I am the daughter of Ralph and his second wife, Carolyn. My brother and I grew up in the Hurricane\Winfield area. My dad Ralph was the CFO to a major hospital chain in Charleston, WV for many years. My mother was a teacher. My sibling and I grew up in Hurricane and Winfield West Virginia.
Ralph was moved around during his formative years, being the only son of Ralph Bowles, Sr, and Geraldine Fizer, who were a military/navy family. Ralph grew up from California to New Port News Virginia, places where his father was stationed.
My father Ralph and my mother met while attending classes at Marshall University in the 1970's and married after a long courtship. They were married ten years but were together for much longer.
Ralph was an avid Chicago Bears fan throughout his adult life. He enjoyed learning about WWII and was a voracious reader of all things Stephen King. He enjoyed horror films, especially black and white horror films.
Unfortunately, this is where the account of Ralph's life gets blurry for some people, and would be unless you were there and lived it, as my sibling and I did.
Ralph was married three times and my mother was his second wife. He and my mother had two children together and his co-workers remember pictures of me on his desk at work.
It was around this time that Ralph met his third wife, who was 11 years his junior, as she was working as a cashier at Hecks in Teays Valley. Hecks no longer exists, just as Hills no longer exists. Their relationship started prior to his marriage to my mother ending, according to my paternal grandmother, who told me this information when I was 12.
By all accounts of his third family, he was a beloved father and husband who helped his inlaws with a variety of tasks, even going so far as doing their accounting homework for them. During this time in his life, he enjoyed keeping his grass short and green and couldn't abide a single weed in his yard. He owned a variety of dogs, including a shih tzu, a pug, a toy poodle, a maltese, a labrador retriever, and several bulldogs, his favorite bulldog being named Daisy.
My sibling and I were at our father's house on Tuesday and Thursday evenings and at least one weekend a month. When I was about 12, Ralph and his third wife had a baby girl. My grandmother, by that time, had taken a parental role for me and my sibling with Ralph's second wife, due to my parents' busy lives.
It was after the birth of his last child in the mid 90's that things started falling apart between my father and his second family. Accounts seem to differ but it was around this time that my father and his third wife moved the belongings of me and my sibling to the garage to make room for his third child. It was at this time that my relationship with my father effectively ended. It was also around this time that my paternal grandmother thought I deserved the truth of my family.
The reason for this information is that my sibling and I, as well as multiple others, were conveniently left out of his obituary for reasons I don't completely understand. Ralph was proceeded in death by his mother and father and nephew, and is survived by his first, second, and third wife and their children, as well as in-laws and cousins.
Multiple people have reached out and asked why we omitted, those who remember me and my sibling are just as confused as we are. There are two reasons why I think we were omitted : 1) he's worried we are going to try to come for his money. I assure you that neither of us are interested in that. 2) he has some kind of desire to pretend that my sibling and I don't exist. We do and we have pictures and memories that prove we were there.
My sibling and I are both successful people with careers and families of our own and we have not in any way brought shame upon his name or family other than expressing desire for our truth to be known and the truth of what happened to our family to be known. The people who have chosen to exclude us have done so our whole lives and it is our opinion that this is the last attempt to push us to the side.
Rest in peace, Ralph. We do remember you.

Beep—beep—beep—beep beep—
I lifted the thermometer I had placed in her flushed left ear.
Looking at the reading on the thermometer, it showed "38.2 C".
Although a pregnant woman’s body temperature tends to be higher, this was definitely a fever, no doubt about it.
I slowly lowered my hand holding the thermometer, looking at Hoshino-San lying on the couch, I covered my face and recalled this morning.
…
The usual morning routine, I entered the bathroom for the usual grooming and looked at myself in the mirror.
After coming out, I noticed the mobile phone on the kitchen counter was buzzing with a notification, so I checked it.
I noticed that Hoshino-San had sent me two messages.
I opened the chatroom: "Amamiya-Sensei, I think I have a fever." she messaged—ugh. She sent a sticker—a somewhat chubby white seal looking displeased with a thermometer apparently stuck up its rear—What?
I turned off the phone screen and put it into my pocket. I put on my mask, grabbed the alcohol spray, and rang the doorbell at Hoshino-San's next-door apartment.
After a moment...
…She didn't faint, did she? But then—she opened the door, her face looking somewhat flushed.
"Ah~~Uno you're here~" She—What? "Hoshino-San, are you okay?" I asked.
"Relax! I just feel a little—" she said, waving her hand forward, then her body started to fall forward—"HEY ! HOSHINO-SAN!" I quickly stepped forward to catch her, her head leaning slightly on my shoulder.
"I'll take you to the couch to rest first." I gently assisted her, helping her to lie down on the couch.
…
Looking at her lying on the couch, she was resting with her eyes closed. Apart from looking exhausted, coughing, and a runny nose, her symptoms didn't seem severe. It's possible that she started feeling unwell on the way home yesterday, and her symptoms worsened during the night, preventing her from sleeping well.
I noticed her constantly adjusting her position, so I went to her bedroom and fetched a blanket and a pillow. I gently lifted her head and put the pillow in a comfortable place for her, and then covered her with the blanket.
"Is there anywhere else you're feeling uncomfortable?" I asked her softly. "Hmm... my... my head hurts a lot." she answered weakly, her face showing discomfort and her hands gripping the blanket tightly.
She couldn't take care of herself in this state, and I couldn't bear to leave her alone. "Hoshino-San, do you feel too cold right now?" I asked her gently.
"Uh... yeah, um... yes..." she answered slowly with her eyes closed. I got up, looked around for the air conditioner remote, found it, and turned up the temperature slightly.
After that, I went to her bathroom, rinsed a plastic washbasin, filled it with seventy percent hot water and thirty percent cold water, soaked a towel in it, and brought it to the living room.
I dipped the towel in the water, then wrung out most of the water. I then gently placed the warm towel on her forehead. Her expression seemed to relax a bit.
I watched her resting quietly.
After a while, I reheated the towel and placed it on her forehead again.
"Hoshino-San, did you do anything yesterday that might have led to catching a cold?" I asked her gently. "Uh... drank too much lemon water?" she answered me.
Uh... dinner last night? If I recall correctly, she didn't drink much.
"I saw you didn't drink much lemon water yesterday, was there anything else?" I asked her gently. "Um... yesterday... I think I took a cold shower." she answered slowly.
"For a long time?" I asked her. "I... don't remember, I think... after dancing yesterday afternoon, I showered until you rang the doorbell?" she slowly—What?
She showered until I rang the doorbell? I had finished a movie before I went to see her!
"Do you only take cold showers, Hoshino-San?" I asked her gently. "Well... at the beginning there was hot water, but later it ran out." she answered slowly.
I got up and gently opened the balcony door. The water heater is the same model as mine, the movie "The Graduate" is about 100 minutes, so this water heater can provide hot water for about 20 minutes, which means... 80 minutes of a cold shower.
No wonder she caught a cold... I heard her coughing from inside.
It seemed that I had no choice today. I walked over to the railing, dialed the hospital, and waited for the call to go through.
"Hello, this is Amamiya Gorou, a gynecologist. I have an emergency to attend to. My neighbor suddenly has a fever and can't take care of herself. She has no one else to look after her. I'm sorry, I need to take a leave of absence." I said. "Understood, Amamiya-Sensei, thank you for informing us. Are you sure your neighbor's condition requires your personal care? Does she need to be taken to the hospital?" the other party asked.
"Yes, I'm worried about her condition. I believe I need to see her myself. I've already assessed her illness. I will observe her condition. If it worsens, I will take her to the hospital immediately." I replied. "We understand your situation, Amamiya-Sensei. How long do you think your leave will last?" they asked. "I estimate I will need a day. I will handle this issue as soon as possible and return to the hospital." I answered.
After some more conversation, I managed to take the leave. I started thinking about what food is good for someone with a cold.
…
To be honest, aside from catching a cold when I was a child, I don't seem to have much experience with colds. Among the people I know, the one to ask about making a meal for someone with a cold would be...
But I didn't really want to call— I heard coughing from the room.
…
Sigh. I dialed a number from my contact list, waiting for the other party to pick up.
"Hello, this is the Amamiya residence." the voice on the other side said. "Hey, Grandma, it's me—" She cut me off. "Oh! My dear grandson! How rare of you to call back home! Did you miss Grandma?" she said joyously. "Kind of, but today I wanted to—" She cut me off again. "Gorou, are you bringing your girlfriend home this time? Should I notify the relatives?" She inquired—
Yes, this is precisely why I don't fancy making these phone calls.
"No, no, no, wait a moment! Grandma! Not every time I call it means I'm bringing a girlfriend home, okay!? I have other things to discuss!" I said, burying my face in my hands.
"Well, what could be more important than you bringing back my great-grandson? Gorou, you're nearly thirty now. There are only old folks and adults in our hometown, no children or babies. I'm bored! I wouldn't mind taking care of a child again, after all, I did help raise you!" she started to ramble.
"No, Grandma, aren't you missing several steps here? It's not like once you have a girlfriend, a baby pops out, right? Can't you just let things take their natural course? And today I really didn't call to talk about this!" I answered, feeling helpless.
"So, do you have a girlfriend?" She asked. "...No." I replied.
A moment later.
"Alright then, what did you need today?" she said, sounding a little impatient. "Do you remember what you used to cook for me when I was sick? The kind that made me feel better really quickly?" I asked her.
"I don't recall having any sort of family heirloom elixir. Or are you referring to the usual meals you ate when you were sick?" She asked. "...Yes, the latter. The meals you prepared when I was ill, do you remember them?" I clarified.
"...You don't sound sick to me?" She queried. "Uh...no, it's not me—" She cut me off. "Who are you cooking for?" She asked, seemingly curious. "Well, my neighbor—" She cut me off.
"Oh!? A girl?" She—what? "Does that matter?" I asked, looking ahead. "Of course, it concerns my great-grandchild." she proclaimed proudly.
"Grandma, please, can you stop fixating on having a great-grandchild?" I said.
After a pause.
"Okay, Gorou, it was lovely chatting with you today. Let's talk again another day. Bye—" I cut her off. "ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! HOLD ON, DON'T HANG UP!" I shouted.
I took a deep breath.
"...Yes, she's a girl, are you satisfied now?" I finally answered. "Oh, I thought it might have been a boy. That's a relief." she responded—what?
"Grandma, you're being too pragmatic." I retorted. "This is about my great-grandchild—so when are you bringing her home?" she asked—wait, what?
"Grandma, first, she is my patient, second, we're not that close, and third, she's only sixteen." I responded.
"Gorou, first, so what? Does that matter? Second, you know they say 'familiarity breeds affection'! Third, I gave birth to your mother when I was sixteen." she countered—wait a minute, the third point, what the hell, sixteen? I never knew that.
"Grandma, what do you mean 'does it matter?' She's my patient, I'm an 'OB/GYN'. How do you think the baby in my patient's belly came about?" I told her seriously.
"And so?" She—really?
"Grandma, babies don't just spring from stones, nor do they reproduce asexually." I replied.
"What is reproduce asexually?" She asked.
…
"Anyway, Grandma! Times have changed. If this were to happen, I would be socially ostracized, seriously!" I told her.
"No worries! Then just wait until she's twenty! I can wait a few more years, no problem!" she said. "No, Grandma, this—wait! Today I really just called for a recipe! She's not feeling well right now, can we talk about this another time?" I asked her.
After a moment.
"Um...alright, rice porridge—add a little ginger, steam some chicken breast and dice it." she answered. "With ginger, right?" I repeated.
"Yes, you could also make her a vegetable soup! Add tomatoes, onions, and garlic. Oh yes, garlic is very important!" she instructed. "Alright, alright, garlic, got it." I echoed.
"I used to stir-fry some broccoli, but softer food is better for someone with a cold." she advised. "Mhm, I'll keep that in mind." I affirmed.
"Oh, our Gorou is finally cooking for a girl! It seems my teachings weren't in vain!" she said, laughing. "Grandma, can you not—" She cut me off.
"I thought that since the family persuaded you to become an OB/GYN, you had lost interest in cooking—"
...
Right, isn't it?
After the family convinced me to become an OB/GYN, how could they think I was still interested in cooking? I gazed at the blue sky ahead.
...
"Gorou?" She called. "Yes, Grandma, I hear you. Is that about it? I have to go, she's not feeling well." I told her. "Alright then! Don't forget to come visit Grandma when you're free! Bye!" she said. "Sure, I will, goodbye." I hung up.
...
I should have just googled it instead of putting myself through this. I looked at the black smoke billowing from the chimney in the distance.
Isn't this what they wanted? Isn't this what I had to do? Isn't this why I switched from being a surgeon to an OB/GYN?
After all, my mother—
I heard coughing from inside the room.
...
Now's not the time for these thoughts; she needs someone to look after her.
I slid open the balcony door and casually closed it behind me, moving closer to Hoshino-San, who seemed to be asleep on the sofa.
I thought about cooking at my place and bringing the meal over later, so as not to disturb her. After all, I just live next door.
Taking the key placed next to her entrance hall, I locked her door and returned to my place next door.
Back home, I took out the necessary ingredients from the fridge. To make a rice porridge with steamed diced chicken breast, I needed to find my steamer, which, luckily, I found after a brief search.
Taking out the chicken breast... ah, it needs defrosting.
Covering my face, I hadn't considered this. But I decided to use the microwave to thaw it.
I put the frozen chicken breast into the microwave and turned on the defrosting function, but I shortened the microwave time.
After each round of microwaving, I would move and turn the chicken breast. It's a bit of a hassle, but at least it ensures that every part defrosts evenly, to avoid some parts being cooked while others are raw.
Once the chicken breast was fully defrosted, it had a nice, even color—from pink to pale yellow. Despite being frozen, it was still not sticky and retained a certain firmness.
I took a sniff; it had no off-putting smell.
Next, I placed the defrosted chicken breast in the steamer and started to steam it. It should take around 20 minutes. Meanwhile, I planned to prepare a vegetable soup.
I cleaned the carrots, onions, garlic, and tomatoes, and cut them into appropriate sizes. I then grabbed a pan, heated a bit of oil, and started sautéing the garlic and onions until the onions turned semi-transparent.
Next, I added the diced carrots and tomatoes and continued to sauté for a while. A few moments later, I added an appropriate amount of water and covered the pan.
The simmering process also took about 20 minutes. By that time, I could start making the rice porridge. I picked up another pot, washed it clean, and washed a cup of rice as well, then drained the water and added four cups back.
After putting it on the stove, I turned on medium heat and slowly brought the rice to a boil until it softened. This also took about 20 minutes, by which time the porridge became thick. By then, the chicken breast was ready. I took it out and let it cool on a plate while checking on the vegetable soup.
Hmm, the scent of garlic was present but not overpowering.
A moment later, I checked on the rice porridge with a spoon. The grains were distinct but had clearly softened. When I lifted the spoon, a thin strand of white liquid was dragged up.
I diced the cooled chicken breast on a cutting board and added it to the porridge. I also prepared some ginger, grated an appropriate amount into the porridge, and waited for the ingredients to meld together.
The vegetable soup was about ready. I seasoned it with a bit of salt and pepper, then covered the pot and brought it over to Hoshino-San's house. Upon entering, I set it on the kitchen counter. She seemed to be sound asleep.
I returned home and saw that the porridge was almost ready, so I turned the heat down and picked up the frying pan, getting ready to stir-fry some broccoli.
I washed the broccoli and cut it into small pieces, then started stir-frying it in the preheated pan. During the process, I alternated between medium and low heat until the broccoli turned green and began to char slightly.
Recalling my grandmother's advice to make it softer, I added a small amount of water. After covering the pot, I turned the heat to low and let it simmer. I took the opportunity to serve the porridge to Hoshino-San, who seemed to have sensed it even in her sleep. With her eyes closed, she appeared to be smelling something.
After that, I dished out the cauliflower and added a touch of salt before bringing it over.
I took a brief rest on the sofa, picked up a tissue nearby, removed my glasses, and wiped the sweat off my face.
The morning sun was illuminating the entire room, and the wind chime on the balcony outside the glass door was gently chiming as always. The quiet hum of the air conditioning wasn't too loud.
Hoshino-San was still sound asleep on the long sofa to my left — albeit with a faint snoring due to her stuffy nose from a cold.
A little later, I went into the kitchen, picked up a bowl and spoon, lifted the pot lid, and served a bowl of porridge.
"Hoshino-San, can you eat?" I asked slowly, then brought the bowl closer to her.
I initially wanted to help her up, but she seemed to get up automatically at the scent of the food.
I handed her the bowl, and she held the spoon in her right hand with her eyes closed.
She scooped up a spoonful of porridge, then — it brushed past her upper lip.
...Uh.
She paused for a moment, then — this time it almost went into her nose.
"Hoshino-San, let me help you!" I said anxiously, fearing she might burn her nose next.
I scooped up a spoonful of porridge.
She kept her eyes closed, her delicate mouth slowly opening to let my spoon in. Once I put the spoon in, she closed her mouth, swallowed the porridge from the spoon. As I slowly pulled out the spoon, it seemed like she still wanted to keep it in her mouth.
She then swallowed, a smile creeping onto her face with her eyes still closed.
...This is just too cut-
No — no, I'm a doctor. I need to stay calm. She's my patient, and she's only sixteen.
I continued to feed her the remaining porridge.
A while later, I had managed to feed her half the bowl of porridge, and got her to have a few bites of the vegetables and vegetable soup.
She didn't seem to like garlic very much and now, with her eyes still closed, she was sitting on the sofa.
Thinking about it now, although I could take care of her all day, I don't have a car in case we need to rush to the hospital. I should contact her guardian.
"Hoshino-San, could you please..." Before I could finish, she had already laid down on the sofa and continued to sleep.
Alright then.
I helped her pull her feet onto the sofa, made her lie flat, covered her with a blanket, and planned to check her phone for an emergency dial setup to find an emergency contact.
Surprisingly, there was one.
I slid open the glass door, walked out onto the balcony, and made the call.

