tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71771930734157043492024-03-13T09:24:24.620+00:00The Blog That Time ForgotA ripping SF-fantasy-adventure fraught with dinosaurs, barbarians, Transformers, heavy metal, monsters, spaceships, and all manner of madness.Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.comBlogger771125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-80667218940919026642024-01-19T16:13:00.003+00:002024-02-27T19:13:57.642+00:00Triangulation: The Land That Time Forgot at 100<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDuBpsFBiRXk1p0VPssr-2Vq9SUnFEptIlGgFUJaOedaepHzEbd-SJ12y93qlDqsIGuOv4tTg9yN_TYoyl8D8PZ_FN1-wML7uYLX-1SXDkR21IFpFV6D4TX1KbCVGnXRhfTxpuV7L5q2bwZe6CVGiI4En6DUiKeGqrpanNK3S_oGZR8mQpPg92FjL4nrA/s2000/caspak-tlttf1-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1382" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDuBpsFBiRXk1p0VPssr-2Vq9SUnFEptIlGgFUJaOedaepHzEbd-SJ12y93qlDqsIGuOv4tTg9yN_TYoyl8D8PZ_FN1-wML7uYLX-1SXDkR21IFpFV6D4TX1KbCVGnXRhfTxpuV7L5q2bwZe6CVGiI4En6DUiKeGqrpanNK3S_oGZR8mQpPg92FjL4nrA/w276-h400/caspak-tlttf1-1.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><p>I was once again offered the opportunity to write for DMR Books - as this year marks a century since <i>The Land That Time Forgot</i> (or the novel fix-up for "The Land That Time Forgot," "The People That Time Forgot," and "Out of Time's Abyss") was first published, I shared <a href="https://dmrbooks.com/test-blog/2024/1/16/the-land-that-time-forgot-at-100">some of my thoughts and observations</a> on the book, the stories, and the world of Caspak.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p><br /></p><p>There are still many, many facets of the lost world hidden behind the Ice Barriers of the Isle of Caprona to explore, from the dozens of fauna, to the role of flora, the mystery of Luata, & exactly what the Weiroo are. As with the Dinosauria, I hope to analyse them, at least before the next centennial.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L1hibOKslF92ktWb3oM6lm5_T-RQvlfbLNNGmmdtmNrHywBkRVmh4ym5G2yTMbfOgGD97BL4Y6Pnh0s522hezUFABiivu9X3etJyQNchyLx8kBYV5DYwek7VFOc988eVYD0PB3uOrGa5nyhnbU9cphS86iyM-QpO3qIll2U9WYQp82bUTpS0IfSZ87js/s910/In-the-Grip-of-terror.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="910" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8L1hibOKslF92ktWb3oM6lm5_T-RQvlfbLNNGmmdtmNrHywBkRVmh4ym5G2yTMbfOgGD97BL4Y6Pnh0s522hezUFABiivu9X3etJyQNchyLx8kBYV5DYwek7VFOc988eVYD0PB3uOrGa5nyhnbU9cphS86iyM-QpO3qIll2U9WYQp82bUTpS0IfSZ87js/w400-h225/In-the-Grip-of-terror.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>An interesting (if tangentially related) development over the past year has been the surprising - but no less welcome - <a href="https://variety.com/2023/film/global/amicus-horror-label-in-the-grip-of-terror-1235696606/">resurrection of Amicus Productions</a>. Amicus, of course, was the studio which brought <i>The Land That Time Forgot </i>and <i>The People That Time Forgot</i> (as well as Burroughs' At The Earth's Core & Warlords of Atlantis):</p><p></p><blockquote>Our aim is to re-establish Amicus Productions as a beacon of independent British horror. We’re concocting a film that captures the essence and panache that rendered the studio iconic. By emphasizing atmospheric storytelling, tangible effects and a genuine respect for the genre, our vision is to teleport audiences back to British horror’s golden epoch. This venture transcends mere studio revival - it’s a renaissance of passion, tribute to a rich legacy and a testament to indie cinema’s prowess.<br /> - Lawrie Brewster, President</blockquote><p></p><p>I just barely missed out on <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/lawriebrewster/in-the-grip-of-terror-by-amicus-productions-horror-movie/">the Kickstarter</a> (I was sorely tempted to somehow scrounge together enough money for <a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/lawriebrewster/in-the-grip-of-terror-by-amicus-productions-horror-movie/rewards#reward-UmV3YXJkLVVtVjNZWEprTFRrME9EWTJNams9">the Associate Producer credit</a>, simply for the joy of seeing my name on an Amicus Production!) but with luck and hard work, this will keep Amicus producing. <i>In the Grip of Terror</i> is particularly cool, as it follows classic horror anthologies in bringing seminal stories from foundational authors to the cinematic medium - Benson, Bierce, and Lovecraft, in this case. Old HPL has been the font from which many horror adaptations have drawn their water, but the last Benson adaptation was literally a decade ago, & the last Bierce not much later.</p><p>Which gets me thinking... The Caspak trilogy has one third which has not yet been adapted to screen. "Out Of Time's Abyss" is much more overtly horror-oriented than its predecessors, with the Wieroo taking centre stage as antagonist, though the ever-present threats of pterodactyls and dinosaurs and Cenozoic megafauna remain. Wouldn't it be fitting for Amicus to finally finish the story, to return once more to Caspak? I tend to be, shall we say, <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2010/08/king-conan-necessary-evil.html">ambivalent</a> about finishing certain trilogies after several decades, but this is something that's been niggling at me since I was a wee lad.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-0daCE5vnM9-1d_YsLRL_MknejMySjqzW7knzs0ponQLECiAc7h7nGLBGbdgBlHh9CdjhzHrBD470rf98V1F3x7clTE8oI9Zre54sGrP9cNdm6j7RtrYsOiYS98xj-DSMgllt6XzgrUksj0z87OD8F9kqSxv36e3OtwbFHP8GrAX0JnhUuYUgiTj60Q_/s1280/TLTTF_Thermos.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-0daCE5vnM9-1d_YsLRL_MknejMySjqzW7knzs0ponQLECiAc7h7nGLBGbdgBlHh9CdjhzHrBD470rf98V1F3x7clTE8oI9Zre54sGrP9cNdm6j7RtrYsOiYS98xj-DSMgllt6XzgrUksj0z87OD8F9kqSxv36e3OtwbFHP8GrAX0JnhUuYUgiTj60Q_/s320/TLTTF_Thermos.