It felt very, very strange being granted such a title. Mona’s dad was a barkeeper, and my parents (gods rest their souls) worked manual labor and as a cleric. Neither of us had any noble blood in us, or had butlers, footmen and maids. It was a pretty big adjustment for us, especially having to call Mona by her full name when we were in polite company. I had always called her Mona or Emerald (Emmy for short), cause she was beautiful like an emerald, and she always called me Cookie because I loved baking for her. So, going from our pet names to “Ah yes, this is my wife, Lady Desdamona Torres of Mardul, and I am Lady Catherine Louise of Mardul” was so weird. 

But, regardless, I began my misguided quest for revenge against people I didn’t like. I started with Torence, and knew I needed to be smart about what I did. He had just harassed my wife, so if anyone was going to point fingers, he would have an easy reason. So, I started very small. I took on a monstrous form, either that of one of the many wyverns I had cut apart and studied, the Hell Cobra, or the Nightmare Corvid. It started simply enough, roaming the forests of their estate at night, causing people and animals to panic as I let out nightmarish noises to keep them up. Once they were sufficiently worked up, phase two of the plan took effect. I would watch them from their yard, and just stare. Nothing is more terrifying than seeing a 30 foot tall bird just staring at you from the front of your grounds, and then when you call someone to help it’s just gone. Finally, I’d start harassing them. I would swoop down at them or chase them when they were outside, I would damage their windows with rocks or branches, or destroy some of their outside possessions like carriages and gardens. Once I felt they were sufficiently harassed, or had spent a ton of money trying to get rid of me, I’d leave and move on to the next one. Again, THIS IS NOT HOW THINGS SHOULD BE DONE! Please, for the love of the gods, understand that! Either way, that was my schedule for each asshole noble that we encountered. I even got a name for myself, I was simply known as “The Beast”, or “The Shifter”. I liked the beast better, personally, because then that gave me the chance to make lewd and unladylike jokes to my wife. (Yes, penis jokes, and they’re still funny). 

We looked at each other, a bit underwhelmed by this display and kind of disappointed overall. But, we had to remind ourselves that these were basically fodder for hell. Imps aren’t hard enemies unless they swarm in numbers, and even then they go down fairly easily. We were a Grandmaster and Archmage, we were incredibly overpowered for the enemies we had just faced. But, it still felt good to know we had done a service to the town! We were now technically certified devil hunters, but neither of us really felt we had deserved it. So, we started doing our research for the next job. We learned more about the hierarchy of hell, who had control over who, how they commanded them, how things moved up in the ranks, all that. We were upset to learn that killing a devil in our world does not actually kill them for good unless you do something special like a soul-trap or soul destruction. Their soul returns to hell, gets recycled through the machine and implanted into a new body of equal strength to the one they had just lost. So, those imps were definitely going to come back for revenge, I guess. Eh, whatever, it takes a long time to move up the ranks and we’d just continue killing them. Maybe some research into stopping that would be a good idea… We started moving our way up the hierarchy ladder slowly, making sure to build up our name as an annoyance of hell as best we could. Our first year was very easy, we spent our time hunting imps, spined devils and chain devils that we were way too outclassed to give a fair shot. I’m not going to say we wiped the floor every time, we did have moments where they were able to get a good hit on us or were able to cause us some damage, but overall it was a very easy fight. One annoyance, though, was their immunity to my flames. I had to rely solely on my shifting magic and protection magic to be able to fight properly due to them being immune to fire. It was annoying, especially since the majority of my offensive spells were fire spells! I started to do some research on the topic, hoping I could find something that could overcome their fiery immunity or even shut it off completely. My search came up dry, however, so it was back to turning into cool beasts I had killed and dissected and using their forms to maim a bunch of terrified devils. I had considered dissecting and studying the make-up of devils, but once I opened up a bone devil I quickly learned that their forms were mostly just houses for their infernal magic. Without the flames of hell burning inside them, these were just weird looking vessels made of flesh, bone and organs. Plus, probably wasn’t a good idea to be running around in a form that most people feared and wanted dead, so that line of thinking and studying was quickly abandoned. Once we had reached what I guess would be considered the level of Sergeant for the legions of hell, we had begun to acquire quite the name for ourselves in hell. We had not taken out incredibly high ranking members of hell, but we had been able to take a lot of them out in such a short time-frame. As powerful as those on top think they are, a large portion of their strength is having disposable fodder to throw at problems and handle most things for them. We were causing that number to decrease, which was causing problems up the ladder. 

We found out after a bone devil appeared in our bedroom one night. He held two wanted posters, one for Shapechanger Catherine Louise and the other for Potion Master Desdemona Torres. We had a price of 250 soul coins on our head together, quite an impressive sum! We were a real annoyance to them, it seems. We couldn’t help but cheer, even hugging the bone devil and thanking him for telling us the news! He was incredibly confused, pushing us off as he attempted to spear through us with his tail. I shifted my teeth into sharp daggers like a wyvern, grabbed his tail in my teeth and bit it clean off. Mona followed with a special explosive concoction she had been refining that seeped into the body of the devil. Even with their fire immunity, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be lit on fire. I threw a spark at his chest, the concoction lighting him on fire and causing the potion to heat up. It seeped into his skin as he screamed out in pain, his body starting to bulge and swell as the concoction did its magic. We didn’t want a mess to clean up, so I cast a spell of force to push him out the window. He shattered through, his body starting to crack and blister with energy as he continued screaming out in pain. In a brilliant flash, his body exploded into a glitter of magic and faded into nothingness. Once his corporeal form was gone, I decided it was time to test out my research. My hands began to glow as I set an area around the area where its soul would be. 

I'm thinking about you.
Writing in tongues and riddles. Big swoops and curls in my letters.
Reminds me of your hair, free and wild, yet somehow perfect.
I'm kicking rocks in the Margins while I think about your sneakers.
About sneaking...to you.
I can still feel the energy. Entanglements like tree roots, yet deeper. Tangible. Heavy. Needy. Touchy. Feely. physical, mental, ethereal.
Somehow, it is the most terrifying thing to feel your skin beneath my fingertips.
'I've never felt something like this before, and I thought I had felt them all...'
I thought I had come close a few times. I have searched high and low, looking for this feeling. No substance comes close.
What is this? What are you?
Your liquid energy flows like water, dazzling, and hydrating my spaces.
Why does it fit? Why does it all fit. It is driving me mad.
Why do you fit? Like you belong. I know that I have known you before. I have danced in this fire with you many a moon. You're so familiar, yet so untouched.
What do you want? I'm here. Being a good girl. Waiting.
In fact, I've waited for you for all this time, what's a little more? I'm so close now... I can almost taste you... ...a g a i n.
-MK

I'm thinking about you.
Writing in tongues and riddles. Big swoops and curls in my letters.
Reminds me of your hair, free and wild, yet somehow perfect.
I'm kicking rocks in the Margins while I think about your sneakers.
About sneaking...to you.
I can still feel the energy. Entanglements like tree roots, yet deeper. Tangible. Heavy. Needy. Touchy. Feely. physical, mental, ethereal.
Somehow, it is the most terrifying thing to feel your skin beneath my fingertips.
'I've never felt something like this before, and I thought I had felt them all...'
I thought I had come close a few times. I have searched high and low, looking for this feeling. No substance comes close.
What is this? What are you?
Your liquid energy flows like water, dazzling, and hydrating my spaces.
Why does it fit? Why does it all fit. It is driving me mad.
Why do you fit? Like you belong. I know that I have known you before. I have danced in this fire with you many a moon. You're so familiar, yet so untouched.
What do you want? I'm here. Being a good girl. Waiting.
In fact, I've waited for you for all this time, what's a little more? I'm so close now... I can almost taste you... ...a g a i n.
-MK

Do I need help?

 That’s a question I have been asking myself for a bit now. Trying to figure out my own feelings, and the why behind them has proven to be more difficult then I thought. I am trying something new today. I’m going to start putting my thoughts and feelings into words, because at this point I’m begging for something to work. So here is what my mind has been obsessing over for the past couple of days. So, an old friend recently got back in touch with me, her name is ******, and she was a really, really good friend, but something’s happened and we had stop talking for about 3 years. I will admit, I did use to like her, not a head over heels like, but a casual like. Now she reached out to me and we started texting and called like twice so far. I forgot how many traits and things we have in common. They are things I can’t find in other people, like the obsession with movies, Disney, puzzles, fantasy shows. To be honest, before writing that last sentence I thought there was a lot more, but that’s beside the point. The amount of joy it brings me to talk and text her is absurd. The dilemma is that for no reason at all, I think I’ve attached my emotional state to her. I could be in the happiest mood, but is she doesn’t text or can’t call it puts me in a slump. Which makes no sense. We only started talking again like three days ago. It annoys me so much on how I can’t control my own emotions, and that it depends on other people, I can’t stop thinking of her, I would think it’s a crush, but how is that possible, I barley know her, sure I knew her back then, but she’s most likely changed even if it’s a bit. Am I desperate, confused, sad, I don’t know what to call it. I feel pathetic, stupid even. Now, I’ve been struggling with my feelings even before she started texting me again, it was kinda like fuel to the fire. I would get extremely sad pretty often, and I would use the gym or video games for a distraction. I don’t know what it is, could be a number of things, too many to list. I thought maybe being aware of the things that could make me sad would help, but it doesn’t. I’m hurting and I can’t isolate the cause of it. Now I don’t know what to write anymore.My problems seems so minuscule comparably to other people’s. I don’t think writing all this really accomplished anything. Maybe I’ll post it somewhere or show someone to seek advice. I wonder if this will just all blow over, or if the answer to my question in the title is yes. 

Hey there, writers. First things first, I will only write with 21+, but preferably 25+. I am 30 and in the CST if time zones matter to you. I have been writing for over 20 years and prefer to write in third-person with multi-paragraph responses. Generally, this means I will give 3-6 paragraphs per response. I can also be flexible for the right person if you’re looking for rapid fire replies or novellas. Additionally, I’m looking for something long-term and plot-driven that does not center itself around romantic elements exclusively.
As of right now, I’m looking for F/F(or NB) only for the fandoms below. My preferred character is italicized:
-BG3 (Lae’zel/Shadowheart, Karlach/Shadowheart)
-A:TLA (OC/OC)
-The Locked Tomb series (Gideon/Harrowhark)
-RWBY (Yang/Blake, Yang/Weiss)
-AOT (Ymir/Historia)
-High fantasy (OC/OC)
-Low fantasy (OC/OC)
-Titanic AU (OC/OC or one of the ships listed here)
-League of Legends (Caitlyn/Vi, Akali/Evelynn)
*These are in no particular order.
Feel free to send me a message outlining what you want including how old you are as well as a writing sample! I will pass along my discord information if our styles align. And keep in mind: if you’re looking for something else, I am open to entertaining any ideas. Just ask! If you can capture my attention with a plot, even better. But all of the guidelines above still apply. Looking forward to hearing from you!