After a 1940 defined by gathering strengths and refinement across the feature, the early months of 1941 bring a few troubling portents behind-the-scenes for Fox's affectionately termed Grainy Gladiator. Nothing ruinous in itself, but signs of an upcoming radical shift away from what the character represented to start.
For one, the April issue of Adventure Comics (#61) brings with it a new cover feature, Ted Knight AKA Starman, courtesy writer-artist Jack Burnley. Already the second lengthiest entry in the book at nine pages, Starman quickly managed what neither Sandman nor Hourman could during their respective years as star attractions and upgraded to a full thirteen pages by his third appearance in #63. For context, Sandman only went from six pages to ten with its upgrade, while Hourman has remained rockstaedy at eight pages, and neither took down another non-superhero supporting feature to justify the page increase like Starman did Barry O'Neil and Mark Lansing. Moreover, from Starman's second appearance on, he is only drawn by Burnley; writing duties now belong to the Sandman's own Gardner Fox.
Which loops in with two other issues at play over Wesley's tossing, turning figure. Starting with issue #61, available online sources no longer fully agree who wrote what for the Sandman feature. You must understand, outside superstar figures with major pull like the creators of Superman or Batman, very few creative teams are properly credited in these Golden Age comics - my credits the last few posts have all been crossreferenced across numerous wikis and databases who owe their credits to investigative work by fans like Jerry Bails back in the 1960s. Such work was sadly not exhaustive, and while a few places (like DC Continuity Project and Wikipedia) state or else imply Fox stayed on as writer for the next few issues, from June to November there is no consensus as to who penned the stories.
I shouldn't be surprised if Fox's involvement terminated with the March issue, for April also saw All-Star Comics shift its format slightly, with Fox writing all nine interior stories for the 64 page mag in addition to his duties on the longer Starman feature. Man would have to work double time to keep pace, even if Sandman didn't drop to eight pages with #62 in May. Either way, Fox is certainly gone following #64 in July, as that issue features the final story drawn by regular artist and co-creator Creig Flessel, who departs to work on Shining Knight later in the year. As I say, things are changing fast for Sandman, and not all changes seem necessarily for the better. Best, however, to take the stories on their own level before drawing any final conclusions!
^{Coverage note: This entry goes to July rather than June for the sake of my sanity. If I stopped midway through the year, I'd only need cover seven features here, but the back half of '41 would require coverage of eleven. A nine-nine split feels much more feasible.}

• ADVENTURE COMICS #58 (January)

Orchids of Doom - Gardner Fox, Creig Flessel, Chad Grothkopf

Once again, a socialite friend to Wes and Dian is at the center of a minor mystery with big implications - namely, how can Pedro Nogades, father to Carla, rightly claim he breeds otherwise purely wild orchids in captivity? Investigating as the Sandman, Wes and Dian find a dead man in the Nogades greenhouse with his head stripped to the bone, and in following another fellow who sniffed an orchid before promising a shipment of such to some ruffians on the bad side of town, see his own face dissolve to bare skull. A visit to the police chemist reveals the orchids on the dead men's persons were laced to release a deadly flesh-eating gas on exposure to natural air, which is enough probably cause for Wesley to enlist Carla's boyfriend Bill in staging a raid on the Nogades manor. Some close shaves and fisticuffs end with the group discovering a diorama of the local coast, laid out to assist enemy agents in an invasion. Pedro is put away and the orchids revealed as concealing microfilm copies of the coastal plans, but how do we square the mystery that started it all? Simple: Nogades was no botanist, and called the flower by the wrong name when concocting his cover story!
An alright yarn to kick of the calendar year. As per usual when Fox tries for a somewhat complicated mystery, he's no adequate means of tying off loose ends other than large blocks of text, but it's lively and keeps the situation evolving with decent justifications for mid-story action and dragging Bill along for further fisticuffs. Hooking the entire mystery on, "Oh, the bad guy misspoke," is a tad lame, if understandable in the context of Fox's passion for slipping general knowledge flexes into his stories. Flessel and Grothkopf get some good mileage out've the skull imagery that crops up whenever the flower kills, and I rather like the brief bout of fisticuffs towards the end. The minor social awkwardness when Bill gets in the car with Wes and Dian is pretty good too, and I'm sorry to report I can't add this story to the "Wesley getting shot" count, as the bad guy only plugs his hat. Kinda funny having a Golden Age Sandman story involving orchids given Neil's own pre-Sandman work with Black Orchid, innit?

• ADVENTURE COMICS #59 (February)

The Story of the Flaming Ruby - Fox, Flessel, Grothkopf

There exists a ruby of blazing red, which has driven men to rage and madness wherever it appears, and today it sits in the hand of a young man in the local jeweler's shop, who flashes it cross Dian's vision. Later in the evening, she wakes in a trance consumed with the urge to kill her father, stopped only by Sandman as he rushes in from investigating a similarly queer case. A bank teller friend from his private life has found himself driven to steal from the vault and deliver it to some crooks on a lonely road every night, all after one of those men flashed him the ruby. Wes and Dian are unable to stop this night's transaction (on account of the ruby briefly turning Dian against Sandman), but seeing the gem in action gives Wes an idea on how to counteract its effects, and go into battle during the next drop armed with blue cobalt glasses. A brawl puts down all the blackmailers except one, but Wes opts instead to go after the head of the operation, knocking him out and lurking in the dark to catch the last as he reports in, revealing the bank teller! Turns out the ruby DOES have hypnotic properties and was used to assist their robberies, but the teller - hoping by playing at the victim to lure Sandman into his cohorts' midst and rub him out - spoke as if he remembered the whole experience, where Dian forgot herself on every exposure. Oops!
Same basic mystery structure and resolution type here as last month, complete with overly-wordy explanation, although I find the hook of pitting Dian and Wesley against one another gives it a minor leg up, as does the relatively straightforward nature of the criminal operation compared to planting microfilm in deadly flowers. There's a more even balance between the rush in bust 'em up style of crime-fighting the feature has developed and the stealthy skullduggery I think suits the character best, with nice action art to match each. Dian has some silly faces whenever she wakes from her hypnosis, and the four panel sequence of Wes halting her murder attempt works pretty well. This is, unfortunately, the final pencil-inking collaboration between Flessel and Grothkopf, and much as I've kvetched over the second man's solo work, I'm sorry to see the back of him in this capacity. When the two were in proper tune, they were the best artistic team Sandman enjoyed yet.
(Stop dodging bullets, I want to see you gunshot.)

• ADVENTURE COMICS #60 (March)

Mystery at Malay Mac's - Fox, Grothkopf

^{Hey, a rare post-Hourman, pre-redesign cover appearance! That's always nice. "Hello, officer? Yeah, coupla chucklefucks right here, the alley off Fourth, can't miss 'em."}
What's this? Dian breaking into a notorious criminal slumlord's safe in the bad part of town? A safe, as Wes discovers after he scares the lady off, filled to the brim with poison gas! Evidently not, as Dian is sound asleep when Wes arrives at Belmont manor to investigate, and a subsequent visit to Mister Mac reveals the only person who'd know the safe was booby-trapped is a local kidnapping organizer. Some blind, flailing fists turns up the girl, Dian's perfect duplicate, snatched from out of state to replace Dian and gain leverage over the cops. Too bad the kidnapper's made of strong stuff, knocking out Sandman and taking both woman for a ride to get back at Mac. Fortunately, Dian leaves Wes a trail of jewelry out the window, enabling him to follow and take down all the crooks with one throw of his gas pistol, revealing in the process 'twas Mac himself who tipped Dian's duplicate to his safe, in hopes of spoiling his rival's big plot.
Art-wise, this is probably Grothkopf's best work for Sandman to date. His tendency to exaggerate is translated into some properly goonish faces for the villains and really, really strong action poses, with some properly atmospheric shots sprinkled in for good measure. He cannot draw the gasmask for piss, but there's such an improvement I almost thought this was a Flessel joint before checking the wiki credits. Makes me wish we could see what he'd do if he kept on as a solo artist - free from the impulse to treat the feature as a cartoon, he produces damn fine work. As a story, this makes good time to mention my misgivings with Wesley's tendency to burst through windows and start swinging long before he thinks to use his sleeping gas. While it's great fun to describe and hype up as the mark of a madman who's even cooler as the badass normal than Batman, it also encourages a faster degradation in the character's identity. I'm sure you'll notice it's been yonks since lurking in the shadows and thinning the ranks by knocking them out in advance has factored into the stories. That Wes handles the bad guy by literally clonking him over the head with the gas gun rather than pulling the trigger speaks to the influence other, punchier superhero features have exerted over the strip.

• ADVENTURE COMICS #61 (April)

The Menace of the Metal Gun - Fox?, Flessel

From aboard a mysterious aircraft, a madman fires upon the city with a metal-melting ray that dissolves the skyscrapers into slag! Alerted to Doctor Borloff's activities, Wesley meets with swift defeat when the rogue scientist melts his gas gun and escapes in his cylindercraft to terrorize afresh. There IS a bright side, as seeing the ray firsthand gives Wesley some idea how to counteract its effects, and he sends Dian and her father warning for the local airforce to coat their planes in sand as a silicate buffer against the ray. Alas, only one officer heeds his message, leaving Sandman alone to get aboard the machine via his new wirepoon gun and defeat Borloff from within. For his brawling process, a good midflight fight is nothing if the hero gets tossed out an open door, but fortunately he can grapple onto the lone surviving plane, recover his bearings, zip back up, and put a stop to Borloff's dreams of world conquest once and for all!
Action is the name of the game here, and even without Grothkopf's inking enhancements, I think Flessel does a fine job on his own. I'm wary of the wirepoon in the future, as by year's end it will completely replace the gas gun as Sandman's sidearm of choice in further drift from the original Christman concept, but taken as a neutral in its debut, giving Sandman greater aerial mobility does lead to some cool shots and enhance the sense Wes goes stark bananas in the mask by pulling some stunts that would almost certainly pull his arms from their sockets in real life. There are, however, some particularly stiff action shots, and in one panel Flessel cocks up the design on the mask worse than Grothkopf last ish. Based on the opening vignette, Borloff decimated millions of innocent lives in addition to all the planes he melted out of the sky, making him easily the deadliest foe Wes has faced to date, and in turn making the "We did it, gang, everything is bright and peachy again!" ending sorta offputting. They'll have to organize mass funerals tomorrow, Wes. Show a little respect.

• ALL-STAR COMICS #4 (April)

For America and Democracy: The Grey Shirts - Fox, Grothkopf

In the top-level story, the JSA learn of their mission for the FBI: a group of Nazi insurgents known as the Grey Shirts are plotting subversive and destructive activities all across America, and are now posed to badly destabilize the nation in a series of disruptive attacks. Each is assigned a mission at critical points cross the nation, though given the widely-ranging disparity in their powers, their usefulness to the cause varies equally wildly. The Atom humiliates some goons spreading Nazi ideology at a single college, Hawkman barely prevents the destruction of an aviation plant in California, and Hourman's defense of an Oklahoma oil field ends with him toppling one of the oil towers to stop his quarry. Meanwhile, Green Lantern detonates a zeppelin secretly jamming radio transmissions nationwide, the Spectre casually annihilates some otherworldly vampiric globes sympathetic to Hitler's cause, and Doctor Fate uses his magic to out every single spy on the eastern seaboard. Uneven efforts or not, the group converge on the Grey Shirts' ringleader, and with a little help from Johnny Thunder, turn him over to good ol' J. Edgar Hoover's custody. Alas, Wesley does not get the blood he's thirsting after.
(Also Doctor Fate alerts Wesley to the identity and location of the ringleader before his mission starts rather than letting him figure it out on his own like everyone else. Prick.)
For his six-page leg of the assignment, the Sandman is off to El Paso, Texas to assist a local newspaper under threat from the Grey Shirts for printing pro-democracy and anti-Hitler editorials. Of course, this being Wesley Dodds on the job, he gets this information by roughing his way into the newspaper offices, then acts on it by beating on the guard at the Grey Shirts' camp and pounding down a band of brainwashed young men to prove he's a better American than them. After sending the wannabe Nazis for a whirl by running their bomb shipment off the road, Wesley doubles back to completely break the recruits' spirits, daring them to prove their hard enough by shooting an unarmed man in Hitler's name, chiefly himself. When none can cut the mustard, he marches them back into town with collars strapped to his car, and inspires the lot to join the Army to a few shirtless bars of "God Bless America."
Cripes but jingoism produces some heady results, doesn't it? I'm not sure I can rightly condone the ridiculous levels of patriotism on display here, even against such classically anti-American enemies as Nazis, yet at the same time, look at this and tell me it isn't the hardest shit you'll see all week. Again, though I've my misgivings about Wes as a brawler no matter how entertaining the results prove, there's something endearing about him being so raring for a fight his first move is to altercate the receptionist at the place he's assigned to defend. On the whole, Grothkopf's final Sandman contribution also shows refinement from his earlier works, the broader, thicker elements of his linework now tempers on a somewhat more grounded approach. Certainly the Sandman himself keeps a consistent look better than he does in any other issue published thus far this year. I DO notice he reused Flessel's design for the District Attorney wholesale on the newspaper publisher. Since he's going and heading out on a job well done, let's not hold it against him, eh?

• ADVENTURE COMICS #62 (May)

The Purple Death Ray - Fox?, Flessel

At the nightly planetarium show, a member of the audience screams and falls down dead, stricken by a litany of strange symptoms with no obvious cause. Wesley, believing the man was killed by a death ray, examines the auditorium's projector, only to find no obvious alterations or fault. Undeterred, he purchases himself a seat next to the murdered man's for the next show, which is now occupied by another fellow who received a last-second courtesy invitation. Acting quickly, the Sandman reexamines the projector from the shadows and finds a replacement bulb screwed into the socket pointed directly at the man's chair. With assistance from his wirepoon, Sandman swings down and wrenches the man from his seat just as the show starts, the bulb bathing his seat in deadly radiation. On learning the man is a former judge and the deceased a former DA, it's not long before Wes ferrets out the killer; it's the cashier, a former scientist sent to jail for misappropriating university funds years ago, out for revenge and now stopped cold.
See, while I'm skeptical about the growing presence of science-fiction elements in the series, they make fine fodder when they play to Sandman's strengths. Lurking high above a crowd of people seeking the answer to some deadly mystery is exactly Wes' bag, and plus or minus some strange mask drawings, Flessel captures that thrill of closely examining a big deadly machine in secret before it fires. I'd submit the page where Sandman saves the judge from the beam as an easy contender for best of the year thus far, and the shot where [Wes pushes Dian away from the killer's bullet](blob:https://imgur.com/7247f414-8a57-489f-a9bd-d85bc9e19a6a) is another fine piece of work. My memories of this one before sitting down to reread and write were a lot chillier, probably because I wish the series remained in crime pulp rather than raygun pulp, but a good outcome is a good outcome. Seriously, though, why is the mask going so bobble-eyed of late?

• ADVENTURE COMICS #63 (June)

The Voodoo Sorcerer - ???, Flessel

As Dian and Wesley tiff over his interest in an exotic dancer they know through a mutual friend, the woman's tail-lashing dance is interrupted when she sees a great glowing triangle materialize before her eyes. With the shock straining her bad heart, the Sandman brings her to boyfriend's house, where he reveals the triangle is a voodoo witch doctor's means of accusing someone of murder - just as news comes over the wire that the man the woman lashed with her costume tail has died! Smelling a rat, Wes rushes to the scene of the crime to find the taile barbed with poison quills, only for the titular sorcerer to bumrush him out the window. It's a big misunderstanding, thankfully: he's as shocked by the murder as Sandman, and only summoned the triangle on suggestion from an acquaintance, forgetting the dancer would know its significance through her partner. By happiest coincidence, this provides Wesley the solution to the mystery right quick, for only his friend's chauffeur would have motive, opportunity, and knowledge to frame his employers and their associates for the murder of a stock broker who owed them money.
Hmm, ah, see, on the one hand, it IS nice that the voodoo guy is innocent of everything except a lapse in judgement and the real twist is an unassuming little man exploiting the mystery and fears around his craft to cast suspicion off his person. On the other hand, eek, yike, zoinks! None good. Bad, even. Outside unfortunate depictions of non-white persons from the 1940s, the story's pretty weak for a murder mystery, as numerous elements are evidently known to the characters well in advance, yet only made clear to the reader right before they become relevant, like the exact identity of the murdered man. It's only eight pages, so there's little opportunity to piece information together on your own time, and as such it is heavily reliant on narrative cheats to generate cheap surprise. About the best thing here is the big page-dominating panel of Wesley swinging through the city on his wirepoon, unconscious woman tucked under arm. Kinda hard to convincingly raise my dander about what it means for the character and his feature when it's successfully operating on the long-standing principle of "masked mystery men swinging on a wire through skyscrapers looks really cool." S'like a solid fifth of the formula behind why Spider-Man is so enduringly popular.
(Also not a big fan of how Wes dismisses Dian from participating in the case without any adequate reason why. She calls him out over it, even, and nothing in the story justifies his decision to fly solo on this one.)

• ADVENTURE COMICS #64 (July)

The Unseen Man - ???, Flessel

Dian's purchase of paints from a local hobby shop includes quite the unusual accidental item: a paint that turns anything and everything invisible on contact. Determined to solve this mystery on her own, Dian investigates the shop with the dealer's cooperation, only for the dread Unseen Man to get the drop on her. Fortunately, Sandman is there to save her because he won't let Dian do anything on her own; unfortunately, Dian doesn't know Wes can see her attacker through his blue cobalt lenses and pulls him away, thinking him mad and letting the Unseen Man go free. As reward for her screw up, she's targeted in her home the next night, only for Wes to barge in again, having anticipated the only possible secret identity for the crook would make him likely to strike back at Dian. It is, unsurprisingly, the hobby shop owner, who Wes turns over to the police before heading out to patent his invisibility paint with the United States Army.
Alright, it's definitely not Gardner Fox writing anymore, because I cannot imagine Fox treating Dian so poorly. I gave her some dignity in summary, but this story is plain dumping all over her as a fussy, incompetent tryhard who fails at investigating on her own on account her womanly ways. Just look at the sheer antagonism between her and Wes; you two are partners, she's saved Sandman's skin like a dozen times, worn his costume and wielded his gas gun to do it once, even! Don't try to BS me into thinking Wes would run this paternalist "let me handle it, Dian, I wear the pants in this relationship" crap on her. You're only alive because she's worn your fucking pants. Otherwise, 'nother instance where the story and art alike don't give me much of note. I reckon Flessel was about done with the series with Fox gone and sorta phoned in his last few assignments. They're nowhere near the standard of his early solo artistic duties on the title. There IS another good wirepoon swinging shot, if one counterbalanced by a crummier instance with yet another weirdly-proportioned mask.

