second behind, as though something walked in our footsteps. That evening, as I prepared arroz caldo in the kitchen, the telephone rang. It was Gōng Lao. Or something wearing his voice. “Ador,” it wheezed, the syllables wet and mangled. “Tell the girl… the eunuch’s tomb is beneath the gazebo. Dig. Dig, and you’ll find the root.” The line went dead. When I redialed, a operator informed me the number no longer existed. “Disconnected,” she said. “Twenty years ago.” We waited for dawn, Stella and I, armed with shovels and the priestess’ abandoned lacquered box. Inside lay a bone flute, a vial of mercury, and a scroll painted with a twisted tree—its roots knotted around a phoenix. As we stepped into the garden, the gazebo’s bougainvillea writhed, thorns tearing at our clothes. The earth beneath it was soft, yielding too quickly. Our shovels struck wood just two feet down—a coffin, rotted to pulp. Within it lay a skeleton in tattered silk, its hands clasped around a jade pendant shaped like a willow leaf. Stella reached for it. “Don’t!” I grabbed her wrist, but it was too late. The skeleton’s head turned, its jaw unhinging in a silent scream. The ground trembled, and from the depths of the coffin, a root burst forth—black, glistening, and alive. It coiled around Stella’s ankle, yanking her downward as the specter’s laugh echoed through the garden. “The root feeds,” Lian’s voice hissed. “The debt is paid.” Above us, storm clouds swallowed the moon. Somewhere in the distance, a phoenix screeched. And the house held its breath. The root yanked Stella into the earth up to her knees, the soil swallowing her like quicksand. Mang Ador lunged, hacking at the blackened vine with a shovel. The metal blade sparked as if striking stone, and the specter’s laughter coiled through the garden, thick as smoke. “The flute!” Stella screamed, clawing at the lacquered box. “Use it!” Ador seized the bone instrument, its surface etched with tiny, frenzied script. He blew into it, but no sound came—only a rush of icy air that tore through his lungs. Yet the root twitched, recoiling as though scalded. Above them, the phoenix screeched again, its cry splitting the sky. The scroll in Stella’s trembling hands began to smolder, the painted tree unraveling into ash to reveal hidden text beneath—a ritual, written in Meifeng’s own hand. “Break the willow, burn the root,” Stella read, her voice raw. “Offer the blood of the oathbreaker…” The mercury vial slipped from the box, shattering on the coffin’s edge. Silver liquid pooled, hissing as it fused with the jade pendant in Stella’s grip. The skeleton inside the coffin thrashed, its silk robes disintegrating to reveal flesh knitting itself over bone—Lian’s spectral form resurrecting. “Oathbreaker,” the specter snarled, his voice now fleshly, venomous. He pointed a regenerated finger at Stella. “Your blood is mine.” Ador acted without thought. He snatched the jade pendant and slashed his palm, dripping blood into the mercury. “The Arnaldos are not your kin,” he growled. “But I am bound to them. Will my blood suffice?” The garden stilled. Even the wind held its breath. Lian’s eyes—half-dead, half-alive—narrowed. “A servant’s oath is a thread. Easily severed.” “Try me,” Ador spat, thrusting his bleeding hand into the coffin. The ground erupted. Mercury and blood fused, igniting into a cold blue flame that raced down the root, incinerating it to char. The specter howled, his newly formed flesh blistering. Stella wrenched free, the lotus mark on her cheek weeping black fluid. Together, they heaved the scroll into the coffin, its parchment catching fire as it touched the flames. “No—!” Lian’s scream fragmented as the blaze consumed him, his form crumbling to dust. The jade pendant melted, its willow shape dissolving into a single word etched in the air: Forgiven. The line went dead with a hollow click. Ador stood frozen, the receiver slipping from his grip. Stella’s reflection in the hallway mirror caught his eye—her scar pulsed faintly, a shadow flickering beneath her skin like a fish in murky water. “Mang Ador?” Stella’s voice wavered. “What did Inay say?” He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not when the air itself felt like a held breath, the house creaking as if straining to keep its secrets. Instead, he crossed to the shattered stained-glass window, where shards of Saint Michael’s sword lay scattered. Among them, a single shard glinted unnaturally—a sliver of jade, not glass. “Stay here,” he ordered, though his voice lacked its usual authority. The archives room reeked of burnt parchment and wet earth. Ador rifled through the mahogany box, now inert, its carvings blurred as though melted. Beneath the family photographs, he found a faded deed to the property, dated 1898. The previous owners were listed as The Lian Estate. A floorboard groaned behind him. Stella stood in the doorway, her face pale. “You’re lying to me,” she said. “Inay… something’s wrong with Papa, isn’t it?” Before he could answer, the house shuddered. Dust rained from the ceiling as a low, resonant hum filled the air—the same vibration they’d felt the night of the ritual. From the garden, a guttural cry echoed, avian and alien. They ran to the window. The sky churned, storm clouds spiraling into the shape of a phoenix, its wingspan blotting out the sun. Below, in the scorched earth where Lian’s coffin had been, a sapling pushed through the soil. Its bark was black, leaves the color of tarnished silver. “The willow bends but does not break,” Stella murmured, her scar burning crimson. Ador gripped her shoulder. “The ritual—it wasn’t complete. We severed the root, but the tree remains.” “And the phoenix,” she said, staring at the sky. “It’s coming for its due.” The sapling grew as they watched, branches twisting into a grotesque parody of a human form—a torso, limbs, a head crowned with thorns. Lian’s face emerged from the bark, his mouth a jagged hollow. “Foolish servant,” the tree rasped, its voice the creak of bending timber. “You offered your blood, but your oath was never pure. You resent them. Their wealth. Their love. You, who kneel in the shadow of their light.” Ador recoiled. The words cut deeper than the specter’s claws, unearthing a truth he’d buried for decades. Late nights scrubbing floors while the Arnaldos laughed over wine. Ricardo’s offhand praise, never enough. Amelia’s oblivious kindness. Stella stepped forward, her small frame trembling. “Leave him alone! Mang Ador is family.” The tree laughed, sap oozing from its mouth like blood. “Family? You are a chain of debts, girl. Your father’s sickness is my roots in his veins. Your mother’s locket was my eye. And this one—” A branch lashed out, pointing at Ador. “His envy is my water.” Ador’s bandaged hand burned. He tore the cloth away—the wound had festered, the skin around it veined with black. “No,” Stella whispered. The phoenix above shrieked, diving toward the house. Its talons tore through the roof, beams splintering like kindling. Stella grabbed Ador’s arm, dragging him toward the cellar as the tree’s roots burst through the floor. “The comb!” she shouted. “We need to reopen the mirror!” But the attic stairs collapsed before they could reach them. The house groaned, its foundation crumbling as the willow tree’s roots devoured the walls. In the cellar, Ador shoved Stella behind a wine rack, his breath ragged. “Take this,” he pressed the jade shard into her hand. “Find the priestess’ box. There’s… there’s something else inside.” “What are you doing?!” He didn’t answer. The roots were breaking through the cellar door. Ador turned, climbing the rubble toward the garden. His infected hand throbbed, the rot spreading to his elbow. Above, the phoenix circled, its eyes twin coals. “You want a sacrifice?” he roared. “Take me! But spare them!” The tree stilled. The phoenix halted mid-flight. “An oathkeeper’s heart,” Lian’s voice purred. “Bitter, but potent.” Ador plunged the jade shard into his chest. Stella’s scream tore through the chaos as his blood hit the earth—black, then gold. The phoenix dove, its beak piercing the willow’s trunk. The tree howled, roots retracting, as Ador’s body dissolved into ash, his blood seeping into the soil. When the dust settled, the house stood silent, its wounds half-healed. The willow sapling was gone. The phoenix, a fading scar in the sky. Stella knelt in the garden, the jade shard cold in her palm. Beneath it, a single word glowed in the soil—Forgiven. But in the cellar shadows, something stirred. A root, thin and persistent, curled around a forgotten bottle of wine. And far away, in a hospital in Madrid, Ricardo Arnaldo’s heartbeat faltered, his skin blooming with lotus petals. The root in the cellar grew quietly, patiently, its tendrils threading through cracks in the stone like whispers. By nightfall, it had reached the wine bottle’s cork, drinking the dregs of a 1927 Cabernet—a vintage Ricardo had saved for Stella’s wedding. In Madrid, Amelia clutched her husband’s blackened hand, his breath shallow as lotus petals unfurled beneath his eyelids. The doctors murmured about “unknown toxins,” but she knew. The locket’s disintegration in her suitcase—reduced to green dust—had been the first omen. She called Stella again, her voice fraying. “We’re coming home. The next flight—” The line crackled. “All flights to Manila delayed indefinitely due to… weather.” There was no weather. Only a willow tree sketched in storm clouds on the radar. Stella found the priestess’ lacquered box beneath the cellar rubble. Inside, beneath the bone flute, lay a compartment she’d missed—a folded barong Tagalog stained with blood, and a sepia photo of Lola Esmeralda as a young woman, standing beside a willow sapling. On the back, a scrawl: The roots return. The comb is not a key, but a lock. Forgive me. The jade comb, still lodged in the attic mirror, hummed when Stella approached. She pried it free, its teeth now fused with strands of Ador’s hair. In the glass, her reflection wavered, replaced by a scene from Lola Esmeralda’s past: The gazebo, newly built. A teenage Esmeralda burying the locket, her hands gloved in silk. A shadow—not Lian, but a woman in concubine’s robes—rising from the earth to whisper in her ear. Meifeng. “You think you can outrun a debt paid in blood?” Meifeng’s voice was a serrated melody. “The willow remembers. The phoenix endures. And the servant…” Her gaze snapped to Stella, the mirror cracking. “He is not gone. He is root.” Stella raced to the cellar. The tendril had thickened, its bark etched with faint, pulsing characters—Ador’s name in Hanunó'o script, the ancient language of Mang Ador’s Cebuano ancestors. She touched it, and the root recoiled, oozing sap the color of his blood. “Mang Ador?” she whispered. The house creaked. Somewhere, a shovel struck earth. By dawn, the root had breached the cellar, snaking up to Stella’s bedroom. She woke to its touch on her ankle, cold and familiar. Instead of fear, she felt a perverse comfort. The lotus scar on her cheek had dulled to gray. “You’re still here,” she said. The root curled around her wrist, leaving a mark like a bracelet. Amelia and Ricardo never boarded their flight. The taxi to the airport crashed—a willow branch