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I mean, if I had my way, the film would be a deliberately retrograde throwback to the 1970s cinematic style, complete with rubber puppets on <a href="https://nextshoot.com/A-to-Z-of-film-and-video-production/page/how-does-rear-projection-work">rear projection</a> (though an evolution of that old technique is <a href="https://www.ilm.com/stagecraft/">working wonders</a> ever since its introduction on <i>The Mandalorian</i>); matte paintings & location shooting at <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/2020/feb/10/how-we-made-the-land-that-time-forgot-kevin-connor-susan-penhaligon-dinosaur-classic">Reading clay pits</a>; get Kevin Connor back in some capacity if he isn't up for directing; find some roles for Susan Penhaligon, Bobby Parr, Dana Gillespie, Sarah Douglas, anyone else still around from the original dualogy. At the same time, get the best "monster" actors for the Weiroo: you need someone with a remarkable physicality like Doug Jones or Javier Botet to play Him Who Speaks For Luata or Fosh-bal-soj. Likewise, actors with commanding physical presences are important for the many tribes of Caspak, be they the brutish men of the Bo-Lu and Kro-Lu, or the captivating women of the Band-Lu and Galu.</p><p>For me, <i>The Land That Time Forgot</i> would be near impossible to update to modern times: so much of it is steeped in the time in which it was written that it simply cannot be transposed without significantly altering much of what makes it unique among Lost World stories. And sometimes, that's perfectly fine - most Tarzan adaptations are happy to keep him in turn-of-the-century Africa, and the late 19th century background of John Carter is inextricable from the character and the story. So it is, I think, with <i>The Land That Time Forgot</i> - but that is, ironically, also what makes it timeless.</p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-45377187773562118682023-01-23T00:48:00.001+00:002023-01-23T00:48:32.816+00:00Robert E. Howard in Scots: Aye Comes Antrum<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwt5fE1woQzfj-rrdUqebK81s7_AIxoWS7sRAu9dIHkOWZeCjsJy9ibi70KuWr-ir0euEV45FkEsvTeVw7E7rd7tFvfBS8fP4_GoMVNFeGEPZ2cVfxJjDwr4Smb2OXZRvEa9cjDlA6bq25SZ4kkXAI2G0i38Kw9Ufiba7aYg10aCbtsKHP_OlkS4CSAA/s800/Copper%20Moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="754" data-original-width="800" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwt5fE1woQzfj-rrdUqebK81s7_AIxoWS7sRAu9dIHkOWZeCjsJy9ibi70KuWr-ir0euEV45FkEsvTeVw7E7rd7tFvfBS8fP4_GoMVNFeGEPZ2cVfxJjDwr4Smb2OXZRvEa9cjDlA6bq25SZ4kkXAI2G0i38Kw9Ufiba7aYg10aCbtsKHP_OlkS4CSAA/s320/Copper%20Moon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A small tribute to my eternal inspiration Robert E. Howard, and to an <a href="https://swordsofreh.proboards.com/thread/1526/todd-woods-howard-works-creator">auld</a> <a href="https://sentinelhillpress.com/2022/05/25/rip-todd-a-woods-1963-2022/">freen</a>, who shared his birthday. I am glad to have <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2012/06/third-scottish-invasion-of-cross-plains_11.html">met</a> and <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2011/06/second-scottish-invasion-of-cross_13.html">talked</a> with him in person. We had great fun at the poetry slams outside Howard's house. This translation covered some of the themes we talked about the last time we met. No Empire lasts forever.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>"Aye Comes Antrum"</b></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Always_Comes_Evening_%28unknown%29">Screivit by Rabert E. Howard</a></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Ridin doon the road at antrum wi’ the starns or steed an shoon</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I hae haurd an auld maun singin underneth a copper muin;</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"God, wha gemmit wi’ cairngorm gloamins, opal portals o’ the day,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Oan oor amaranthine muntains, why mak human sowels o’ clay?</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"For I rade the muin-mare's horses in the glore o’ ma yowth,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Wrastlit wi’ the braes at dayset— till I met bress-tinterit Trowth.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Till I saw the temples tottle, till I saw the eedols reel,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Till ma brain had turnit tae airn, an ma hert had turnit tae steel.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Sautie, Sautie, brither Sautie, fill ma sowel wi’ frozen fire;</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Feed wi’ herts o’ rose-white wummen ashes o’ ma deid desire.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"For ma road rins oot in thistles an ma dreams hae turnit tae dust.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"An ma pinions fade an faltar tae the corbin weengs o’ rust.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Trowth has smitten me wi’ airras an her haun is in ma hair—</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Yowth, she hides in thonder muntains — gang an see her, if ye daur!</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Wark yer gramarie, brither Sautie, fill ma brain wi’ fiery spells.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">"Sautie, Sautie, brither Sautie, I hiv kent yer faircest Hells."</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Ridin doon the road at evening whan the wind wis oan the sea,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I hae heard an auld maun singin, an he sang maist dowiely,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Streenge tae hear, whan derk loch shimmer tae the greetin o’ the loun,</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: left;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"></span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; break-after: auto; break-before: auto; break-inside: auto; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; padding: 0cm; page-break-after: auto; page-break-before: auto; page-break-inside: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Amatist Oisin singin unner antrum copper muin.