• ALL-STAR COMICS #5

The Mysterious Mr. X: The Kidnapper's Union - Fox, Cliff Young

The Justice Society are bored. Bored, bored, bored. Why are they bored? There is no crime. Not a single ruffian or scoundrel or roughneck lawbreaker anywhere in the city! Where did crime go? Crime has taken an enforced vacation, courtesy the plans of big crime boss Mister X (hats off), as prelude to his big plans for taking out the JSA and putting all his criminal enterprises back on easy street. It's quite the collection of rackets out against the superheroes - an arsonist ring for Flash, a jewel snatching gang for Hawkman, leader of the phony fortune teller underworld against Doctor Fate, even hard-pressing gym membership shakedowns for the Atom! Naturally our heroes triumph, though every one also encounters a strange little man idly strolling through their battlegrounds. He's so omnipresent despite his mousiness, he's even there when they convene at the police station to organize Mister X's (hats off) arrest. Except this unassuming slip of a man? He IS Mister X (hats off), and with the Justice Society having taken all the fun out've crime, he's turning himself in to live comfortably on the state's dollar in jail. WHOOPSY-DOODLE!
For his six-page part in the game, Sandman must contend against the kidnapper's union, who naturally enough have abducted Dian to get his attention. Not only have these lowlives taken Dian hostage (though she doesn't particularly mind), they've taken out phony accident insurance claims against themselves should the hero injure any of them en route to his untimely death! Nobody quite expects Wes to avoid the sniper-guarded roads to their remote hilltop hideout, though, and a quick wirepoon swing over the canyon (complete with Mister X - hats off - sighting) puts him right in the criminal den. From there, it's a simple biff wham boom to take down the punks and disarm their supporting fire. Alas, Sandman is once again only in the loop on the true nature of the threat against the JSA because someone notifies him from their own investigation, this time Flash via telegram. Let him do his own detective work, you pricks!
Right. You see these panels? You see Dian being calm and collected in the midst of a kidnapping operation? You see Wes trusting her with a submachine gun to keep watch on the fools who mean them harm? Yeah, THAT'S Fox writing Dian. Whoever's writing the Adventure feature at this time ought've taken notes. Artistically, Young makes a fine replacement for Grothkopf and Flessel in Adventure - he can match the first for goons, the second for action, manages a nice turnaround effect before Wes swings on his wirepoon, and even gives us a by-now all-too-rare heavy shadow shot on Wes and Dian. I'm a big fan of the lead kidnapper who calls the JSA the "Justiss Sassiety," and find this instance of Mister X (hats off) the second best in the book, behind only his appearance in the Hourman story, which I think speaks for itself. Probably the only time I'll express preference for something Hourman related over Sandman.
The loss of all three major contributors to the Sandman feature across early 1941 and the crunch down to eight pages has certainly made the Adventure Comics side of the Sandman line a rockier experience. It's still possible to derive enjoyment from the wonky mysteries and higher-concept criminals, but one must accept atmosphere and and particularity have been near-entirely sacrificed for generalized bombast and louder appeal. Don't misunderstand, I've become a fan of Wesley Dodds, Fist-Swinging Bullet Sponge, and my past praises for him aren't diminished by the realization of what this has done to his integrity as a character circa today's stopping point. The trouble is, while I enjoy this half-mad, impossibly reckless read on the character, it simply no longer bears any resemblance to the early days' lurking and creeping through the seedier parts of town. There's a great series of justifications running through the Sandman concept - he's no powers, so he uses the gas gun, so he needs the gas mask, which hides his identity so perfectly it frees him to wear the ordinary business suit, which highlights his vulnerability. Fling him around like a ragdoll who knows no fear of injury or death, although I'll clap for the bravado of it all, I must object if it means any notion he should be sneaky or cautious degrades.
Especially if it means the gas gun vanishes from the character. It hasn't met its final end just yet, but for this seven month block it's proven a very perfunctory aspect of the strip, hung by his side and occasionally brandished without acting as an integral part of the action or storytelling. The wirepoon has subsumed its function as the sidearm, and while I must stress there are plenty aces shots of Wes swinging that fully justify its prominence, taking precedence over the thing that makes him the Sandman, Crimefighter What Fights Crime By Putting The Criminals To Sleep plain rubs me the wrong way. Be awful nice i we could have both without the new toy putting the old out to pasture, y'know? It's not led to anything I'd full-throatedly object over just yet, but... ach, you'll see next time. Speaking of...
Next time! 1941 comes to a close as Wesley picks up another feature to his name, and also a stupid, ugly new costume!
(Previous write-ups: 1939, 1940 pt 1, 1940 pt 2)

Seriously, this take is almost as bad as "the black and white episodes were boring!"
Where do I begin? For starters, if you unironically think this then congrats because you've either completely misunderstood or just straight up ignored Jimmy's entire character arc up until this point. Some people don't get that the ENTIRE show is building up to this final courtroom scene with Jimmy/Saul. We've seen that, despite his shady and scummy nature, he is capable of feeling guilt and remorse and even admitting wrongdoing within himself. Hell, we get glimpses of it in BB with how he is with Andrea, his reaction to what happens to Brock and Drew Sharp. Jimmy McGill deep deep down is not a bad person, he's just a guy with an extreme case of self destructive behaviour and a lot of bad habits.
If there's one thing Jimmy has mastered, it's compartmentalising and ignoring his problems. Arguably, his "Saul" persona exists to deal with the grief of losing (and potentially killing) his brother and later to deal with his guilt over what happened to Howard and losing Kim. His nature as "Slippin Jimmy" goes from a fun passtime to an active relief from the pain of whats happened to him. As Gene, initially, he's alone and forced to deal day-to-day with his demons. Yet, when an opportunity comes along to slip back into his scammer persona, if only to briefly abate the misery of his current life, he jumps at it. Later when he is rejected by Kim again after all this time, he slips deep into his dark side, possibly deeper than we've seen him before. Prior to hearing about Kim confessing to what happened to Howard, I 100% believe he was going to take the 7 year deal and live in a cushy prison then get out. However, when he hears about Kim confessing, it inspires him in turn to confess for 2 big reasons.

1. He likely ones to make one final hail mary at impressing Kim.
   
2. He finally seems to realise that it's not worth going on with all this guilt hanging over him, even if it means life behind bars.
   

So he confesses, and Saul dies and Jimmy is reborn. He treats his confession as an opportunity to (out loud) admit every single bad thing he's done throughout his life, even stuff that isn't necessarily illegal like getting Chuck's malpractice insurance cancelled. He confesses and atones for his sins, accepting his punishment. He doesn't scam his way out, he doesn't screw someone else over to further himself, he bears up and takes his due. And if you think him taking 7 years then spending the rest of his life miserable is better and a more satisfying conclusion to his arc than what actually happened in the show, then you misunderstood the final episode HARD.

I was ponderizing today the similarity between the poem White Man's Burden and missionary work in my Sunday un-church, and it occurs to me it could fit right into the LDS hymnal with a little music and changing out a word

** Take up the Missionary's burden/ Send forth the best ye breed/ Go bind your sons to exile/ To serve your captives' need;/ To wait in heavy harness/ On fluttered folk and wild—/ Your new-caught, sullen peoples,/ Half devil and half child.**

Bearing in mind: This is only one verse
This poem is a paean to imperialism
There's no change in meaning
Some serious Army of Helaman vibes
This poem is the sort of stuff my mission president would say.

There’d been another shooting today, in some dainty little cafe downtown, in the places tucked so neatly away only people who had visited there their whole lives went. Pete Cordell sighed to himself as he stepped past the shattered glass. Once, the scene inside the cafe would have made his stomach turn. These days, the sight of eviscerated bodies and rooms painted with blood barely fazed him. The entire cafe was ruined, bullet holes riddling every surface imaginable. He whistled, low.
“They must have used up ten mags to do this much damage,” he observed out loud.
“Hey, you’re finally here!”
Pete looked up at the new voice - a man he’d worked with for a bit under four years now but still barely knew anything about - Wesley Smith. “Crazy shit, isn’t it? You’d think it was an action movie in here with the amount of bullets they dumped.”
“I’ll say,” Pete grumbled.
“That ain’t the weirdest shit though. Come over here.” Dividing the cafe in half was a massive sheet, and Wesley brushed past it as Pete followed. He stared.
On the ground was a gun - which wasn’t the first thing to draw his attention. What did draw his attention was the pool of blood on the ground, way too large for any normal injury to have caused. He moved his gaze around and his jaw slackened. Slumped against the wall were the remains of a black-robed man - although remains were generous, considering all that remained was a single arm, a head, and blood-soaked garments. The wall behind the remains was cracked and severely dented, as if something great and powerful had rammed into it. A few feet away, a body had its head entirely gone, nowhere to be seen, with only a spray of blood, a stain of flesh and the same deep impact on the wall where the head should have been.
“Pretty freaky, right?” Wesley’s facade of bravado wouldn’t have fooled even a child. “Makes you feel like you’re in one of them horror stories, you know?”
“I’ll say,” Pete repeated, coughing to get rid of his shaky voice. A buzz from his radio drew his attention, and he held it up to his ear.
“All officers to the station now. I repeat, all officers to the station now.” The voice on the other end was… strange, but Pete chalked that up to his wracked nerves.
He nodded to Wesley and ignored the strange feeling in his stomach. “Alright. Let’s go.”
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A few days later, Pete was flipping pancakes in the kitchen. His wife came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist as the kids squabbled around the table.
“Had a good sleep?” He asked as she rested her chin on his shoulder.
She hummed in affirmation. “How was the latest case?” she asked.
He frowned. It’d been another shooting, in some dainty cafe downtown, and he’d… hang on, what had he done? Before he could strain himself too much, a memory slotted into place and he relaxed.
“Oh, nothing special. Nothing special at all.”
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It was just a few minutes into the breaking of dawn that a massive clanging woke Devona up. He shot out of the bed, not falling out of the bed but instead scrambling for the lightswitch as he got to his feet. His brain pushed past the fight or flight instinct that had shattered his sleep and he relaxed again as his memories came back. A few months into WICCA’s formation, during the time that they had been starting to talk to each other for purposes other than business, they’d headed over to Cirius’s abode.
“And here is my bed!”
They all stared at the bare mattress lying upon a metal frame, only a thin scrap of fabric and something that was barely a pillow upon it. The rest of the apartment wasn’t faring much better, with only a mini-fridge in the kitchen and one of each bathroom item. The walls were a murky grey with the wallpaper peeling, and there was a stench of alcohol in the air.
Axon let out a whistle. “Damn, you live like this?” Her expression turned solemn. “Seriously, though, these conditions are pretty rough.”
Cirius shrugged. “Eh. Could be worse. I used to just find a dumpster that wasn’t full and sleep in there.”
Devona sucked in a breath. “That’s… really bad.”
Cirius gave another shrug. “Some dumpsters aren’t that bad actually. Getting chased away with a broom for being an intruder or like, getting shot, is worse.”
“Well, moving on from that depressing bit of background, you could for sure get a better apartment with how much you’re being paid,” Axon interjected.
Cirius’s eyes widened. “I could?”
“Yeah, man. You know how much money you have. It’s all in your bank account.”
His eyes widened further. I have a bank account?”
“What do you mean? I sent the details to you through your email…” Understanding dawned across her face. “Goddamn it.”
There was a crash outside of the apartment, drawing their attention towards it. Devona walked open to the door and gingerly opened it to reveal two men tussling upon the ground, swearing angrily at each other.
“Hey John!” exclaimed Cirius cheerfully as the man on top lifted his fist and slammed it on the other’s face.
Devona stepped forward with his hands held out placatingly in front of himself.
“Alright, now, let’s calm-”
Devona was interrupted as he was talking by a fist swinging straight towards his face. As he reeled back, another hand was already closing over it and forcing the assailant down. Harlow stared down at the man they were forcing down with a singular hand, watching as his expression strained to continue to look defiant through the pain.
They pressed down further, causing the man’s expression to shift into pain as he hammered onto the floor with his free hand, hollering to let him go.
Devona gingerly placed his hand on their shoulder. “Hey, I think that’s enough now.”
Harlow raised an eyebrow at them. He tried to punch you.
“Well, he didn’t punch me.”
Harlow tilted their head but let go of the person, allowing him to run off with a bruised ego and most likely a bruised wrist. The other man got up and staggered away, the smell of alcohol fresh in the air. Devona let his hand drop as Harlow watched them go, wiping their hand upon their cloak.
After that, Cirius had thankfully used the money to get a proper apartment. Or rather, several proper apartments since he kept getting kicked out. And now he had found himself inside Devona’s new house. Devona sighed and rubbed his eyes to get rid of the tiredness, heading down the stairs to see what the commotion was all about. Cirius was sprawled upon the floor, his pillow several feet away, the couch he was staying on half tipped over and his blanket looking like it had been attacked by a savage animal.
He waved. “Hey bossman.”
Devona stared. “How.”
“Well, you see, I kinda woke up. And stuff was like this.”
Devona sighed and picked Cirius up. He held him like a cat, with his hands underneath the arms as Cirius’s legs dangled, and plopped him down onto the couch after pushing it down with his feet. He began to clean up the rest of the mess. Cirius shot to his feet instantly.
“I could-”
Devona waved him off. “It’s fine. It’s early, just try to get some more rest in. I’ll get another blanket.” He continued to clean up in silence, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He turned and Cirius was still sitting up, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
“Well, if we’re not going to sleep again, why don’t we eat breakfast? I’ll get the cereal.”
They ate together in silence, letting the sound of chewing fill the air. As Devona was thinking about setting up a garden outside, Cirius spoke up.
“Sorry for the blanket. And for waking you up. And-“
Devona raised a hand. “I told you, it’s fine.” Internally, he frowned.
“Was Cirius still hung up about that?” He had noticed an uncanny silence, but he had drawn that up to tiredness. Speaking of, was Cirius even tired? Cirius had been wide awake every time Devona had gone to bed, and wide awake when Devona awoke. One time, Devona had walked blearily down the stairs to get a glass of water in the dead of night, and almost got a heart attack from Cirius suddenly talking.
“So, what’s the mission for today, bossman?” Cirius interrupted his train of thought, rocking on his chair and back to his usual bounciness.
“Well, if you read your email, you’d know,” Devona deadpanned before relenting. “It’s just an attendance to some event that acts as a cover for underground dealings. While Claren deals with negotiations, we mingle with the crowd unless Harlow needs some backup. They’ll be off stealing some documents.” He polished off the last of the cereal. “We should get some more rest before the mission. Don’t want to be too tired.”
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Claren and Harlow were already there when Cirius and Devona arrived. They were all dressed in suits again, like they had been at that party months back. Claren took a few seconds to assess their outfits. Before the mission, Claren had talked with Devona, telling him that he would stand out too much. His height was the most obvious, but according to Claren his posture was ‘too subdued and open to pass as a crime lord’. Instead, Devona would be with Harlow, finding the documents, while Cirius would be a possible back-up to Claren. Really, it was because it was doubtful that he would be able to carry out a stealth mission.
Devona went over to greet Harlow. After exchanging conversation, he grabbed Harlow by the shoulder and the two of them vanished. Claren adjusted his suit, the light glinting off of the two rings on his fingers. “Well, you can go and mingle with the party. If I’m in trouble, try to cause a distraction.”
Cirius nodded thoughtfully. “Explosions?”
“Try to keep those to a minimum.”
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Cirius was mingling, but he was not mingling happily. The people really did hold themselves in a different way than Devona did, with pushed up chests and little hand waves. Everyone who talked to him seemed to need to suddenly leave, so Cirius was currently standing by the food table chomping on dishes.
“Real boring party,” a voice drawled.
Cirius turned. He tilted his head and stopped biting down on the plate. Leaning up against the table with an easy casualness, dressed in a full tuxedo with bowtie and tailed coat, the speaker plucked a grape from the stem and popped it into her mouth. Her rainbow scarf swished as she swivelled her head to look down at him, and her mismatched eyes were lit with amusement. She seemed familiar, but Cirius couldn’t put his finger on why. “Wouldn’t you say so?”
Cirius thought about this. “Eh, it’s alright. I remember one time I blacked out at a party like this and woke up in a bathtub filled with ice.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “You’re a pretty funny guy,” she snickered, waving a fork at him.
Her smile tapered into a grin, and her eyes narrowed. “But in my opinion, this party could really use some better entertainment.” She pulled a mask over her face - one of a white demon with small, pointed horns, and drew a glaive from her back. She threw it. The glaive soared through the air, and Cirius watched as it trailed dried intestines through the air before embedding itself deep inside the chest of one of the guests. Screams tore through the air and Cirius remembered that murder was not good.
“Claren, there’s been a murder! That’s not good!” he yelled, his voice drowned out by the din of panic and magic. The woman dodged past beams of energy and fire, grabbing onto the handle of the glaive and swinging it in a wide arc around her, carving into anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. Claren burst out from the room, his eyes narrowing and shield wrapping around him as soon as he realised the situation. He pressed up against the wall and then shot forward, like a rubber ball that had suddenly been decompressed. The woman’s cackling was interrupted as he slammed into her full force, sending the both of them crashing across the floor.
“Laurel Pariah. I didn’t expect you to show your face again so soon.” Cirius was close enough to hear them, and it helped that everybody had either ran away or died.
“So, my reputation precedes me,” Laurel responded brightly, kicking Claren off and swinging her glaive right at him. He raised his arm and it glanced off the glimmering shield, giving him an opportunity to land a blow at her gut. She stumbled back and he struck her across the head as she was darting backwards. Her glaive sliced through the air but ricocheted off of Claren’s shield, and he grabbed the bladed end to bring Laurel in closer. She kicked at him, causing her leg to bounce back and almost knock her over, only being held above ground by an uppercut directly into her stomach. She managed to stagger backwards, coughing.
“Wow, you really don’t play around do you?” she wheezed. “I didn’t expect to use my magic so soon, but I guess it can’t be helped.”
Claren moved back, tilting his head towards Cirius. “Go herd the people outside to safety. I’ll deal with her.” Cirius flashed him a thumbs up and headed in the direction of panicked shouts. Claren’s eyes scoured the room, as if looking for whatever Laurel may use against him. Speaking of Laurel, something strange appeared to be happening to her. Her skin seemed pale, almost bright. No, definitely bright - glowing, in fact. Before Claren could register it fully however, Laurel pivoted with a kick and sent a bolt of lightning slamming into him.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The two of them had gotten past security with ease, Devona stealing documents from right under noses and Harlow repeating the pattern of fingerprints upon keyboards. The two of them were currently sitting upon beams, dangling their legs high above the ground.
Just a few more, and we’ll be out of here soon.
Devona tilted his head to the side. “These people really love to party, huh.”
Harlow chewed their cheek. Well, it’s sort of a coping mechanism. Unlike the more recent sorcerers like you and I, these people grew up in a society wholly made from those who possess magic. There’s a certain sense of… superiority within those places. To them, death was less of a constant presence. That was until the Scourges came. Suddenly humans, magic or not, were all pushed down a level on the food chain. That sudden shock of mortality, paired with the changing landscape of the world, is certain to cause some stress. They leaned backwards on their hands. Not to mention, it’s a pretty good cover for criminal activity.
Devona hummed. “Yeah, the world's a chaotic place.” He bowed his head slightly. “Do you think we can win? Against the Scourges, that is.”
Their tongue traced the inside of their mouth as they mulled, an action mirrored from others despite their mouth never being used to talk. It’s unclear. We don’t even know where the Scourges are coming from or what they are. There could be only a small handful left in the world, or there could be legions waiting to invade. We manage to push them back, but not without loss. The Scourge at Scotland was one of the weaker ones. The teleporting Scourge was one of the less destructive ones. And yet they managed to cause so much devastation. They tilted their head to meet his gaze. But I think we’ll win.
Devona smiled. “I hope so.”
How’s it going with Cirius at your place, by the way?
Devona scrunched up his forehead as memories came flooding in. “Well, he doesn’t eat unless I make him. Or really visit the bathroom since he doesn’t eat. I don’t even think he sleeps, at least not most of the time. I’ve also never seen him change his clothes. He seems weirdly nervous at times though. He’s probably destroyed like five of my blankets by now. He keeps giving me heart attacks at night by scurrying around the house. He tried to cook once and blew up the entire kitchen. I’m not even exaggerating, he had third degree burns all over his skin. Took me ages to patch him up, especially with him refusing to remove his clothing.” Devona sighed and noticed Harlow’s expression. They had a bemused expression on their face. “What is it?” You’re quite an attentive person, that’s all. They turned their gaze elsewhere. The last of the physical documents should be three doors down on the rightmost corridor.
“What will you be doing?”
Attending to my own business. I’ll meet you afterwards.
Devona nodded and vanished, leaving Harlow alone underneath the clouded sky.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The hierarchy of the world was simple. At the bottom were the plants, the insects, the ones who barely fed themselves and were gorged upon or crushed by a wayward hand. On top, edging them out were the small predators, the mice and shrews of the world. And above them this and this and that until up on top the world, the pinnacle of power, was humanity. Of course, there was division within humanity. Some believed it to be race, or gender, or sexuality, or any other sort of arbitrary difference they’d use to hold a sense of superiority over others. But the true division, the fissure that stretched across like the mouth of a god, was magic.
Opal Pact was currently walking upon the tightrope across that fissure. To live in a world of magic without any of your own was common, given how billions of people did it, but to know about magic and to live in its world was less so. Of course, it was a lot less dramatic than her mini-monologues in her head, like the one about hierarchies, had made it seem. Most would expect fabulous displays of power, magic that could bend and buckle nations. Instead, they got people who could throw fancy balls that were basically slower, less effective bullets, or throw fireballs which were once again slower, less effective bullets, or become pinnacles of physical brawn who were immune to bullets and who were as susceptible to chemical warfare as anybody else. Even the ones who held incredible power weren’t immune to a knife in their neck in the dead of night. The point was, Opal was less of walking upon a tightrope and more of peering into a secret party and inviting herself in. Besides, if those unedited videos of cities’ destruction were anything to go buy, humans weren’t the top of the food-chain anymore, magic or not.
She whistled to herself, the tune of some forgotten song as she twirled a crowbar between her fingers. She knocked on the door to the security room and then smashed it open, interrupting the guard who was in the middle of trying to figure out why several of the cameras had stopped working. The smashing of the crowbar into his face sent several of his teeth scattering, and he collapsed onto his desk. He’d be fine, probably. Opal mentally shrugged with that thought and pushed him off the wheely chair, letting him flop onto the floor as she took a seat. She grabbed a can of oil from her bag and poured it out the door, letting it run down across the hallway. The tinted plastic she’d stuck to the lights before she’d made her entrance were just yellow enough that anyone who came rushing in wouldn’t have time to notice the oil until it was too late.
Opal slammed the door as shut as she could, kicking her feet onto the table and popping a piece of gum into her mouth. She chewed, letting the sugar flare upon her tongue as her fingers ran across the keyboard. There was a sound of people yelling, then the sound of bodies slamming against the wall and floor. She stretched her arms behind her head, kicking off of the desk to avoid the blast of energy that ripped right through the door. It was shoved open and Opal pushed off the wall towards the attacker, pulling out her taser and jabbing it into his stomach. He staggered and then slipped, falling chin-first onto the floor. She stepped off of the chair and kicked it, sending it bouncing around and knocking down the few guards who managed to remain standing. She slid across the floor, using the slickness to her advantage to weave past grasping hands and past the oil. Grabbing a matchbox from her hand, she struck a match and held it loftily between the fingers. The effect was immediate, with all the guards scrambling across the floors on either all fours or trying their best to stand up. She tossed the match to the oil-slicken ground and slid into the next room. The oil wasn’t flammable.
The oil eventually rubbed off from the friction, leaving Opal to walk along the floor. She eventually found what she came for. She smashed the lock off of the door, the alarm already having been disabled by her in the security room. She popped her bubble of gum and pushed the door open. Standing in the room, looking incredibly confused, was an incredibly tall man. He stared at her, the documents on the desk in front of him. She stared at him. He stared at her. She grabbed the tablecloth and threw it over his head, snatching up the documents as he stumbled back.
Opal dove out the door before the man could get his bearings, skidding across the floor and breaking into a sprint. She pulled out a bag of marbles and tossed it behind her, spilling the contents all across the floor. She used the crowbar to jam the door behind her shut, running past the winding hallways. The exit wasn’t far, and soon she’d be able to hop on her motorcycle and be scot free.
She wheeled around the corner and almost collided into a group of sorcerers. She could tell they were sorcerers since they immediately threw blasts of energy her way as she ducked behind the wall. One of them charged forward and punched the wall where her head had been. He lifted his arm to strike again and then vanished.
“Huh?” The other sorcerers seemed equally confused. Something appeared from nowhere and smacked into the face of one, leaving the last to look around panickedly before the frying pan knocked him out. The man from before appeared out of thin air, looking much more annoyed than he had before. He waved his pan at her face.
“Alright, who the hell are you?”
“Invisibility, probably. Strong as well if he managed to bypass the crowbar so easily, or crafty if he found another way to track me,” her mind supplied.
Opal rooted around for her spray-can. “Who am I? Oh, no-one really. Just a gal trying to make her way in the world.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Would you be willing to hand over the documents?”
Opal pressed her thumb and index to her chin. “Eh, probably not.”
He sighed. He vanished right as Opal lifted her spray can and sent a blast of black into his face. She broke into a sprint, shoving the documents into her pocket as she continued to dash.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Being short certainly had its shortcomings. Cirius couldn’t shout louder than the clamour, so he climbed onto whatever surface he could find and grabbed onto a plate and a fork. He scraped the prongs along the ceramic and the screech was loud enough to catch everyone’s attention.
“Alright, alright, listen up! I’ve been told to get you guys out of here, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
The people still seemed panicked and extremely suspicious. One of them aimed a hand full of fire at him. “Who the hell are you? And why should we listen to you?”
“You guys are running around too much! Look, that guy has other people standing on top of him!”
“Help.”
“In an emergency situation, it’s always good to have someone to direct everyone else. People tend to panic and move erratically, so having a leader allows the people to calm themselves down and move in a controlled manner, minimising the risk to themselves and each other,” Cirius recited. He felt a dash of smugness for remembering the entire thing.
The people did not seem very impressed. They stared up at him with confused and vaguely disgusted expressions.
“Anyways, the point is, we’re going to leave now.”
“What about the people back there!” one person exclaimed. “I have a husband who’s possibly dying right now!”
Cirius frowned. “What did he look like?” “He had- he has blonde hair, is wearing a suit with a blue tie-”
“Oh, I think I saw who you’re talking about!”
“Really? Was he alright?”
Cirius scratched his head. “Uh, well, if he can survive without his head on then he should be good.”
“What the hell is wrong with you!”
“Come on, man!” “Why would you say that?”
Exclamations and cries of dismay rose up from the crowd and suddenly everyone was yelling at him.They started to throw plates and utensils at him, throwing insults along with them.
“Alright, alright, let’s just calm down,” he tried to say over the clamour. A plate smacked onto his head and dazed him for a second. Frustration bubbled in his chest as the people kept on yelling and yelling and the noise built up and up until the frustration melded into anger and burst from him.
“Shut up! Shut up, all of you!” he yelled, his own voice barely rising above the chaos. He grabbed a plate of his own and threw it into the crowd. “I’m trying to save your goddamn lives you idiots!”
Something bright came flying at him and he felt his body light ablaze, the fire rapidly spreading over his clothes and flesh. A silence fell over the crowd, their expressions now of shock and bewilderment rather than outrage. He moved his head towards the one who threw the fireball, the slight movement drawing gasps from the people around him. He jumped down from the table and walked towards the attacker, everyone else clearing a wide berth around him. He dug his fingernails into his bubbling flesh, tearing deep and causing blood to spill out, dampening the flames with a hiss. Blood dripped onto the floor as he flexed his hand before pulling his arm back and punching the elemental in the face. His hand practically exploded, spraying gore and viscera all over the man’s features. He fell to the floor with a horrified scream, too distracted to notice Cirius lifting a chair until it was already coming down on his head. Cirius patted down his body, ripping away at skin where the fire refused to die out. He turned to the crowd - or at least, the blurry outline of the crowd.
“So, are we ready to go now?” he asked brightly. He lifted his hand to scratch at his face and felt bone. The crowd nodded, subdued. “Pick that guy up, by the way.” He turned to the exit and they all followed suit.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Devona was not having a good time. He’d managed to avoid most of the spray, but he’d needed to wipe away at his eyes before they stung too much. He floated past the groaning guards on the oil-slick floor, up the stairs to the upper floors. Marbles were strewn across the ground, and one man was rolling around while clutching his spray-painted eyes. The window on the far end was smashed open despite the latch being unlocked. Peeking his head around, he could see the perpetrator running along the rooftop, sticking her tongue out at the people on the ground. She grabbed an egg from her pocket and slung it at the head of one, exploding it all over his face as he tried to grab his gun.
She ducked down and slid along the tiles as bullets fired above her head, grabbing the side and swinging down into the window. A few seconds later, a chair was flung out and slammed into the remaining guards. A guard rushed up to the window next to Devona, pulling out a machine gun. Devona wasn’t a fan of excessive violence against his enemies, so he introduced his face to a frying pan. At the same time, the thief, as Devona had dubbed her, was thrown from the window. She managed to grab onto the curtain and ripped it as she slid down the wall, landing with a thud onto the ground. Standing there in the doorframe, holding onto ruffled documents as air swirled was a guard, more filing around her with magic swirling in the air.
Devona felt movement behind him and phased out, dodging the blast of energy that would have taken off his head. He grabbed the guard and phased them out with him, using their newfound weightlessness to throw them as hard. All eyes snapped to the man as he flew through the air, giving Devona enough time to swoop down and phase out the thief.
He dropped the two of them on the roof of the building overlooking the guards as they looked around in surprise. The thief immediately got to talking.
“So, you can phase out, huh? I thought you might have been a Neoteric, seeing as you look less out-of-touch than a lot of other sorcerers. Do you have a cool name for your discipline?”
Devona glanced at her. “It’s incorporealism.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bo-ring. You develop a whole branch of magic and you give it some lame name like that?”
“It’s not- whatever.”
She sighed and rolled her shoulders. “Why don’t we make a truce?” she said suddenly. “Just until we get the documents. Especially since they see us now.”
Devona looked down just in time to weave to the side and let the lightning pass by him. There was a woosh of air and all the guards were upon the roof, one of them still holding the documents in her hand.
A gust of air, a blast, and several bullets connected with nothing as Devona vanished. He grabbed one guard and threw them off, lashing out with only his foot physical and kicked another guard right in the stomach. Weave, dodge, strike, move back, more forward. The movements weren’t as fluid as they could have been, and he winced from a graze across his arm, but it wasn’t long before he and the thief were the only people still standing upon the roof.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Wow. Not bad. You’re quite the combatant.”
Devona started looking around for where the documents had fallen, turning his back to her. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name by the way?”
He lifted up one of the unconscious bodies. “It’s Devona. Yours?”
“Bergeron.” A strange name, but Devona wasn’t one to judge. “Say, I’ve just to ask, why did you save me back there?”
Devona frowned. “Is it not enough to not want to see another person die?”
She hummed. There was a bit of movement from behind him, and Devona phased out as a taser struck where he had just been. He phased back in, lashing out with a pivot and kick that slammed into her gut. He grabbed his pan and swung it at her head, clipping only her hair as she ducked down and he withdrew his body as she jabbed with her taser again. He slammed his pan onto her arm before she could reel it back in. Her taser dropped and Devona managed to strike her across the head, sending her stumbling back. She clutched his arm as if it was broken and Devona faltered slightly, just long enough for her to lash out with another hidden taser and hit him right in the gut. She grabbed onto her crowbar and smashed it against his head, with him managing to only slightly dodge the impact. He phased out again and grabbed her by the arm, throwing her against the wall. He stumbled, his vision turning white as rivulets of blood ran down his nose. Before he could recover he felt the crowbar slam into his hip and his legs buckled. The cool metal of the taser pressed into his back and jolts ran through his body.