through the windshield. Ricardo, half-conscious, tore the lotus petals from his throat and pressed them into Amelia’s palm. “Go… without me,” he rasped. “Protect her.” Amelia arrived alone, her designer clothes smeared with her husband’s blood. Stella met her at the gate, the root coiled in her hair like a crown. “Anak,” Amelia breathed, recoiling. “What have you—” “The comb,” Stella interrupted, holding up the jade teeth. “It’s not ours. It’s hers. Meifeng’s. And she wants it back.” In the garden, the willow sapling had returned, its branches heavy with ghost orchids. Amelia’s locket dust still clung to her skin, and when the wind blew, it scattered into the shape of a phoenix—Lian’s phoenix. “We have to finish it,” Stella said. “But we need his blood.” Amelia stared at her daughter, the root bracelet, the haunted house. “Whose blood?” Stella smiled, the comb glinting in her fist. “The emperor’s.” Behind them, the cellar root twitched, its bark splitting to reveal an eye—human, grieving, and utterly Ador. The storm comes at midnight. The storm arrived not as wind or rain, but as silence—a vacuum that swallowed the cries of crickets, the rustle of palms, even the distant hum of Manila’s traffic. In that stillness, the house became a living thing. Floorboards sprouted thorns. Mirrors wept tarnished silver. And the root that had once been Ador now coiled around Stella’s bedpost, its bark split to reveal veins of molten gold where his blood had seeped into the earth. Amelia stood in the cellar, the priestess’ lacquered box open before her. Inside, beneath layers of yellowed silk, she found a dagger—not steel, but carved from a single fang of jade. Its hilt bore the Jade Emperor’s seal. “How did this get here?” she whispered. “The comb wasn’t the only thing Lola Esmeralda stole,” Stella said from the shadows. She held up the jade comb, its teeth now fused with Ador’s root, strands of his hair braided through the spine. “Meifeng’s tomb is beneath us. The emperor buried her here after she died. Lian followed, even in death. This land… it’s always been a grave.” Amelia’s hands trembled. “Your father—” “Is part of the roots now. So is Mang Ador. And soon, so will I.” Stella pressed the comb to the cellar wall. The stone dissolved, revealing a hidden chamber slick with groundwater. Inside, a stone sarcophagus lay open, its lid carved with a phoenix mid-flight. The skeleton within wore tattered concubine’s robes, a jade willow leaf clutched in its hands. Meifeng. “The emperor’s bloodline ended centuries ago,” Amelia said, but her voice faltered. The dagger in her hand pulsed, as though sensing a lie. “No,” Stella said. “It just… changed names.” She nodded to the root. It slithered forward, Ador’s eye blinking in its bark, and plunged into the sarcophagus. The skeleton jerked upright, its jaw clacking. “You,” it hissed in Meifeng’s voice, hollow and dripping with venom. “You carry his eyes. The emperor’s eyes.” The accusation hung in the air. Amelia staggered back, clutching the dagger. “What is she talking about, anak?” Stella didn’t answer. Instead, she carved the comb across her palm, letting blood drip onto Meifeng’s bones. “You loved Lian. He loved you. But the emperor took everything. Now his descendants take from us. From me.” The root surged, wrapping around Meifeng’s skeleton. Ador’s eye glowed as the bones fused with the willow bark, flesh blooming like fungus. Meifeng’s ghostly form materialized, her beauty restored but her eyes hollow pits. “The phoenix comes,” she warned, pointing to the ceiling. “It will raze this house, this land, every root of the willow—unless you give it a royal heart.” Amelia gripped the jade dagger. “We don’t have one!” Meifeng’s gaze fell on Stella. “You do.” Outside, thunder cracked. Not from the sky, but from the earth—the phoenix, rising from the scorched gazebo, its feathers made of storm clouds and ash. It screeched, and the house’s windows shattered. Stella turned to Amelia, her scar glowing. “The Lims weren’t just merchants, Inay. Lola Esmeralda’s grandmother was the emperor’s bastard daughter. That’s why the curse clings to us. We’re his blood.” Amelia’s knees buckled. “No—” “The dagger isn’t for Meifeng,” Stella said softly. “It’s for you.” The root lunged, but not at Stella. It wrapped around Amelia, pinning her arms. Ador’s eye wept golden sap. “Ador,” Amelia gasped. “Don’t—” Stella pressed the dagger into her mother’s hand. “The phoenix needs a heart. But it doesn’t have to be mine.” The unspoken truth hung between them, thicker than the storm. Amelia’s tears fell on the jade blade, its edge humming with forgotten magic. Meifeng’s ghost drifted closer, her voice a mournful song. “The servant tried to spare you. But roots cannot choose where they grow.” The phoenix tore through the roof, its talons aimed at Stella. Amelia screamed, thrusting the dagger—not at her daughter, but at her own chest. The blade melted before it struck, dissolving into smoke. “A mother’s love,” Meifeng whispered, her form fraying. “The one poison the emperor never mastered.” The phoenix froze mid-strike, its fiery eyes reflecting not Stella, but Amelia—her arms outstretched, her shadow merging with the willow root. “The debt… is paid,” Meifeng sighed, dissolving into petals. The storm collapsed. Rain drenched the ruins as the phoenix crumbled to ash, its cry echoing into silence. But in the cellar, the root that was Ador withered, its gold veins fading. Stella cradled it, her tears mixing with the sap. “You knew,” she choked. “You knew she’d choose me.” Amelia touched her daughter’s scar—now a pale, lifeless line. “Come. We’ll rebuild.” Yet as they limped from the rubble, the ground trembled. Beneath the house, something shifted. A sapling cracked through the cellar floor, its leaves the color of tarnished jade. And in Manila, a newborn wailed in a hospital, its tiny fist clutching a blackened willow leaf. Epilogue: The Last Petal The storm’s silence broke with a whisper—a sigh that seemed to ripple through the roots beneath the Arnaldo estate. Stella stood at the edge of the ruined garden, the jade comb cold in her hand, its teeth still threaded with strands of Ador’s hair. Amelia knelt beside the withered willow sapling, her fingers brushing the bark where Mang Ador’s eye had once blinked. It was closed now, sealed like a scar. “It’s time,” Stella said, her voice steady. The ritual was not written in any scroll or letter. It came to her in fragments—dreams of Meifeng’s tear-streaked face, Lian’s final breath, Lola Esmeralda’s trembling hands burying the locket. They would need fire, blood, and a truth too long buried. Amelia unsheathed the jade dagger, its edge glinting with the residue of centuries. “For your father,” she murmured. “For Ador.” They lit the pyre at midnight, using splintered beams from the gazebo and pages from the family archives. The willow sapling, uprooted and bleeding sap, lay at the center. Stella placed the comb atop it, the jade teeth piercing the bark. Amelia slit her palm, letting her blood—the blood of the emperor’s bastard line—drip onto the roots. “We release you,” Stella whispered, though she didn’t know who she addressed: Lian, Meifeng, the phoenix, or the ghost of the servant who had loved them enough to become soil. The fire roared to life, green and gold, consuming the willow in a single breath. Within the flames, shadows danced—a eunuch bowing to a concubine, a grandmother burying her regrets, a man with gardener’s hands smiling as he faded. In Madrid, Ricardo Arnaldo gasped awake, the lotus petals on his skin crumbling to dust. When dawn came, the garden was scorched but clean. No roots twisted beneath the soil. No phoenix haunted the sky. The house, though scarred, stood quiet, its mirrors reflecting nothing but sunlight. Amelia packed the remnants of the comb and dagger into the lacquered box, sealing it with wax. “We’ll bury it,” she said. “Far from here.” Stella nodded, her scar a faint silver line. “Not yet.” She knelt and pressed her palm to the ashes. A single shoot, green and tender, pushed through the soil—a sapling, but ordinary. A willow, not a curse. Years later, when Stella’s daughter turned nineteen, she inherited a pendant: a phoenix rising from a lotus, its chain unbroken. There were no letters, no warnings, only a note in Stella’s hand. Some debts are not paid. They are transformed. The girl wore it as she walked through the restored garden, past the new gazebo draped in bougainvillea. She paused, sensing a presence—a warmth at her back, like a hand guiding her forward. When she turned, there was nothing but the wind, soft as a servant’s sigh, and the willow tree bending gently in the light. THE END submitted by /u/Dismal-Committee-934 to r/FictionWriting [link] [comments]

Elincia pushed me from behind, and I sat inside the carriage in front of Sir Janus. The man was unrecognizable. His hair was combed back, his beard cut short, and his uniform spotless. The crooked scar under his jaw was the only feature that hinted he was indeed Janus. “Good afternoon, Sir Janus,” Elincia said with a curtsy. “Don’t be so formal, girl. We both are lowborn,” Sir Janus sighed. I wondered if Elincia had recognized the man or if she had overheard our brief conversation. Either way, her accurate greeting didn’t help me save face. Behind us, Captain Kiln climbed the carriage and sat in the only empty seat. “Good afternoon, My Lord,” Captain Kiln said with a humorous tone. “Shut it, Kiln,” he replied. The driver closed the door behind her, and the carriage started moving a moment later. The ragged streets of the Northern district didn’t make the trip comfortable. The tension that had been building up inside continued growing as we approached the Great Hall. Unconsciously, I started fiddling with the copper bracelet Ginz had crafted for me. “Relax, Robert. I’ll be your babysitter for the night's first half. Being nervous will not do anything for you,” Sir Janus said, just to add with a mischievous smile. “The really important people will be at a party of their own, so you don’t have to worry about them. As long as you don’t anger a Lv.40 Captain, you’ll be fine.” I gave Captain Kiln a questioning look. I had assumed every noble, from Prince Adrien to the lower baron, would be at the same party. The woman remained silent. It made sense for the nobles to have an inner hierarchy: Prince Adrien and Lord Osgiria couldn’t be compared with a lowly baron. Eventually, the carriage stopped shaking as we left the dilapidated streets of the Northern District behind. I took a peek through the small window in the door. Several other carriages moved up the main road towards the Great Hall. Ours was the most opulent one, which made sense considering all the important nobles were already staying in the Great Hall. Bystanders stopped on the sideways and pointed at us with curious looks, probably wondering who was riding inside. Little did they know it was the governess of a poor orphanage and her handy assistant. The carriage passed through the inner wall and slowly advanced to the Great Hall’s entrance. Near a water fountain, a quartet of musicians played a happy tune while servants distributed drinks and snacks among the guests. For