</span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-4511321096460382192022-08-23T16:50:00.007+01:002022-08-24T18:25:12.580+01:00The Word For World Is "West"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YQmGXbXpw80" width="320" youtube-src-id="YQmGXbXpw80"></iframe></div><p><i>Sigh</i>.</p><p>I suppose I might as well, eh? </p><p>Almost ten years on, <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-lord-of-rings-alternate-timeline.html">this post</a> is becoming more and more prophetic.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Cimmerian Dreams</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0Igs4CPrs_M" width="320" youtube-src-id="0Igs4CPrs_M"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>It's been over ten years since I went to Cross Plains to watch the world premiere of the 2011 <i>Conan the Barbarian's</i> red-band trailer at Cross Plains: over ten years since I attended my first film premiere with a press pass. I don't know how many words I ended up contributing to the <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20111011150049/http://www.conanmovieblog.com/">Conan Movie Blog</a> in the runup to the film's release. I know I wrote a <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20111103193600/http://www.conanmovieblog.com/2011/08/15/conan-the-barbarian-the-conan-movie-blog-review/">4,600 word review</a> and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20111103193348/http://www.conanmovieblog.com/2011/08/19/conan-the-barbarian-a-critique/">a 21,000 word critique</a> of the film in the week after its premiere, which might be the most concentrated analysis that film's ever received (in density if not necessarily in substance). I recall spending a ludicrous amount of time poring over set photos, concept art, trailer stills, interviews in multiple languages, hoping for something - anything - that I could sink my teeth into. Something that made me excited for a film that I feared would be just another failure in the long sad history of failed reboots.</p><p>It was... well, you read the review. You saw the <a href="https://www.boxofficemojo.com/title/tt0816462/?ref_=bo_se_r_1">box office</a>. You smelled the <a href="https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/conan_the_barbarian_2011">Rotten Tomatoes</a>, collated the <a href="https://www.metacritic.com/movie/conan-the-barbarian-2011">Metacritics</a>, counted the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0816462/ratings/?ref_=tt_ov_rt">IMDB stars</a>. The big bold venture, beset with production problems, Too Many Cooks (one day we'll hear the story of that damned elephant - but it is not this day) and the uphill struggle of trying to appease both Arnold Schwarzeneggar and Robert E. Howard fans, just couldn't get on the incline. And sometimes, I thought: <i>what are you doing, Al? Why are you spending all this time on something you don't have any confidence in?</i> </p><p>Well, two reasons. The first is that I hoped positivity could will a good film into being - the Pollyanna effect, highly unscientific but essential for mental coping mechanisms. The second is a sense of duty to Robert E. Howard himself: an author whose work affected me so profoundly and introduced me to dozens of intelligent, empathetic, and compassionate individuals who remain lifelong friends. I felt that I owed it to him, that if somebody didn't seek to evangelise Howard's work in the wake of this film, then it would be subsumed in a sea of ignorance and irrelevance. We Howard fans were smaller in number compared to other popular culture juggernauts like Star Trek or Marvel Comics - but what we lacked in size we made up in dedication. If we didn't do it, no-one would: that was the worry.</p><p>I don't have that same fear with Tolkien. He has a wealth of fans ready to defend his work and his legacy with a much greater visibility & support network than Howard did. This is because, for almost every year since his death, the keeper of the Keys to Middle-Earth was Christopher Tolkien, who dedicated his life to the integrity and purity of Tolkien's work. By contrast, Howard's Conan was largely in the hands of a science-fiction author who considered himself Howard's literary superior: editing the original stories, altering historical adventures into more lucrative Conan adventures, selling the rights off to comics and other authors to continue the "official" adventures in a way that would've been utter anathema to someone like Christopher Tolkien. De Camp, for all his own literary merits and clear success in monetising Conan, didn't rate Howard, and certainly didn't defend him the way a guardian should have. Luckily Robert E. Howard's work and name fell into <a href="https://rehfoundation.org/">more grateful hands</a> - even as I worry that <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-lord-of-rings-alternate-timeline.html">the reverse</a> seems to be happening with Tolkien.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Tuneless Songs and Disbelieving Belief</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgllm2SWgLynUAOeD1VCggyYzbUFvOZPsLGOjOpCP9C2yNZEQvVX37UTjdgZtEdbxUbJ_xJ9fZOtvM4Tjcx-W8BS4hUZ7FqK9qwR5RV1ymAUXQx1hQDwTM2NDpzzONdavZ8PsBQPdUVAnPbfCrbvoIUCjhDnhpFqgdzMs3fSI0kleN8DhKjmXU0-wFOFA=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="2048" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgllm2SWgLynUAOeD1VCggyYzbUFvOZPsLGOjOpCP9C2yNZEQvVX37UTjdgZtEdbxUbJ_xJ9fZOtvM4Tjcx-W8BS4hUZ7FqK9qwR5RV1ymAUXQx1hQDwTM2NDpzzONdavZ8PsBQPdUVAnPbfCrbvoIUCjhDnhpFqgdzMs3fSI0kleN8DhKjmXU0-wFOFA=w400-h263" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One interesting wrinkle in this discussion is that people of colour portraying fantasy beings isn't actually new - an example from over 2 decades ago is Kristen Wilson's Norda in 2000's <i>Dungeons & Dragons.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>There are a lot - a <b>lot </b>- of bad faith takes in regards to Tolkien and most Tolkien adaptations, especially in recent years.