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— Discrimination against a group can happen for different reasons: (i) the discriminating people feeling insecure and with a need to put down some other group. This seems to be inherent in humans. There's a consistent ingroup vs outgroup dynamic everywhere on lots of different axes. (ii) the avenging of a perceived slight by that group against the now discriminating group (iii) outright bullying for a perceived weakness.
— Some discrimination against black currently seems to exist because black people are thought of as undesirable: poor, uncultured and stupid. Discrimination on race doesn't occur against blacks alone. It does again other races too: Indians (all of the subcontinent), West Asians and North Africans (Arabs, bedouins etc), latinos, east Asians (Koreans, Chinese, Japanese etc) etc. But black people seem to bear the worst of it, and western caucasians, the least. So maybe there is an order of races in order of increasing amounts of melanin... from western whites to African blacks? But why?
Is it based on economic and cultural success in the modern world.. around and after the beginning of industrialization? Or economic and cultural success before then? Granted that interaction between people from different places used to be rare and difficult, was there ever a time when black people were thought of more highly, and western caucasians were not at the top of the pyramid? Say in the 1300s? What civilizations were the most economically productive then, and what did each race think of one another?
Black Africa clearly is the most economically underdeveloped part of the world. There's been lots of explanations proposed for this: some of them are geographical, others are genetical (they claim black people are just outright stupid). So maybe this is why racism against blacks is the worst of all of them? What if black Africa became as developed as western Europe? Might there exist anyway this sort of discrimination against black people? Is it about the color of our skin, instead?