a moment, I thought the party was going to be celebrated in the gardens, but [Awareness] informed me their attire wasn't up to the occasion. They were commoners. Wealthy merchants, prominent craftsmen, and officers from the royal army drank wine while the group's young members participated in various dances and games. “Don’t look at them. They’ll try to drink your blood,” Sir Janus grunted. Those who weren’t immersed in the dances or the drinks eyed our carriage with intrigued expressions. “They are our countrymen, Janus,” Captain Kiln replied. Sir Janus dismissed the Captain’s words with a movement of his hand and turned to face Elincia. “And that won’t stop them from stealing Robert from you if that improves their social standing.” Elincia extended her arm and closed the curtains and I covered my mouth with my hand to not laugh. “Don’t worry, Eli. I’m not letting anyone take me away from you,” I whispered into her ear. “If you don’t want to live the rest of your life fearing poisoned drinks, then you better behave,” Elincia replied. The carriage stopped, and the driver opened the door. An army of servants awaited us. Next to us, several other carriages dropped off their passengers and exited the premises. The newcomers were guided to the gardens by the servants while our carriage was left alone as if they knew we belonged inside. Captain Kiln was the first to jump out. She excused herself, saying she had to get ready for dinner, and disappeared through a lateral door. I wondered if a squire was nervously looking for her somewhere inside the Great Hall. “Our party is inside. Follow my lead,” Sir Janus said as he stretched his uniform. The driver announced our arrival, and Sir Janus stepped outside the carriage. I followed. The entrance of the Great Hall was decorated with assortments of multicolor light stones bundled around iron poles. I couldn’t help but think of them as candy trees. They looked delicious. Over the main entrance hung the banner of the golden stag, with the banner of the impaled Black Wolf hanging an echelon lower. The entrance was guarded by soldiers dressed in the colors of the seven Dukedoms. I offered my arm to Elincia, and we climbed the stairs. The attention of the commoners fell upon us as soon as they noticed we wouldn’t join them. They looked at us with curiosity, joining heads to exchange questions about our identity. I followed Sir Janus's advice and ignored them. It has been a while since I attended a party, not counting Ilya’s birthday. The guards let us through, and a horn-holding herald dressed in bright clothing, almost like a jester, guided us toward the ballroom. The hall was decorated with the same white canvas and dozens upon dozens of light stones. Despite the dusk setting outside, the Great Hall looked like a warm summer morning. The herald asked us to wait before a great double door carved with floral motifs. Sir Janus took a deep breath, fixed the medals on his chest, and checked the sword hanging from his belt. Then he fixed his medals again. I wondered what was on the other side of the door that could give the jitters to a high-level Imperial Knight. “Do you have class reunions in your land, Robert?” Sir Janus asked. “Yeah, I avoided them like the plague,” I replied. Before Sir Janus could add anything else, the herald returned accompanied by two masked individuals. To say they looked shady was to fall short. It wasn’t the golden masks that covered the Zealot’s faces but crude imitations of suffering human faces. They wore washed-out jackets and baggy pants adjusted at the ankles, giving them the appearance of dangerous vagrants. “Sniffers,” Sir Janus said. “Please stay still,” the herald said with perfunctory courtesy. The Sniffers circled us like wolves. They didn’t touch us but didn’t respect personal space either. I could sense their intrusive presence crawling beneath my skin; half skill, half something completely different. I wanted to push them away from me, but the royal crest on their shoulder prevented me from doing it. “That’s a curious ring. I wonder what it does,” one of the Sniffers said as he crouched and closely examined my hand. He had a masculine voice. Not a completely sane one. [Awareness] told me to run and nothing else. “The rings are connected. Not dangerous,” the other Sniffer scolded her companion. That one had a distinctive feminine voice. She soon lost interest in the ring on my hand and approached Elincia. “The woman… she has something interesting beneath her cloak.” The Sniffer’s attention fell on Elincia, who remained as a statue. “Show us, woman,” the male Sniffer said. Elincia opened her cloak and untied her potion belt. The Sniffers brought their faces close to the belt, to the point their noses almost touched it. I let my [Mana Mastery] take control over my senses, revealing the mana around me. The Sniffer’s eyes, nose, and even tongue shone with a dark mana similar to the one Sir Janus had conjured back during our fight against the thieves. They were casting an advanced detection skill. “Health, antidote, energy, no poison,” the man hissed between his teeth, disappointed. “Safe. The potions are safe,” the woman replied. “The potions are safe, but this one smells strange, yes?” the man lost interest in Elincia and got on all fours to examine my boots. Elincia breathed with ease as she strapped the potion belt around her waist. The eyes of the Sniffer shone with a dangerous glint as her partner circled me, still crouching. I wanted to shove them and ran away. There was something wrong with the mana they were using to fuel their abilities. “Yes, this one smells like faraway,” the woman replied. "Faraway, and something beyond. Beyond far away," the man said, sniffing my short cloak as if trying to pluck out its different aroma notes. "Beyond far away," the woman concurred as her eyes started to dilate. “Strange, very strange,” the man said. “Strange, very strange,” the woman replied. She had an unsavory look in her eyes. The herald looked at me with a worried expression as he brought his hand to the war horn on his belt. It wasn’t like I was carrying a bag of anthrax into the party. The Sniffers fell silent. “Strange is not dangerous, dog. Do as your master said,” Sir Janus suddenly grunted, making the Sniffers snap out of their trance. “They are clean,” the male Sniffer said. “They are clean,” the woman replied before turning around and walking down the corridor they had appeared from. Sir Janus snapped his fingers, and the herald opened the double doors. Rays of gold and silver emerged from the ballroom. The herald grabbed his horn and pulled it to his mouth, producing a deep sound that made the floor tremble. “Sir Janus, Swordmaster Robert Clarke, and Miss Elincia Rosebud from the Rosebud Fencing Academy,” the herald yelled louder than I thought humanly possible. Then, he moved aside and let us in. Streams of what could only be described as solid light flowed down the gilded candelabra on the ceiling, casting a warm glow on the ballroom’s pure white floor. In the same fashion as the audience room, the walls were decorated with intricate tapestries depicting scenes of a hunt. Silver chandeliers hung between the marble columns, giving streams of silver light that mixed and intertwined with their golden counterparts. Gilded mirrors covered the wall to my right, while enormous windows draped in red curtains allowed the last rays of sun to enter the room. Whoever had decorated the room deserved a raise. “I need a drink,” Sir Janus grunted as the welcoming committee came towards us. A tall, middle-aged man dressed in a black military dress with silvery appliqués and a long white cape crossed the ballroom with a decisive step. I recognized the colors of the House Osgiria. The man received us with a well-acted smile. He had short black hair and the rapacious eyes of a competent strategist. Instead of the usual ornate sword, a crude axe made of black metal hung from his belt. It wasn’t a magical artifact, yet it made me feel a strange void inside my stomach. After a moment, I understood why; the blade seemed to devour any mana particle that came in contact with it. An anti-magic weapon was bad news for me, so I made a mental note not to pick a fight with the guy. “Janus the Weasel, what an unsightly surprise,” the Osgirian soldier –or general considering his uniform– said with a condescending voice. “Still crying because a commoner beat you in your own game of intrigue?” Sir Janus replied with an arrogant tone. “I didn’t lose,” the Osgirian said. “You didn’t win either,” Sir Janus replied. Despite the unfriendly banter, Janus and the man shook hands. “This is Sir Enric Osgiria, cousin of Lord Osgiria, Great Marshall of the Osgirian Legion, and the coach of the Osgirian team for the tournament,” Sir Janus introduced the newcomer. “If you embarrass him and his team during the tournament, Robert, I will pay you a hundred gold coins.” Sir Enric elbowed Sir Janus as he passed by his side and focused his attention on me. Elincia grabbed the fold of her dress and made a deep curtsy without saying a word. Sir Enric barely noticed her. His eyes were intense to the point I was tempted to look away. In the same line as the Marquis, Captain Kiln, and Sir Janus, Sir Enric was a head taller than me and weighed twice as much. I wondered if every high-level combatant had that strongman physique. “I’m Robert Clarke, and this is my companion, Elincia Rosebud,” I introduced us. “So, you are the Scholar everyone is obsessed with. I thought you’d be older. Usually, fencing masters are seasoned soldiers,” Sir Enric said, examining my appearance. “No offense, of course.” Sir Enric’s eyes were keen, much like the Sniffers’. He wasn’t just inspecting my physical appearance but also trying to measure my combat capabilities. I knew it was going to be the same all night. I grinned. If Prince Adrien wanted to parade me in front of the nobles, I was ready to add a little spice to the mix. “No offense taken. I will be happy to have our students cross swords if you need more proof of my competence,” I calmly replied. Sir Janus stifled a laugh and gave me a slight nod. “I’m sure the opportunity will arise during the tournament,” Sir Enric said, regaining his composure. I couldn’t help but notice a hint of skepticism in his voice. It wasn’t a surprise. Lowborns rarely reached the upper echelons of society. After one last glance, Sir Enric turned around to face Janus again. “You should be careful, old friend. Your value lies in being the only commoner to graduate from the Imperial Academy. The moment more commoners start seeping into our ranks, you’ll stop being a legend,” Sir Enric said before turning around and returning to his group of military buddies. The pragmatism of Prince Adrien and the Marquis had made me forget about the separation between nobles and commoners. The hierarchy of this world wasn’t just about money, status, and bloodlines but a matter of potential, levels, and Classes. I massaged my temples, realizing we weren’t just competing against the best-prepared students of the kingdom but against the prejudice against commoners. A smile tugged at my lips, though. The more they underestimated us during the