</p><p>A typical bad faith take is "oh, so you have no problems with dragons and elves and all sorts of fantasy creatures, but the minute you see a non-European in a fantasy-European setting, <i>that </i>suspends your disbelief and breaks with the lore?" Well, that's the thing: dragons and elves are <b>not </b>real. People <b>are </b>real. Every human being has in them, from their memories to their genomes, the history of their ancestors, and their journeys within them, whether they are conscious, known, unknown, or otherwise. Dragons do not. Elves do not. Most people - I would hope - have a basic awareness of human history, which includes the grand saga of culture, migration, and civilisation. It is that knowledge - in many cases, that presupposition - which, I think, is a stumbling block when it comes to fantasy fiction.</p><p><b>(It is always important to note that Tolkien, like Howard and Smith and other early fantasy fiction writers, were not creating entirely new worlds: they are explicitly meant to be our worlds in the distant past</b>. This is why cultural migration in the Hyborian Age and Middle-earth matters in a way that it wouldn't for an entirely fantastical planet unconnected to ours save for the presence of humans - they are not "fantasy worlds" in the way most people think of them, where fantasy is used as a synonym for "literally anything goes.")</p><p>This is a known curiosity in speculative fiction. You can have stories with monsters, aliens, spaceships, magic, all sorts of unreality - but if you have something real that is amiss, that can do more to dislodge people from the narrative than even the most outlandish fantastical elements. Case in point: <i>Highlander</i>. People will happily believe that there has been a secret tournament of immortals decapitating each other until only 2 remain to battle in a New York warehouse 500 years after their first encounter with one another - but you hear only a few seconds' worth of Christopher Lambert's Scottish Accent, and that's enough to make the film <a href="https://metro.co.uk/2008/03/13/lambert-tops-poll-for-worst-scots-accent-37160/#:~:text=Actor%20Christopher%20Lambert's%20fake%20Scots,poll%20published%20today%20(Thursday).">a laughing stock</a> for some people. Believe in immortals, believe in taking their power in lightning pyrotechnic displays - but some people <i>cannot </i>believe Christopher Lambert was a Scotsman, because unlike immortals and Quickenings, Scottish people are real.</p><p>Now, this is not to say such things are necessarily <i>correct</i>, of course: while obviously technology, infrastructure, and geography were very different in the past, it wasn't as if nobody travelled in the Ancient, Classical, or Medieval eras. As a result, there are depictions of people from all over the world <a href="https://medievalpoc.tumblr.com/">in European Art</a>. The mere presence of such individuals should not, in and of itself, be considered unrealistic or historically inauthentic. It's all about how historically authentic you want to be - a fun satire like <i>Robin Hood: Men in Tights</i> or <i>A Knight's Tale</i> doesn't need to adhere to the same rules as, say, <i>The Name of the Rose</i> or <i>Kingdom of Heaven</i>.</p><p>One problem is that people who aren't hoary old scholarly bores like me might have difficulty articulating exactly what their problem is, and understandably feel frustrated when people put words into their mouth. "You find the presence of certain people in this particular settling uncomfortable because you have a problem with certain people" is not only breathtakingly arrogant supposition, it's counterproductive. You aren't going to convince people to do any meaningful introspection into cultural bias in fantasy fiction by saying they're bad people: it's just going to either disengage them, or anger them into rejection.</p><p>(Besides, comparing people - any sort of people - to fantastical creatures of myth and legend is not the kind of "gotcha" I have any particular interest in entertaining.)</p><p>This quote making the rounds from <a href="https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2022/02/amazon-the-rings-of-power-series-first-look">the <i>Vanity Fair</i> article</a> is illustrative in so many ways:</p><blockquote><p>“It felt only natural to us that an adaptation of Tolkien’s work would reflect what the world actually looks like,” says Lindsey Weber, executive producer of the series. “Tolkien is for everyone. His stories are about his fictional races doing their best work when they leave the isolation of their own cultures and come together.”</p></blockquote><p>Film writer Chris Gore compares and contrasts with another quote, this time from Peter Jackson (who I'll get to, don't you worry about that):</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Tv9u9Nwi6Y4" width="320" youtube-src-id="Tv9u9Nwi6Y4"></iframe></div><br /><p>This is the core of the problem: the past is another world, and people seem incapable of understanding that. Moreover, they don't seem to understand that <b>their </b>world is not "what the world actually looks like."</p><p>Here's what the world <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demographics_of_the_world">actually looks like</a>: it is a world composed of 7.9 billion human beings, the majority living in Asia - over a third in China and India combined. Adult literacy is approximately 86.3%, 75% have access to mobile phones, 87% have clean water, 84% have adequate nutrition. 56.3% of the world's people live in urban areas. Mandarin is the most commonly spoken native language, followed by Spanish & Hindi: less than half of all languages. The most common religion (Christianity) is not observed by over 2/3rds of the world's population. 70% of people on this planet cannot access the internet; 23% have no safe housing; 93% do not go on to further education.