Middle-East
A, Adad, Adapa, Adrammelech, Aeon, Agasaya, Aglibol, Ahriman, Ahura Mazda, Ahurani, Ai-ada, Al-Lat, Aja, Aka, Alalu, Al-Lat, Amm, Al-Uzza (El-'Ozza or Han-Uzzai), An, Anahita, Anath (Anat), Anatu, Anbay, Anshar, Anu, Anunitu, An-Zu, Apsu, Aqhat, Ararat, Arinna, Asherali, Ashnan, Ashtoreth, Ashur, Astarte, Atar, Athirat, Athtart, Attis, Aya, Baal (Bel), Baalat (Ba'Alat), Baau, Basamum, Beelsamin, Belit-Seri, Beruth, Borak, Broxa, Caelestis, Cassios, Lebanon, Antilebanon, and Brathy, Chaos, Chemosh, Cotys, Cybele, Daena, Daevas, Dagon, Damkina, Dazimus, Derketo, Dhat-Badan, Dilmun, Dumuzi (Du'uzu), Duttur, Ea, El, Endukugga, Enki, Enlil, Ennugi, Eriskegal, Ereshkigal (Allatu), Eshara, Eshmun, Firanak, Fravashi, Gatamdug, Genea, Genos, Gestinanna, Gula, Hadad, Hannahanna, Hatti, Hea, Hiribi, The Houri, Humban, Innana, Ishkur, Ishtar, Ithm, Jamshid or Jamshyd, Jehovah, Jesus, Kabta, Kadi, Kamrusepas, Ki (Kiki), Kingu, Kolpia, Kothar-u-Khasis, Lahar, Marduk, Mari, Meni, Merodach, Misor, Moloch, Mot, Mushdama, Mylitta, Naamah, Nabu (Nebo), Nairyosangha, Nammu, Namtaru, Nanna, Nebo, Nergal, Nidaba, Ninhursag or Nintu, Ninlil, Ninsar, Nintur, Ninurta, Pa, Qadshu, Rapithwin, Resheph (Mikal or Mekal), Rimmon, Sadarnuna, Shahar, Shalim, Shamish, Shapshu, Sheger, Sin, Siris (Sirah), Taautos, Tammuz, Tanit, Taru, Tasimmet, Telipinu, Tiamat, Tishtrya, Tsehub, Utnapishtim, Utu, Wurusemu, Yam, Yarih (Yarikh), Yima, Zaba, Zababa, Zam, Zanahary (Zanaharibe), Zarpandit, Zarathustra, Zatavu, Zazavavindrano, Ziusudra, Zu (Imdugud), Zurvan
China:
Ba, Caishen, Chang Fei, Chang Hsien, Chang Pan, Ch'ang Tsai, Chao san-Niang, Chao T'eng-k'ang, Chen Kao, Ch'eng Huang, Cheng San-Kung, Cheng Yuan-ho, Chi Po, Chien-Ti, Chih Jih, Chih Nii, Chih Nu, Ch'ih Sung-tzu, Ching Ling Tzu, Ch'ing Lung, Chin-hua Niang-niang, Chio Yuan-Tzu, Chou Wang, Chu Niao, Chu Ying, Chuang-Mu, Chu-jung, Chun T'i, Ch'ung Ling-yu, Chung Liu, Chung-kuei, Chung-li Ch'üan, Di Jun, Fan K'uei, Fei Lien, Feng Pho-Pho, Fengbo, Fu Hsing, Fu-Hsi, Fu-Pao, Gaomei, Guan Di, Hao Ch'iu, Heng-o, Ho Po (Ping-I), Hou Chi, Hou T'u, Hsi Ling-su, Hsi Shih, Hsi Wang Mu, Hsiao Wu, Hsieh T'ien-chun, Hsien Nung, Hsi-shen, Hsu Ch'ang, Hsuan Wen-hua, Huang Ti, Huang T'ing, Huo Pu, Hu-Shen, Jen An, Jizo Bosatsu, Keng Yen-cheng, King Wan, Ko Hsien-Weng, Kuan Ti, Kuan Ti, Kuei-ku Tzu, Kuo Tzu-i, Lai Cho, Lao Lang, Lei Kung, Lei Tsu, Li Lao-chun, Li Tien, Liu Meng, Liu Pei, Lo Shen, Lo Yu, Lo-Tsu Ta-Hsien, Lu Hsing, Lung Yen, Lu-pan, Ma-Ku, Mang Chin-i, Mang Shen, Mao Meng, Men Shen, Miao Hu, Mi-lo Fo, Ming Shang, Nan-chi Hsien-weng, Niu Wang, Nu Wa, Nu-kua, Pa, Pa Cha, Pai Chung, Pai Liu-Fang, Pai Yu, P'an Niang, P'an-Chin-Lien, Pao Yuan-ch'uan, Phan Ku, P'i Chia-Ma, Pien Ho, San Kuan, Sao-ch'ing Niang, Sarudahiko, Shang Chien, Shang Ti, She chi, Shen Hsui-Chih, Shen Nung, Sheng Mu, Shih Liang, Shiu Fang, Shou-lao, Shun I Fu-jen, Sien-Tsang, Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju, Sun Pin, Sun Ssu-miao, Sung-Chiang, Tan Chu, T'ang Ming Huang, Tao Kung, T'ien Fei, Tien Hou, Tien Mu, Ti-tsang, Tsai Shen, Ts'an Nu, Ts'ang Chien, Tsao Chun, Tsao-Wang, T'shai-Shen, Tung Chun, T'ung Chung-chung, T'ung Lai-yu, Tung Lu, T'ung Ming, Tzu-ku Shen, Wa, Wang Ta-hsien, Wang-Mu-Niang-Niang, Weiwobo, Wen-ch'ang, Wu-tai Yuan-shuai, Xi Hou, Xi Wangmu, Xiu Wenyin, Yanwang, Yaoji, Yen-lo, Yen-Lo-Wang, Yi, Yu, Yu Ch'iang, Yu Huang, Yun-T'ung, Yu-Tzu, Zaoshen, Zhang Xi, , Zhinü, , Zhongguei, , Zigu Shen, , Zisun, Ch'ang-O
Slavic:
Aba-khatun, Aigiarm, Ajysyt, Alkonost, Almoshi, Altan-Telgey, Ama, Anapel, As-ava, Ausaitis, Austeja, Ayt'ar, Baba Yaga (Jezi Baba), Belobog (Belun), Boldogasszony, Breksta, Bugady Musun, Chernobog (Crnobog, Czarnobog, Czerneboch, Cernobog), Cinei-new, Colleda (Koliada), Cuvto-ava, Dali, Darzu-mate, Dazhbog, Debena, Devana, Diiwica (Dilwica), Doda (Dodola), Dolya, Dragoni, Dugnai, Dunne Enin, Edji, Elena, Erce, Etugen, Falvara, The Fates, The Fatit, Gabija, Ganiklis, Giltine, Hotogov Mailgan, Hov-ava, Iarila, Isten, Ja-neb'a, Jedza, Joda-mate, Kaldas, Kaltes, Keretkun, Khadau, Khursun (Khors), Kostrubonko, Kovas, Krumine, Kupala, Kupalo, Laima, Leshy, Marina, Marzana, Matergabiae, Mat Syra Zemlya, Medeine, Menu (Menulis), Mir-Susne-Khum, Myesyats, Nastasija, (Russia) Goddess of sleep., Nelaima, Norov, Numi-Tarem, Nyia, Ora, Ot, Patollo, Patrimpas, Pereplut, Perkuno, Perun, Pikuolis, Pilnytis, Piluitus, Potrimpo, Puskaitis, Rod, Rugevit, Rultennin, Rusalki, Sakhadai-Noin, Saule, Semargl, Stribog, Sudjaje, Svantovit (Svantevit, Svitovyd), Svarazic (Svarozic, Svarogich), Tengri, Tñairgin, Triglav, Ulgen (Ulgan, Ülgön), Veles (Volos), Vesna, Xatel-Ekwa, Xoli-Kaltes, Yamm, Yarilo, Yarovit, Ynakhsyt, Zaria, Zeme mate, Zemyna, Ziva (Siva), Zizilia, Zonget, Zorya, Zvoruna, Zvezda Dennitsa, Zywie
Hindu
Aditi, Adityas, Ambika, Ananta (Shesha), Annapurna (Annapatni), Aruna, Ashvins, Balarama, Bhairavi, Brahma, Buddha, Dakini, Devi, Dharma, Dhisana, Durga, Dyaus, Ganesa (Ganesha), Ganga (Ganges), Garuda, Gauri, Gopis, Hanuman, Hari-Hara, Hulka Devi, Jagganath, Jyeshtha, Kama, Karttikeya, Krishna, Krtya, Kubera, Kubjika, Lakshmi or Laksmi, Manasha, Manu, Maya, Meru, Nagas, Nandi, Naraka, Nataraja, Nirriti, Parjanya, Parvati, Paurnamasi, Prithivi, Purusha, Radha, Rati, Ratri, Rudra, Sanjna, Sati, Shashti, Shatala, Sitala (Satala), Skanda, Sunrta, Surya, Svasti-devi, Tvashtar, Uma, Urjani, Vach, Varuna, Vayu, Vishnu (Avatars of Vishnu: Matsya; Kurma; Varaha; Narasinha; Vamana; Parasurama; Rama; Krishna; Buddha; Kalki), Vishvakarman, Yama, Sraddha
Japan: Aji-Suki-Taka-Hi-Kone, Ama no Uzume, Ama-terasu, Amatsu Mikaboshi, Benten (Benzai-Ten), Bishamon, Chimata-No-Kami, Chup-Kamui, Daikoku, Ebisu, Emma-O, Fudo, Fuji, Fukurokuju, Gekka-O, Hachiman, Hettsui-No-Kami, Ho-Masubi, Hotei, Inari, Izanagi and Izanami, Jizo Bosatsu, Jurojin, Kagutsuchi, Kamado-No-Kami, Kami, Kawa-No-Kami, Kaya-Nu-Hima, Kishijoten, Kishi-Mojin, Kunitokotatchi, Marici, Monju-Bosatsu, Nai-No-Kami, No-Il Ja-Dae, O-Kuni-Nushi, Omoigane, Raiden, Shine-Tsu-Hiko, Shoten, Susa-no-wo, Tajika-no-mikoto, Tsuki-yomi, Uka no Mitanna, Uke-mochi, Uso-dori, Uzume, Wakahirume, Yainato-Hnneno-Mikoi, Yama-No-Kami, Yama-no-Karni, Yaya-Zakurai, Yuki-Onne
India
Agni, Ammavaru, Asuras, Banka-Mundi, Brihaspati, Budhi Pallien, Candi, Challalamma, Chinnintamma, Devas, Dyaush, Gauri-Sankar, Grhadevi, Gujeswari, Indra, Kali, Lohasur Devi, Mayavel, Mitra, Prajapati, Puchan, Purandhi, Rakshas, Rudrani, Rumina, Samundra, Sarasvati, Savitar, Siva (Shiva), Soma, Sura, Surabhi, Tulsi, Ushas, Vata, Visvamitra, Vivasvat, Vritra, Waghai Devi, Yaparamma, Yayu, Zumiang Nui, Diti
Other Asian: Dewi Shri, Po Yan Dari, Shuzanghu, Antaboga, Yakushi Nyorai, Mulhalmoni, Tankun, Yondung Halmoni, Aryong Jong, Quan Yin , Tengri, Uminai-gami, Kamado-No-Kami, Kunitokotatchi, Giri Devi, Dewi Nawang Sasih, Brag-srin-mo, Samanta-Bhadra, Sangs-rgyas-mkhá, Sengdroma, Sgeg-mo-ma, Tho-og, Ui Tango, Yum-chen-mo, Zas-ster-ma-dmar-mo, Chandra, Dyaus, Ratri, Rodasi, Vayu, Au-Co
African Gods, Demigods and First Men:
Abassi , Abuk , Adu Ogyinae , Agé , Agwe , Aida Wedo , Ajalamo, Aje, Ajok, Akonadi, Akongo, Akuj, Amma, Anansi, Asase Yaa, Ashiakle, Atai , Ayaba, Aziri, Baatsi, Bayanni, Bele Alua, Bomo rambi, Bosumabla, Buk, Buku, Bumba, Bunzi, Buruku, Cagn, Candit, Cghene, Coti, Damballah-Wedo, Dan, Deng, Domfe, Dongo, Edinkira, Efé, Egungun-oya, Eka Abassi, Elephant Girl Mbombe, Emayian, Enekpe, En-Kai, Eseasar, Eshu, Esu, Fa, Faran, Faro, Fatouma, Fidi Mukullu, Fon, Gleti, Gonzuole, Gû, Gua, Gulu, Gunab, Hammadi, Hêbiesso, Iku, Ilankaka, Imana, Iruwa, Isaywa, Juok, Kazooba, Khakaba, Khonvum, Kibuka, Kintu, Lebé, Leza, Libanza, Lituolone, Loko, Marwe, Massim Biambe, Mawu-Lisa (Leza), Mboze, Mebeli, Minepa, Moombi, Mukameiguru, Mukasa, Muluku, Mulungu, Mwambu, Nai, Nambi, Nana Buluku, Nanan-Bouclou, Nenaunir, Ng Ai, Nyaliep, Nyambé, Nyankopon, Nyasaye, Nzame, Oboto, Obumo, Odudua-Orishala, Ogun, Olokun, Olorun, Orisha Nla, Orunmila, Osanyin, Oshe, Osun, Oya, Phebele, Pokot-Suk, Ralubumbha, Rugaba, Ruhanga, Ryangombe, Sagbata, Shagpona, Shango, Sopona, Tano, Thixo, Tilo, Tokoloshi, Tsui, Tsui'goab, Umvelinqangi, Unkulunkulu, Utixo, Wak, Wamara, Wantu Su, Wele, Were, Woto, Xevioso, Yangombi, Yemonja, Ymoa, Ymoja, Yoruba, Zambi, Zanahary , Zinkibaru
Australian Gods, Goddesses and Places in the Dreamtime:
Alinga, Anjea, Apunga, Arahuta, Ariki, Arohirohi, Bamapana, Banaitja, Bara, Barraiya, Biame, Bila, Boaliri, Bobbi-bobbi, Bunbulama, Bunjil, Cunnembeille, Daramulum, Dilga, Djanggawul Sisters, Eingana, Erathipa, Gidja , Gnowee, Haumia, Hine Titama, Ingridi, Julana, Julunggul, Junkgowa, Karora, Kunapipi-Kalwadi-Kadjara, Lia, Madalait, Makara, Nabudi, Palpinkalare, Papa, Rangi, Rongo, Tane, Tangaroa, Tawhiri-ma-tea, Tomituka, Tu, Ungamilia, Walo, Waramurungundi, Wati Kutjarra, Wawalag Sisters, Wuluwaid, Wuragag, Wuriupranili, Wurrunna, Yhi
Buddhism, Gods and Relatives of God:
Aizen-Myoo, Ajima,Dai-itoku-Myoo, Fudo-Myoo, Gozanze-Myoo, Gundari-Myoo, Hariti, Kongo-Myoo, Kujaku-Myoo, Ni-O
Carribean: Gods, Monsters and Vodun Spirits
Agaman Nibo , Agwe, Agweta, Ah Uaynih, Aida Wedo , Atabei , Ayida , Ayizan, Azacca, Baron Samedi, Ulrich, Ellegua, Ogun, Ochosi, Chango, Itaba, Amelia, Christalline, Clairmé, Clairmeziné, Coatrischie, Damballah , Emanjah, Erzuli, Erzulie, Ezili, Ghede, Guabancex, Guabonito, Guamaonocon, Imanje, Karous, Laloue-diji, Legba, Loa, Loco, Maitresse Amelia , Mapiangueh, Marie-aimée, Marinette, Mombu, Marassa, Nana Buruku, Oba, Obtala, Ochu, Ochumare, Oddudua, Ogoun, Olokum, Olosa, Oshun, Oya, Philomena, Sirêne, The Diablesse, Itaba, Tsilah, Ursule, Vierge, Yemaya , Zaka
Celtic: Gods, Goddesses, Divine Kings and Pagan Saints
Abarta, Abna, Abnoba, Aine, Airetech,Akonadi, Amaethon, Ameathon, An Cailleach, Andraste, Antenociticus, Aranrhod, Arawn, Arianrod, Artio, Badb,Balor, Banbha, Becuma, Belatucadros, Belatu-Cadros, Belenus, Beli,Belimawr, Belinus, Bendigeidfran, Bile, Blathnat, Blodeuwedd, Boann, Bodus,Bormanus, Borvo, Bran, Branwen, Bres, Brigid, Brigit, Caridwen, Carpantus,Cathbadh, Cecht, Cernach, Cernunnos, Cliodna, Cocidius, Conchobar, Condatis, Cormac,Coronus,Cosunea, Coventina, Crarus,Creidhne, Creirwy, Cu Chulainn, Cu roi, Cuda, Cuill,Cyhiraeth,Dagda, Damona, Dana, Danu, D'Aulnoy,Dea Artio, Deirdre , Dewi, Dian, Diancecht, Dis Pater, Donn, Dwyn, Dylan, Dywel,Efnisien, Elatha, Epona, Eriu, Esos, Esus, Eurymedon,Fedelma, Fergus, Finn, Fodla, Goewyn, Gog, Goibhniu, Govannon , Grainne, Greine,Gwydion, Gwynn ap Nudd, Herne, Hu'Gadarn, Keltoi,Keridwen, Kernunnos,Ler, Lir, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, Lludd, Llyr, Llywy, Luchta, Lug, Lugh,Lugus, Mabinogion,Mabon, Mac Da Tho, Macha, Magog, Manannan, Manawydan, Maponos, Math, Math Ap Mathonwy, Medb, Moccos,Modron, Mogons, Morrig, Morrigan, Nabon,Nantosuelta, Naoise, Nechtan, Nedoledius,Nehalennia, Nemhain, Net,Nisien, Nodens, Noisi, Nuada, Nwywre,Oengus, Ogma, Ogmios, Oisin, Pach,Partholon, Penard Dun, Pryderi, Pwyll, Rhiannon, Rosmerta, Samhain, Segidaiacus, Sirona, Sucellus, Sulis, Taliesin, Taranis, Teutates, The Horned One,The Hunt, Treveni,Tyne, Urien, Ursula of the Silver Host, Vellaunus, Vitiris, White Lady
Egyptian: Gods, Gods Incarnate and Personified Divine Forces:
Amaunet, Amen, Amon, Amun, Anat, Anqet, Antaios, Anubis, Anuket, Apep, Apis, Astarte, Aten, Aton, Atum, Bastet, Bat, Buto, Duamutef, Duamutef, Hapi, Har-pa-khered, Hathor, Hauhet, Heket, Horus, Huh, Imset, Isis, Kauket, Kebechsenef, Khensu, Khepri, Khnemu, Khnum, Khonsu, Kuk, Maahes, Ma'at, Mehen, Meretseger, Min, Mnewer, Mut, Naunet, Nefertem, Neith, Nekhbet, Nephthys, Nun, Nut, Osiris, Ptah, Ra , Re, Renenet, Sakhmet, Satet, Seb, Seker, Sekhmet, Serapis, Serket, Set, Seth, Shai, Shu, Shu, Sia, Sobek, Sokar, Tefnut, Tem, Thoth
Hellenes (Greek) Tradition (Gods, Demigods, Divine Bastards)
Acidalia, Aello, Aesculapius, Agathe, Agdistis, Ageleia, Aglauros, Agne, Agoraia, Agreia, Agreie, Agreiphontes, Agreus, Agrios, Agrotera, Aguieus, Aidoneus, Aigiokhos, Aigletes, Aigobolos, Ainia,Ainippe, Aithuia , Akesios, Akraia, Aktaios, Alalkomene, Alasiotas, Alcibie, Alcinoe, Alcippe, Alcis,Alea, Alexikakos, Aligena, Aliterios, Alkaia, Amaltheia, Ambidexter, Ambologera, Amynomene,Anaduomene, Anaea, Anax, Anaxilea, Androdameia,Andromache, Andromeda, Androphonos, Anosia, Antandre,Antania, Antheus, Anthroporraistes, Antianara, Antianeira, Antibrote, Antimache, Antimachos, Antiope,Antiopeia, Aoide, Apatouria, Aphneius, Aphrodite, Apollo, Apotropaios, Areia, Areia, Areion, Areopagite, Ares, Areto, Areximacha,Argus, Aridnus,Aristaios, Aristomache, Arkhegetes, Arktos, Arretos, Arsenothelys, Artemis, Asclepius, Asklepios, Aspheleios, Asteria, Astraeos , Athene, Auxites, Avaris, Axios, Axios Tauros,Bakcheios, Bakchos, Basileus, Basilis, Bassareus, Bauros, Boophis, Boreas , Botryophoros, Boukeros, Boulaia, Boulaios, Bremusa,Bromios, Byblis,Bythios, Caliope, Cedreatis, Celaneo, centaur, Cerberus, Charidotes, Charybdis, Chimera, Chloe, Chloris , Choreutes, Choroplekes, Chthonios, Clete, Clio, clotho,Clyemne, cockatrice, Crataeis, Custos, Cybebe, Cybele, Cyclops, Daphnaia, Daphnephoros, Deianeira, Deinomache, Delia, Delios, Delphic, Delphinios, Demeter, Dendrites, Derimacheia,Derinoe, Despoina, Dikerotes, Dimeter, Dimorphos, Dindymene, Dioktoros, Dionysos, Discordia, Dissotokos, Dithyrambos, Doris, Dryope,Echephyle,Echidna, Eiraphiotes, Ekstatophoros, Eleemon, Eleuthereus, Eleutherios, Ennosigaios, Enodia, Enodios, Enoplios, Enorches, Enualios, Eos , Epaine, Epidotes, Epikourios, Epipontia, Epitragidia, Epitumbidia, Erato, Ergane, Eribromios, Erigdoupos, Erinus, Eriobea, Eriounios, Eriphos, Eris, Eros,Euanthes, Euaster, Eubouleus, Euboulos, Euios, Eukhaitos, Eukleia, Eukles, Eumache, Eunemos, Euplois, Euros , Eurybe,Euryleia, Euterpe, Fates,Fortuna, Gaia, Gaieokhos, Galea, Gamelia, Gamelios, Gamostolos, Genetor, Genetullis, Geryon, Gethosynos, giants, Gigantophonos, Glaukopis, Gorgons, Gorgopis, Graiae, griffin, Gynaikothoinas, Gynnis, Hagisilaos, Hagnos, Haides, Harmothoe, harpy, Hegemone, Hegemonios, Hekate, Hekatos, Helios, Hellotis, Hephaistia, Hephaistos, Hera, Heraios, Herakles, Herkeios, Hermes, Heros Theos, Hersos, Hestia, Heteira, Hiksios, Hipp, Hippia, Hippios, Hippoi Athanatoi, Hippolyte, Hippolyte II,Hippomache,Hippothoe, Horkos, Hugieia, Hupatos, Hydra, Hypate, Hyperborean, Hypsipyle, Hypsistos, Iakchos, Iatros, Idaia, Invictus, Iphito,Ismenios, Ismenus,Itonia, Kabeiria, Kabeiroi, Kakia, Kallinikos, Kallipugos, Kallisti, Kappotas, Karneios, Karpophoros, Karytis, Kataibates, Katakhthonios, Kathatsios, Keladeine, Keraunos, Kerykes, Khalinitis, Khalkioikos, Kharmon, Khera, Khloe, Khlori,Khloris,Khruse, Khthonia, Khthonios, Kidaria, Kissobryos, Kissokomes, Kissos, Kitharodos, Kleidouchos, Kleoptoleme, Klymenos, Kore, Koruthalia, Korymbophoros, Kourotrophos, Kranaia, Kranaios, Krataiis, Kreousa, Kretogenes, Kriophoros, Kronides, Kronos,Kryphios, Ktesios, Kubebe, Kupris, Kuprogenes, Kurotrophos, Kuthereia, Kybele, Kydoime,Kynthia, Kyrios, Ladon, Lakinia, Lamia, Lampter, Laodoke, Laphria, Lenaios, Leukatas, Leukatas, Leukolenos, Leukophruene, Liknites, Limenia, Limnaios, Limnatis, Logios, Lokhia, Lousia, Loxias, Lukaios, Lukeios, Lyaios, Lygodesma, Lykopis, Lyseus, Lysippe, Maimaktes, Mainomenos, Majestas, Makar, Maleatas, Manikos, Mantis, Marpe, Marpesia, Medusa, Megale, Meilikhios, Melaina, Melainis, Melanaigis, Melanippe,Melete, Melousa, Melpomene, Melqart, Meses, Mimnousa, Minotaur, Mneme, Molpadia,Monogenes, Morpho, Morychos, Musagates, Musagetes, Nebrodes, Nephelegereta, Nereus,Nete, Nike, Nikephoros, Nomios, Nomius, Notos , Nyktelios, Nyktipolos, Nympheuomene, Nysios, Oiketor, Okyale, Okypous, Olumpios, Omadios, Ombrios, Orithia,Orius,Ortheia, Orthos, Ourania, Ourios, Paelemona, Paian, Pais, Palaios, Pallas, Pan Megas, Panakhais, Pandemos, Pandrosos, Pantariste, Parthenos, PAsianax, Pasiphaessa, Pater, Pater, Patroo s, Pegasus, Pelagia, Penthesilea, Perikionios, Persephone, Petraios, Phanes, Phanter, Phatria, Philios, Philippis, Philomeides, Phoebe, Phoebus, Phoenix, Phoibos, Phosphoros, Phratrios, Phutalmios, Physis, Pisto, Plouton, Polemusa,Poliakhos, Polias, Polieus, Polumetis, Polydektes, Polygethes, Polymnia, Polymorphos, Polyonomos, Porne, Poseidon, Potnia Khaos, Potnia Pheron, Promakhos, Pronoia, Propulaios, Propylaia, Proserpine, Prothoe, Protogonos, Prytaneia, Psychopompos, Puronia, Puthios, Pyrgomache, Python, Rhea, Sabazios, Salpinx, satyr, Saxanus, Scyleia,Scylla, sirens, Skeptouchos, Smintheus, Sophia, Sosipolis, Soter, Soteria, Sphinx, Staphylos, Sthenias, Sthenios, Strife, Summakhia, Sykites, Syzygia, Tallaios, Taureos, Taurokeros, Taurophagos, Tauropolos, Tauropon, Tecmessa, Teisipyte, Teleios, Telepyleia,Teletarches, Terpsichore, Thalestris, Thalia, The Dioskouroi, Theos, Theritas, Thermodosa, Thraso, Thyonidas, Thyrsophoros, Tmolene, Toxaris, Toxis, Toxophile,Trevia, Tricephalus, Trieterikos, Trigonos, Trismegestos, Tritogeneia, Tropaios, Trophonius,Tumborukhos, Tyche, Typhon, Urania, Valasca, Xanthippe, Xenios, Zagreus, Zathos, Zephryos , Zeus, Zeus Katakhthonios, Zoophoros Topana
Native American: Gods, Heroes, and Anthropomorphized Facets of Nature
Aakuluujjusi, Ab Kin zoc, Abaangui , Ababinili , Ac Yanto, Acan, Acat, Achiyalatopa , Acna, Acolmiztli, Acolnahuacatl, Acuecucyoticihuati, Adamisil Wedo, Adaox , Adekagagwaa , Adlet , Adlivun, Agloolik , Aguara , Ah Bolom Tzacab, Ah Cancum, Ah Chun Caan, Ah Chuy Kak, Ah Ciliz, Ah Cun Can, Ah Cuxtal, Ah hulneb, Ah Kin, Ah Kumix Uinicob, Ah Mun, Ah Muzencab, Ah Patnar Uinicob, Ah Peku, Ah Puch, Ah Tabai, Ah UincirDz'acab, Ah Uuc Ticab, Ah Wink-ir Masa, Ahau Chamahez, Ahau-Kin, Ahmakiq, Ahnt Alis Pok', Ahnt Kai', Aholi , Ahsonnutli , Ahuic, Ahulane, Aiauh, Aipaloovik , Ajbit, Ajilee , Ajtzak, Akbaalia , Akba-atatdia , Akhlut , Akhushtal, Akna , Akycha, Alaghom Naom Tzentel, Albino Spirit animals , Alektca , Alignak, Allanque , Allowat Sakima , Alom, Alowatsakima , Amaguq , Amala , Amimitl, Amitolane, Amotken , Andaokut , Andiciopec , Anerneq , Anetlacualtiliztli, Angalkuq , Angpetu Wi, Anguta, Angwusnasomtaka , Ani Hyuntikwalaski , Animal spirits , Aningan, Aniwye , Anog Ite , Anpao, Apanuugak , Apicilnic , Apikunni , Apotamkin , Apoyan Tachi , Apozanolotl, Apu Punchau, Aqalax , Arendiwane , Arnakua'gsak , Asdiwal , Asgaya Gigagei, Asiaq , Asin , Asintmah, Atacokai , Atahensic, Aticpac Calqui Cihuatl, Atira, Atisokan , Atius Tirawa , Atl, Atlacamani, Atlacoya, Atlatonin, Atlaua, Atshen , Auilix, Aulanerk , Aumanil , Aunggaak , Aunt Nancy , Awaeh Yegendji , Awakkule , Awitelin Tsta , Awonawilona, Ayauhteotl, Azeban, Baaxpee , Bacabs, Backlum Chaam, Bagucks , Bakbakwalanooksiwae , Balam, Baldhead , Basamacha , Basket Woman , Bead Spitter , Bear , Bear Medicine Woman , Bear Woman , Beaver , Beaver Doctor , Big Heads, Big Man Eater , Big Tail , Big Twisted Flute , Bikeh hozho, Bitol, Black Hactcin , Black Tamanous , Blind Boy , Blind Man , Blood Clot Boy , Bloody Hand , Blue-Jay , Bmola , Bolontiku, Breathmaker, Buffalo , Buluc Chabtan, Burnt Belly , Burnt Face , Butterfly , Cabaguil, Cacoch, Cajolom, Cakulha, Camaxtli, Camozotz, Cannibal Grandmother , Cannibal Woman , Canotila , Capa , Caprakan, Ca-the-ña, Cauac, Centeotl, Centzonuitznaua, Cetan , Chac Uayab Xoc, Chac, Chahnameed , Chakwaina Okya, Chalchihuitlicue, Chalchiuhtlatonal, Chalchiutotolin, Chalmecacihuilt, Chalmecatl, Chamer, Changing Bear Woman , Changing Woman , Chantico, Chaob, Charred Body , Chepi , Chibiabos ,Chibirias, Chiccan, Chicomecoatl, Chicomexochtli, Chiconahui, Chiconahuiehecatl, Chie, Child-Born-in-Jug , Chirakan, Chulyen , Cihuacoatl, Cin-an-ev , Cinteotl, Cipactli, Cirapé , Cit Chac Coh, Cit-Bolon-Tum, Citlalatonac, Citlalicue, Ciucoatl, Ciuteoteo, Cizin, Cliff ogre , Coatlicue, Cochimetl, Cocijo, Colel Cab, Colop U Uichkin, Copil, Coyolxauhqui, Coyopa, Coyote , Cripple Boy , Crow , Crow Woman , Cum hau, Cunawabi , Dagwanoenyent , Dahdahwat , Daldal , Deohako, Dhol , Diyin dine , Djien , Djigonasee , Dohkwibuhch , Dzalarhons , Dzalarhons, Eagentci , Eagle , Earth Shaman , Eeyeekalduk , Ehecatl, Ehlaumel , Eithinoha , Ekchuah, Enumclaw , Eototo, Esaugetuh Emissee , Esceheman, Eschetewuarha, Estanatlehi , Estasanatlehi , Estsanatlehi, Evaki, Evening Star, Ewah , Ewauna, Face , Faces of the Forests , False Faces , Famine , Fastachee , Fire Dogs , First Creator , First Man and First Woman, First Scolder , Flint Man , Flood , Flower Woman , Foot Stuck Child , Ga'an, Ga-gaah , Gahe, Galokwudzuwis , Gaoh, Gawaunduk, Geezhigo-Quae, Gendenwitha, Genetaska, Ghanan, Gitche Manitou, Glispa, Glooskap , Gluscabi , Gluskab , Gluskap, Godasiyo, Gohone , Great Seahouse, Greenmantle , Gucumatz, Gukumatz, Gunnodoyak, Gyhldeptis, Ha Wen Neyu , Hacauitz , Hacha'kyum, Hagondes , Hahgwehdiyu , Hamatsa , Hamedicu, Hanghepi Wi, Hantceiitehi , Haokah , Hastseoltoi, Hastshehogan , He'mask.as , Hen, Heyoka , Hiawatha , Hino, Hisakitaimisi, Hokhokw , Hotoru, Huehuecoyotl, Huehueteotl, Huitaca , Huitzilopochtli, Huixtocihuatl, Hummingbird, Hun hunahpu, Hun Pic Tok, Hunab Ku, Hunahpu Utiu, Hunahpu, Hunahpu-Gutch, Hunhau, Hurakan, Iatiku And Nautsiti, Ich-kanava , Ictinike , Idliragijenget , Idlirvirisong, Igaluk , Ignirtoq , Ikanam , Iktomi , Ilamatecuhtli, Illapa, Ilya p'a, i'noGo tied , Inti, Inua , Ioskeha , Ipalnemohuani, Isakakate, Ishigaq , Isitoq , Issitoq , Ite , Itzamná, Itzananohk`u, Itzlacoliuhque, Itzli, Itzpapalotl, Ix Chebel Yax, Ixbalanque, Ixchel, Ixchup, Ixmucane, Ixpiyacoc, Ixtab, Ixtlilton, Ixtubtin, Ixzaluoh, Iya , Iyatiku , Iztaccihuatl, Iztacmixcohuatl, Jaguar Night, Jaguar Quitze, Jogah , Kaakwha , Kabun , Kabun , Kachinas, Kadlu , Ka-Ha-Si , Ka-Ha-Si , Kaik , Kaiti , Kan, Kana'ti and Selu , Kanati, Kan-u-Uayeyab, Kan-xib-yui, Kapoonis , Katsinas, Keelut , Ketchimanetowa, Ketq Skwaye, Kianto, Kigatilik , Kilya, K'in, Kinich Ahau, Kinich Kakmo, Kishelemukong , Kisin, Kitcki Manitou, Kmukamch , Kokopelli , Ko'lok , Kukulcan, Kushapatshikan , Kutni , Kutya'I , Kwakwakalanooksiwae ,Kwatee , Kwekwaxa'we , Kwikumat , Kyoi , Lagua , Land Otter People , Lawalawa , Logobola , Loha, Lone Man , Long Nose , Loon , Loon Medicine , Loon Woman , Loo-wit, Macaw Woman, Macuilxochitl, Maho Peneta, Mahucutah, Makenaima , Malesk , Malina , Malinalxochi, Malsum, Malsumis , Mam, Mama Cocha, Man in moon , Manabozho , Manetuwak , Mani'to, Manitou , Mannegishi , Manu, Masaya, Masewi , Master of Life , Master Of Winds, Matshishkapeu , Mavutsinim , Mayahuel, Medeoulin , Mekala , Menahka, Meteinuwak , Metztli, Mexitl, Michabo, Mictecacihuatl, Mictlan, Mictlantecuhtli, Mikchich , Mikumwesu , Mitnal, Mixcoatl, Mongwi Kachinum , Morning Star, Motho and Mungo , Mulac, Muut , Muyingwa , Nacon, Nagenatzani, Nagi Tanka , Nagual, Nahual, Nakawé, Nanabojo, Nanabozho , Nanabush, Nanahuatzin, Nanautzin, Nanih Waiya, Nankil'slas , Nanook , Naum, Negafook , Nerrivik , Nesaru, Nianque , Nishanu , Nohochacyum, Nokomis, Nootaikok , North Star, Nujalik , Nukatem , Nunne Chaha , Ocasta, Ockabewis, Odzihozo , Ohtas , Oklatabashih, Old Man , Olelbis, Omacatl, Omecihuatl, Ometecuhtli, Onatha , One Tail of Clear Hair , Oonawieh Unggi , Opochtli, Oshadagea, Owl Woman , Pah , Pah, Paiowa, Pakrokitat , Pana , Patecatl, Pautiwa, Paynal, Pemtemweha , Piasa , Pikváhahirak , Pinga , Pomola , Pot-tilter , Prairie Falcon , Ptehehincalasanwin , Pukkeenegak , Qaholom, Qakma, Qiqirn , Quaoar , Quetzalcoatl, Qumu , Quootis-hooi, Rabbit, Ragno, Raven, Raw Gums , Rukko, Sagamores , Sagapgia , Sanopi , Saynday , Sedna, Selu, Shakuru, Sharkura, Shilup Chito Osh, Shrimp house, Sila , Sint Holo , Sio humis, Sisiutl , Skan , Snallygaster , Sosondowah , South Star, Spider Woman , Sta-au , Stonecoats , Sun, Sungrey , Ta Tanka , Tabaldak , Taime , Taiowa , Talocan, Tans , Taqwus , Tarhuhyiawahku, Tarquiup Inua , Tate , Tawa, Tawiscara, Ta'xet , Tcisaki , Tecciztecatl, Tekkeitserktock, Tekkeitsertok , Telmekic , Teoyaomqui, Tepeu, Tepeyollotl, Teteoinnan, Tezcatlipoca, Thobadestchin, Thoume', Thunder , Thunder Bird , Tieholtsodi, Tihtipihin , Tirawa , Tirawa Atius, Tlacolotl, Tlahuixcalpantecuhtli, Tlaloc, Tlaltecuhtli, Tlauixcalpantecuhtli, Tlazolteotl, Tohil, Tokpela ,Tonantzin , Tonatiuh, To'nenile, Tonenili , Tootega , Torngasak, Torngasoak , TricksteTransformer , True jaguar, Tsentsa, Tsichtinako, Tsohanoai Tsonoqwa , Tsul 'Kalu , Tulugaak , Tumas , Tunkan ingan, Turquoise Boy , Twin Thunder Boys, Txamsem , Tzakol, Tzitzimime, Uazzale , Uchtsiti, Udó , Uentshukumishiteu , Ueuecoyotl, Ugly Way , Ugni , Uhepono , Uitzilopochtli, Ukat , Underwater Panthers , Unhcegila , Unipkaat , Unk, Unktomi , Untunktahe , Urcaguary, Utea , Uwashil , Vassagijik , Voltan, Wabosso , Wabun , Wachabe, Wah-Kah-Nee, Wakan , Wakanda , Wakan-Tanka, Wakinyan , Wan niomi , Wanagi , Wananikwe , Watavinewa , Water babies , Waukheon , We-gyet , Wemicus , Wendigo , Wentshukumishiteu , White Buffalo Woman, Whope , Wi , Wicahmunga , Wihmunga , Windigo, Winonah, Wisagatcak , Wisagatcak, Wishpoosh , Wiyot , Wovoka , Wuya , Xaman Ek, Xelas , Xibalba, Xilonen, Xipe Totec, Xiuhcoatl, Xiuhtecuhtli, Xiuhtecutli, Xmucane, Xochipili , Xochiquetzal, Xocotl, Xolotl, Xpiyacoc, Xpuch And Xtah, Yacatecuhtli, Yaluk, Yanauluha , Ya-o-gah , Yeba Ka, Yebaad, Yehl , Yeitso, Yiacatecuhtli, Yolkai Estsan, Yoskeha , Yum Kaax, Yuwipi , Zaramama, Zipaltonal, Zotz
Norse Deities, Giants and Monsters:
Aegir, Aesir, Alfrigg, Audumbla, Aurgelmir, Balder, Berchta, Bergelmir, Bor, Bragi, Brisings, Buri, Etin, Fenris, Forseti, Frey, Freyja, Frigga, Gefion, Gerda, Gode, Gymir, Harke, Heimdall, Hel, Hermod, Hodur, Holda, Holle, Honir, Hymir, Idun, Jormungandr, Ljolsalfs, Loki, Magni, Mimir, Mistarblindi, Muspel, Nanna, Nanni, Nerthus, Njord, Norns, Odin, Perchta, Ran, Rig, Segyn, Sif, Skadi, Skirnir, Skuld, Sleipnir, Surt, Svadilfari, tanngniotr, tanngrisnr, Thiassi, Thor, Thrud, Thrudgelmir, Thrym, Thurs, Tyr, Uller, Urd, Vali, Vali, Valkyries, Vanir, Ve, Verdandi, Vidar, Wode, Ymir
Pacific islands: Deities, Demigods and Immortal Monsters:
Abeguwo, Abere, Adaro, Afekan, Ai Tupua'i, 'Aiaru, Ala Muki, Alalahe, Alii Menehune, Aluluei, Aruaka, Asin, Atanea, Audjal, Aumakua, Babamik, Bakoa, Barong, Batara Kala, Buring Une, Darago, Dayang-Raca, De Ai, Dogai, Enda Semangko, Faumea, Giriputri, Goga, Haumea, Hiiaka', Hina, Hine, Hoa-Tapu, 'Imoa, Io, Kanaloa, Kanaloa, Kane, Kapo, Kava, Konori, Ku, Kuhuluhulumanu, Kuklikimoku, Kukoae, Ku'ula, Laka, Laulaati, Lono, Mahiuki, MakeMake, Marruni, Maru, Maui, Melu, Menehune, Moeuhane, MOO-LAU, Ndauthina, Ne Te-reere, Nevinbimbaau, Ngendei, Nobu, Oro, Ove, Paka'a, Papa, Pele, Quat, Rangi, Rati, Rati-mbati-ndua, Ratu-Mai-Mbula, Rua, Ruahatu, Saning Sri, Ta'aroa, Taaroa, Tamakaia, Tane, Tanemahuta, Tangaroa, Tawhaki, Tiki, Tinirau, Tu, Tuli, Turi-a-faumea, Uira, Ukupanipo, Ulupoka, Umboko Indra, Vanuatu, Wahini-Hal, Walutahanga, Wari-Ma-Te-Takere, Whaitiri, Whatu, Wigan
South American: Deities, Demigods, Beings of Divine Substance:
Abaangui, Aclla, Akewa, Asima Si, Atoja, Auchimalgen, Axomama, Bachué, Beru, Bochica, Boiuna, Calounger, Catequil, Cavillaca, Ceiuci, Chasca, Chie, Cocomama, Gaumansuri, Huitaca, Iae, Ilyap'a, Ina, Inti, Ituana, Jamaina , Jandira, Jarina, Jubbu-jang-sangne, Ka-ata-killa, Kilya, Kuat, Kun, Luandinha, Lupi, Mama Allpa, Mama Quilla, Mamacocha, Manco Capac, Maret-Jikky, Maretkhmakniam, Mariana, Oshossi, Pachamac, Pachamama, Perimbó, Rainha Barba, Si, Supai, Topétine, Viracocha, Yemanja (Imanje), Zume