tournament, the easier it would be for us to score better results. I noticed Elincia was squeezing my hand. “That was intense,” she let out a deep sigh like she had been holding her breath during the conversation. “I swear I’ll never get used to dealing with high-level combatants.” I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary other than Sir Enric’s axe, even with my [Mana Mastery] assisting me in detecting mana fluctuations. Maybe my own mana pool made me insensitive to the power of others. “Let’s not block the way,” Sir Janus said, leading the way to the party. Despite not wanting to be too distracted, I fed a little bit of extra mana to [Awareness]. The skill suddenly came to life, bombarding me with information: the strange fabrics of the nobles’ garments, the enchanted jewels embedded in rings and necklaces, the furtive glances, unspoken words, and secret signals laid clear before my eyes. The party was the facade of a war zone. Political favors, trading, alliances —all concealed beneath the strange light from the chandeliers and the sweet music of the band. Some of the nobles were moved by honor, others by coin, others by power, and I needed to know who was which if I wanted to survive in this world. The last traces of nervousness left my body. Maybe it was [Awareness]’s rush of information interfering with my capacity to make decisions. Maybe it was the [Scholar] part of my brain, but I felt the necessity of playing the game. I needed to solve the puzzle before me. “I don’t like those eyes,” Elicia said. “I’ll be cautious,” I mindlessly replied. Elincia didn’t seem convinced but didn’t add more. As we moved through the ballroom, I noticed the lack of servants. [Awareness] fed me more information. Silver trays full of liquor glasses floated around the room, carried by invisible hands. In the corner, a small assembly of instruments played without a musician. On the tables set along the wall, drinks poured themselves. I did my best not to look amazed. I was about to grab an enchanted tray to examine whatever runes were engraved on the surface when Prince Adrien appeared in front of us. Unlike the rest of the nobles, the prince was dressed in simple clothes. A pearl white shirt with delicate lace around the low neckline, heavy ruffles down the collar, and high-waisted blue pants. No trace of the royal colors other than the rings on his hand. His white, wavy hair was combed back like the rest of the men. A plain sheath with a simple sword, devoid of all decoration, hung from his belt. “Robert and Elincia, finally someone interesting to talk to!” Prince Adrien said, loud enough for his voice to be heard over the music. The show had begun. [Awareness] instantly warned me about a dozen pairs of eyes falling upon us. “Good evening, My Lord. It’s a pleasure to see you here,” I greeted with a formal bow. “Don’t be so stiff. You are making me feel self-conscious,” the Prince laughed. Was he already drunk, or was he playing a character? The other nobles didn’t seem surprised in the slightest, which made me think we were threading known waters. I didn’t need [Awareness] to notice their jealous eyes. Prince Adrien was putting me in a dangerous position, as expected. Soon, everyone would want to meet the mysterious Scholar who had the Crowned Prince enthralled. “I beg your pardon, Prince Adrien,” I said, giving him the initiative of the conversation. “I’ll forgive you. You are not familiar with the local customs after all. It’s a long way to the other side of the Farlands,” the Prince said, hiding a mischievous grin. “It’s a long way indeed,” I replied. Whispers rose all around us. The bait was planted, and the beasts were hungry. Captain Kiln was right when she told me nobles would crave entertainment. I wondered how much information the Marquis and Prince Adrien had fed the public about me. Would the nobles even believe there was something beyond the Farlands? I was a little too close to being branded as a charlatan to my liking. With a subtle movement of his hand, Prince Adrien summoned a silver tray and offered us a drink. We each took a glass of wine, and the tray continued its slithering way. A short sip revealed a fruity, soft flavor with barely any touch of alcohol. From the other side of the ballroom, Sir Enric glanced at us with interest. “It seems everyone is here,” Prince Adrien said as the herald announced the arrival of the Marquis and Captain Kiln. The Marquis wore his usual black and red gala uniform, an amalgamation of a party dress and a military uniform. It took me a moment to recognize Captain Kiln, even with [Awareness] working in the background of my mind. She had shed her usual stained plate armor for a proper crimson dress with gold embroidery. Not only her face and arms were covered in scars, but her shoulders too. “Those are sick scars,” Elincia whispered near my ear. The Marquis grabbed a glass of wine from one of the magic trays and raised it into the air. The music decreased its volume, and the guests met in the center. As expected, the Marquis went directly to the point. “Today, we observe the thirtieth anniversary of the biggest catastrophe in Farcrest history: the Forest Warden Monster Surge. Many strong men and women paid with their lives to protect Farcrest and the kingdom, including my grandfather, Stephaniss of Farcrest, and my older brother, Rikard. To them, I say: Farcrest still thrives!” The Marquis's voice filled the room. A round of applause rose. He did well in reminding everyone we were the ones who fought in the frontline against the Farlands. It served to solidify our presence, even if Farcrest was insignificant compared to the big three dukedoms. “Let’s leave our worries outside and enjoy the night,” The Marquis raised his glass. The nobles cheered. Suddenly, half a dozen Fortifiers emerged from the crowd and channeled mana to the palm of their hands. Two of them were dressed in the colors of the royal family, two with the colors of the House Osgiria, one with the olive tree of House Gairon, and the last had the hammer crest of House Herran. I focused on the show. Their spells intertwined to raise a multicolor barrier around the ballroom and the adjacent rooms. I didn’t need [Awareness] to understand we were cut off from the rest of the world. ____________ First | Prev | Next ____________ Discord | Royal Road | Patreon submitted by /u/ralo_ramone to r/HFY [link] [comments]

Disclaimer: Fashion and style have become so much more open, individual and fun. Honestly...if you want to keep rockin' a skinny jean in your Christian Girl Fall...Forevermore... go for it! Edit: this phrasing seems to be confusing and upsetting people. It's a pop culture meme from 2020 I didn't make it up FYI! But I've gotten an influx of questions about "what IS the look now?!" from people who are going back to the office, want a fresh start, are catching up with shopping post-'demic, going out more often, want to overhaul their wardrobe and don't know where to start. One really great source for on-trend but not fashion victim advice: Wardrobe Oxygen's "For Grown Ass Women" series Resource: Pinterest board with some interesting and on-trend outfits I picked plus and fuller bodies because that's a concern for many--how do I look up to date while being plus or having a fuller mid-section, bust, thighs, etc. Resource: take inspiration from "Heaven by Marc Jacobs" your eyes may burn, but you'll get the idea of what the "look" is Most of these looks would 100% fly today, even though they're 70s, 80s, and 90s See this gal: she's got several trends on at once ribbons, dopamine dressing, sheer, candy apple red, Grandpa chic, 90s redux, cowboy boots Wrong shoes, sheer, 90s redux, Grandpa chic, chunky v neck 3 button cardigan, moto boots again, very trendy Now compare to this 2013 street style knee length skirt, slightly fitted tee, statement necklace, pumps *link fixed! Or this tucked in button front, pencil skirt, pumps, statement necklace, very matchy-matchy Or this cutsey intarsia, knee length lady like vintage skirt, carpetbag vintage purse, slim line dainty shoes, overall 1950s twee look. Colorful cropped/rolled chino pants, a button front peeking out of an embellished sweater, sky-high stiletto heels see how dated that looks to our eyes now? Let's dive in: Proportions: For the last 15-ish years until about 2019 or so, the look was slim--skinny jeans, tight knee high boots, maybe a chunky slouchy sweater, but more like a slim fit button down with a slim v neck merino sweater on top. Pencil skirts with belted sweaters, sheath dresses, cropped cigarette pants, slim waterfall cardigans, bias cut midi skirts + tissue thin tees. The overarching look was preppy with touches of girlish twee whimsy, upgrading from "indie sleeze" skinny jeans + tank tops with a "rock star girlfriend" look. Pattern matching (florals and stripes especially) was big. A very carefully coordinated and curated look was in. In the 2020s it's "big pants, little top" OR "loose over loose" in a very general sense. Big square oversized men's tees over maxi skirts + sneakers. Baby tees + cargo pants. Slim knit ribbed sweaters with 90s jeans. Corset tops with rip-stop nylon sporty drawstring skirts. We're still seeing a lot of influence of "slow fashion" looks--very work-wear linen boxy over boxy, clogs, jean jackets, slouchy chunky sweaters, jumpsuits or boilersuits, high waisted snug jeans with a belt + a camp shirt. Trend: Dopamine dressing: bright colors, wild prints, playful prints, art prints. Lisa Says Gah and Fashion Brand Company are two brands that make referential, odd, conversation piece items. Power clashing, and bold colors are key. Trend: 90s redux. So the office siren look--slouchy low slung pinstripe pants with a shrunken waistcoat (nothing underneath) and smudged red lips, quiet luxury separates, Prada everything, but also the sporty-chic nylon, luggage straps, paracording, reflective brights, canvas, quilted outerwear, drawstrings, anorak looks. Trend: dark academia/cottagecore. This is a bit past its prime, but for those who are taking baby steps away from skinny jeans, you can still work this for sure. This is dark florals, Victorian puff sleeves, big twirly cloaks and capes, maxi skirts + lace up prairie boots, baroque jewelry, curly hair, wire rimmed glasses. Cottage core overlaps with workwear: boilersuits, calico, ribbons, prairie looks, knee high cable knit socks, corduroy everything, hand-knit sweaters with hay in them, linen, wool, silk, leather, cotton, denim, Doc Martens and Converse. Dark Academia is cottagecore + a gothic vibe. Trend: wrong [item] mostly 'wrong shoes'. Dainty Mary Jane shoes with basketball shorts and a sweatshirt. Sneakers with a gown. Loafers with a mini dress. Socks + pumps or sandals. The deliberate, in your face challenging "ugliness" we saw in the 90s is on the fringes of the hot style now. Trend: ribbons and bows. Honestly y'all, this is tough one for the over-35. But the overall balletcore, coquette and Selkie/For Love and Lemons/Love Shack Fancy vibe is strong. Tying ribbons on whatever is a thing. Consider ribbon neckties, a ribbon around your wrist, a ribbon belt, or a big lush velvet hair ribbon. My predictions: 80s Pierrot and/or clowncore is about to hit big--we're already tiptoeing towards it with bows everywhere, big high waisted pants, cowboy boots, stripes/plaid. It's a natural extension of balletcore and dopamine dressing. Western Gothic: dark Academia + dark boho Western. Fringe, dark botanicals, all black, leather, suede, and a mix of desert/witch influences. 