</p><p>When Weber says “It felt only natural to us that an adaptation of Tolkien’s work would reflect what the world actually looks like,” she quite clearly is not talking about "the world," counterintuitive as that may seem. She isn't even talking about a corner of the world that would be analogous to Middle-Earth (Europe), which is - and this might come as a surprise to non-Europeans - is not just "Old America." She's talking about the United States. It's understandable: Amazon is based in the US, this is a US production. Amazon may be a worldwide company, but the studio is as biased towards the superpower as anything else - and that includes people who think they're being critical of American hegemony. And even then, the World-that-is-America isn't reflective of that vast, varied land - it's a particular type of America, a particular dimension that is no more representative of the whole than, say, Oxford is of England.</p><p>By "what the world actually looks like," Weber means the tiny corner of the world as she understands it. By "Tolkien is for everyone," Weber means an already phenomenally popular and lucrative intellectual property (because, let's face facts, that's always the bottom line) should be tweaked and altered to increase the potential viewership, even if it ends up like butter spread over too much bread. It's fine - but don't be surprised if Tolkien fans are going to be annoyed about changes, whatever those changes might be.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">(Misty) Mountains and (House of the) Molehills</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin9G_0UVWx8i0_gNEZWsYc39ZCyTs2vrCYLyNOSFFk1034lyvmStnKDBvlPPnCgh6apeehbMa-qv8xQBYy6l0Xz6Zgb-FkKZhQMwiOJDG0r8PY-Q1eIcok5M4uvew1Is-lvi-_bNn9mlNLOxLmWyxGNpr32zKWOlh0ki9fQE_e49KZs1Uj3SBIuZYuKQ=s1080" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="1080" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin9G_0UVWx8i0_gNEZWsYc39ZCyTs2vrCYLyNOSFFk1034lyvmStnKDBvlPPnCgh6apeehbMa-qv8xQBYy6l0Xz6Zgb-FkKZhQMwiOJDG0r8PY-Q1eIcok5M4uvew1Is-lvi-_bNn9mlNLOxLmWyxGNpr32zKWOlh0ki9fQE_e49KZs1Uj3SBIuZYuKQ=w400-h185" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even earlier, Tony Cox played the Vohnkar Warrior Nelwyn (who resemble but are legally distinct from Hobbits) of colour in 1988's <i>Willow </i>(alongside Mark Northover, David J. Steinberg, and Warwick Davis). Cox has also appeared as the Dwarf of Colour Eight-Ball in 2010's <i>The Warrior's Way</i>, and the Munchkin of Colour Knuck in 2013's <i>Oz The Great and Powerful.</i> (If we count his role in <i>Bad Santa</i>, that makes him one of the few actors in the world to have played a Man, a "Hobbit," a "Dwarf," <b>and </b>an "Elf"!)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Another comment from Tolkien scholar (and fellow Scot) Mariana Rios Maldonado bears examination:</p><blockquote><p>“Obviously there was going to be push and backlash but the question is from whom? Who are these people that feel so threatened or disgusted by the idea that an elf is Black or Latino or Asian?”</p></blockquote><p>Now, I can only speak for myself, but I'm of the opinion that the people who are "threatened" or "disgusted" by someone's ethnic background are not worth consideration in any discussion at all. Undoubtedly there are those who will seek to undermine minority representation in media, but they don't deserve either the oxygen of publicity or the dignity of acknowledgment.</p><p>It's incredibly easy to spot: these are the people who decided John Boyega's casting in <i>Star Wars</i> was a bad thing, complaining about "politics being injected into escapism," and all sorts of stupid nonsense that was inflated precisely because it is easy to refute. To suggest that <i>Star Wars</i>, <b>of all pop-culture properties</b>, is bereft of politics only until a black stormtrooper is cast in a lead role, is so self-evidently inane that it's honestly demeaning that fandom spent all these years having internecine wars over it. Likewise with <i>Star Trek Discovery</i>: of the many, many problems I have with the series (one day I'll get into them, but for now <a href="https://crudereviews.net/tag/star-trek-discovery/">Crude Reviews</a> gets most of them), the ethnic background of the cast makes up precisely zero of them. So why even waste your time and your energy on these trolls? Because - and I'm ashamed to say I do this myself - it's <b>easy </b>to knock down stupid arguments, and it makes you feel good knowing that you're right. It's more difficult to face nuance and complexity, and not everyone is comfortable or confident enough to do that. But sometimes we must.</p><p>So we can set aside the troll comments that don't deserve consideration, and onto the more robust one of ethnicity and representation. However, you cannot on the one hand suggest that ethnicity is an irrelevance or minor detail, and simultaneously discuss how important representation of said minorities in media is. I am absolutely quite happy to say that, yes, ethnicity <i>does </i>matter, because I actually take the idea of diversity and promotion of ethnic minorities seriously, rather than fluidly skip between it being "what's the big deal about someone's skin colour?" and "wow, look what a big deal this is for underrepresented people of colour!"</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJcCPR--OrAX49Hy5sm1jlXsP4b3pHuZvl16yEbjaF3_PkXmVaRWQSOFnzFgdJFTjgEKjCSyzpk8RkMXvdnwChht9gF42XgDNIoLsFT4Y6Cz1_HrE9deg_9R39YnKdv19v8nFwmoeAiF2jX7EB2EcP1IK41oLM9xesUiEk2AfynjQJ-eezcbmZN5eiww=s1400" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJcCPR--OrAX49Hy5sm1jlXsP4b3pHuZvl16yEbjaF3_PkXmVaRWQSOFnzFgdJFTjgEKjCSyzpk8RkMXvdnwChht9gF42XgDNIoLsFT4Y6Cz1_HrE9deg_9R39YnKdv19v8nFwmoeAiF2jX7EB2EcP1IK41oLM9xesUiEk2AfynjQJ-eezcbmZN5eiww=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2019's <i>The Dragon Prince</i> has multiple varied ethnic groups of elves: Sunfire Elves such as Rena Anakwe's Janai are a brilliant example of how to do diversity well - by going full-tilt into an original universe.