Gosh, there sure are a lot of dead people in Har'Akir ready to be turned into undead servants. What can one possibly do to stop this foulness? For one former priest driven to the brink, the answer is... eat them all. With a swarm of locusts.
Masaharta was once a man of justice, and he still is in his own twisted way. Waging a one-man war with his horde of locusts, scarabs, maggots, and more, Masaharta is a mortal who seeks to undermine the Pharaoh Ankhtepot by denying him new undead minions, and exposing the terrible corruption of his priesthood and legal system. Sounds like an upstanding guy, almost, were it not for the fact that he cares little for setting his swarm upon the living as well as the dead. A desperate and broken man made a plaything of the dark powers, Masaharta survived his execution and has now returned to the surface to be unleashed upon the domain at large. His pity, mercy, and common decency have been burned away by the fires of vengeance, leaving him alive, but barely human anymore. He's more than a natural disaster, he's a natural disaster that hates you. Har'Akir has no idea what's about to hit it.
If you want the full background and stats for this new villain (and his demigod insectoid steed) then here's the link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1EJPVu8KakXf1Jt9n-fSte1aknMKJhh9L/view?usp=sharing
I might write an adventure for him later this month.

I used to make videos. Not to a large following, just little interesting clips about life in a small town and the various people who live there. It wasn’t just content for the sake of content, it was a record to show what life was like in the 2020’s for the folks of Tomskog, Minnesota.
I’d done a couple of videos already. One was about the old couple running the corner pub, one was about a landlord, and another was about the principal of the local high school (and their apparent pool troubles). Long story.
I was doing a shorter video about a woman named Marla. She was a beekeeper who worked with moving intrusive hives. This kind of content gets a lot of views, so I figured I’d do a more compact but better edited video this time around. I’d done my research, prepped my gear, and was rearing to go.

I met Marla on a Thursday morning in late May. We took her pickup, had a gas station sandwich for breakfast, and stopped for a quick coffee. I talked to her a bit about her job, her life, and her aspirations. Small town stuff. She was the kind of woman who was happy as long as she could keep up with her payments and have a bit left over for a Netflix subscription. Wholesome.
She drove me out to the site of the day, talking to the camera as we went. We were turning further and further off the paved roads as the suspension struggled against weeds, rock, and gravel.
“There’s a hive near a walking trail,” Marla explained. “A couple of folks called in about their dogs getting scared. It should be fine, but we’re gonna gear up just in case they’re mistaken.”
“You expect us to get stung a lot?” I asked.
“Not really,” she smiled. “Not if you know what you’re doing. But there’ve been times when folks have called in about a hive and it turned out to be paper wasps.”
“Not as pleasant as honeybees.”
“No,” she laughed. “No, they really aren’t”.

We passed through a section of trees that covered both sides of the road; the branches hanging low enough to scrape the hood of the car. Emerging on the other side, a field opened up to our right. A large, wide-open field, covered from end to end in blue sunflowers; a local variety that is, apparently, sort of rare. I asked Marla about them.
“The blues? Yeah, they were introduced as a sort of gimmick back in the… 1930’s, I think? 1940’s maybe? They’re actually quite invasive. I’m surprised there aren’t more of them around.”
“But bees can make honey on them?”
“I guess,” she nodded. “They’re just sunflowers.”
“Have you tried it? Is it blue?”
“Can’t say that I have,” she laughed. “But I’m sure it’s fine. Ordinary sunflower honey is fantastic. Kinda earthy.”

We got out and suited up. It felt like putting on a tent. Marla shared some interesting bee factoids that I didn’t manage to catch on camera, but I made a mental note to ask her to repeat it later. Of course, I wouldn’t. I’m kinda forgetful.
I hadn’t seen a single bee yet, but Marla was already heading out into the field. The sunflowers reached about waist-high, and there was this strange, almost chemical smell in the air. Sort of a mix of chlorine and ammonia. As we got further out, Marla pointed out a couple of flowers to me.
“Right there,” she said. “Get a clip.”
I zoomed in, spotting two bees chilling on a blue sunflower petal. They were just sort of sitting there. They had a slightly more reddish tint to them than I expected. Marla didn’t seem to mind, or notice.

It didn’t take long before we got to the hive. I immediately started filming as we approached. The buzzing got louder as bees started to poke and prod at my defenses, curiously checking for gaps in my gloves and neck. Thankfully, Marla had helped me secure it. Still, the buzzing kinda gave me the creeps. Never been a fan of bugs.
“Yeah, alright,” Marla laughed. “No wonder there are bees. Someone set this up.”
It was a man-made hive, framed with sheets of mahogany. A series of wooden squares with hollow cork pipes lining the inside. The bees had really taken to it, transforming it into a sturdy hive.
“We usually call these bee hotels,” Marla said. “Some kind-hearted local set it up, but as this isn’t private property we have to take complaints into account. I’m gonna make sure we move it to a better location with more nutrition for our free-bee friends here, where they won’t spook any dog-walkers. And of course, we’re keeping the hive. Someone put a lot of thought into this.”

I got a nice video out of it. How she unsecured the hive, moved the sections one by one, and pointed to interesting pieces for the camera. She found the queen and scooped her up in a separate container. Marla stopped for a moment though; apparently, the queen was larger than she’d anticipated. I didn’t really have a frame of reference, so I had to take her word for it.
We wrapped the hive up under a tarp on the pickup and made our way back to Marla’s property. I was afraid all the bumps in the road would shake the bees loose, but they seemed perfectly content. I guess it helped that Marla was a very calm driver, despite some curious bees making their way inside the cabin. We still had the suits on, luckily.
There was a cute hand-painted sign of a bee as we entered Marla’s land. When you live in the middle of nowhere, most folks can get away with owning more land than they need; especially if they don’t mind having spotty internet or a fair drive to the nearest supermarket. One look at Marla showed that she didn’t mind either of these things.

We took some time offloading the hive, finding a good spot on the eastern side of her property. There were plenty of wildflowers for the critters to feast on, and Marla seemed confident in her choice. There wasn’t much more to it; we set it up, captured a couple of finishing thoughts, and called it a day.
As I packed up my gear and took off my suit, I got a moment to speak with Marla without the camera. She was excited to have a new hive, but there was something about her expression that seemed a bit… off.
“I’d love to try some of their honey,” I said. “I think it’d make a great end to the video.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep in touch,” she nodded.
There was an oppressive silence as she stared into the distance. I tilted my head, trying to catch her attention.
“You alright there?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I, uh… I’m just anxious. New responsibilities, you know?”
“Is there a problem?”
She bit down on her lip, squinting.
“Maybe.”

A couple of days later, I started getting updates. Marla was having some trouble with the hive. It was more aggressive than she’d previously thought, and a lot of the bees had been dying off at alarming rates.
“It happens when you move them sometimes,” she sighed. “It’s rare, but it happens. They can have trouble adapting.”
She managed to get a little honey, but she wasn’t too happy about it. Apparently, it wasn’t as sweet and sugary as she thought it’d be. There was just something off about it, texture-wise. She was gonna make me a little bottle of it either way, for the video, but she advised against eating it.

Returning to my day job, I was looking forward to hearing more from Marla. Out of all the people I’d worked with, she’d been the most eager to contribute to my channel. We kept in touch over the week, discussing future collaborations and other ways we could make content. She suggested making a couple of DIY videos to showcase some neat tricks for would-be hobby apiarists.
The following weekend, we met up again. Another early morning, this time with a light drizzle spattering against the hood of her pickup. The moment she came around, I could tell something had happened. She had these bright red spots on her arms, and she was a lot less talkative than usual. Before I got the chance to talk to her about it, she explained.
“Got swarmed yesterday,” she said. “Never happened before.”
“Those are all stings?”
“That’s just the thing,” she scoffed. “It isn’t. They’re bites.”
“I didn’t think honeybees bit people.”
“They don’t.”
We just looked at one another for a moment. Her marks were pretty nasty, some of them swollen enough to burst. The conclusion was obvious; these weren’t ordinary honeybees.

We made our way back out to the field where we’d found them. I did a little filming, but Marla was self-conscious about her arms. She was scared that it might dissuade people from working with bees, and she kept repeating how it was “her fault” for not handling them correctly. She said it so many times I couldn’t help but to feel she was trying to convince herself rather than me, or an audience.
We made our way out into the field. Marla flipped open a pocketknife and bent down to check on the flowers. Cutting one off at the stem, she examined it for a moment. She held it up for me to see for myself. I looked it over but couldn’t see anything strange – apart from the obvious blue color.
“You gotta touch it,” she said. “Check it.”
So I did. As soon as I touched it, a few petals came loose. The flower was clearly dead and dry.

Checking out a couple more, we came to a startling realization. The entire field was, in fact, completely dead. Bone dry of pollen and sustenance. And, according to Marla, it must’ve been dead for months. I didn’t really understand why that was such a big deal.
“Because,” Marla explained. “The hive flourished out here, in the middle of the field. If they couldn’t survive here, they would’ve migrated, but they didn’t. So what the hell have they been eating?”
“Whatever it was, it’s what must’ve made the honey taste weird.”
“Not just taste,” Marla said, shaking her head. “The smell is the worst. Like stale bacteria and methane.”

Things started to fall into place. Whatever they had been eating out here in the field wasn’t available at Marla’s place; hence why they had been dying and getting more aggressive. Getting back to the pickup, Marla was deep in her own thoughts, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. She couldn’t figure it out. I tried to cheer her up with a pat on her shoulder, which caused her to flinch a little. I probably poked a bitemark.
“Sorry,” I said. “But you know, maybe that’s why they swarmed you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, maybe they tried to eat you up,” I chuckled, pointing to her arms.
“Bees don’t do that,” said Marla, her face stern.
“I know,” I nodded. “Sorry, bad joke.”
But I could tell I’d planted something in Marla’s thoughts. Something that worried her.

As we went back to her property, she explained that there was indeed a kind of bee that was carnivorous. There was a type of bee called the ‘vulture bee’ that fed exclusively on meat. Mostly carrion though; they weren’t active hunters. They couldn’t be, as they were stingless.
“You think these might be vulture bees then?” I asked.
“They live south of the border,” she explained. “Can’t imagine them just, uh… popping up. And even so, they wouldn’t be this aggressive.”
“Would explain the honey though.”
Marla’s face went pale. Had she been eating meat honey?

I decided to hold off on posting my video. This was turning into something more interesting, and I wanted to see it through. I filmed a couple of shots where Marla got to explain the intricacies of vulture bees. She did it in the frame of an interesting fact rather than a suspicion, but I could tell something had changed. She wasn’t as certain anymore, and a bit of eagerness had run out of her. There was a tangible worry there.
As we went out back to check out the hive, Marla stopped. Her eyes widened.
“Turn off the camera,” she hissed.
Three dead pigeons; covered in bees.