20's Patou style pants with a tunic, "Far East" looks with pants + tunic, extreme dropped waists, tube dresses or hobble dresses, big cocoon coats, bobs + barrettes. I've already seen a 20's bob + side barrette on Nicole Kidman in Expats (new TV show). Sliding into 30s Dust Bowl chic in the last 2020s I predict as well. Flour sack dresses, aprons as fashion, wild coming-undone braids, 'silver nitrate contour' + hollowed out eyes makeup, men's dress shoes + slouchy socks + day dresses. Just watch, I predicted it first. Going out: it's not a "going out top" and jeans, people. It's denim on denim with a big ol' double-G belt, a corset top + leather or pleather pants, a bodysuit + jeans, an ultra-mini dress + moto boots, a sports jersey + no visible pants + heels, a slip dress + sneakers, a band tee + engineer stripe flares, a backless/strappy/cutout top + cargo pants, and for day, brunch dresses + sneakers. Overall: embellishment and lots of detail aren't really in right now. It's mostly prints, patterns, volume, texture, or a "clean girl" look. Embroidery in particular feels a bit dated, unless it's thick yarn on a chunky cropped sweater or intarsia style. Novelty prints like little foxes, birds, etc--those are "out". Statement necklaces, brocade boots, arm parties--those are out. I've noticed Gen Z is wearing TONS of gold jewelry but in a new way: multiple earrings, stacked rings, and coordinated chains with pendants or charms. A "curated ear" is the new arm party. I personally have been rocking a thin rigid ankle bracelet--almost a bangle style-- from Jenny Bird because I think those are coming back. Workwear: Shoes: lug sole loafers, kitten heels, street sneakers (leather or suede), wider-shaft boots, sling-back flats and sandals, mules of all kinds Pants: wide leg, straight leg, carrot/barrel, full length or at ankle. High waisted generally. Tops: natural waist tops of all kind, 90s silk tops, camp shirts, Victorian-style eyelet, bishop sleeves, or piecrust collars, slouchy sweaters, big chunky 3-button cardigans over polished tees, button fronts but cropped to natural waist/boxy. We are getting closer to the revival of the peplum (which I am here for and always have been). Toppers: oversized slouchy borrowed from the boys suit jacket (not part of matching suit), jean jacket, varsity style sweaters, long boxy square thicker "kimono" style dusters/toppers--almost lab-coat style, maxi cardigans in a lush material like angora Suits: pant suits in interesting colors, casual drapey 90s Armani style suits Alright, add your 2 cents! Let's avoid "no way/cold dead hands/I've been wearing my Gap chinos since 2002 and I'll die in them" type of remarks. If trends isn't for you, that's cool, but keep it pushin'. submitted by /u/Chazzyphant to r/fashionwomens35 [link] [comments]

(Not how girls or anklets work) submitted by /u/Starboard_Pete to r/NotHowGirlsWork [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/DrTheodoreKaczynski to r/serialkillers [link] [comments]

The Bloodroyal's Manse, King's Landing The fifth day of the first moon of the three-hundredth-and-sixtieth year since Aegon's Conquest. Olyvar Yronwood's perspective. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The first day had been all about settling it, seeing the rooms filled in, the kitchens brought alive, the servants set to task, and the guards stationed about and made ready for the swarms of pompous Reachmen, rowdy Stormlords (or rather, was it Slaynelords now..?), sycophantic Crownlords, ravenous Westermen, barbarous Ironborn, quarreling Riverlords, treacherous Valemen, and fetid Northmen. But worse yet, were their own countrymen. With those, Olyvar found himself thinking, they would have to treat. He liked nothing less than grand socialisation. Nothing at all. Even war had left a better taste in the mouth. At least he had his birds. A pair of quaint little bluejays. Not quite domestic to Dorne, but what was domestic when one was an Yronwood. Silver, gems, a fortune of that sort, it was enough to buy pride and forlorn hope. So why should it not buy a pair of bluejays. A mating pair, at that. "At least you understand me.." Olyvar murmured to himself. His own chambers were grand, awfully so. The four poster bed, with silks all around, hanging from the mast and covering the windows alike. The windows. Truly the worst sort of extravagance. The bed was a featherbed, of course, Olyvar expected nothing less, though not out of pride, he often reminded himself, he appreciated such inner-clarity, it was.. Important. Important in a way many forgot. But rather, expected it because he was, Olyvar Yronwood... Heir to Yronwood, Bloodroyal after his mother, the whole damned lot. The floor was covered in hides. Deer? Elk? Bear? Wolf? A good many looked far too similar for Olyvar to tell apart. It was a sad thing, in a sense, but even he, even he with his great love of animals, was known to wear the pelt of a shadowcat about his shoulders. "I wonder.." Olyvar mused aloud, "will mother have us all wed by the fortnight's end, or two.." The young Yronwood glanced up to the ceiling. Awfully high. The whole room was just awful. What use had he of a bed so absurdly large? He was not Yorick, nor Wyl. He had done well with far less while at the Citadel. Far less. Gods there had been peace in that . . . Yet.. As much as he hated to admit it, he did want a wife. He did want to know the feel of a woman. He did want to know what all the fuss was about, what Yorick and Wyl went on about with such unending fascination. Truly. It was a mystery to him. How could the things between a woman's legs and a man's arse cheeks be oh so endearing? Surely they looked none too fair. These thoughts had soured the young heir's demeneaor, his face had turned to a frown as he now found himself lying back on the featherbed, his member pressing against the tight of his pants. "Mother told me to take a serving girl once, you know." There was no one else in the room. "To just take one. Like that. She never specified, I don't think she cared. She never told Yorick or Wyl that ..I think." Olyvar paused, his mind grinding over behind his eyes. He knew how to drain a wound of puss, how to tell the bite of a banded snake from a cobra, how to judge how long a man had after a dance with a black adder, even a little about the big beasts of the seas, sharks! He could tell the tracks of a mastiff from the tracks of a wild dog in an instant, and he knew just where to rub a garron to calm it, just as he knew how to break a destrier, and how to convince a courser to mate. But people? People. Olyvar shuddered at the thought. Gods he would need luck when it came time to find a wife. At least he had his name, on that front. The doors suddenly burst open. "Oi! Get up!" Yorick. Always Yorick. "What?" Olyvar spat back. "Can you not entertain yourself and your whores without my presence?" The young heir rolled over, lying flat on his face, his feet hanging off the end of his bed. "Mother. Wants. Us. Down. Stairs." Yorick replied as he grabbed hold of Olyvar's ankles and yanked him off his bed. "Ow!" Olyvar exclaimed, visibly perturbed. "She's having guests, or something. She wants to show us off, I suppose. And she said others could drop by, and that we have to be on our best behaviour now." Yorick continued, mocking the sentiment. "Fun..." Olyvar groaned. "Man up, you'll be receiving a bride soon enough." Olyvar scoffed. "And you won't?" "'Course not! Mother knows I'm about other business." Yorick replied all too boastfully. "We're all getting brides, Yorick." Olyvar explained as he climbed up from the floor and dusted himself off. "She has a plan in that head, and without a doubt in my mind, it involves all three of us wedding and bedding noble ladies." "Horse piss!" Yorick shot back. "Horse piss?! Hah!" Olyvar laughed. "You know what happened to grandfather, and grandfather's father before him." "'Course I do." "Good. Mother isn't going to be allowing a repeat of that anytime soon. Probably going to ensalve you and I to Dornish women, and ship Wyl off to some grand affair, if she can manage it." "Dornish women, eh?" Yorick pondered aloud. "Then I'll take the Princesses." "What? Both of them?" "Why not? One for mornings and one for evenings." "You're not even awake in the mornings." Yorick frowned. He knew it was true. Olyvar could see it on his face. "I don't know, Yorick.. Toland or Dayne or.. Something!" Olyvar shrugged his shoulders in frustration. "We're all going to be wed soon, Yorick. Best get used to it." That was it, Olyvar made his way out the door, leaving Yorick stunned for only a moment or two before he heard his larger brother's footsteps behind him. Now he's quiet, Olyvar mused. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Open thread! Feel free to enter the Yronwood manse. Naturally, the guards outside would search you and relieve you of any weapons and guards of your own before entering. Once inside, you will be led to the Bloodroyal and her sons. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The manse's solar was well-spaced, with lounges and cushions in the Dornish fashion, low to the ground and with plenty of room for lying, lazing, and general relaxing. In the middle of the oval-shaped room, were what must have been two dozen different couches and cushions made of fine silks and noble furs, all coloured in extreme variation, from golden yellows, to ruby reds, to emerald greens, and sapphire blues, but only to name a few, while in their own centre stood a long and slender glass table, its feet made of gilded steel with ornate carvings to meet the mahogany of the floor. Atop it sat all sorts of of uncommon cuisine. From honeyed scorpions to ripe oranges, from braised lamb baked in a mango sauce, to roasted duck smelling of cherries and mint, to a great selection of fruits and wines, all of the Dornish sort, of course, the solar no doubt smelt thoroughly perplexing to any foreigner who would enter it that day. So too were braziers lit bright at both far ends of the solar, as the sun's light filled the room and bathed all in attendance in what these Crownlanders called 'warmth'. Additionally, fine candles with soothing smells burned throughout the room, and behind them all, on the furthest wall, a great wooden door, with what rested behind, stolen from view. All the while, a half dozen servants stood stern and dutiful, awaiting their lady's command. So too did a young boy, no older than two-and-ten, if one were to guess at an extreme, stand behind the Bloodroyal herself, a ward, one might posit. By the entrance way, and behind the Bloodroyal again, stood two pairs of guards. Never could one be too careful. All the while, the Bloodroyal herself lounged in a fine golden silk, her figure stalking the eye of any who entered and dared not look away, as her curves were by no means