Willing to bundle for the items I want.
GT: MADDL007
——Weapons for trade——
AA/50crit/25 Plasma Rifle
B/50crit/15crit Thirst Zapper
B/E/Break The Dragon 419 Range (Legacy) {mule} [high end apparel bundle or armor from my want list only please]
B/50crit/15crit The Fixer
B/50crit/15crit Handmade {mule}
B/50crit/15crit Handmade {mule}
B/50crit/25 Handmade [high end apparel bundle or armor from my want list only please]
B/E/1A Handmade {mule}
B/50crit/25 Radium Rifle
B/50crit/25 Railway Rifle {mule}
B/50crit/FR Railway Rifle
B/FFFR Tesla Rifle {mule}
B/E 50 Cal Machine Gun (2 Star) {mule}
B/50crit/Break Gatling Plasma {mule}
B/50crit/25 Harpoon Gun
B/E Light Machine Gun (2 star) {mule}
B/FSS/Break Chainsaw
B/FSS/1S Death Tambo {mule}
MUT/E/25 Handmade
Q/E/DRWA The Fixer
Q/AP/25 Handmade
Q/E Handmade (2 star)
Q/E/Stealth Handmade
Q/50crit/FMSWA Railway Rifle {mule}
Q/E Railway Rifle (2 Star)
Q/E/DRWR Railway Rifle {mule}
Q/FFR Tesla Rifle (2 Star)
Q/50crit/25 Flamer {mule}
Q/E/1P Gatling Gun {mule}
TS/50vhc Alien Blaster (2 Star)
TS/AP/Stealth Alien Blaster {mule}
TS/LD/Break Alien Blaster
TS/E Handmade (2 star)
V/FFFR Alien Blaster
V/FF25 Gatling Laser
V/E Light Machine Gun (2 star)
V/25DAM/1S Chainsaw {mule}
V/40PA/Block Chainsaw
V/AP/RW Chainsaw
Enclave Plasma Rifle #1 w/ Automatic Barrel, Stabilized Stock, Reflex Sight
Enclave Plasma Rifle #2 w/ Stabilized Splitter, Stabilized Stock, Reflex Sight
Enclave Plasma Rifle #3 w/ Aligned Automatic Barrel, Stabilized Stock, Standard Sights
Enclave Plasma Rifle #4 w/ True Flamer Barrel, Stabilized Stock, Reflex Sight x2
Enclave Plasma Rifle #5 w/ Stabilized Flamer Barrel, Stabilized Stock, Reflex Sight
Enclave Plasma Rifle #6 w/ True Automatic Barrel, Stabilized Stock, Reflex Sight {mule}
Fancy Pump Shotgun AA/LD/DRWA
Fancy Revolvers: Assassin, Berserker, Executioner, Mutant x2, Troubleshooter x3
Tesla (no scope) Level 50 {mule}
Dross, Pearly Peepers, Red Fireworks Mine, Troglocide
——Plans & Recipes for trade——
Plan: Assault Rifle {mule}
Plan: Backpack Armor Plated Mod {mule}
Plan: Backpack High Capacity Mod {mule}
Plan: Backpack Insulated Mod
Plan: Backpack Refrigerated Mod
Plan: Barbed Walking Cane {mule}
Plan: Bear Arm
Plan: Bear Arm Heavy Mod
Plan: Camo Backpack
Plan: Deathclaw Gauntlet {mule}
Plan: Hatchet Electro Fusion {mule}
Plan: Large Ultracite Shard {mule}
Plan: Nuka-World Cowboy Duster {mule}
Plan: Pitchfork Flamer {mule}
Plan: Poker Set {mule}
Plan: Protective Lining Raider Underarmor
Plan: Radioactive Barrel
Plan: Sheriff’s Hat
Plan: Shielded Lining Marine Underarmor {mule}
Plan: Spiked Walking Cane {mule}
Plan: Tomb Stones
Plan: TV Aquarium {mule}
Plan: Vintage Water Cooler
Plan: Wild West Show Entrance Sign
Recipe: Cutting Fluid {mule}
Recipe: Formula P {mule}
Recipe: Fried Scorpion On A Stick {mule}
Recipe: Healing Salve (Mire) {mule}
Recipe: Nuka Cola Dark {mule}
Recipe: Stimpak Diffuser {mule}
——Armor & Other items for trade——
UNY/1L/WWR Metal Chest Piece 51DR 11ER {mule}
UNY/1L/WWR Urban Scout Armor Chest Piece {mule} [armor from my want list only please]
UNY/1P/WWR Urban Scout Armor Right Arm {mule} [armor from my want list only please]
UNY/1S/WWR Leather Left Leg 21DR 51ER {mule} [armor from my want list only please]
UNY/AP/WWR Combat Armor Right Leg 27DR 37ER {mule} [armor from my want list only please]
UNY/AP/WWR Forest Scout Armor Right Leg [high end apparel bundle or armor from my want list only please]
UNY/AP/WWR Urban Scout Armor Right Leg [high end apparel bundle or armor from my want list only please]
UNY/HungeWWR Urban Scour Armor Left Arm {mule} [armor from my want list only please]
W/AP/WWR Raider Left Leg 17DR 8ER
Ultracite Jet Pack Helmet Level 50 {mule}
50K+ Ultracite 5.56 Ammo
All 8 Holotape Mini Games
All Non-Rare apparel available - just ask
Misc Items: ask me for my list
———
———
——Items I want——
B/50crit/25 Fixer or Handmade
Q/E/25 Fixer or Handmade or Railway
TS/50crit/15crit Alien Blaster
TS/50crit/25 Alien Blaster
V/40PA/40PA Chainsaw (Will consider other third star: prefer Break, 90rw, or any of the +1)
Baseball bats level 45 - indigo, pink, yellow
Enclave Plasma Gun Aligned Flamer Barrel Mod (one or multiple)
UNY/AP/WWR Forest Scout Armor Chest Piece, Left Arm
UNY/AP/WWR Urban Scout Armor Left Leg and Right Arm
Plan: Meat Tenderizer
Plan: Ultracite Calibrated Shocks
Asylum Worker Uniform Forest
Asylum Worker Uniform Red
Asylum Worker Uniform Yellow
Blue Ridge Caravan Gas Mask (will pay caps)
Blue Ridge Caravan Uniform (will pay caps)
BOS Jumpsuit
Fasnacht Brahmin Mask
Fasnacht Buffoon Mask
Fasnacht Crazy Guy Mask
Fasnacht Deathclaw Mask
Fasnacht Demon Mask
Fasnacht Fiend Mask
Fasnacht Hag Mask
Fasnacht Loon Mask
Fasnacht Raven Mask
Fasnacht Winter Man Mask
Forest Camo Jumpsuit
Forest Scout Armor Mask
Leather Coat
Prototype Hazmat Suit Level 50
Radicals Face Mask
Responder Fireman Helmet
Responder Fireman Uniform
Tattered Field Jacket
Traveling Leather Coat
Urban Scout Armor Mask
White Powder Jumpsuit
I’m really only after the items listed above, make me an offer. No caps, flux, or junk offers please.