From that point on, I was fully invested. This was something neither of us had seen before; unfamiliar ground. It didn’t take long for Marla to confirm that the honey she’d harvested did, indeed, contain a meat protein. After that, it was just a matter of observation.
Yes, the bees ate flesh. They bit instead of stung. But they weren’t vulture bees.
These were larger, more aggressive, and had a wider abdomen. Their mandibles were longer, and they had a slightly reddish tint to them. It was difficult to tell whether the color was a result of mutation or blood. The dead pigeons were stripped to the sinew in surprisingly little time.
Marla didn’t know what to do. She’d been working with preserving bees since she was a teenager, and this whole situation was testing her. She didn’t want to just kill the hive, but she couldn’t let them spread either. These could be highly invasive.

But she took too long to decide. Just a couple of days later, two of the other hives on her property had been completely decimated. The red bees had killed and devoured all of them; leaving only empty chambers and hollow carapaces behind. When Marla facetimed me about it, she couldn’t hold back the tears.
By now, I considered myself a friend of hers. We’d talked a lot and got along really well, and it wasn’t just about content anymore. I didn’t want to see her like that; she deserved better. I offered to drop by and brainstorm a bit. I figured she needed the company. She’d done at least two dozen of these bee rescues, and the one time someone came to cheer her on it all went to hell. That had to suck.

So I dropped by one day after work. The sun was setting. Dark clouds on the horizon.
I noticed them the moment I stepped out of my car. A handful of red bees climbed the white picket fence outside Marla’s house. A few others were clustered in a particular spot near the edge of the house; no doubt feasting on a small bird or a rodent. I went up to the door and rung the bell, ducking from a couple of curious bees trying to make themselves comfortable in my rough post-work hairdo.
Marla invited me into her kitchen, offering me homemade lemonade. She had these custom-made coasters with cartoon bees on them, along with the logo for her rescue. I could tell she’d taken a couple of sudden precautions. There were tape lining the edges of the windows, as well as a plastic sheet covering the ventilation duct. No wonder the air felt stale.
“No one knows what to do,” she sighed. “I called the Wyatt brothers, South Bound Api… they can’t even believe it. They actually don’t believe that I have what I say I have.”
“And what is that? What is it you have?”
She sighed, scratching her eyebrows. A kind of nervous tic.
“There’s no name, but… I mean, I know what they do. I know now. They’re like the vulture bees, but…”
She threw her arms up in surrender. I could tell she was tired. One of her eyes drooped a little lower than the other. Might’ve been from a bite too.

Marla spent the better part of an hour showing me websites, witnesses to similar bees, drawings, and descriptions. She talked about the application of pesticides, mutations, climate change, GMOs, and microplastics. Hell, at one point, she was bringing up 5G towers as a possible culprit. She was all over the place, and I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. It was all just desperation; grasping at straws.
After a couple of hours, well into the dark of the evening, we’d gone from homemade lemonade to lukewarm, well-nursed beers. We’d run out of ideas and topics. Instead, we just stood by the kitchen window, watching the red bees crawl across the glass. Marla put down her bottle; this time without using one of her cartoon bee coasters.
“Check this out,” she said.
She placed her hand on the window, and the bees outside immediately swarmed to it. Within seconds, there was a cluster of at least 40 crowding around her hand, on the other side of the glass.
“Give them a minute,” she continued. “It’s kinda crazy.”

They started to move in a pattern. A sort of pulse, moving counter-clockwise from a perfect circle into a four-armed spiral. Their wings pattered in unison; a buzzing noise that scratched against the windowpane.
“I can’t explain that,” she said. “I can explain following my hand, or killing other hives, but that?”
She shook her head, not looking away.
“I can’t explain that.”

It got a little bit too late, and I’d had a couple of beers too many, so I decided to crash on her couch. I wrapped myself in a blanket and pulled a pillow up to my ear, so I wouldn’t have to hear the buzzing outside. It wasn’t loud, but it was such a distinct sound that I couldn’t un-hear it. Marla didn’t seem to share the same issue though, she just walked into her room and that was that. Out like a light.
I had an uneasy sleep, falling in and out of surface-level dreams. I remember forcing my eyes open - just to see if I could. I was uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stop hearing that buzzing noise. Even when things were quiet, I kept imagining myself hearing it. I’d see little black spots on the windows as they landed and disappeared, looking for a way in.
Somewhere in the early morning hours, I was finally out cold.

I didn’t notice those first few sounds. How the tapping against the window got louder. How the patterns got bigger and clearer. I was finally asleep, and it was already too late when I woke up.
I was lying on my side as I popped open a single eye, only to see a red bee on my hand calmly brushing itself clean. I didn’t notice the droning noise at first, until I realized the background noise of the room was different. Looking beyond that first red bee, towards the window, I realized something.
The pattern of bees was on the inside of the window.
There were hundreds of bees already inside the room.
But the sound was closer than that. It was all around me, and somewhere in the background, I could hear a breeze. Was the front door open?

I tried to stay completely still, but I could feel something in my chest tightening. I wanted to brush the bee off, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. Something was holding me back, keeping me from just waving my arms around and getting out. There was something more to this.
Seconds later, there was a noise. A rising murmur, like a moving mass. Best way I can describe it is a vibrating burlap bag followed by meaty footsteps. Not loud, but not quiet either. Someone didn’t care too much about waking me.
If there was ever a time to get up, to run, or to fight – that was it. But all I did was lie there, staring at that one red bee on my hand, listening to something slowly approach from behind. It’s as if I knew how badly outmatched I really was.

I could feel something shift as the side of the couch was grabbed. Creaking noises as fingers dug into old leather.
Snapping sounds. Sinew and muscle stretching and realigning under a thin layer of skin. Forced breathing and hissing descending on me from above. Little sniffs – then silence. I held my breath.
“…y o u t o o k m y h i v e.”
Less of a voice, and more of a collision of wings and carapaces. A shaped buzzing. The red bee on my hand looked straight into my eyes. Not a single twitch. Nothing.
“I didn’t,” I whispered under my breath, trying not to move my mouth. “I-I… I didn’t.”

There was a pause. A sudden shift as someone stepped back. A little moving mass came loose, dropping on top of my blanket. A handful of red bees, carefully spreading out to investigate me. Behind me, footsteps – leading into Marla’s bedroom. I could hear her deep breaths from here.
I stayed completely still. I was unharmed. I’d be fine - I just had to wait. Every nerve in my body felt like it was put through a white fire – still, controlled, and desperate to explode into action. As little creatures made their way across me, carefully looking me over, the pores on my skin were screaming at me to move, itch, and shudder. I could feel the hairs on my neck rise; only to be tugged on by eager mandibles.
Then, a scream.

Marla screamed. A bloody, mind-piercing, screech. The kind of scream that you just know means pain. Hearing it was like feeling a physical push, and I couldn’t hold myself from acting any longer.
I rolled off the couch, trying to shake the bees off. The cluster on the window exploded into a disorganized attack, swarming every piece of me, and the room, and the adjoining kitchen. They were inside my clothes, in my hair, in my eyebrows, and they were going to eat their fair share. Every bite was white-hot fire, followed by a sudden stinging cold.
I ran outside. I remember taking off my clothes, waving my shirt around. Shoeless and burned by bites, I ran from her house; making as much space between me and the hive as possible.

There was this blur of buzzing, biting, flailing, and screaming. Some of it mine, some if it Marla’s, in the distance. Little red spots crawling across my waving shirt. I threw myself on the ground, rolling in the grass. I smacked my body with the palm of my hand over and over, ensuring me that the little tickle I felt wasn’t another one of them.
Then I just lay there, panting in the grass. They were gone. A single red bee on the palm of my hand remained, carefully brushing itself, before casually flying off.
I could feel the soothing morning dew on my cheek. I slowly sat back up, leaning against a tree. I could see Marla’s house in the distance as I gasped for air. There was a heaviness to my lungs, like I couldn’t completely fill them.

A man stepped out. Or at least the shape of a man, it was hard to tell at that distance. It was as if he wasn’t completely solid; his silhouette kept shifting even as he stood still. He stopped in the doorway, looked me way, and just sort of… dissolved.

I burst into action.
My phone was still inside, but I had a backup in my car. I wrestled it out of the glove compartment, staining the driver’s seat with spots of blood. My fingertips were bleeding, making it hard to call emergency services. My cheek and tongue were swollen, making it even harder to speak.
I made my way back inside as I frantically explained what’d happened. What would you even call it? An assault? Marla wasn’t in her bedroom, but there was plenty of blood. There was a sound further in. Her shower was running.
She’d made it to her bathroom and dropped into her tub. She’d turned on the water, hoping to keep them off. The end result was her ending up swollen and unconscious in the bathtub; dead bees bobbing in the water around her. Some still twitching.
It was horrifying. She was bitten, and it wasn’t just from bees. There were miscolored marks from all kinds of stings, coloring her skin both a burning red, a pale white, and a faint green. Her neck was almost as thick as her head.
But she was alive.

Emergency services arrived. They managed to keep her alive, but she had to be put on a ventilator. They claimed she’d had a massive allergic reaction. They said something similar about me; completely ignoring the eyewitness account of a strange intruder. It didn’t help that neither me or Marla could say the slightest comprehensive thing about their appearance or identity.

It took some time, but I recovered. Marla too. By the time she got back home, not a single hive was left. Every single one had been butchered and devoured. And the red bees, well, they were just gone – along with their handmade hive.
Not too long ago, I talked to a friend-of-a-friend who worked at the Sheriff’s office. I told them where we’d found that first hive. He asked me at least three times if I was sure that that was the specific spot. Of course I was. I even had a clip of it.
Turns out, that place had been the discovery site of at least half a dozen unidentified bodies a couple of years ago.
Which, in turn, made me wonder. A couple of wanderers in the area had spoken about finding dead animals on the trail, only for them to be gone the next morning. It wouldn’t surprise me if that field was littered with bones. But with the way these things work, there is no telling what else might’ve gone missing along that trail.

That conversation is what spurred me to write this all down. Marla and I will never publish that video, and for all intents and purposes, neither of us will bring it up. This never happened. This couldn’t be real. We can’t move on with our lives if we keep talking about it, because there is nothing we can say that will make it alright.
Instead, she has new hives. She has a new smile.
And for a while, I think we can lie to ourselves just enough to make it.