hidden. The Bloodroyal's yellow blonde hair thrown back free over her shoulder as she rested on her side. Yet the show was not over, for so too did the Bloodroyal wear jewels and wealth so very foreign to most that she herself was a ransom well-received. Upon her forearms were a pair of silver cuff bracelets, with golden trim, and rubies mounting their centre, three a piece. While a loose silver chain hung about her throat, and silver once more hung from her ears, holding rubies of a similar sort to those on her arms. As for the Bloodroyal's feet, she wore no shoes. She had need for none. And in her free hand, an orange half-drained awaited her carefree appetite. Olyvar, the heir to Yronwood, stood by the far balcony, his gaze out on the city, and the harbour. He too was dressed finely, a deep red satin shirt, the buttons left loose to hang, drawing a V down his torso, and black pants in fine companionship. So too were the young heir's boots of such a similar black. While from the heir's left ear, hung a series of loose golden links, a queer fashion to many, no doubt, but one Olyvar liked all the same. So too did a fine gold band with encrusted blood-red rubies hang about his throat. Yorick, in contrast, had almost abandoned his own satin shirt. His was sapphire blue, and hung entirely loose upon his towering torso. The tallest in the solar without the slightest bit of doubt - and the widest at the shoulders - his trousers were of a deep yellow, while his boots of an unquestioning chocolate brown. Unlike Olyvar, he wore no jewels. And finally, Wyl, for his part, like his mother, wore no shoes. While unakin to his brothers, wore loose-fitting and free-hanging pants made of silk akin to his shirt, the both of which were in a striking golden livery, with silver and ruby red hems, with no buttons of which to speak. All three of the Yronwood brothers had loose copper brown hair, and olive green eyes to match. submitted by /u/MadeMyHorseHotK to r/ARealmOfDragonsRP [link] [comments]

Iholei clothing tends towards the more utilitarian side of things, with ornamentation and general flashyness reserved for jewelry and other such accessories. There is very little in the way of taboo concerning nakedness for the Iholei, although it is considered somewhat immature to continue to forgo clothing after starting to raise children, especially in the case of women. If the weather permits, it's widely acceptable to go about one's day, practice one's craft, or even fight in the nude. For the Iholei, clothing is meant to cover the body -- to keep it warm, keep the sun off, or protect against rain and the occasional snow. Yhl's climate is highly variable, owing to both the island's hilly terrain and location within the direct path of Corsu's Breath, and as such the styles of dress worn by the Iholei are heavily influenced by which part of the island they call home, although the basics of Iholei clothing remain fairly consistent across the island. Clothes The most basic part of any Iholei's wardrobe is the Soveddu, which at it's most basic is a simple long loincloth, which typically extends to the middle of the thigh or to the knees, and is fully open to the sides. However, a more skirt-like variant of the Soveddu is also widely worn across the island, and especially at higher elevations. In summertime in the lowlands and on the coast, the process of getting dressed may well stop here for many Iholei, if they even bother to get dressed at all. But in some cases, a desire to keep the sun off of one's back or to be prepared for the island's unpredictable rainfalls means that it's not unusual to see even the inhabitants of the island's warmest regions wearing more than just their Soveddu. Typically, the second (and often final) layer of clothing worn by the Iholei is the Dochidu, a large square piece of fabric fastened at the shoulder so that the wearer's dominant hand is free. A sash (Vurzacca) -- either made from hides or wool -- goes around the wearer's waist, and the excess fabric over the wearer's non-dominant arm flows freely in order to form a sort of half-cape. Alternatively, a piece of clothing called a Stihu -- basically a poncho -- can be worn in the place of a dochidu. Largely exclusive to women is the Adonu, yet another single piece of square cloth, but this time simply tied around the chest or waist, meant to fall to the wearer's middle thigh or to their knees, although some upper-class women will wear variants that fall to their ankles. Wearing an adonu that stretches past the knees is typically to be considered a sign of affluence. During the winter months in the mountainous regions of the island, especially in the high peaks of the Nargentu mountains, some Iholei, especially the elderly, will opt to wear a Gaporhu, essentially a large blanket or mantle that can either be fastened at the shoulder or simply draped around the wearer. Traditionally made of wool, the gaporhu is emblematic of the mountain clans, as few other inhabitants of the island would have a use for such a heavy piece of clothing. In the summer months, these cloaks are used as makeshift one-man shelters during hunting expeditions. Footwear is possibly the most regionally variable aspects of Iholei clothing. Lowlanders and coastal islanders often will just wear sandals or go barefoot. In the mountains, boots are somewhat more common, although sandals are still present at lower altitudes, and during the summer. A type of footwear exclusive to the mountains is the Vafolu, a thick-soled slipper made from pika or shrew furs. Many forms of footwear worn on Yhl also incorporate hobnailed soles, especially shoes worn for fighting or hunting purposes. Footwear is typically removed upon entering an inhabited area, if weather permits. At the very minimum, shoes must be removed upon entering a home, temple, or Nurha. Accessories The most common form of accessorizing among the Iholei comes in the form of a stone or metal pendant called a Reggeri, a protective amulet whose form tends to vary from place to place, but are typically reminiscent of the figure-eight shields used by the islanders. These pendants will also often be marked with small carvings, such as an evil eye or rudimentary images of the colossi. Bracelets and anklets are common among women and children as well, typically made from copper or bronze, with upper-class individuals wearing jewelry with semi-precious stones or obsidian beads added. Rings are common only among messengers or envoys, and are usually stamped with an image that identifies a particular Nurha or Torru. Piercings, especially facial piercings, are not uncommon among both genders, but are typically more common among women, except in the Golla and Vurzacca mountains, where men also wear them with regularity. Piercings are typically iron or bronze, although in recent years gold has also become highly sought for the purpose of piercings. Women typically pierce their eyebrows, ears and noses, while tongue and mouth piercings are more common among men. Perhaps the most iconic Iholei accessory is the Vurzacca, a sash or belt typically made from hides, furs, corded rope, or various types of leather. Often fringed or decorated with beads, all Iholei wear at least one vurzacca, typically as soon as they're old enough to walk, using it to style their clothing or carry pouches. Men will often wear more than one, with one vurzacca used to keep their dochidu close to their body, and the second used to carry a knife and/or sword. Iholei blades are accessories in and of themselves, and it's a foolish and under-dressed traveler who sets out into the wilds of the island without at least a long-bladed knife tucked into his vurzacca. Perhaps the only article of clothing that's more iconic than the vurzacca is the Galuddoni, a wooden mask worn by mountain raiders. These masks are made custom for their wearer, and as such come in a variety of styles, although a leering humanoid face is the most common, along with goatlike versions made from hides. The image of a pack of raiders from the mountains, clad in their galuddoni masks and howling out their warcries, is a sight that is both unwelcome and widely seen all across Yhl. submitted by /u/Topesc to r/HistoricalWorldPowers [link] [comments]

submitted by /u/NatleysWhores to r/politics [link] [comments]

Leicester City (pronounced Les-ter), or the Foxes, are a relatively insignificant team. They are often fighting for a mid-table place in the Premier League, just as often slugging it out in lower leagues. The way the league works is simple: 20 teams play against each other, at home and away, adding up to 38 matches in total. You get 3 points for a win, 1 for a draw, 0 for a loss, and the team with the most points at the end of the season wins. Unlike in American sports, there are no playoffs in the Premier League. This means that a team can't make it to the playoffs, then catch fire and take the trophy home. No one wins the Premier League by luck or by going on a hot streak at just the right time. They win by being consistently the best over the course of a year. It's not at all unusual for an underdog team to get off to a great start, before eventually dropping down the table as their good form inevitably wears off. It's a long and psychologically grueling season, and it's difficult to keep up the same level over a year, especially once star players get injuries. Over the course of an entire season, the top teams rise to where they belong. A team can easily finish last despite beating the eventual champions. Imagine if the Miracle on Ice players had to play in a league over an entire year - would they finish above the Soviet Union? A title-winning team needs not just to have star players, but also a sufficiently deep squad so that other top quality players can step in when the stars are injured. This is why "little" teams simply do not win the league. In addition, the Premier League is ruthlessly capitalist. Teams that finish poorly don't get first pick of promising young players, but are instead severely punished with relegation (more on that in the next paragraph). There are no salary caps. The teams with the most money buy up the best players, and those that win trophies and enter elite competitions like the Champions League get huge cash prizes, and attract even more top players, perpetuating the cycle of inequality. Top teams also have the best trainers, the best physios, the best facilities, the best talent scouts. There is a huge disparity in resources and quality between the top teams and the bottom ones, and no real mechanisms to even things up. The same teams almost always finish in the top 4. From 1992-2015 only five teams won the Premier League. The last time a team won the league without having won it before was 38 years ago. Finishing in the bottom 3 positions (out of 20) is not just humiliating; it's utterly disastrous. It means being relegated to a lower division, which means a subsequent loss of TV money, less fans coming to the stadium since they won't get to see any games against "big" teams and players, and an inevitable loss of that team's best players, who don't want to settle for playing in the lower divisions, and whose salaries the club