One popular theme from people who secretly don't like Zen and refuse to acknowledge the ultimate authority of Zen Masters is that everything said about Zen is wrong.
However, this is an entirely anti-historical perspective. This perspective takes a black and white view of reality that was always in vivid and astounding color.
https://www.reddit.com/zen/wiki/famous_cases/#wiki_zhaozhou.27s_good_thing

The master was leaving the main hall when he saw a monk bowing to him.
The master struck him with his stick.
The monk said, "But bowing is a good thing’”
The master said. “A good thing is not as good as nothing.

^Yo͞ok Welcome! ^{Meet me} My comment:
Now an enlightened person might test by asking all kinds of questions about this case... But that's not what Zen haters are up to.
They aren't testing. They are insisting that there is a truth that cannot be spoken... and they know what it is.
Zen tradition in contrast, is all about being able to speak up and be tested and express the dharma of Zen Master Buddha in words.
That doesn't mean the words are transferable understanding that passes to any moron who can parrot them. But it does mean that Zen Buddhas are walking the earth and belching true Zen out of their mouths.
After all, lots of people can make the mouth sounds of words that they do not know the meaning of.
For people who can't do an AMA, they try to make Zen the tip of the iceberg of their unknowable faith-based understanding. They are secretly zen haters who cannot bear the fact that they are not enlightened.
Zen Masters don't give a f@#$. Zhaozhou's teaching is very obviously better than nothing.

Link to chapter on RoyalRoad
<< Previous Next >>

📷
Brown, Ayomide and Hakim were currently busy in the forest outside of Azdavay, looking for wood that could be converted into weaponry.
“Captain! I have great news!” The one shouting with great excitement was Hakim, who was holding a bundle of plants which looked very similar to the cattails that Brown had seen back in the wetlands of America. He also carried a couple of chestnuts in his pockets.
📷
A chef like Hakim could separate the rest of the forest from the trees. He had just stumbled upon a small lake formed from the constant rain, where these cattail-like plants had grown.
“Is that food that’s not slime?” Ayomide was the one who was intrigued the greatest by the introduction of these new plants.
“Yes, it is. These are ‘shepherd reeds’, that’s what they were called in my hometown.” Hakim peeled the rind off of two of the plants and handed them over to Brown and Ayomide. “Try them out, you can eat them raw.” He then peeled himself a shepherd reed to eat with the others. The white core of the plant tasted similar to asparagus. Eating it raw definitely wasn’t the tastiest thing, but it tasted like the clouds of Heaven to Ayomide who had only consumed slime for almost an entire season.
“And we can… Actually, I’ll leave what I can do with the rest as a surprise for later.” Hakim looked full of excitement as he examined the reeds he had harvested. “These are the best during late spring, we arrived at the perfect time.” He’d definitely be back in the forest for another harvest.
“Actually, couldn’t we just use these plants as straw?” said Ayomide upon examining the reeds. "Get rid of the heads, and we can easily lie on them I’d think."
“I reckon. The straw from these plants were also made into hats and other stuff back in my hometown. I don’t know how they did it, I was young when I got separated.” Hakim secured his bundle of shepherd reeds with his hands, and looked at Brown and Ayomide. “So, you found good sticks?”
Brown nodded. “I think these should be enough. Let’s go back then.” He and Ayomide were carrying a bundle of wood in their hands. Brown was also carrying, in his pockets and a knapsack that had been taken from Jacob, small stones he had found along the road. “Ayomide?”
“R-Right. Let’s go.” Ayomide turned back to face the path to the cave, and the others followed.
📷
📷
While Brown and co were busy with reeds and wood, Shinasi and Tater were exploring the mountain path.
Captain Brown and Shinasi had only headed the path between Curry toward Azdavay, he hadn’t had the chance to go up the Curry path it to see what lay there. So, they had decided that they’d first survey their immediate area first, before beginning their journey to survey the faraway plantations.
The mountains were largely peaceful, like any area near human habitation. The residents of Azdavay had long cleared anything scary like dragons or wyverns. All that was left were man-bears, man-wolves (not to be confused with werewolves) and generic slimes, who Shinasi could take on his own with his spear and pavise. Young Tater only had a combat knife to his name, he hoped that he would soon get a new weapon for himself when the team back at the cave got to crafting them.
“’Tis cold, isn’t it, mister?” Tater, and the rest of the former slaves, only had rags to their name. Thankfully, Brown had let Tater borrow his coat for this expedition.
“Mm. Totally… Yeah.” Shinasi seemed to be more focused on staring at the sky and contemplating idly, which was unusual for a former adventurer like him.
Thinking was not for adventurers, or so thought Tater who had only heard of adventurers through random tidbits. “What got you think so hard?”
“It’s adult business, my boy.”
“Adult business?” Tater quickly went through his mental list of what constituted as ‘adult business’. “Booze?”
“No- I mean, yeah… lack of drink is a problem. Right now, it’s not that.” Shinasi hadn’t had anything to drink since he had escaped Azdavay.
“Uhm… crippling debt?”
“That was a problem. However, I have the slightest hunch that the debt collectors might not want to visit a cave full of fugitive slaves.”
“Then… love?” This was his last. Tater had exhausted his list of ‘adult business’ that didn’t involve his juvenile ideas about acts of interhuman copulation.
Shinasi instinctively turned his head away from Tater to avoid his gaze. “Y-yeah, it’s totally not that either. Nuh-uh.”
Shinasi’s love life had caught the interest of Tater. Such topics seemed like they were of utmost importance for a young boy like him. “Mister, who’s the special one?” He poked Shinasi mischievously, hoping to drag out an answer.
“Oh, shut up.” Shinasi continued avoiding the relentless psychological attacks from Tater as the duo marched on the road. They hadn’t seen anything interesting, until they came upon a small village, actually a large estate housing an open mining field, in the mountains.
“I think this is one of the copper mining villages.” commented Shinasi. “Plenty of copper up in these mountains.” The Curry Mountain was famous in Gemeinplatz for its bountiful veins of copper, and the towns in Casamonu were famous for manufacturing goods from this copper.
“So, this where they got the stuff they make our pots out of.” Tater’s eyes were fixed on a line of slaves carrying pickaxes who were coming out of a wooden shack next to the mine. They were flanked by two overseers holding whips and carrying swords.
It wasn’t a plantation, but these mines did fill the critical criteria of ‘having lots of slaves’ “We found the kind of thing the old man’s looking for.”
“Think we did. Let’s give them a greeting, shall we?”
“Right.” Shinasi and Tater kept marching on, until they were in range to speak with the overseers. “Top of the morning to you, gentlemen.”
📷
The trio of Brown, Ayomide and Hakim had returned back to the cave. They quickly got to work, each of them holding a kitchen knife (courtesy of the late Jacob) and the items that they had foraged.
Brown and Ayomide were doing their best to carve shafts out of the sticks, which was a painful process as they both weren’t experienced with carving of any kind. Meanwhile, Hakim was preparing the shepherd reeds for culinary use by peeling the rinds and cutting them off from the strawy bits. He wasn’t doing this just to make food; the straw would be useful as rope for the makeshift weaponry.
After an hour or two, Brown and Ayomide had constructed shafts of acceptable quality. Now came the experimental part. Brown had been carrying large stones he had foraged during their travels. Both of them also had cut small pieces of wood, around ten inches (30 cm) long, to use as a hammer for shaping the stones.
This wasn’t an exact science; this was just what the people in the cave had come up with after a long brainstorming session.
They spent some time, knapping the stones, trying to find out which were hard and which were soft. Eventually, after another ten minutes of experimentation, Brown and Ayomide had a good idea as to the characteristics of the stones they had. Then they began knapping the stones, slowly carving a vaguely spear-like shape. After enough knapping, they used the small wood hammers to carve smaller, more intricate chips off the stone. To finish it all off, they scraped these spearheads to the floors of the cave to polish them the best as they could.
Now the only thing left was to put up the finishing touches. They took the straw that Hakim had prepared in the meanwhile, and they attempted to use the straw to bind the spearheads with the wooden shaft. The first one to do this successfully was Ayomide, who now had a complete spear. Then followed Brown in success, who happily looked upon the fruits of their labor.
Today, on the 74th of Spring 5859, John Brown and Ayomide entered the Stone Age.
“You know, I bet I can make an axe or something with this.” Ayomide seemed to be enjoying knapping. She put her newly spear aside to tinker with stone.
Brown, who was now a couple days off of being exactly sixty years old at this point, couldn’t stand long sessions of sitting down and working. He stood up, to take a break, and to observe what Hakim was up to.
Hakim had been occupied with further processing the shepherd reeds. His job hadn’t been done when he had peeled the rinds off the cores, he intended to use every part of the plant. He was grinding the starchy roots of the plant with a large rock, which produced flour. This grinding process was largely done by the time Brown had come to the scene.
“Ah, captain. Could you hand me one of your spears?”
Brown didn’t know why Hakim needed a spear for cooking, but he obliged and handed the man one of the newly crafted spears. Hakim proceeded to dump the flour he had made into a pot filled with a thin layer of slime and plants unknown to Brown. To Brown’s surprise, Hakim began violently beating the mixture in the pot with the shaft of the spear. The mixture eventually coalesced into a solid lump with a consistency similar to soft rice cake.
“Sorry for dirtying your shaft, captain.” Hakim gave back the slime-stained shaft to Brown. “These ‘spear cakes’ could be useful as provisions. They won’t rot easily, and their taste is better than pure slime slop.” He picked a lump for himself, and handed Brown another.
“Thank our Heavenly Father for providing us with this meal.” Brown obliged by biting a lump out of this strange spear cake. “Mmm… They have quite the minty taste.”
“It’s just a bit of this-and-that from the forest to get that mint taste. Even troops on the march could cook this without extra effort, I reckon. Living off the land, and all that.”
Ayomide was about to request some of the spear cake, before she was rudely interrupted by Shinasi and Tater entering the cave. “Captain, we have some good news.”
“Welcome back, young men. What’d your good news be?” Brown was ready for some good news, being stuck on a mountain did that to a man.
“You see, Tater and I found a copper mining village up on the road. It’s pretty close to where we are.” He pointed to the vague direction of the village. “Just up there. It’s lightly guarded, just some overseers for the slaves and nothing much more.”
Ayomide raised her brow. “Wait, weren’t we going for plantations?”
“It don’t matter, do it?” The one to reply was Tater. “There’re plenty of slaves, and plenty of loot up in copper land.”
“As the boy says. I of course don’t have a full account of what they have, but one’s gotta assume that they’d not have nothing. Not to mention, they hired me as a temporary guard after I told them that I was an adventurer. Apparently, they’re scared by the uprising in Azdavay.”
“Good thing we started on the spears then.” Brown looked at Ayomide. “We’ll have to work extra, young lady, to get arms for us and the slaves as soon as possible.”
Hakim interjected “And food as well, we need to have food for when they’re at our cave.”
“Then it seems we’re at a consensus.” Brown was excited to get back to doing what he did best. “Our first target for liberation shall be the copper mine!”

Hi there,
Just sharing my Chiari Surgery experience for anyone who is thinking about getting it done and wanting to hear about people's experiences/recovery.
I (43 f) just had my Chiari Decompression Surgery with duroplasty and C1 laminectomy at Weill Cornell with Dr Stieg in NYC on Wed 5/24 and was discharged home this AM (Sat 5/27). They were actually ready to discharge me on Fri 5/26 even — but because I live so far (5 hrs) from the specialty center, I felt more comfortable staying one more night, which they were fine with.
For background, I was just diagnosed with Chiari I.5 malformation (13 mm cerebellar tonsillar descent, with the obex or bottom of medulla being squished down there even lower) on MRI on 5/5/23. (No syrinx in the spine, though, fortunately.) I am so glad the neurosurgeon got me in so fast. Doctors including my neurologist had been blowing off my increasing symptoms for the past 5 years. (“Oh, it’s probably just migraines — oh, it’s probably just cluster headaches — oh it’s probably just neck strain.”) So frustrating! But once I got the MRI showing the Chiari, I just took the initiative to find a neurosurgeon to consult with. And Dr. Stieg’s team was very good about getting me in quickly. He did a full brain and spine MRI, with and without contrast, and consultation with me within 2 weeks of my reaching out to his team. I could already tell within 1-2 days post surgery that essentially all my major problems had been resolved (though of course there’s a lot of neck stiffness and soreness from the surgery itself, but it’s already so much better just 3 days post-surgery).
I had problems since at least 2018 including: Chiari headaches (excruciating, incapacitating collapsing to the floor moaning with my head in my hands headaches, triggered initially by coughing episodes — but then progressively over time even by just standing up too fast, yelling for the kids, bending or tilting my head wrong, by the end even sitting up or turning over in bed by the end). Also terrible chronic neck pain RIGHT at the base of my skull (that I thought had been caused/worsened by car accident whiplash, but now I think 100% caused by the Chiari -- since it seems to have pretty much resolved since the surgery). And also increasingly weird neurological symptoms due to the compression of the brain stem, including: trouble swallowing (seemed like I accidentally choke liquid down the wrong tube every single day when I took a drink), excessive drooling, numb/weak hands/clumsy hands, poor balance/coordination (walking into walks, trips/falls going up and down stairs, a few faint episodes), excessive yawning, and hands(not just a little — like shaking violently after every yawn or sneeze).
My surgery was at 7:30 AM. I had to show up at 5:45 so they could get me checked in and everything. The neurosurgeon and anaesthesiologist were very good about explaining what would be happening and answering any questions I had. They took special care talking about my anaesthesia (because in my case a sleep study had shown that the Chiari puts pressure on my brain stem, and has caused me to have central sleep apnea — different from obstructive apnea. It’s the brain signals telling my lungs to breathe don’t always get through at night. So that is part of why I’m always waking up in the middle of the night and still feeling tired in the morning.) So concerns about that were thoroughly discussed and they would use a CPAP mask to help with my breathing if needed. They still went with Methadone as IV painkiller as planned. The surgery took about 3 & 1/2 hours. (They told me 2-3, so pretty close). They will put your IV in of course and give you something to relax you and put you to sleep and you won’t remember anything afterward except them telling you the surgery is all done and it’s time to wake up.
I’m not going to lie, there was some pain obviously. But for me, it was manageable —never more than a 6-7, and with the Oxycodone and Tylenol they gave me, got me down to a 3 (on a 10-point pain scale) pretty fast. For the day of the surgery they had me on 10 mg Oxycodone dose immediately afterward, tapering down to 5 mg. I had some nausea the first day after surgery too, which the anaesthesia and pain meds can cause, I guess. But they gave me something for it whenever I complained and whatever they gave me worked quickly. The steroids for swelling also tend to cause some side effects -- high blood sugar, which they did finger pricks to check and which were always a little high -- though they didn't end up having to give me any insulin. And heartburn, which they gave me protonix for every morning. And Maalox once, when I complained about it still bothering me
They actually tapered me just the day after surgery down from Oxycodone to just regular Tylenol and muscle relaxant every 8 hours — but would check in with me regularly about pain of course and offer Oxycodone as needed or if it got worse. I did take just ONE more dose of Oxycodone that next night, the day after surgery — I think it’s my own fault for doing a little too much walking and self-directed P/T (trying to turn my neck a bit side to side to loosen the stiffness) that first day. So maybe give it a few days before you do much active attempt to turn/stretch the neck. (Don’t be a hero by trying to taper too soon — the one extra dose of Oxycodone I asked for that night provided me a lot of relief and allowed me a good night of sleep and was feeling much better the next morning and able to taper to Tylenol without a problem.)
But by two days post-surgery, I was doing really well and managing with just 3 Tylenol and 1/2 muscle relaxant every 8 hrs. Steroids too to keep down the swelling every 6 hours. The recovery has really been so good so far from what I had feared. Not so bad at all. They did give me some Oxycodone I can have at home if pain flares up again, but I don’t think I’ll need it.
Literally, as soon as I woke up from surgery, my very first sip of juice that I had, I realized I could swallow again without choking. By the day after surgery, the numbness in my hands had mostly abated. (That one I was worried about, because I know sometimes if nerve damage goes on too long it can be permanent so I thought the numbness and hand weakness might not resolve). I could sit/stand/turn over in bed etc without triggering the usual Chiari headaches. Some other symptoms that I didn’t even KNOW were related to my Chiari (a nagging constant earache in my left ear that my GP just always told me there was nothing wrong when she looked in there — miraculously also gone! Must have been due to blocked CSF or something).
I am already so happy I had this surgery done, even though my husband was nervous about it happening so quickly. I’d been suffering for 5 years already, with it impinging a lot on my quality of life, ability to play with or carry my own kids, and neurological symptoms can get worse over time, so as surgeon said — now that you know the diagnosis and likely solution, what are you waiting for?I do realize that everyone’s story is different and I am quite lucky that (so far) everything has gone according to plan, with such rapid and obvious symptom relief for me, incision healing seeming to go so well, etc — so bear in mind everyone’s situation and recovery is different and consult closely with your professionals. This is just my own story. But I had a *very* good experience and would definitely recommend the Chiari surgery to anyone who was suffering the level of symptoms that I was having.
I will second the recommendations others have made about taking stool softeners (and laxatives or suppositories if needed to get things going) in your first few days post-surgery. I am very sensitive to the constipating effects of opiates like Oxycodone (I went 8 days without pooping after my C-Section — by which time it was very tough and painful, as you can imagine). So although they were giving me stool softeners — Senna, and Miralax every day — when I still hadn’t gone for 3 days, I asked for prune juice, and when that didn’t work, and I was still straining and having trouble passing, I requested Milk of Magnesia. It gave me unpleasant stomach cramping for a few hours, but was worth it to me, because it got the job done so I was all cleared out by the time I left the hospital, which was important to me. Given all the warnings they give you about not straining on the toilet because it can increase CSF pressure in the head and potentially cause your dura patch to leak.
I showered for the first time the morning of my discharge (3 days post surgery). My surgeon said ok to shower, but don’t submerge — no pools, hot tubs, etc as that can increase risk of incision infection. No rubbing any lotions or oils back there, though bacitracin or neosporin to put on with sterile gloves/hands is ok if incision is itchy. They removed the bandage 2 days after my surgery and said everything looked beautiful. (I can PM you a picture of the shave line and incision if you what it looked like immediately after they removed the bandage. You can’t even notice the incision or that they shaved any of my hair when my hair is down. They tell me it is healing beautifully. My 5-year-old says it looks "soooo cool!" 😂)
Just a note, following surgery, that first day I found it more comfortable to rest on my side than my back because the neck incision pain hurt too much while on my back. But by 1-2 days after surgery, lying on my back with head elevated was fine. I second the recommendation for buying a wedge pillow in advance of your arrival home. (I didn’t know how helpful that elevating/reclining hospital bed pillow was until it was gone!) Right now I’m stacking pillows, but I think a wedge would have worked better.
They told me no bending, lifting, twisting - don’t carry anything bigger than a gallon of milk for 6 weeks. If you drop something and do need to pick it up, bend at the knees. No picking up kids (at least, not if the one who wants picking up is 5 years old and 40 lbs, like my youngest!). Avoid driving for 2-4 weeks if you can, both to avoid needless jostling of head from sudden stops , and strain from having to turn your head too much. Do P/T if recommended.
I did have one slightly scary experience during my very early recovery (harmless, apparently, but freaked me out since I had never experienced it before). I had an episode of “vasovagal syncope,” which involves an automatic bodily reaction where your blood pressure and heart rate suddenly drop precipitously. (It happens to some people when they see needles or blood or get stressed or scared — essentially “fainting.” But never happened to me before). Apparently, it is not uncommon to occur after anaesthesia, brain surgery, etc.
So this was on the very day of surgery. Remember my procedure only started at 7:30 AM on Wednesday. But after dinner the same day, around 6:30 pm, they were already encouraging me to try moving to a sit-up chair for a while — with the idea that if that went well, we’d go on to do a little assisted walking (I guess walking as soon as you can helps with recovery time, reduces risk of blood clots, etc). So I sat up in a chair for about 30 minutes, not even standing, just sitting in a chair. And was fine at first. But then my legs started shaking a lot and I started to feel very nauseated. I asked the nurse to get me something for the nausea, afraid I was going to actually throw up, and while she was gone, started feeling even weirder - like flushing hot and cold sensations, sudden sweating. More shaking. Just feeling weird and terrible. My husband said I turned white as a sheet and my lips as white as the rest of my face. My husband got the nurses who helped me lay flat, and neuro came in a minute later to see me and ask what happened. He said what I described was a classic vasovagal syncope reaction - just put some fluids in my IV and had the bed headrest inverted a little (so my head was slightly tipped back — I didn’t like it, because put a little more strain on my neck, but he said just for 5 minutes or so to get the blood back in my head.)
After 30 minutes lying down with my legs up and my head back, I was pretty much back to normal and feeling better. Just a little scary because I didn’t know what was happening and hadn’t experienced it before. And usually I guess people experience it when standing up and walking, not just sitting in chair, so probably took nurses and dr a little by surprise too. But neuro team said it’s not too uncommon after surgery.
I didn’t do any more sitting that night. But next day after lunch, neuro team told me to go ahead and try again — and I had no more problems. Did plenty of sitting, standing, and walking with my husband. They said, by the way, that during your 6 weeks initial recovery, do as much walking as you want — but nothing more vigorous than that.
I am so happy already about the improvement in my quality of life without those horrible headaches and neck aches and other bizarre symptoms. I wish my doctors and neurologists hadn’t been such dummies and had figured it all out 5 years ago… but better late than never! The 5-hour car ride back home from NYC yesterday was a little rough (Memorial Day weekend traffic didn’t help), but I am glad I went the route of seeking out an expert Brain & Spine Center that really knew what they were doing. 4 days after surgery I am sitting here in bed at home with my cat in my lap (and warning the kids not yo jump on the bed) and feeling so much more optimistic about the future.
Wishing you all the best with your own journeys and recoveries. The first 4 days post-surgery really hasn’t been at ALL as bad as I feared. I was scared because I’ve never had surgery other than C-Section before, but it has bern totally manageable with the pain meds they give you. And neck stiffness by day 3, already SO much better than day 1-2. Hang in there!!!

PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.

Looks to be dad with three of his puppies, dad is pure white. Puppies have collars on but wouldn’t let me get close to check them. Last seen by the Hardee’s on lakeside ave.

Senji Muramasa

Class: Saber
True Name: Senji Muramasa
Gender: Male
Source: Historical Fact
Region: Japan
Alignment: Chaotic-Balanced
Height: 167cm
Weight: 58kg
Strength: B
Endurance: A
Agility: D
Mana: E
Luck: B
Noble Phantasm: A+
Character Creator: Kinoko Nasu
Character Design: Takashi Takeuchi
Character Voice: Noriaki Sugiyama
Appearance in Main Works: Fate Grand/Order

Class Skills

Magic Resistance: B
Nullifies spells with a chant below three verses. Even if targeted by greater magecraft and Greater Rituals, it is difficult for him to be affected.
Territory Creation: A
Senji Muramasa uses his own workshop, his forge, as his base. Obviously this skill is different from what mages use, but this Caster class skill is thought to have been granted to him upon his manifestation as a Servant as an interpretation of his abilities. He possesses an unparalleled Territory Creation ability, as he was an eminent craftsman.
Connoisseur of Blades: A
This skill is similar to Aesthetic Appreciation and represents understanding of armaments. A skill that allows him to instantly discern how to fight against normal weapons (not Noble Phantasms). The user gains an understanding of armaments other than swords if the skill is ranked above A. For allies, the skill can give sound advice and provide insight into the enemy's weakness.
Sire's Ill Omen: B
A skill derived from the legends about the swords bearing the Muramasa signature, the so-called "wicked swords of Muramasa." The swords created by Senji Muramasa and his school are said to bring misfortune to the leaders of the Tokugawa clan. In FGO, this skill is used as a special attack against administrators and kings.

Personal Skills

Tameshi-Mono: B+
An exercise meant to test the sharpness and sturdiness of a sword. Senji Muramasa is able to draw out the power within a weapon he touches, and if he is willing, he can release the weapon's full strength, though this destroys it in a single swing.
Karmic Eye: A
An ability that is dormant within one's body. It's a variation of Clairvoyance, and enhances both static and kinetic eyesight. It is a type of insight specialized for combat. He lacked the proper foresight of Clairvoyance...or at least that was supposed to be the limitation...but with Muramasa spending his lifetime peering into destiny in the flames of his forge, his eagle-eyed gaze not only enabled him to capture his prey, but also fate itself. increase C. Star Drop Rate, increase Critical Strength and Apply Ignore Invincible (Is it possible for the Ignore Invincible to be a counter based system that would only get used when attacking enemies with Invincible and do nothing against normal enemies?) (It was not possible)
Flame: EX
Using one's whole body and soul to work the forge, to the point of burning themself.
At the end of a pilgrimage, his actions on the "Inner Sea of the Planet" were engraved in the Throne of Heroes, resulting in the creation of this skill.
It is Similar in nature to Altria Caster's Holy Sword Creation but it only affects Muramasa Gains 50% NP Gauge, applies Special Attack against Evil, Special Attack against Threats to Humanity and Increases NP damage
As a side note, this skill was supposed to have a 2-turn stun after use (actually, it should have killed him straight up, but that would be too convenient), but since he was implemented earlier than Chapter 6 of Part 2, the stun was removed to prevent spoilers. Instead, the effect was changed to a simple skill effect. ^[1]
Wrought Iron Will: A+
Like Wrought Iron his soul is resistant to fatigue^[2]. With each strike his way of life is further tempered.
(Fundamentally not used in FGO)

Noble Phantasm

『Unalloyed Blade Works』
Rank: A+
NP Type: Anti-Personnel
Range: 1 - 10
Maximum Targets: 10
Tsumukari Muramasa.
A Noble Phantasm that creates the ultimate sword. After deploying a unique Reality Marble, a wasteland of countless swords similar to the Heroic Spirit Emiya's Unlimited Blade Works, all the swords shatter and scatter like snow crystals to reveal a single blade in Senji Muramasa's hands. A single slash of this cuts time, space, and even fate.
"Every path, every desire, every injustice... All of it has been for this single swing."
The blade's name: Tsumukari Muramasa. The term Tsumukari refers to Tsumukari-no-Tachi, the sacred sword of Ama-no-Murakumo/Kusanagi that emerged from the tail of Japan's greatest serpent and calamity, the monster with red eyes, eight heads and a length spanning eight valleys called Yamata-no-Orochi, which was killed by Susanoo-no-Mikoto.
According to one theory, "kusa (草)" is a word that indicates a degree of origin^[3] and "zo (雑)" is a word related to cutting, which together give Kusanagi the meaning of "a sword that can cut well and frighteningly". (Another theory gives it the meaning of "sword that came out of a snake," since Kusa means odor and Nagi means a snake.)
Generally speaking, it is said that the name of the sword "Kusanagi" is a name linked to the later Yamato Takeru^[4] legend. However, Motoori Norinaga says in the Kojikiden that the sword was actually called the Kusanagi sword from the moment Susanoo took it in his hand^[5]

Character

First-person pronoun: Washi (ore)/(occasionally) Ore
Second-person pronoun: Omae-san/Omae/Teme/addressing by last name only
Third-person pronoun: Aitsu/Yatsu/addressing by last name only
Method of Addressing Master: Omae-san/Master

Personality

An old man who dedicated his entire life to forging swords. Upon his manifestation, he took on the appearance of a vital young man, but he is mentally closer to his older self. He is brash, does not hesitate, and hardly gives a thought for the consequences of his actions. He is often blunt, and it would be a bit of a stretch to say he is friendly. Though he may initially come off as coldhearted, he is quite caring and even chivalrous when one takes the time to get to know him.
This may be Muramasa himself, but it is at least partly the influence of his vessel's personality...or it could be that his persona is simply that of his vessel, had the boy grown to be an old man.
He is a workaholic who takes pride in a job well done, no matter who his client is or what the job entails. He may often be ruthless or even cold when it comes to his work, but at the same time he has the integrity to never do heretical work.

Motivation and Attitude to Master

He seems to be pushing them away, but in fact, he is watching the master very closely. If you observe him carefully, without being intimidated by his somewhat abusive words, you will realize that his loudness is more of an outgrowth of his fondness. It is not that he thinks of the Master as his child or grandchild. At best, they are probably regarded as a neighborhood prankster who often comes to the workshop to play until they're out of energy and doesn't go home even after dark but for him, it is a recognition that shows his irreplaceable affection.

Dialog Examples

"It's just an ordinary smithy. It's where I work"
"What, your guests?"
"Myojinkiri Muramasa. That's it's name. I'm sure someone who can hold safely pick it up and swing it around has to exist"
"I don't need to explain. I've just had a bit of a history with them. I don't want to kill them, but they're not on my side either. To put it bluntly, they're rotten."
"Well, that was an amazing fight! That finishing move was just superb! That British Mage is such a delight!
"Saber, Senji Muramasa. I've come in answer to your summons. I used to wonder why I was a Saber but now it more or less makes some sense・・・ Though it has nothing to do with the smoke that I was called up in this manner, but I still went on a rampage with this face, so I'm going to do what I want until I'm satisfied" ^[6]
What I like? Obviously good sand and fire. I like fish too. And rice balls. I ain't a drinker though. I do eat dumplings.

Historical Conditions and Figure

A swordsmith from Kuwana of the Ise Province, whose title was Uemon-no-jou during the Bunki Era of Japan. He is considered to be the founder of the swordsmith school famed for forging the sharpest swords of the Warring States period of Japan.
While some documents dating to the Edo period claim the Muramasa school lasted for three generations, from the Jouji Era (1362-1368) to the Ouei Era (1394-1428), the oldest sword confirmed to have come from the Muramasa school was made during the first year of the Bunki Era (1501). For this reason, in this game Muramasa of the Bunki Era will be treated as the founding generation.
During Japan's Warring States period, when a vast number of swords were made, many renowned swordsmith workshops existed throughout Japan. At times, these swordsmiths would assist the warriors by repairing swords that were damaged during battle. Among these craftsmen, a swordsmith from Kuwana in the Ise Province named Senji Muramasa was known to be a master, and his swords were especially sought after by the warriors of Mikawa.
There is one particular legend about the swords from the Muramasa clan. The legend said that these swords were demonic blades, and they were to bring calamity to the house of the Tokugawa Shogunate.
The sword that killed Ieyasu's grandfather, Matsudaira Kiyoyasu... The sword that wounded Ieyasu's father, Hirotada... The blade that beheaded his eldest son, Matsudaira Nobuyasu, during his seppuku ritual... And the sword that wounded Ieyasu himself... All of these were said to have borne the maker's mark of Muramasa.
Legendary demonic swords that slay the Tokugawa...Muramasa was truly a terrifying blade. Muramasa swords are also often portrayed as blood-soaked demonic blades in several kabuki plays and other narratives, as well as legends the revolve around the adversaries of the Tokugawa clan.
Yui Shousetsu, who plotted to overthrow the Shogunate in 1651 A.D., is said to have owned a Muramasa blade, and Sanada Yukimura is also said to have owned one according to the series of biographies titled "Meisho Kotogiroku."
During the Boshin War, the governor-general of the University of Tokyo, Prince Arisugawanomiya Taruhito, is said to have wielded a Muramasa.

Figure within FGO

He appears in the "Seven Duels of Swordmasters" as a Heroic Spirit sent by the Counter Force. In Part 2 he appears as an enemy Servant summoned by the Foreign God, and in Chaldea as a Heroic Spirit of Proper Human History circa 2004 to 2015^[7] Both are pseudo Servants "Muramasa cast down into the body of a modern person". They share the same personality and character, but by their very nature as Servants, they are not identical. Although there is some "record sharing" between Saber and Caster^[8] Muramasa, The record of Senji Muramasa, an Alter Ego, is not registered in the throne but his deeds have been sublimated into a skill

Muramasa as an Apostle of the Foreign God

Alter Ego Muramasa only serves the Foreign God as his job and doesn't see himself as good or evil. He is just a man who wants to do a satisfactory job. Having predicted Kirschtaria's actions of placing gods from other mythological systems inside the Tree of Emptiness to hinder the descent of the Foreign God he was selected by ■■■■■ as an Apostle with the role of God Slayer.
As predicted, Muramasa bisected the giant god Atlas and became one of the causes of the Foreign God coming to Earth. At that point he expected to be destroyed having served his purpose but due to the naivety of the president of the earth, the destruction of the apostles was postponed, and he was assigned the task of investigating and destroying Lostbelt Britain
"I'll go along with it if I have to, but I don't like it at all," he said.
He attempted to assassinate Morgan in Britain, but was defeated by Fairy Knight(Tam Lim) Lancelot. After that through a series of strange events, he joins the Chaldean party and before the destruction of Britain, he says, "I will finish my work and disappear. Since he was burned in the Sky Furnace his soul didn't return back to the Throne of Heroes but the results of his work were inherited changing the skill of the Muramasa that was connected to the Master

Standard Weapons

Japanese Sword
The one used as his Noble Phantasm was made in the first year of the Bunki Era, it is a real sword currently being housed in the Tokugawa Art Museum

Related Characters

Miyamoto Musashi
"I was desperate to sever cause and effect, but you pushed forward to cut through the void. What a big fool. It's only natural that you'll end up like that, right?"
Houzouin Inshun/Minamoto-no-Raikou/Yagyu Tajima-no-kami Munenori
That's a relief. These ones are as masterful as they sound. It's amazing that people who have thrown themselves so hard into the martial arts can still act like a decent human beings.
Katou Danzo/Fuuma Kotarou
What, they are getting along well? Is that so? Well, this summoning stuff ain't half bad
Jing Ke
It seems that a hero who possessed one of my short swords fell in love with your life. "The winds howl sadly and the waters of the Yi River are frozen. Brave men, once gone, Never come back again." ^[9] Saigo-san is a great man, do you know him?^[10]
EMIYA (Alter)
Stop that you fool! The sword or the gun, make it clear which one you want to live by
Ibuki-Douji
What!? You're saying I can catch that lady with sake!? She's the incarnation of the divine sword so you're sure she likes divine wine!? Damn, I'm so worthless. If I had spent my life making sake, would I have made it by now? There must be a Sake God or two in Chaldea right?
Rasputin
You're saying when I was an Alter Ego I fought alongside that guy!? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!
Altria Caster
She's a cheerful girl, isn't she? Sometimes she becomes very polite as if she is a different person, but her roots are the same. The other day, she made me go along with a simulation, saying, "I'm thinking of making a new holy sword, and I'd like you to take a look at it. Please take care of me old man"
Oberon
"Can you make a katana with a pure white blade and hilt?" I sent him away because it was a foolish and unreasonable order but since I've gone through such great lengths to become a servant I might as well give it a shot

Comment from illustrator

Originally drawn as a Craft Essence illustration called "Limited/Zero Over", it was "the figure of Shirou Emiya, who was successful as a Magus", but after many twists and turns he became a servant The first Saint Origin is the same as the design of the Craft Essence. The second Saint Graph is the heyday of Muramasa as a craftsman. The third is the image of Muramasa as a so-called “grandfather”. I had a lot of trouble with the direction of the second, but for the third, I felt like this was the only choice. Since the idea of a Perfect Shirou was an important aspect of the design that couldn't be left out, the white hair and brown skin, the symbol of the Heroic Spirit EMIYA, had to be included. Shimokoshi-kun^[11] was in charge of weapons-related matters. (Takashi Takeuchi)
[1] The "kill" in "simple kill effect" was in katakana Edit: I am a dumbass It said "simple skill effect" not "simple kill effect".
[2] The kanji used was "弛む" which has the meaning of "to slacken, to sag or to become loose" which didn't fit the whole "wrought iron" motif so after a bit of searching I found that one of wrought iron's qualities is being resistant to fatigue, which kind of fit what the sentence was going for so that's what I used
[3] Apparently one of the alternative meaning of this kanji is "draft" or "rough copy"
[4] Japanese Hero and Prince. Obtained the Kusanagi from his anut Yamatohime-no-mikoto, high priestess of Amaterasu. Amaterasu obtained it from her brother Susanoo who gave it to her to settle an old debt. As a legendary hero he did legendary things but died of illness when he blasphemed against a God living in Mount Ibuki.
[5] This took me a while (and lot of Google searching) to understand but basically the sword has two names: "Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi" and "Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi" and one source says that "Ame-no-Murakumo-no-Tsurugi" was the original name and it wasn't called "Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi" until Yamato Takeru got a hold of the sword but another says that it was always called "Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi"
[6] I'm actually not sure about this one. Original Japanese in case someone wants to help: [セイバー、 千子村正。 召喚に応じ参上した。なんで僕がセイバーなのか疑問だったが、今なら多少は納得がいく。・・・こうして呼ばれた煙とは無関係ではあるが、ま 同じ顔で好き放題暴れたんだ。 気の済むまでコキ使ってくんな]
[7] 2004 - 2014 were written in Arabic Numerals
[8] Excuse me!? When was Caster Muramasa a thing!?
[9] A part from the poem Jing Ke composed about their determination before attempting to assassinate Qin Shi Huang.
[10] Saigō Takamori, the hero who used a Muramasa short sword. A Japanese Samurai and one of the three great nobles who led the Meiji Restoration. Apparently he kept a fan on which Jing Ke's poem was written
[11] Character Designer for Leonardo da Vinci, Mephistopheles, Beowulf, Tawara Touta, Gorgon, Hessian Lobo and Salome