Thus, wounded, and less victorious than they might have preferred, but victorious nonetheless, the royal three returned to the Macedonian capital. The army returned to Philopolis in triumph, the trio at their head. Leonidas on a replacement for his slain mare, Cassandra astride a titanic black stallion which was exclusively used for parades, and Seramis in her full diluvian glory. Cassandra might have been disappointed that the battle hadn’t been as decisive as she preferred, but she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity for propaganda.
So the group returned to the cheers of their people, the cavalry shining in the summer sun, and the army marching in strict formation. Trumpets heralded their return. Banners flew from the corners of houses. The men sang bawdy songs, as is the tradition of soldiers. Not a spec of blood or rust nor dust was allowed, presenting the image of a spotless, unconquered army. It was all a magnificent production. It was all a lovely welcome home.
When Seramis had first seen Philopolis and Macedon, it had been a very different place. The realm had struck her as grey, very grey, and a place without much beauty. Then, under the rule of the wicked regent Tyndareus, it was a place of iron and blood, a totalitarian state dedicated primarily to a massive conscript army. The hills had been torn open by great pit mines for iron and copper. The forests had been cut down to fuel the fires of industry. The fields were endless, uniform masses of oats, grain, and hay, worked by uncounted slaves, or landless peasants just a bit better than slaves. Over it all, the ancient fortress of the Alexandrian dynasty had loomed as a great edifice; a leviathan of hewn stone and barred windows representing the absolute military power that held all of it in place.
Now, two years hence, it was more alike to how she had first found it than she would have preferred. But transforming a society was hardly a swift process, and the work done was already substantial. Once the place had been a land of iron and blood, and though industry remained, now the smell of olive oil, the sound of potters wheels, and the hawking of merchants filled the air. The monolithic collective farms had shattered into a patchwork quilt of small holdings. The men working them might still have brands, but they and the lands were their own.
Of course, there were still some great expanses of oats and wheat. Those were Cassandra’s lands. She’d been generous with the lands she’d confiscated from the nobility, and in turn with their wealth which now filled her treasury. But she hadn’t given up any of her own family’s territory, and had expanded them substantially. Something like a quarter of the land in the country was the Queen’s personal fief, and she managed it very carefully. The economies of scale she alone had access to provided much needed stability for staple food prices during the transition from a slave-based command economy to a citizen market economy. Beyond that, the lands also provided a substantial portion of government income.
Said income was further complimented by a wide-scale reform to the tax structure. Rather than outsourcing the work to tax farmers, or to any nobility, as that had been liquidated, taxes were collected from a variety of small, but inescapable requirements. The primary tax was simply the surplus tax, an in-kind tax taken from all production. Farmers gave a share of their produce, potters a certain number of pots for each produced, blacksmiths a certain number of finished goods, and so on and so forth. Only the merchants would return hard currency from the surplus tax, the rest a great cross-section of produced goods. These in turn went into great warehouses, which the government might release from to control prices, or sell abroad to bring in further profits. The majority of currency entering the coffers either came from selling such produce, Cassandra’s personal lands, or a variety of import and consumption taxes. No less than a tenth of the entire bureaucracy was funded by the consumption taxes on oil and salt.
Of course managing all this was a good lead more complicated, not least of which because Cassandra had liquidated the aristocracy. This required a rather extensive increase in the bureaucracy, which brought in quite the expense of its own. Overall revenue was vastly increased from the reign of Tyndareus, and indeed all former kings of Macedon. The problem was that expenses had increased in turn. Macdeon was a military stratocracy, and Cassandra was in the process of trying to reform that into a sort of enlightened bureaucratic autocracy. The amount spent on papyrus alone nearly rivaled the payments to the many new government servants, which were not cheap. Educated men and women, able to read, understand the laws, and understand mathematics were not common, and commanded higher prices.
Cassandra had responded both by working to increase the supply of educated citizens, and cut costs in other areas. Firstly, she enacted a massive increase in education, beginning with the orphans of Macedon’s many wars and educating them. Secondly, she had begun offering to pay for the education of the children of public servants as part of their compensation. This allowed her to cut down on salaries and ensure a future educated workforce. Third and finally, she had begun to subsidize educators throughout the kingdom, and begun work to gather and copy many books and tomes to further improve the kingdom’s educational outcomes. Unfortunately, this was work that would take years to bear fruit.
The second arm of this had been to cut costs in other areas, most notably the military. Under Tyndareus, the Macedonian army had grown to a terrifying, if bloated, leviathan. Between the use of conscription, and counting reserves, the former army could have raised nearly thirty thousand men under arms. Cassandra had slashed that, and abolished conscription for the regular army. After intensive cuts, purging Tyndareus’s loyalists, and serious reforms including the near complete reconstruction of the Macedonian Cavalry Corps, the Macedonian Army now numbered a mere nine thousand, with the ability to call upon a further ten thousand former soldiers, now spread out to create a variety of local militias.
Leonidas had taken charge of many of these reforms, bringing in military advisors from Marathon and Achaea. The young prince, in his role as Minister of War, set to work with vigor to refine the Macedonian army down to its purest and strongest form. His high standards might have earned him ire, if not for the personal virtue and discipline he showed to meet those standards. He demanded the best not only from himself and his soldiers, but even from his suppliers and quartermasters. Most of the Macedonian military exports were those arms and armor he found below standard, though many less discerning customers would gladly accept them.
More than simply focusing on the logistics, Leonidas sought to infuse in his army a certain esprit de corps and moral focus. He drew heavily on the legendary philosopher Aristotle, particularly regarding that philosopher’s education of Iskandar, the famed conqueror king who had defined Macedon for the past two centuries. Outside the direct military applications, the young prince kept an eye on the future, sponsoring the growth of sports leagues throughout the kingdom, particularly a great hunting association. The Hunter’s Guild was a particular passion project of his, and he worked tirelessly not only to cultivate skilled hunters to recruit for his scouts, but also to preserve what remained of Macedon’s wild lands, ensuring game populations remained stable, and dangerous animals were quickly eliminated. The prince’s skill at the hunt had even earned him the right to attend the games at Olympus, though it was his mastery of wrestling that had seen him returned crowned with the ultimate honor of the laurels.
Such participation with the rest of the Hellene world had been part of Sera’s work. The young dragonness had held no official position at first, as Cassandra worked to develop her talents. Seramis had loathed etiquette as taught as a set of rules to be followed, but Cassandra revealed their nature as tools and tricks as part of the great game of politics. Allowed to treat the illusion of statecraft as just that, Seramis thrived. Soon appointed as Minister of State, her talent for gathering information, forming schemes, and comprehending languages saw her unleashed as Macedon’s greatest diplomat. All the while, her true title was one that delighted her greatly. Master of Shadows, she wielded the diplomatic corps and her own personal stable of agents like a scythe, harvesting a hoard of secrets she feasted upon. They became as arrows in her quiver, aiding her as she stood alongside Cassandra to carefully guide the ship of state.
On a much less sinister note, Seramis had engaged in quite public work to revitalize Macedon’s stagnating cultural sphere. The dragoness was chiefly known not even as a diplomat, let alone a spymaster, but rather as a patron of the arts. She courted and drew playwrights, actors, bards, conductors, and composers from across the world, placing a great deal of personal effort into producing a cosmopolitan cultural sphere. Though diplomacy, culture, and her eternal scheming, she worked to put the sword of Iskandar in a flowered sheath, in hopes it would never need to be drawn.
The peak of her work in that regard was a mere week away, a grand festival of the arts such as had not been seen in Macedon before. It would be a great festival as if that of the Athenians, now long brought to ruin. For the first time since the wars of the Diadochi, Hellas would come together to celebrate the arts. Naturally, Macedon would be participating, represented by Sera’s own personal theater company: The Mount Ararat Company.
Seramis quickly moved through her remaining business for the day. She met with the Master of Investigations and also her deputy, who had been working to manage her department while she had departed on campaign. Pleasantries were exchanged, and reports given. There was little new, but there was confirmation that the Latins, a curious people from across the western sea, would come to attend the festival. This would have been of little concern, if not for how they were coming.
A long-standing problem of the western coast had been the pirates of Illyria. These seafaring brigands proved a routine nuisance for not only Hellene trade, but all throughout the seas. Achaea and Macedon had both extended offer to the king of Illyria to come and help remove the pirates, but had been rejected. However when the Latins offered, the king accepted. So, the Latins came in force, bringing with them a four mighty legions of men, and crushed the pirate havens by attacking from the land. The problem was, they didn’t leave. While three of the legions returned to Italia, the fourth remained to protect against the return of the pirates, and to protect their Illyrian allies from Achaean or Macedonian aggression.
This was already a provocative move, as the barbarian army now sat on Hellene soil, diplomatically shielded by the cowardly Illyrian king. However, now the Latins made a further move. They had informed the court at Macedon previously that they wished to send a delegation to observe the festival and improve relations. All this was well and good, and naturally they did request to send bodyguards to protect the delegates. This was agreed, but the unscrupulous Latins had interpreted the mention of bodyguards broadly, and deployed a third of the legion infantry as “bodyguards”. Seramis’s reports indicated that these were in fact the Triarii, the third and strongest line, composed of veterans. The remainder of the legion remained encamped alongside the Ilyrian-Macedonian border.
The presence of the legion was concerning, to say the least. It numbered some four thousand five hundred men, about the size of a Macedonian army. The Macedonians held a local advantage, as they maintained two armies. One was directed northwards, towards the barbarians, and the other towards the east, to ward off their Selucid rivals. So they outnumbered the legion present two to one. However, the problem arose with the Latin’s ability to deploy a further three legions, which would reverse that advantage. With aid from Marathon, the Hellenes could match the Latin’s numbers, and with Achaean aid, they would outnumber them. Unfortunately, the Latins had spent much of their recent war with the Phoenicians of Carthage demonstrating an ability to raise new forces frighteningly quickly. Sera’s analysis suggested that if they wished to, they might be able to triple the might of their armies to twelve legions. The sheer military mass of the Latins would be enough to equal all Hellas, but Hellas was still divided, and some, such as the Illyrians, preferred them as allies to their fellow Hellenes.
The simple arithmetic of war indicated that if the Latins wished to conquer Hellas, they probably could. The simple arithmetic of war neglected to account for the power of dragons. But, Sera had observed, it was rare to lose money betting on the arrogance and avarice of humans. The fortunate side of dealing with the Latins was that for all their military might, they had a peculiar custom. They were permitted by ancient law and religious principle from launching a war of aggression, and so only declared war when they or their allies were threatened. This iron law of ancient Roman kings aught to have kept their swords sheathed, but in practice it often meant that an ambitious man of that city would seek to provoke an attack or aggression, that they might have reason for war. This incident with the “bodyguards” was likely such an attempt at provocation by a glory hound.
So, the trio met, and considered how to deal with this. It was decided that they would monitor the Latins closely, and place forces in such a way that they could not be aggressive, but would certainly be ready. The Army of the North was still recuperating from their recent battle with the Scythians, and would remain on standby in the capital to respond to any moves from the Latins or Scythians. At the same time, the northern militias would be stood up, and reinforced by militias from the south. These southern reinforcements would travel along the roads that would place them directly between the two parts of the Roman Legion, ensuring that if hostilities began, the separated legion would be able to be dealt with in parts. Unfortunately, Leon was unable to deploy as many of his scouts to that region as he would prefer, and Sera’s own intelligence assets were likewise pointed northwards. Better to deal with the actively aggressive barbarians, and then the imminently aggressive ones.
So, it was with great care, and no small amount of tension, that the Latin delegates arrived, joined by some three hundred of their Triarii. This was the first that Sera had seen of the Latins, and her initial impressions were somewhat mixed. They moved with distinct discipline, and were in all senses quite well ordered. The Triarii were older, veteran soldiers, generally more in their thirties. As such, they were somewhat more moderate, and avoided the wicked behavior common to many young soldiers. However, this rendered them with an increased air of unmistakable danger. Be wary of old men, even relatively old ones, in professions where men die young, and particularly of a soldier without an obvious vice.
The leader of the Latin delegation introduced himself to the court with a somewhat imperious nature. It likely would have been more imperious had Seramis not taken on her true form. It is difficult, even for a roman, to remain arrogant when there is a fourteen-foot-tall (measured at the shoulder) dragoness looking down at you. He declared himself as Military Tribune Gaius Mummius, representing the Praetor Lucius Cornelius in command of the IV Legion. Though the head of the delegation, he was simply that by right of his military rank. The actual diplomacy was handled by diplomats, not soldiers, though by their attitudes, Seramis might have taken them for sergeants in fancy togas. However, one who did catch her interest was distinct among the delegation, an old man, and truly old, dressed as a seer. He remained close by the ear of Gaius, and the tribune heeded him. Sera watched him warily, for she smelled magic on him, an old magician, and that would be trouble.
Despite her concerns, the Latins did not cause trouble, not even their old magician. They established a small camp for themselves outside the walls of the city, and largely kept to themselves. They came into the city only in small groups based around some member of their number who spoke Greek. They paid with honest coin, and seemed intrigued by the preparations for the festival. They seemed unusually preoccupied with finding barbers, as they were each clean-shaven, in contrast to the bearded Hellenes. Leonidas found this utterly hilarious, as he had spent more time than he would ever admit trying to find ways of improving his own facial hair. Now that it had finally come in, he spent more time managing his admittedly impressive beard than he ever had dealing with his actual hair. Sera, lacking any hair whatsoever, found the human preoccupation with it utterly confusing.
Bearded or otherwise, Hellene, Latin, and miscellaneous others soon came to attend the great drama festival. The idea of cancelling was briefly considered, and summarily rejected. Continuing to have a great celebration in the face of Latin provocation and Scythian Assault showed not only the power of the kingdom, that its people could act without concern, but also its prestige through mastery of the arts. The fact that many of the participants in the festival were from elsewhere in Hellas was politely overlooked. After all, Macedon had gathered them, and thus got credit.
The festival went on for three days, and proved to be a generally joyous, if somewhat chaotic time. Even the dour Latins eventually became swept up in the atmosphere. While this wasn’t technically a Bacchanalian festival, mostly due to the fact that Bacchus was very dead, it certainly carried some of that legacy. Of course the highlight, at least for men who considered them cultured, was the great drama productions. All manner of productions were put on display, from great recreations of the Athenian classics, to new twists, foreign productions, historical plays, retellings of myths, and of course many a comedic tragedy and initially tragic comedy.
Seramis’s own company had three productions, set into place over three days. The first two were well known, and practiced. Sera’s company had begun expediting the revitalization of the cultural scene with regular performances. Some of these had been well-worn classics, but the Mount Ararat Company would bring none of these to this stage. Instead, they brought two original, but already tested plays, and one of excellent ambition.
The first was a Satire, in the style of The Clouds which Sera had dubbed Tartarus. This piece was set in the depths of the underworld, that darkest pit where wicked men and monsters alike were tormented. These tormented souls took on the role of the choir, being intensely irritated by the antics of the four main players. Those four were of course the three great Greek philosophers: Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, and their own tormentor; Diogenes. The play largely consisted of the main three wandering through Tartarus, further tormenting the tormented souls with long winded and pedantic arguments about the torments they witnessed. All the while, Diogenes routinely appeared to torment them in turn. The play as a whole made light of philosophies, and generally teased out the problems with focusing overmuch on the world of the mind while actual suffering could be addressed.
This play was well received, for it was humorous and mocked philosophers, which few people cared for. The humor wavered between high and low brow, with both clever jokes sprinkled in amongst the arguments of the philosophers, and cruder humor delivered by the tormented souls and Diogenes. A certain degree of slapstick was involved as well, often involving a great paper-Mache boulder being rolled by Sisyphus.
The second of Sera’s plays was a somewhat grander production, though was likewise satirical. It turned the classic play Oedipus Rex somewhat on its head with The Choir’s Apologia. The original play was an archetypical tragedy, following the story of Oedipus, son of the King of Thebes. Due to a prophecy, his father cast him out to be slain, but he would live, and later unknowingly slay his father, and wed his mother. The play detailed how the gods smote the city with a plague as a result of this kinslaying and incest. Oedipus sought the answer to this, and in doing so discovered the terrible truth, and blinded himself for shame.
The Choir’s Apologia put a twist on this, as the Choir itself determines to get involved. This broke their usual role as mere background singers, and saw them take the stage to try and prevent the tragedy. The play played out as usual, but regularly, the mortal actors would freeze in place before a great event. The Choir would then step to center stage, and petition the gods for redress. First they asked Apollo, bidding him not deliver the ruinous prophecy, for without it nothing would come, but he rejected them. Next they implored Hermes to warn Oedipus against his folly, but Hermes declared he was helpless before Zeus. Finally, the Choir dared to approach Zeus himself, demanding that he cease to punish all Thebes for Oedipus’s mistake.
This proved a failure in the end, as Zeus rebuked them and struck the choir down one by one. The message was clear, that the gods were cruel and arbitrary, delivering unjust judgements. They did what they would, for they were strong, and the choir suffered what it must, for it was weak. At last only Oedipus remained, able now to see Zeus and his murder of the choir. Oedipus and Zeus contested one another in song, and while Zeus struck down the king, it was not before the hero doomed by prophecy delivered a defense and a prophecy of his own. Oedipus defended his record as king of Thebes, how he had overthrown a tyrant, protected his people, improved their lives, and sought their good even at terrible cost to himself. He, the one the gods judged, had been a better ruler than the gods. If indeed the gods would persist in their arbitrary wickedness, then one day this would be their doom, for the world would not abide such tyrants. Zeus struck him down, but went in dread because of the prophecy.
This production produced some degree of controversy. It always had, and such was the intent. It was well understood that the gods were dead, and Olympus was silent, but this play indicated such was not a bad thing. Given it was written by a dragoness, a natural enemy of the gods, the take was not unexpected. Beyond this, its use of another play as a framing device gave it a rather meta feel, and some found it pretentious. Others, by contrast, found the reframing of a classic play refreshing, and enjoyed the novelty of the choir acting as a major character.
The third play was a new production, and meant to be the one to blow the sandals off the audience. It was a bigger, grander, and of much more spectacular production values. All of this was in theory. In practice, it was put on at the end of three days of performances and partying, and became more of a farce than an epic. The Davidiad told the story of the legendary Hebrew king David, of both his rise to power and fall from grace. It was told in three acts, and all three had some manner of disaster.
The first act told of the heroic youth of David before he was king, and how he defeated the giant Goliath. Goliath himself was a complicated costume made by having three already tall men standing on one another’s shoulders. When struck by a sling, he was to topple over onto his army, which would catch the performers and prevent any harm. Unfortunately, due to an earlier scene involving David being anointed with oil, there was a slick patch on stage. Goliath’s lower third slipped, and the towering giant fell flat on his face and collapsed into himself in the middle of a monologue. This was considered absolutely hilarious by the audience, and Seramis, upon seeing this, physically shrank from embarrassment.
The second act saw the conflict between the good future king David and the wicked king Saul. Saul was meant to begin more coherent, but gradually jealousy and fear would twist him into wickedness. Unfortunately, Saul’s actor had been out late, and showed up to the production very hung over. This made Saul’s descent far more predictable and robbed the second act of much of its drama. Unfortunately, the actor in question attempted to remedy this by using a hangover cure involving undiluted wine. This made him less hungover, and more drunk, so Saul went from being scowling and sickly to very obviously drunk. This became a minor peril during a later scene where Saul threw his spear at David. Not only did Saul miss, as intended, but he proceeded to hurl the (thankfully fake) spear into the audience, where it proceeded to hit a man in the chest. He was unharmed, but believed he had been slain and fainted, causing a minor panic.
The third act was nearly canceled, but went ahead anyways. The cursed production continued to be cursed, as a major set piece exploded earlier. The third act was meant to show how the throne gradually corrupted David, and led him to murder a man to cover up an affair with his wife Bethsheba. This would climax with the death of a son produced from that affair, and the collapse of a great temple edifice David had been constructing. The play would end with David weeping, but repentant, and turning to begin rebuilding the ruined temple, representing his disgraced morality. Instead of this, the temple collapsed immediately the moment David and Bethsheba locked eyes, which somewhat gave the game away.
Sera did not bother to see the audience’s reaction when the curtain closed. She’d already left from sheer embarrassment. She was helping the troupe pack up, so the lot of them could scatter to cope with this catastrophe in their own way. Once the curtain closed and the actors departed the stage, she handed Saul his last payment, a polite, if curt, farewell, and departed. She avoided the rest of the festival, marinating in her disappointment at the bottom of a nearby lake.
Eventually, evening did come, and Sera slunk her way back into the city. She spoke briefly with her troupe, congratulating them on the work they did, and laboring to encourage their spirits. The production of the Davidiad had gone horribly wrong, but these were technical and production errors, not fundamental flaws. They would try again, after taking time to rest, recover, and focus on building back up to such a grand production with greater skill and experience. Their reach had, quite simply, exceeded their grasp, and ruin had come because of hubris. They would recover from this, and move forwards.
Much as she managed the speech, she felt like she was having to put on her own performance to manage that. Privately, the failure on such a massive stage hung over the young dragoness. She quietly made her way into the palace, and made her way to where Leon and Cassandra were. Unfortunately for her, the pair were currently in the process of discussing the festival. Glumly, she sat silently, nursing a large bowl of wine as Casandra and Leon deliberated a victor.
“The first step is that we can scratch off any troupes that simply re-enacted an existing play. Those were simply derivative, and giving a victory to that in our first festival sets an unfortunate precedent.” Cassandra remarked, working off a clay tablet listing the various performances. Lines went through about a third of the participants. “We can also do away with anything that tried to relate to Iskandar or my own dynasty, and especially that gods-awful recreation of our little scheme to destroy Tyndareus.”
“I personally found that one funny.” Sera piped up, remembering the comically inaccurate play. “Though they did manage quite the trick with their costume for me, I’ll need to get in touch with their costume department to see how the internals worked.”
“It was funny, mostly because it was inaccurate enough we could probably bring a suit for slander, libel, and slanderous libel against them.” Leon grumbled with arms folded. He had been made the butt of many a joke in that production, with the comedy of the valiant warrior being utterly surpassed by two women being a common refrain. “Beyond that, we don’t want to give the wrong impression about what exactly is acceptable to say about a queen.”
“The Corinthians have something of an irreverent streak, that much is for certain. Unfortunately we can only bring slander, libel, and slanderous libel and not treason, as they are presently foreigners.” Cassandra demurred. “Still, delivering sanctions on the Ember Island Company could be an effective way to get the message across to Corinth that a more peaceful Macedon is not a pushover.”
“With regard to the reproductions, what about The Choir’s Apologia?” Leon asked, throwing Sera a metaphorical bone. She ate literal bones as well, but if Leon threw her one he’d soon find out what it was like to skydive before the invention of a parachute.
“Disqualified as well. It deviates from the standard formula, but relies on you already understanding it. Really, if you didn’t know much about theatre to begin with, at lot of it would be lost on you. It ultimately came off as pretentious, and despite its inherently kind of ridiculous premise, was more depressing than anything. This sort of meta-commentary might work better for the sake of humor rather than trying for serious drama. Trying it here simply made the play exhausting and the sort of thing Tartarus really felt like it was mocking. That said, its pretention and grim character could give a good impression that the Macedonian theatre scene is serious and educated, but then I’d have to watch so many more like it. I don’t have enough absinthe to get through more than about one of those in a single festival.” Cassandra replied to that, and drew a second line through Apologia to emphasize her point. Seramis shrank into her cushions.
“Ah, so you enjoyed Tartarus then?” Leonidas asked in turn, trying to navigate the conversation to something less liable to torment the dragoness.
“Oh I most certainly did, but we can’t give it the win. As amusing as it is, it’s ultimately a very limited production. I like it, but giving it the victory would indicate a degree of “small scale” theatre in Macedon. I don’t want to give anyone else opportunity to degrade the work that’s been done here by suggesting that the Macedonian theatre lacks ambition.” Cassandra said with a sigh, and began crossing out any plays of similar scale.
“Which would be possessed by the Davidiad, but we all know how catastrophically wrong that went, so pray spare me whatever salt you were going to pour into that wound. I know that with all the bacchanalian delights available, you probably have managed to find someone who enjoys being tormented, but I am not that someone. So please, if you’re going to continue trying to murder me with words, use the ones that summon that lightning ball that nearly splattered me across the wall. It was a gentler execution.” Seramis grumbled, finally speaking up for herself.
Cassandra realized she’d gone to far, and put down the tablet. “I’m sorry Sera, I meant to tease, but not be cruel. I actually would agree that the Davidiad’s ambition was most impressive, and if not for some production hiccups, I think it might have had a chance at winning. I do tease, but I really do appreciate all the work you’ve put in to this, not just your company, but allowing this whole festival to go off. So, please forgive me if I’ve stepped too far from jest into mockery.”
“It’s fine, simply a very fresh disappointment. I’m afraid I missed most of the festival as I was busy running things or, well, pouting in a lake.” Seramis replied, waving away the problem with her tail. “So aside from everything you’ve disqualified, what do you think actually won?”
“I do have a personal preference.” Cass admitted, though she seemed a touch embarrassed by it. “The Court of Autumn.” The other two looked at her carefully with that. The Court of Autumn had been a much more romantic retelling of the story of Hades and Persephone, focused on the courtship of the pair, and the conflict that arose from a disapproving and overbearing Demeter. Neither of the pair had expected Cass to favor a romance, and their expressions showed it plainly. Cassandra merely shrugged. “We all desire what we cannot have, and it comes to a question of character whether we become envious of those lucky enough to have it, or delight sorrowfully that another is so blessed, even if they might not realize it.”
“I mean, I can’t deny that it was very well done. If I didn’t know better then I’d say that the two leads actually were a couple.” Leon replied with a nod. “It certainly doesn’t lack for ambition either, nor courage to speak the names of the Dread Queen and Lord With Many Guests so commonly.”
Cass smiled at that. “The fact that they do so is also part of why I like it. Persephone and Hades are dead, all the Olympians are. The reverence shown to corpses is illogical.”
Seramis processed this information, and considered her memory banks. “The company behind it, they’re one of the Theban companies, the Men of the Muses, correct?” She asked, and Cass checked, then nodded. “Ah, then yes, the two leads are actually husband and wife, they’ve got something of a specialty for romances as a result.”
“Write, or as the case may be, act, what you know.” Cassandra said with a shrug. “So we concur, The Court of Autumn is the victor?”
“I can’t argue against it.” Leon replied.
“Nor can I, but that’s more due to the aforementioned lack of context. One can make arguments without information, but I have a bit too much respect for the pair of you to engage in full sophistry.” Seramis admitted begrudgingly.
“Well, that absence may actually work to our advantage, returning from these pleasant distractions to the business of rule.” Cassandra said with a smile. “The Latins were particularly delighted with Tartarus, and actually wished to see the director. Said director was currently indisposed, but they have extended something of an open invitation. I think that accepting would provide quite the opportunity. It isn’t often one has a chance to walk right into the midst of a potentially hostile camp and see what they’re up to under guest-right.”
Seramis rose in interest at the idea, and cracked her neck. Cracking such a long neck was a process, creating a rippling crackling sound as vertebrae popped along the serpentine trunk. She grinned in anticipation. “I’ll melt myself a new dress.”