probably can't afford with the reduced income. Meanwhile, the top 2 finishing teams from the lower division secure automatic promotion, while those who place 3-6 will go to a playoff to decide who will clinch that third promotion spot. The promotion and relegation system makes the stakes incredibly high, and a team that has been relegated may struggle years to go back to the top flight, if they ever make it back at all. Ok, back to Leicester. An 18th-place finish in the 2003-04 season saw Leicester relegated to the Championship (the second division of English football). The next few years they would struggle to retain their position in the Championship. After a poor 2007-08 season, they sank even lower to League One (which, confusingly, is the third division of English football). They would climb their way back out of League One at the first attempt. The following season, Leicester were widely touted as favourites to win promotion back to the Premier League, but the next three seasons would prove disappointing. In 2013 they finally barely snuck into 6th place, high enough to secure a place in the play-offs for a promotion spot, but lost in absolutely incredible fashion to Watford. It was the semi-final of the play-offs, a two-legged tie. Leicester saw out the first match in a 1-0 win. Next they had to go to Watford to see out the tie. Watford fought back on their turf, and as the match was winding down the score was 2-1, meaning that on aggregate they stood tied at 2-2. Extra time, and perhaps a penalty shootout beckoned. Then, with just a few seconds left on the clock, Leicester were awarded a penalty to book their spot into the final. What happened next... I will not even describe. Do yourself a favour and watch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nWSc3-NACSY Following this heartbreak, Leicester would come back stronger, finishing in first place in 2013-14, securing automatic promotion after 10 years out of the top flight. Their first season back started promisingly, with a few initial decent results, most notably a stunning 5-3 win over Manchester United. Then misery followed, and after months of terrible results Leicester sat rock bottom with only 9 matches left to play. It looked certain that the door back into the Championship stood open after just one season with the big boys. Incredibly, Leicester managed to win 7 of their last 9 matches to secure probably the most miraculous escape in Premier League history, finishing the season safely in 14th place. Scandal struck the club during the summer. A sex tape of three Foxes players having an orgy in a Bangkok hotel room with some Thai women leaked out. The players shouted racist abuse including "slit eye." One of the players happened to be the son of Foxes manager Nigel Pearson. Leicester's Thai owner was not amused, and Pearson and the three players were subsequently let go. The inspirational manager who had dragged Leicester out of the Championship and led them to that miraculous escape would not be there to guide the ship the following season. No one was particularly impressed with Pearson's replacement, Claudio Ranieri. He had not managed any Premier League team since Chelsea in 2004 – back in 2004 he was shown the door by new billionaire investor Roman Abramovich, who felt Ranieri wasn’t a sufficiently glamorous manager and brought in Jose Mourinho. Ranieri had since had mixed success with various Italian teams, and his most recent job was manager of Greece – a job that ended in disgrace after just a few months, following a humiliating defeat by the Faroe Islands (yes, that place with a population of 50 thousand which is not even a country). In retrospect, there was a precedent for what Ranieri was about to do with Leicester - in two seasons at Monaco he led the club out of the French Ligue 2 (less confusingly, the second division in France) and the next season finished in second place with 80 points, the highest points tally ever achieved by a team in the French league without winning. Still, he had been unbelievably unimpressive at Greece. Things did not look good for Leicester. Ranieri was the odds-on favourite to be the first to lose his job. Their squad was made up mostly of unknown players and a few scraps from the table of bigger clubs, including Robert Huth and Danny Simpson, discarded from Chelsea and Manchester United, respectively, for not being good enough (Huth, in fairness, had since made a name for himself as a rock-solid defender at Stoke, but he seemed by now to be past his prime). Their most expensive signing of the summer was N’Golo Kante, brought in from French team Caen - not exactly a blockbuster signing. With this context, it's easy to understand why, going into the 2015-16 season, Leicester were favourites for relegation. Leicester came flying out in their first match with a 4-2 win over Sunderland, and went undefeated their first 6 matches, the only Premier League team to do so. After a 2-5 spanking at home by contenders Arsenal, their hot streak appeared to be over, and the universe seemed to be back in order. Undeterred, the Foxes would continue flying. They played extremely energetic, rapid, and deadly counter-attacking football. They were well organized at the back, with all the players knowing their jobs, doing them well, winning the ball and getting it quickly into one of their devastating counter-attacks, sprinting across the pitch like a pack of wild, well, foxes. And three previously unknown quantities – N’Golo Kante, Riyad Mahrez, and Jamie Vardy, started pulling off astonishing performances. As they continued winning week after week, the pundits picked up on a fascinating statistic: 28-year-old goalscorer Jamie Vardy was about to become a record-breaker. But first, more about Vardy. If you thought this was an impressive rags-to-riches story up until now, you haven’t heard anything yet. Jamie Vardy dreamt of being a professional footballer, but at the age of 16 he was released from the youth academy of Sheffield Wednesday, a team now playing in the Championship. He wasn’t cut out for it. Nevertheless Vardy kept playing semi-professionally for minnows Stocksbridge Park Steels, a team in the seventh tier of English football. He would spend 7 years there, working 12-hour shifts at a factory to support himself and playing on the weekends for £30 a match. At one point, after being charged with assault (according to Vardy, he was sticking up for a deaf friend that was being picked on), he had a 6pm curfew enforced and had to wear an ankle bracelet. Sometimes he had to be subbed off an hour into a match so he could jump into his dad's car to avoid breaking his curfew. After some impressive displays, he was signed by Halifax Town, a team then in the sixth tier. He finished as the league’s top goalscorer and helped his team win promotion before signing for Fleetwood Town, now in the fifth tier. Again he finished top scorer, and again he helped his team win promotion. His impressive performances got him a call from Leicester. Finally, in 2012, at the age of 25, when most players would expect to have a few years of experience behind them, Vardy could call himself a pro. Vardy’s first season was poor, prompting criticism from sceptical fans: what the hell was Leicester thinking, signing a player from three divisions below? However in the 2013-14 season he started showing what he could do, and his 16 goals helped Leicester to get back into the Premier League. Early on in the next season, he turned in a man-of-the-match performance against Manchester United, scoring one goal and setting up the other four in that 5-3 win. Along with the rest of his team, he would fail to make much of a mark for the rest of the season, but came to life at the crucial moment, playing a key role in Leicester’s miraculous escape. Like Leicester, Vardy got off to a blistering start to the 2015-16 season, scoring in the first match of the season. Failing to net in the next two games, he then scored again in the fourth match. And in the fifth. And in the sixth. Twice in the seventh. He scored again in the eighth. Twice in the ninth. And in the tenth. By the twelfth match of the season, Jamie Vardy, who five years earlier worked in a factory, was the top goalscorer of the most competitive league in the world, and he had now scored nine games in a row. The Premier League record for goals scored in most consecutive matches, 10, had been set in 2002 by Manchester United legend Ruud van Nistelrooy, one of the greatest attacking players since the new millennium. Could Vardy match the great van Nistelrooy? Could he ever: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUKsTmDjEb0 Having equaled the record, there was one more challenge left: could he BEAT it? Well, what better opposition to go for it than against Manchester United themselves? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ot80PrLmkv0 By the way, did I mention that Vardy did all of this with a broken wrist? At the end of 2015, Leicester made history: they were the only team to ever go from being bottom of the league on Christmas Day one season to top of the league on Christmas Day the next season. Meanwhile, Ranieri got his revenge over Abramovich and Mourinho: Leicester City's victory over Chelsea on December 14 was the final straw in an incomprehensibly dreadful season for defending champions Chelsea. Jose Mourinho, the glamorous manager brought in all those years ago to replace the unfashionable Ranieri, was fired from his second stint at the club that catapulted him to true stardom. Thanks for playing, Leicester, everyone said. But it’s time for the fairytale to end. Surely these plucky underdogs would start to feel the pressure, would fall apart at some point? Last weekend was the true test. Leicester faced title favourites Manchester City. Manchester City, until very recently, were a club mired in mediocrity, having undergone a long decline after some golden years in the late 60s. In 2008, the club was purchased by the Abu Dhabi United Group, a private equity company owned by Sheik Mansour bin Zayed al Nahyan, a member of the Abu Dhabi royal family. Overnight, this once middling team was one of the richest in the world. A slew of huge money signings brought a wealth of talented players, finally translating into first place success in the league in 2012 and 2014. Manchester City are for many a symbol of everything that is wrong with the hyper-capitalist world of football: all you need is a billionaire investor with a blank check, and the success will come. Just to put the gap in resources into context between these two teams: Leicester’s starting line-up cost a grand total of £22.5 million to put together. Last summer, Manchester City brought in Raheem Sterling for a reported £49 million. That’s right: ONE of Manchester City’s players cost more than TWICE AS MUCH money as Leicester’s ENTIRE first team put together. Surely, surely, order would be restored? Well, Leicester hadn’t read the script. http://www.fullmatchesandshows.com/2016/02/06/manchester-city-vs-leicester-city-highlights-full-match/ It was vintage Leicester: good organisation combined with terrifyingly fast counter-attacks. They went to the richest team in