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>This goes hand in hand with fidelity (or not) to the source material. It is legitimate to want to hew as closely to the source material: it is <i>equally </i>legitimate to want to put a new spin on things. A faithful adaptation is not necessarily good or bad, nor is an unfaithful one - all that matters is doing what you set out to do. Heck, sometimes you can specifically set out against doing a faithful adaptation and achieve a remarkable sense of fidelity <b>despite your best efforts</b>, like Paul Verhoeven when he adapted <i>Starship Troopers</i>. Faithful, unfaithful - it's all good. What is not, in my opinion, is trying to do both - and ending up doing neither.</p><p>Ms Maldonado and her University of Glasgow colleague Dimitra Fimi <a href="https://theconversation.com/amp/lord-of-the-rings-debunking-the-backlash-against-non-white-actors-in-amazons-new-adaption-177791">fall into that trap</a> unnecessarily. While I agree with many of their sentiments and motivations, I disagree when it comes to the conclusions and their working:</p><blockquote><p>Some fans argue that Tolkien never described elves, dwarves or hobbits as anything but white, and claim that the casting is disrespectful to his books. But this argument is flawed in two ways.</p><p>First, these are imaginary creatures which are not always clearly described in the original books – Tolkien was more interested in metaphysical than biological questions. Still, there is some evidence of dark-skinned elves and hobbits in drafts of <i>The Silmarillion</i> and the prologue of <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>. </p></blockquote><blockquote><p>Second, even if Tolkien had specified that all elves, dwarves and hobbits were white, it still wouldn’t matter. Adaptations are original cultural products that can imitate, question, rewrite or interpret source material in various ways. Each adaptation is a new text. And each is an opportunity to update outdated and unacceptable tropes, and find ways to represent and normalise non-white characters. </p></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy2DXB21MIadAdDwB_LbKgL3Nv1Yr5ZMlS2KW2Vjj4-7KZS48chW7tLbQoGWg83gPSRAu3O3ySeFE0vfQegsanxm4xfofs_JtjMRV5pF2w6UiUZHsBPXxD4dVRDsmhM87rXGtwvDgFLxpPsnIdlw5Bj5ZPecuJ5PTcnXBWqP9OryPIu3_mNPeoVyuKMA=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="1000" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiy2DXB21MIadAdDwB_LbKgL3Nv1Yr5ZMlS2KW2Vjj4-7KZS48chW7tLbQoGWg83gPSRAu3O3ySeFE0vfQegsanxm4xfofs_JtjMRV5pF2w6UiUZHsBPXxD4dVRDsmhM87rXGtwvDgFLxpPsnIdlw5Bj5ZPecuJ5PTcnXBWqP9OryPIu3_mNPeoVyuKMA=w400-h165" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje portrayed a (particularly) dark elf - Algrim - in 2011's <i>Thor: The Dark World</i>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>The evidence for these dark-skinned elves and hobbits is not produced, and I cannot find them - which is frustrating, as Tolkien aficionados like me devour details like this to broaden & enrich our understanding of Tolkien's worldview as it changes over time. <b>But these two points are contradictory to one another</b>: on the one hand, you're suggesting that the central premise of the argument (of physical phenotypes Tolkien described) is flawed and implies a lack of care in paying attention to Tolkien's specifications... and on the other hand, you're saying that Tolkien's specifications <i>don't matter</i> and can be changed and updated. So either Tolkien's world has evidence of greater diversity which some fans are not taking into account, <i>or </i>Tolkien's specifications don't matter because we can change them. Both stances, which would be contested for different reasons, are nonetheless legitimate ones to take - but they are not complementary, and are in fact mutually exclusive.</p><p>Likewise, Tolkien's work itself is simultaneously "for everyone" yet "uses many stereotypes associated with orientalism and the language of prejudice." Well, if that's true (and to a certain degree it is - again, Tolkien was informed by historiography as well as history) then Tolkien's work <b>can't</b> be for everyone, can it? But the sad, unfortunate thing is that <b>no </b>work is "for everyone." There is always something in someone's work that will be offensive, traumatic, or upsetting: even if it's only one person, that person's response is as valid as yours or mine. I cannot stand the presence of Captain Carter in Marvel's "What If" - not because she is a woman (if anything it's despite her being portrayed by the brilliant Hayley Atwell), but because the presence of a superhero proudly bearing the Union Flag in the 21st Century is deeply offensive to me. But I'm not going to insist Captain Carter be removed or changed to suit my political sensibilities, precious as they are to me - because Captain Carter isn't <b>for </b>me, but for the many people who love Carter's character, and who are either neutral to, or actively enjoy the presence of, a politically-British superhero in a Marvel film.</p><blockquote><p>But as disgruntled fans might reason, if Amazon must have a diverse cast in this drama, why not stick to having actors of colour playing the characters who are dark-skinned in Tolkien’s texts? But that would perpetuate and reinforce the racialised view of good and evil in Middle-earth. Despite Tolkien’s overall message of friendship and co-operation, and despite his raging against the Nazis, the face of evil in Middle-earth is invariably non-white/non-European.</p><p>Tolkien’s portrayal of the Orcs (legions of evil creatures) and the men who ally themselves with Sauron (the arch-villain of LOTR) uses many stereotypes associated with orientalism and the language of prejudice often found in literature from the era of British imperialism (Tolkien was born and grew up in the late Victorian and Edwardian periods). Reproducing this white/non-white divide along moral lines would endorse a very old fashioned and harmful equation of physical characteristics with moral choices.