Manifestation isn't about enforcing your will onto an already established world. When you do SATS, listen to subliminals, script, or whatever imaginal acts you enjoy, the point isn't to do them enough to where the world seems that you've done enough work to bestow your wishes unto you.
When Neville describes your consciousness as being God, it's because your consciousness is literally all that is and all that ever will be. You, your conscious mind, your identity, ego, etc. is in control of very little of your life. You can move your arms and legs, speak, and whatever else, but even most of your bodily processes aren't directly controlled by your will. Your subconscious mind handles all of that for you.
This subconscious handling isn't limited to your body, but to your mind as well. Picture a dog in your mind. Now picture a horse. You may have willed your mind to think of those two things just now, but your subconscious handled all technical aspects. Don't believe me? Tell me then in technical terms, just how you brought the picture to mind? Explain to me the way I'm which you skillfully fired neurons and activated receptors in your brain to produce a mental image, along with the memory and pattern recognition with which you used to identity and craft the information with which you've labeled as "horse" and "dog". Point proven.
That stuff is constantly happening all around you. It's the reason why you feel like you're not in control, like there's any question whether or not the Law works. Your world isn't something already made that you interpret with your senses. It's something your subconscious molds and presents to you via sensory information. It is both the tracks and the track-layer on which your train of thoughts runs, the blueprint for this being your unconscious beliefs.
Conscious Manifestation is about changing these beliefs to suit your fancy. If you change the rules of "horse" in your blueprint to be not only a large quadruped but also to be something you own, then your subconscious will write a horse into your possession, because it's now within the blueprint.
This is why signs always follow and never precede. This is why the only thing to change is self. This is why all you need to do is present your desires to your subconscious, and let it handle things for you. You already let it handle your thoughts, bodily functions, keeping you alive, and literally forming your world. Why not let it handle the process of you getting what you want while you put your feet up and enjoy your train ride?