the country, and they didn’t just beat them. They carved them apart, repeatedly, in front of their fans, on their own turf. And they did it in a thrilling, entertaining way that was an advertisement to everyone about why this sport is so great. Player-of-the-season Riyad Mahrez was at his scintillating best, bamboozling the Manchester City defence with a brilliant goal. N'Golo Kante was huge in midfield, charging down the ball and starting counter-attacks. Robert Huth, the Chelsea reject, was a beast at the back and bagged himself two goals. Leicester now sit five points clear on first place. They are well over the halfway mark. No one is talking any longer about when they will fall away. They are odds-on favourites to take the whole thing. If they do, it will be an unbelievable accomplishment. This weekend, they travel to London to take on contenders Arsenal, one of only two teams who have beaten them (the other being Liverpool) early in the season. Whatever happens, it will be thrilling. EDIT: LEICESTER ARE CHAMPIONS. UNBELIEVABLE. Since more people are being linked to this post I've added a couple more explanations on how the league system basically works, for those that know very little, and corrected a couple factual inaccuracies (yes, Manchester City fans, you are absolutely right, Leicester and Man City did not have a similar amount of titles before 2008, sorry about that). Also bet365 has 100/1 odds on Leicester winning the Champions League next season. It's not quite 5000/1 but it might be worth putting a quid on it. My inbox has not been silent at pretty much any point during the last few months. The replies I've most enjoyed getting have been the "I don't usually watch this sport but this season I'm watching every game." Welcome to the greatest sport in the world. I'm still getting over this. If you had told anyone a year ago that Wes Morgan would be one of the top defenders of the season, or Kasper Schmeichel one of the top goalkeepers, you would have been ridiculed. If you had started raving over Riyad Mahrez (now officially Player of the Season), you would have gotten a one-word response: "who?" submitted by /u/hipcatjazzalot to r/sports [link] [comments]

The gods favored the Crownlands’ army. Or at least, that’s what Captain Willas declared. “Blue skies are a blessing,” he’d said, “and blessings are for the righteous.” They had seen nothing but sunshine on their journey from Cider Hall to the Kingswood, and now with King’s Landing only days away, the columns buzzed with energy and excitement at the prospect of returning home. Addam was humming, Willas was chattering, and even Damon smiled when the long skinny towers of the Red Keep came into view on the distant horizon. The castle meant home, and home meant Danae. It was for that reason he felt dismay when word reached him that the men wished to stop at an inn, so close to their final destination. “But if we keep riding and camp only briefly on the road, we can be back in the capital by week’s end,” he argued. “Yes, Your Grace, but the men have been marching tirelessly for weeks already,” Willas complained. “A rest at an inn will lift their spirits, reward the efforts made thus far, and cost you little in terms of when we arrive. Sleeping on the road will mean a difference of mere hours. Besides, just think of how nice it will be to rest in a bed…” Damon did think it would be nice, but after all the captains and the highest ranking officers were given rooms and the soldiers left to their bedrolls on the inn’s cramped grounds (and still the road, for the unfortunate), sleep did not find him. It was too noisy. The tavern was below his room. He could see shafts of light from the candles through the cracks in the floorboards, and the ruckus beneath his feet was enough to wake the dead. He gave up staring at the ceiling from the lonesome, uncomfortable mattress, and emerged from his room in the middle of the night to find Daeron and Quentyn flanking the door. They followed him down to the common room at a distance. There was little threat in a room full of the most trusted commanders in the royal army. When Damon reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw those competent leaders laughing loudly into cups of mead, toasting victory with entire pitchers of ales, and passing giggling women from lap to lap as two fires roared in twin hearths and a bard played the lute to another performer’s singing. Willas beckoned excitedly when he saw him, and Damon took the empty bench opposite his Captain in a booth on the outskirts of the commotion. “Good of you to join us, Your Grace!” Willas’ nose and cheeks were red from drinking, and he grinned from ear to ear. “I had company here a moment ago, but she can wait. Besides, a King takes precedence over a whore when it comes to seating, no?” He laughed heartily at that and took a swig from his mug before continuing. “I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you down here. I don’t think any of us did. You’ll have to forgive our sorry state.” Damon looked towards the center of the room, where he spotted a dazed looking Addam nearly crushed beneath a woman old enough to be his mother. “It looks as though my squire could use rescuing,” he remarked. “Alebar?” Willas chuckled. “No, tonight we’re going to make him a man. Wait a minute, is that Jenny he’s with?” He stood abruptly. “Jenny is mine, I told them…” He stumbled off then, leaving Damon alone with his abandoned cup. He pulled it over to him and looked inside, finding a strong smelling ale that bore an uncanny resemblance to horsepiss. Damon glanced up from the mug when a woman approached, dressed in an ankle length skirt and a loose white tunic with a leather bodice bound over it so tightly he couldn’t imagine how she breathed. Her hair was as dark as polished oak and hung in spiral curls over her shoulders. “M’lord,” she said, sliding onto the now empty bench across from him, “You look like the loneliest man in the room.” Her lips were full, her smile sultry and inviting. A whore’s grin, he’d seen them before. She reminded him of the ones in Lannisport, as she seemed to have all her teeth, unlike the others who glided from table to table entertaining his men and frightening his squire. “I am,” he replied. “My wife is miles away and I’ve been apart from her for weeks, now.” “A pity,” she said, “but not a good reason to be lonely, when I am right here.” She winked suggestively, leaning over the table to showcase what she undoubtedly intended to sell him. “So are many other women.” “But none as special as I.” The woman threw some of her curls over a shoulder, looked around the room for eavesdroppers, and then beckoned Damon closer with one slender finger, as if she wanted to tell him some great secret. He obliged, leaning in so that she could whisper in his ear. “I am a fortune teller,” she said. “I can tell the future and see the past.” Damon leaned back in his seat once more. “Is that so?” “You don’t believe me? Let me prove it. Give me your hands.” He pushed the mug of ale aside and she took his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. “Hmmm,” she said, closing her eyes. “I see many things… Your name, for one.” She opened her eyes then, darker than a Dornishwoman’s, and smiled at him. “And your station.” Damon remembered a woman in Sarsfield who was rumored to be a Maegi. Daven claimed to have seen her in person, and said that she was more beautiful than the mermaids in the paintings in the Golden Gallery, and that she kept her youth through blood magic. The woman in front of him now was attractive, but whores were fond of flirtatious parlor tricks and Daven made many claims in the years Damon called him friend. “You could ask any man in here what my name and station is,” he pointed out. She laughed. “Yes, but could any man in here tell me your father’s name? Your true father?” He pulled his hands away but she grabbed them tightly and yanked them back across the table to her, copper bracelets rattling on her wrists. “Ah, I did not mean to frighten you. Do not worry, Your Grace, my lips…” She bit her bottom one seductively. “...are sealed.” Sensing his discomfort, she hurried into her next words, lacing their fingers together once more. “You spent your childhood on the Iron Islands, but you hated it there,” she reported, staring up at the ceiling in thought. “You were melancholy, and sadder still when you returned to the Westerlands, though you went to great lengths to hide it.” She locked eyes with him and gave a knowing smile. “Your favorite wine is Dornish, but you haven’t had a drop since your other father died. This…” she broke her sultry gaze to nod at the tankard on the table before turning her dark lashes back to him, “...is unusual. Deserved,” she added, “after all that you’ve gone through.” “Alright,” Damon conceded. “You’ve told me something of my past. What of my future, then?” “Hmmm, your future.” She closed her eyes again, and he felt a foot beneath the table rub against his leg. “I see children, with golden hair and eyes the color of lavender. A long reign, a prosperous realm. And yet… You will return to Red Keep soon, but you will not find your throne as you left it.” “Those are vague enough to work, I’d say.” Damon raised an eyebrow as her foot continued to wander. “But your predictions are too distant to be proven. How am I to be certain, right here and right now, that you truly have a gift?” “You want to gaze into the more immediate future, Your Grace?” She laughed again. “You are impatient and cynical, but who am I to deny a King? Very well then…” She leaned forward over the table provocatively, and her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “Come here and I will tell you.” Damon obeyed, meeting her halfway across the table, and she shortened the distance even further, her gaze flitting between his eyes and their entwined fingers. “You are going to kiss me,” she said, “And then you are going to lead me up to your room, tear this dress from my body, and ride me like the horse you took to get here.” She crept closer with every word, until their lips were nearly touching. Damon smiled then. “You are not a very good fortune teller, but I hope you are a better messenger.” He glanced from her lips to her eyes and spoke quietly. “Tell Lord Rymar that if he wishes to earn the Queen’s loyalty, he ought to try a bit harder. Also mention that I prefer my women blonde, with eyes the color of lavender, and great firebreathing dragons to their name.” Her smile turned sour then, a sarcastic one most unattractive. “As you wish, Your Grace,” she replied tersely, releasing his hands and pulling away. “Oh,” he said as she rose from the bench. “And I usually prefer to be on the bottom. You can mention that to him, too.” The woman did not give him a second glance as she sashayed away across the room to sit on some captain’s lap, and Damon pulled the mug back in front of him. He swirled the ale within, staring down at its murky brown colors, and then shoved it away before standing and heading back to his room. I bet the Maegi in Sarsfield isn’t real either, he thought. It was a Daven story, after all. submitted by /u/lannaport to r/GameofThronesRP [link] [comments]