</p></blockquote><p>Quite apart from the weird comment about the face of evil in Middle-earth being "invariably non-white/non-European" (which doesn't seem to take Saruman, Grima, Ted Sandyman, Bill Ferny, the Sackville-Bagginses, the Black Numenoreans, and the Dark Lord Sauron's own "fair" form of Annatar into account), the notion that an adaptation of Tolkien's work must necessarily depict the men who ally with Sauron as evil is, in my mind, deeply unimaginative, problematic in its own right, and not really much better to me than cynical tokenism. If you're going to be making changes and additions, why not acknowledge Tolkien's nuances in regards to the "Men of Darkness" (always a literary device used by the Men of the West: Tolkien was well aware of historians' own prejudices in their writings) - it would be just more defensible than other decisions made.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbZxPTVRJUcJRJ9ofLbvrBG-udkGFOp0h6yonRRGoBNO3py0_yxAVwEHw3HoK88aQZfd4HIpsJERyP1idgJaa81K0MZl06hj5MqmM4vnjVtpVqhDwSvQZIfRTjykZQzlrHANTGOmE-b9BHja_NrBI_5cQluTngKH1al-N_ZuemwvREGBWm8NcilRnW4g=s602" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="602" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbZxPTVRJUcJRJ9ofLbvrBG-udkGFOp0h6yonRRGoBNO3py0_yxAVwEHw3HoK88aQZfd4HIpsJERyP1idgJaa81K0MZl06hj5MqmM4vnjVtpVqhDwSvQZIfRTjykZQzlrHANTGOmE-b9BHja_NrBI_5cQluTngKH1al-N_ZuemwvREGBWm8NcilRnW4g=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The short-lived <i>The Shannara Chronicles</i> featured Emilia Burns as Commander Diana Tilton, leader of the Black Watch, in 2016. <br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Sticking to "having actors of colour playing the characters who are dark-skinned in Tolkien's texts" does <b>not </b>necessitate "reproducing (this) white/non-white divide among moral lines," especially considering the exceptions which go both ways - doubly so in the 2nd Age, where Numenor's predatory imperialism and the Rohirrim's brutal ethnic cleansing of the Druedain and Balchoth would almost seem like deconstructions of what is so often simplistically considered "Tolkien's moral world view."</p><p>There's another thing often forgotten here - Elves, Dwarves, and Orcs may resemble humans, but they are <b>not </b>human. Their functional immortality dramatically alters not just their internal physiology - in the case of Elves their immunity to disease, vastly keener senses, faster healing, resilience to the elements, suspended ageing processes - but their psychology. There are far fewer of them in comparison to humans in the 2nd and 3rd Ages. Their entire outlook on the world is different as a result. There is a distinct Otherness to them which marks them as obviously and indisputably separate from humanity, be it the ethereal magic of the Noldor, the cthonic ruggedness of the Naugrim, or the grotesque degradation of the Uruks. To depict these beings with the same phenotypical variety as humans undercuts that inhumanity. (To say nothing of the "modern" haircuts).</p><p>And we come full circle:</p><blockquote><p>But why would audiences these days think of England as white anyway? The country has become a vibrant melting pot of which people of colour are very much a part. Why would an contemporary adaption not reflect that?</p><p>In any case, the idea that people of colour were not part of Britain or Northern Europe in the ancient and medieval past is false. There is plenty of evidence of diversity in Roman Britain, for example. As for the Vikings, they were not a homogenous or “pure” racial group (especially due to trade and raids).</p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgjcbOQp0jgn1epeBFktEk0JCqx-I9lksDFzru_4D-mVjqVCIF3fy8kQuIatB4EE0YgQTsavNhOE-xZt1R8f0wjSUWKdLb1BVBR6x_o0KP-Pvl0zI3hvpXlU89Th2f76ak6-rBO6KlYFLDdCLRxKVUpz63N_-vHhEBGZz2BAUhhQRiehqQ-OK5ZF6TVQ=s1253" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="1253" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgjcbOQp0jgn1epeBFktEk0JCqx-I9lksDFzru_4D-mVjqVCIF3fy8kQuIatB4EE0YgQTsavNhOE-xZt1R8f0wjSUWKdLb1BVBR6x_o0KP-Pvl0zI3hvpXlU89Th2f76ak6-rBO6KlYFLDdCLRxKVUpz63N_-vHhEBGZz2BAUhhQRiehqQ-OK5ZF6TVQ=w400-h198" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>According to the last census, England is 81% composed of "White British," a deeply unhelpful grouping which conflates English, Scots, Welsh, Cornish, Irish, Travellers, Romani, and others into a generic clump formed from various waves of Celts, Gaels, Angles, Jutes, Saxons, Danes, Norse, and other ethnic groups over the millennia. In comparison, only 61% of United States citizens consider themselves "White American" (an even less helpful melange which includes Germans, Scottish, Irish, Scotch-Irish, English, Italian, French, Polish, Dutch, Norwegian, Swedish, and Russian - itself a huge melting pot of different ethnic groups). To call England a "vibrant melting pot" when it's actually one of the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/worldviews/wp/2013/05/16/a-revealing-map-of-the-worlds-most-and-least-ethnically-diverse-countries/">most ethnically homogenous countries</a> in the world is perhaps wishful thinking, and to categorise the imperialist conquest of an indigenous population by an expansionist empire an example of "diversity" is something <a href="https://wildernessofpeace.wordpress.com/2017/08/07/roman-in-the-gloamin-the-tautology-of-a-diverse-empire/">I've been a bit sick of</a> for a long time. To call Middle-Earth "white" is besides the point, and is - I'd propose - an Atlanticist view of the subcreation that is not borne out in the text. </p><p>I mean, the obvious answer is that Tolkien, who spent his entire life crafting this world, <b>had his reasons</b> for doing things beyond "he was an English Scholar born in South Africa." The ethnic history of England, Britain, Ireland, and the Isles has long been <a href="https://wildernessofpeace.wordpress.com/2018/02/07/the-dark-man-of-cheddar/">scrutinised and re-examined</a>, but it is impossible to apply modern considerations of diversity over thousands of years of human history, when the very concepts of ethnicity, culture, nation, and even human have changed over those centuries. The perceived ethnic homogeneity of Middle-earth (which is, again, <a href="https://studenttheses.universiteitleiden.nl/access/item%3A2630576/view">much more complex</a> than usually thought) is not a result of outdated ideas based on early 20th Century pseudoscience, but of a carefully crafted and constantly revised process by its creator. Middle-earth didn't resemble Medieval England any more than it reflected early 21st Century United States University culture.