for the past few months since our staff has drastically become smaller, more responsibilities have been put on me and I've done them no problem. Since we opened (brand new store, i transferred hoping for a better atmosphere) at the end of August/beginning of October (2023) we started of smooth. I was just a recovery associate and most days I'd have another recovery associate with me to split the store, cleaning and go backs. Around February/March I started recovering, sweeping, mopping, cleaning bathrooms and breakrooms, and go backs all by myself while some days being a cashier on top of it especially all of the month of April and May. I was also doing freight shifts for truck nights and packing out at night and mornings as well due to having only 2 actual overnight associates and going through 3-4 overnight managers within our short time span of being open. From October-March I was just doing recovery, helping out with freight every once in awhile and maybe once in a blue moon I'd have to be the only employee with a manager in the store and try to be a back up cashier while recovering so the manager on duty could take their break, meal and time to do their paperwork or other responsibilities. Lately though in the last 2 months (April and May) I've been scheduled as the only closing associate with just a manager for the majority of my shifts or tricked with the promise of packing out freight in the morning just to be met with a till when I get there. I'm a recovery associate.. I understand being a cashier can be inevitable but most of my shifts for the last 2 months due to hours and lack of employees..bruh. At my old store we had 3-4 recocery ppl and always 2 on each shift to split the store AND a go backs person as back up cashier. I rarely ever went on register maybe 5 times a year if that. We helped the go backs person after our aisles if they weren't done on the off chance. 1 recovery person swept the store while the other cleaned the bathroom and the break room then we would split the mopping. I'm basically on my own doing all of that and being a cashier some nights. When we do have a cashier it's only 1 for closing so all of that still falls on me besides the stuff that can be put away on the registers. I got a text from an assistant store mamager asking if I could come in to close on 5/22/24 I replied to him how I couldn't but I also needed to speak to him about my shift on Saturday 5/25/24 because I saw the time of the shift (2pm-7pm) which led me to believe they were making me a midshift cashier for that day. I have NEVER been scheduled that time. I basically texted him and asked if I was going to be a cashier and if so to please get coverage because the only other workers who are doing every shift like i am (recovery/closing, freight (overnight), and morning pack outs) are managers and they've ignored THREE applications for the position of operational manager that I've sent in. So I didn't think it was fair. (Mind you they ended up promoting my store managers baby fathers niece who had only been there 3 months with no experience) ASM reassured me I was not a cashier and that I'd be packing out and not to worry on 5/22/24. On 5/25/24 I showed up for my shift to be met by the ASM avoiding me through the store and the store manager in the office asking me if I was going to leave if she made me a cashier and I replied yes. She said ok and said I could go. If it was truly such a big issue I don't get why i wasnt served a write up right then and there but whatever.. I also had 3 shifts coming up 5/28/24-5/29/24. I checked my schedule the day after "incident" on 5/27/24 and my shift for 5/29/24 was gone off compass. Then 2hrs before my shift on 5/27/24 I was told not to come in through text and to come in the next day(5/28/24) an hour before scheduled (mind you, that shift wasn't taken out of compass so I'm not getting paid now per ny state law since company policy says they have to edit it iff compass for payroll to pay me) I get there and I clock in and start collecting go backs and hear my name being called to the office and am then fired by the store manager. She told me she spoke to HR and she was told to terminate me due to insubordination. I have 0 write ups at this location since opening. I honestly don't think I've had a write up in the last year let alone.. I have already felt these actions were coming for the past 2-3 months due to every single employee i transferred with are all gone and the last 3 were fired. I contacted HR and they agreed yet said I was being fired for shift abandonment even though it could've been avoided and covered if they didn't set me up. I also asked HR about paying out my sick time and was told no even though associates don't earn pto or vacation pay so it's all we get.. it's just fucked what a company can do to your for finally standing up for yourself and asking for what I deserved after FIVE YEARS spent busting my ass.

DISCLAIMER: These opinions are a bit scattered as I'm writing them as they form, sorry if it seems like the ramblings of a crazy person. Also, no TLDR at the bottom. If you're truly interested, then read it all.
I have tried to endure through this game but I just cant take it anymore, I'm tired of not being able to make progress. I started playing back on launch day, was super hyped just like everyone else.
But as I advanced further and further into the game, things only got frustrating and disheartening. So much so, that I've now uninstalled it for the 2nd time since launch and this time have no intention of returning ever again.
Elden Ring has some of the worst boss fights I've ever encountered in a video game, ever. They're nearly all terrible in some way. I'm level 170, first playthrough. But I feel as though I'm as squishy as a marshmallow, unable to take more than 3 consecutive hits before I die.
I'm at 60 Vit, 45 Strength, 50 Faith, 20 Mind, 36 Endurance, etc. playing with a Blasphemous Blade build. This game feels like its actively trying to stop me from playing it at every turn, no matter what I try and do, no matter how I try and play it.
I've re-spec'd so many different times, tried other peoples builds and feel like I'm getting nowhere fast. The balancing feels so fucked compared to every other Souls game. None of it feels challenging either, just hard for the sake of being hard.
I finally hit Malenia, and I just......can't with her, its such a poor fight that feels like it doesn't respect my time investment at all. The crazy part is that I see everyone and their mother loving this trash fire, but I just don't get it, I don't understand. Video games ARE supposed to be fun, right?
Are these people huffing FromSoft copium? How are they able to look past all of the games glaring issues? Mohg was also nothing but a spectacle boss, flashiness for the sake of looking cool, annoying fight mechanics, not fun etc.
In fact that's all of Elden Ring, flashy cool looking piles of shit. The thing is, I actually really enjoy the world exploration. But, for every awesome dungeon I run through (shoutout to most of Liurnia for being awesome), I find a new boss that feels awful to fight/doesn't care about any of my stats/armor.
Another thing I cannot stand is the INSANE overuse of "enemy hiding behind corneready to push you off of something". It happened SO many times that it became funny, and later, just annoying, as I'd see it coming every time and say to myself "oh this again".
All of this upsets me greatly because I WANT to like this game, I truly do, but it just reeks of unfinished development, zero amounts of playtesting, and little to no balancing. I should mention really quick that yes I HAVE played other Souls games. Bloodborne being the best in my opinion, DS3 being a close 2nd.
Does anyone share any of these opinions? Am I alone?

Flamon are eerie, skeletal creatures composed of ash and fire. Their unsettling presence and fiery aura often intimidate those around them. Despite their macabre appearance, they possess a surprising array of abilities linked to their cursed origins.
Ability Score Increase: Your Charisma score increases by 2.
Age: Flamons don’t age in the same way mortals do and are essentially immortal unless destroyed.
Alignment: Flamons tend towards chaotic and neutral alignments, reflecting the tumultuous nature of their existence.
Size: Flamons are roughly the same size and build as humans. Your size is Medium.
Speed: Your base walking speed is 30 feet.
Darkvision: You can see in dim light within 60 feet of you as if it were bright light, and in darkness as if it were dim light.
Infernal Intimidation: You have advantage on Charisma (Intimidation) checks.
Infernal Endurance: You gain resistance to fire damage.
Languages: You can speak, read, and write Common and Infernal.
Subraces
Taucher
Taucher are Flamons cursed by a devil to endure constant pain, which has honed their endurance and resilience.
Ability Score Increase: Your Constitution score increases by 1.
Hellish Resilience: You have advantage on Constitution checks to resist pain or to maintain concentration on spells.
Infernal Ausdauer: You gain immunity to fire damage for one minute once per long rest.
Feure
Feure are Flamons who perished in fires and require consuming bone and flammable objects to sustain themselves.
Ability Score Increase: Your Dexterity score increases by 1.
Necrotic Sustenance: You must consume bones and flammable objects to stay alive, though you need only half the sustenance a normal mortal requires.
Fiery Regeneration: When you take fire damage, you can choose to restore a missing body parts. You still take the fire damage as normal.
Heat Surge: When in temperatures above 90°F or in the presence of an open flame, you have advantage on Strength and Dexterity checks.
Note: the subrace below this message is a joke, made to be based on Ghost Rider from marvel comics. He is not to be taken as seriously as the other two subraces. Also I know it is not lore accurate to marvel for any marvel lovers out there.
Ghost
Ghost are Flamons who were revived by their overwhelming hatred and have a natural bond with fiery steeds.
Ability Score Increase: Your Strength score increases by 1.
Skeletal Steed: You can cast the find steed spell once per long rest, summoning a skeletal horse with a fiery spirit.
Natural Armor: Due to your bony composition, you have a natural AC of 13 + your Strength modifier.
Hatred-Fueled Strength: When your hit points are below half your maximum, you enter a rage like state, and have advantage on attack rolls and Strength checks for 1 minute.

I’ve realized my ways and my poor decision to write of the hitreg and netcode. I am baffled, astounded and simply appalled by the decisions made by Ubisoft.
For real though, I didn’t really get it, I’ve had basically zero problems but recently I’ve picked up semi-automatic and burst fire. I’ve died countless times due to shots not registering and I believe people who don’t experience it havent touched these guns and the ones who have are the ones that are the most complaining.
It’s all valid, my suggest is to use an automatic you like until the storm has settled. Either that or only push encounters you know you will win which is hard but definitely doable.

I feel like redditors and other people online love to use getting therapy as an insult or a cudgel. Here is a good post on it so I don't have to repeat why therapy isn't the magic cure or punishment that redditors believe it to be.
Recently I got fired from my job. I posted about it on a subreddit and people said it was my fault, I wasn't cut out for it, and I needed to get therapy. I'm sure some people were trying to be helpful but I'm guessing for other people it was supposed to be a punishment for me doing something wrong.
I had a friend who recommended a group practice for therapy, and somehow, the place he suggested had an insanely cheap sliding scale. It's insane. There's food truck sandwiches in my area that are more expensive. I'm guessing that some people must pay huge bucks because there's no way that my therapist could afford to get a decent salary.
I know people here like to hate on therapy, but I don't find that there's much of a downside to having a licensed professional work with you for large chunk of time.
It just seems like therapy is all about affirmation. For example, my therapist told me that my homework was to write 10 affirmations about myself. She suggested one of my affirmations was that I can return back to the type of job I was fired from.
If redditors actually went to therapy, I don't think they would suggest it as much.

 Hey guys it’s the same post as before I just wanted to fix it up a bit. Write it while I was still raw yesterday. For context I’m a 21m and I’m from Maine. After Highschool I never could actually figure out what I wanted to do after graduating or if I wanted to go to college. Part of that is my fault since I’m naturally anxious and nervous about stuff. I also had 5-6 different guidance counselors in my senior year wich kinda screwed me in trying to get my feet leveled in finding/deciding what I wanted for in college. Not saying I’d be in any position to pay for schooling since my family is not very high in income. I had an ocean rescue swimmer job with the Fire Department since 16 and I loved it however it was technically seasonal so I had nothing in the way of benefits or OT. I wanted to become an EMT but got discouraged because the classes to become one are hard to come by and enroll in, but I do enjoy that line of work and having some meaning. I just started a job as a machinist for a huge plant making jet engine parts. It’s decent paying at 21/ hr and has a lot of room for raises, growth and scholarship programs. So I could go to school with them paying for all of it (as long as it fits their company motives and I’d have to sign a 2 year contract to stay with them after). Although I hate the shift I’m training on and the shift I’d be getting on has perks but I’d be missing family and friends since it would be on the weekend. The work is incredibly stressful and everything is so strict wich would be the case since we’re making plane parts, but the training is awful and I have no idea what’s happening most of the time since the trainers don’t know what they are doing. Not saying it’s the trainers fault be cause they just pick out random workers and assign me to shadow them and they find out right then and there. Then I repeat for 6 months of training until I’m put on shift. I feel so lost in watching them because they took away a 3 week crash course on the job before I joined so I feel like I’m being thrown to the wolves. I have also never worked for a huge corporation before since I’ve mostly worked with small personable teams with a lot of flexibility. So I’m just not used to or liking the cold and fake corporate for the worker crap they lay on. My anxiety about the job is through the roof with them even though I feel like I should be proud I’m incredibly dissatisfied and frustrated with myself and the job. I just feel incredibly alone in my head. I’ve never let it boil over me before until now. I had a mini breakdown on my way back home after work. I feel so lost, scared and alone. I know I don’t want kill myself or anything but I’ve lost interest in all of my hobbies so I’m just sort of there and just existing. The only thing that can get me out of it are my family, select friends and my girlfriend. I feel so unsatisfied with life and I feel like I can’t find my purpose or meaning. I don’t know what I want to do with my life still. I have been struggling and having panic attacks a lot lately along with confidence issues and I just don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to go back and retry for my EMT license with my best friend and do that for work and figure out options for college on my own. The only thing I know for sure is that I want to end up working for myself for my own business and work mostly from home to be flexible for my family, girlfriend and our possible family together. I just don’t know how because I’ve never really had any mentors or great role models especially any that have that kind of life that I want. Any assistance in any of this would be greatly appreciated. I’m sick of being in my head all the time and being exhausted because of it. 

Also, I wanted to join the military (navy as a rescue swimmer) when I couldn’t figure anything out. I did really well on the ASVAB and physical training tests, but I haven’t been able to get my medical papers to clear because I have lupus. That also sent me down a spiral and I’ve felt like a failure because of it.

The Four Statements of Zen are:

• 不立文字 - Not relying on words and letters.
• 教外別傳 - A special transmission outside the scriptures.
• 直指人心 - Directly pointing to a person's mind.
• 見性成佛 - Seeing one's nature and becoming Buddha

Now this likely brings a few pertinent questions to... well, mind. (How fitting)
In Zen texts there are a lot of repeating "Mind is Buddha", and similar mind-pointing phrases. However, what is Mind?
I wish to use this post to discuss "Mind" (which will have to be the first in a series of 2, or 3 given the length required to simply dip one's toe in). I am going to use Chan master Guifeng Zongmi as a thread in this small series, so I thought it'd be beneficial to first provide this early paragraph from his work, the Source of Chan. It should help us understand what Chan is to Zongmi:

"[T]his true nature is not only the source of Chan but also the source of all laws (dharmas), hence it is called Dharma-nature. It is also the source of delusion and enlightenment in sentient beings, hence it is called the Tathagata-garbha (storehouse consciousness) . It is also the source of all virtues of Buddhas, hence it is called Buddha-nature . It is also the source of all practices of Bodhisattvas, hence it is called the mind ground . All practices fall within the six paramitas, with the Chan gate being just one of them, specifically the fifth. How can true nature be exclusively identified as a single practice of Chan?
Yet, the practice of Chan meditation is most wondrous, able to arouse the flawless wisdom inherent in one’s nature. All marvelous functions, virtues, and practices, including supernatural powers and illumination, arise from concentration. Therefore, practitioners of the Three Vehicles who seek the holy path must practice Chan; there is no other way. Even those who recite the Buddha’s name to be reborn in the Pure Land must practice the sixteen contemplations of Chan, the mindfulness of the Buddha Samadhi, and the Pratyutpanna Samadhi. Moreover, true nature is neither defiled nor pure, without distinction between ordinary and holy beings. Chan, however, varies in depth and stages.
Practicing with erroneous views and suppressing lower states to achieve higher ones is externalist Chan. Practicing with proper faith in cause and effect, with a desire for liberation, is ordinary Chan. Practicing with the realization of the emptiness of self and biased truth is Hinayana Chan. Practicing with the realization of the emptiness of both self and phenomena, revealing the true principle, is Mahayana Chan."

So Chan has its depths and stages, but we are told that proper practice with a faith in cause and effect is ordinary Chan. This surely follows what you may have read in recent posts on the "Wu" koan, and how Wansong offered a comment upon it saying, "...It's not just about whether the dog has Buddha-nature or not. It's about deliberately violating the knowledge of karma and its nature, being greatly aware of the past and cautious of the future, being careful at the beginning and guarding the end."
On top of "Mind", we also hear of a "No-Mind". So is practicing this No-Mind the same no-thing being spoken of when it's suggested one practices Wumen's No? (Zen masters do instruct to carry it all day and night).
How would one even practice Wumen's "Wu" or "No", anyways? Well, above Zongmi laid out that "practicing with the realization of the emptiness of both self and phenomena is Mahayana Chan." This seems to follow the sentiment of Master Miaoxi who said of the Wu koan, "It's not the 'no' of existence, nor is it the 'no' of true emptiness."
Let's return to Mind. There are two main principles, the immutable and the mutable. Hit it, Zongmi!

Just as true gold, when crafted by different artisans into rings, bracelets, bowls, or cups, does not change its nature to copper or iron, gold represents the principle, and its immutable nature under various conditions represents the teaching. If someone asks which substance does not change and which adapts to conditions, the correct answer is gold. This analogy helps to understand the principles and teachings of the entire collection of scriptures: it is all about the mind.

I would raise here a side dialogue about Gold, and Adornment, and the metaphors in Zen writings about this - but I need to wrap this post up. (Guifeng's work also points out that there are 8 types of minds, so our probing would need to go far too deep for what this post should cover).

The mind is the dharma, and all else is its significance. Hence, the scriptures say, "The immeasurable significances arise from a single dharma." However, these countless significances can be broadly categorized into two types: unchanging and conditioned. The scriptures only talk about how this mind, according to ignorance or enlightenment, conditions impurities, purity, mundane and sacred, afflictions, and enlightenment, with and without defilements. They also talk about how this mind, whether impure or pure, inherently remains unchanging and naturally extinguished, truly as it is. If someone asks, "What remains unchanging? What follows conditions?" The answer should simply be "the mind."

We know there is Buddha Mind and Buddha Demon. Linji said, "A moment of doubt in your mind is the Buddha demon. If you can realize that myriad phenomena have no origin, and mind is like an illusory projection, there is not a single atom or a single phenomenon anymore; everywhere is pure. Then there is no Buddha demon."
No origin? Well, Mind, like Gold, or Fire, transforms under conditions. Sometimes Buddha, sometimes Demon.
Let's end with an illustration from the Recorded Sayings of Chan Master Zhanran:

Zaobai said, 'With one thought of anger, millions of gates of obstacles open. Those who cultivate the bodhisattva path must be cautious not to arouse anger. If there's even a trace of anger, there will be a corresponding increase in the power of anger and demons. After death, there will be blessings that transform into the great powerful demon king, and one will fall into the three paths again. It's said that with the arousal of anger, one's cultivation may further empower demons.'
The teacher said, 'Indeed, there is. In the Avatamsaka Sutra, Bodhisattvas of the Ten Dwellings, Ten Practices, Ten Directions, and Ten Stages each possess the power and protection of a Tathagata. This is the meaning of their respective stages.'
'If this is so, then what is the difference between Buddha and demon fruits, and how can they provide such power to people?'
The teacher replied, 'They are not external things but the power of one's mind. It's just like how people use fire to burn houses, cook food, or refine elixirs. Each use of fire naturally has its accompanying wind power to assist, completing the task. Burning houses is evil, cooking food is righteous, refining elixirs is the Dao. Wind and fire do not discriminate, yet they can succeed or fail according to the task. Similarly, Buddha and demons do not discriminate, yet they follow the mind's judgment of right and wrong. By using the wind to ignite fire, actions are completed by the mind, which are not separate. Thus, if one doesn't guard the true nature of Reality, letting it mature naturally, people do not understand their own minds, often swayed by circumstances. Demons take advantage of this, leading them into evil paths, all due to not realizing one's inherent Buddha nature, lacking self-control, and being controlled by external influences. How can demons and Buddhas say the same? In this way, what you said about blessings being indispensable, whether it's believable or not, is something to be pondered upon.

I'm 80 days clean today, I was addicted to porn for 21+ years and I had several problems that included depression, selfharm, self sabotage, self-destructive tendencies, etc.
Today I can safely say that thing are a lot better. My life is nicer, my partner seems happier, my skin is cleaner, I lost like 19 pounds of fat and my hair is better. I wake up feeling rested, food taste better and I have more energy. All of these stuff is nice and all but honestly, the thing I'm most proud about is that, for the first time in more than twenty years... I don't hate myself, in fact, I love myself.
I've learned lots of stuff about healing, saw dozens of videos on porn addiction (the best are by Dr Trish Leigh on YouTube), talked countless hours about my addiction with my partner and psychologist, I've meditated for hours and hours, I've done the work.
I feel weird writing this because I'm not a 100% healed yet, I'm still working through trauma, PTSD and some guilt, but those things feel more like chores than the fire mountains they were a couple months ago when I started this journey.
Anyway, I just wanted to say... THANK YOU! Thank you for being here, thank you for reading this, for trying to get better, for trying to BE better.
Thank you for not giving up and working on yourself! I will keep working on myself too and I will keep on helping others here as I usually do. Remember to be nice to each other, don't be mean and Don't fight in the comments.
We are all here to get better, so... Let's get better!
Best of luck! -Angel

I'm trying to get my friend out of the non-profit sector and into the government, but we have no clue of which job series she should be looking at.
She's currently looking in the DC area and currently makes around $75-80k annually. We're hoping to get her into a career that matches or exceeds her current salary and that hopefully has growth potential.
The only thing, is that she doesn't have a degree or any substantial certifications. She's made it to where she is solely on experience and merit.
Any ideas on which job series she should be looking at?
Here is a summarized snippet of the responsibilities she had at her previous jobs (not limited to this, but it's what I'm aware of):
Lead educator @ a non-profit

• Lead a team of 7 educators, serving students from ages 7-24
• Taught and advised on various programs to corporate and community partners
• Surveyed and documented clients
• Assisted with grant writing
• Designed summeyearly enrichment programs for underprivileged youths
• Forecasted budget needs, suggested spending improvements, and reviewed current company budgets
• Recruitment strategizing to build client base
• Facilitated access to community assets for clients in need.

Volunteer Administrator @ a local fire department

• Built partnerships with local schools
• Designed flyers and other promotional materials
• Attended community events on behalf of the organization
• Performed outreach calls for current and prospective recruits
• Streamline data collection system for new recruits

Hey, so I'm just about finishing LAoK's, not quite at the end. Throughout the trilogy there have been references to Bethods rise to power with the Bloody Nine as his champion, how he fought the Dogman and Three Trees and Black Dow and let them all live. How he killed stour knightfall and rattlesnakes son... the older one.. and nailed his head to Bethods standard... where does one read about these tales first hand? Can that be done or are they camp fire tales men are too lazy to write songs about? Say one thing for the Bloody Nine... say there are a lot of stories about him.

And especially Whizzers depiction in it.
Ok I need to write it down because I love it so much, and it shows his insecurities perfectly.
It begins with Whizzer winning a round. He is totally ready for a fight, wants to tease Marvin into fighting, because it is their "normal" routine. I mean, he learned it in their relationship, they only work when they fight each other. But Marvin... doesn't fight him? He just... takes the loss fairly? This is not how Marvin works, I mean "winning is everything to me" meant everything for this man 2 years ago. Even the lyrics represent Whizzers shock: "Where's the heat, where's the fire used to be you desire to fight! So fight!" What is Marvins response? "So play!" - an answer which suggests he wants to play as equals and fairly. (At this point it isn't about racquet anymore, and we all know that)
So, they play the next round. I wish in my heart that Whizzer is so distragted with Marvins grown-up answer that he makes a mistake and Marvin wins a round. This is his chance, Whizzer thinks, now they will tease eachother and it will be like it was. They will fight, not like this cute and harmless back and forth. "Somethings stinks in how you play" he makes it clear that he doesn't trust this lovely day with his... lover?
And Marvin? "Don't you think it's a blessing I'm so pathetically bad?" He just... teases?! He got humor about him losing?!?! What happened to that man?!
After that, Whizzer realizes that he has complete control in the game. In the next round, he just lets Marvin run around to hunt the ball he plays. This is something completely new for Whizzer. Before that, Marvin wanted him to be a submissive housewife like he was used to. Marvin wanted to control Whizzer, Whizzer was used to be a play thing for men and he hated being tied down. Which resulted in him not being able to let loose in their relationship and show actual love. He slept around to show that he can't be controlled, even though he wanted to love and be loved by someone.
And now he is in the situation he never thought would be possible. "Do you know? All I want is YOU. Anything YOU do is ALRIGHT." Marvin finally understands Whizzers needs and respects him like he is. He LOVES him. And Whizzer enjoys that.
Marvin looses the game, exhausted, he collapses to the floor. He still isn't the best loser, but he doesn't kill the whole relationship over this. Which is a huge improvement. And this is when Whizzer finally gives in to the idea of a loving relationship. He lends Marvin a hand to help him up, because they played fair and Marvin didn't make a huge fuss about losing. He enjoyed a fair game with a man, which he finally realizes: He loves. And where Marvin was singing this lovely love note to his lover, they now sing it together, like it should be!
I just love it so much!

So until about an hour ago I was an electrical foreman up at a big job in northern BC Canada. The crew I was managing didn't get enough work done last week, and it was all my fault for not yelling at them enough apparently.
They demoted me to picking up garbage, so I gave my two weeks notice and then they wrote me up 4 times in a row for a bad attitude. Consequently firing me. I didn't sign any of the write ups as they're completely ridiculous. They drove me back to camp and now they're trying to get me to send them a signed piece of paper saying I quit.
Do I have a case here?