</p><blockquote><p>Once it airs, the new Amazon series will be critiqued by academics and fans alike for many of its choices regarding plot, characterisation and setting. But judging the casting based on skin colour and claiming Middle-earth as exclusively white is not just misguided, it clearly exposes what researcher Helen Young has called fantasy’s “habits of whiteness”.</p><p>As a popular element of 21st-century culture, fantasy’s issues with race, racism and white privilege are subjects the genre has not yet fully addressed. Amazon’s new series is a step in the right direction.</p></blockquote><p>Again, I empathise with Maldonado/Fimi's perspective, but it really feels like people are arguing past one another. The debate (a term I use loosely given some of the discourse I've seen) being held is between two premises that are false for different reasons. A small number will be deliberately bad faith, designed to spread resentment & bad feeling among people who, honestly, agree on the great majority of things - but that tiny number of bad apples results in a septic barrel.</p><p>In the end, an adaptation only has to be as faithful as you set out to be - and when you're saying you're bringing Tolkien's world to life, while also saying things have to be "updated" and whatnot, then that dichotomy will lead to schisms.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">The Self-Fulfilling Western Fantasy Prophecy</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKkI2gpHg87AmCnrdk42rU8VMoBi78CG1XT8CevQIsQY0Yg1L1ALpVMWWfszVsrI4I_YQWqXLIylkJhp1tRQM0IOLF7KLTLwcAr0fWyvzxRPCXl4iz0TPhNk00pR1cHnmCFSKXQKR7So4gn7S3F-6agY3wZR9GA2S2VQLP3myTttJPwXo1ST_Hk_Sn8A=s800" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKkI2gpHg87AmCnrdk42rU8VMoBi78CG1XT8CevQIsQY0Yg1L1ALpVMWWfszVsrI4I_YQWqXLIylkJhp1tRQM0IOLF7KLTLwcAr0fWyvzxRPCXl4iz0TPhNk00pR1cHnmCFSKXQKR7So4gn7S3F-6agY3wZR9GA2S2VQLP3myTttJPwXo1ST_Hk_Sn8A=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wilson Radjou-Pujalte as Dara, an example of the ethnic diversity within the Elf community on Netflix's <i>The Witcher</i>, also from 2017.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">So why all this hullaballoo about changing Tolkien's world to fit a particular interpretation of modern times? To do so seems antithetical to Tolkien's entire worldview, he who rejected modernity to the point that <a href="https://angeluspress.org/blogs/tradition/professor-tolkien-goes-to-mass-what-the-author-and-scholar-saw-that-others-dismissed">he refused to acknowldge</a> the Novus Ordo Mass in 1965 and responded to the Catholic liturgy in Latin. Multiple actors describe themselves, and their characters, as "activists," which - while admirable - rings hollow considering the platform for their activism is a <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2021/may/04/amazon-sales-income-europe-corporation-tax-luxembourg">tax-evading</a>, <a href="https://www.greenamerica.org/blog/10-ways-amazon-violates-human-rights">rights-violating</a>, <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/jackkelly/2021/10/25/a-hard-hitting-investigative-report-into-amazon-shows-that-workers-needs-were-neglected-in-favor-of-getting-goods-delivered-quickly/?sh=2892c21551f5">worker-exploiting</a> multi-billion corporation. As long as Amazon continues to be the 21st Century robber baron, all this activism only comes across as skin-deep. Like those companies which proudly affix their Pride rainbows all through the month of June... except in Saudia Arabia, or China, or any of the other places where their principles would be inconvenient for them.</p><p style="text-align: left;">As a result, <i>The Rings of Power</i> ends up looking just like<i> The House of the Dragon</i>, which looked just like <i>The Wheel of Time</i>, which looked just like <i>The Witcher</i>, and <i>Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves,</i> and <i>Willow</i>. Middle-earth should look & feel completely different from Westeros, & Willow's world, & Faerun. This reflects that each of the stories are different, & warrant distinctive cinematography & direction. Instead, they all look like Marvel films - one big sprawling mess of continuity, because the license holders don't want art, they want safe & cosy & familiar while they pretend they're pushing boundaries. Ironically, that same diversity that should make properties stand out & enrich them is executed with such soulless formulaic standards that it ends up doing the opposite - everything starts looking the same. </p><p>You just have to look at the likes of <i>The Green Knight</i>, <i>Immortals</i>, <i>Macbeth </i>(2015 & 2021), & anything Guillermo Del Toro does to see the possibilities for high fantasy films. Indeed, look at "Love Death + Robots," which managed to have more creativity in single anthology episodes than most series. Colour, framing, lighting, sound, art direction - there could be so many different ways of doing things. Yet filmmakers & studios find themselves retreating to the comfort of successes past.</p><p>In ye olden days, it was impossible - or at least prohibitively expensive - to depict the wildest images an artist could imagine. Now technology has advanced to the point where imagination truly is the only limit - & it is that imagination which is proving deficient. It seems to be "do what they did in the 50s with miniatures & matte paintings, but better." I don't blame directors or concept artists themselves so much as the studio system which believes it is in their interests to deliver bland, anodyne, tasteless fare so as to appeal to the masses.</p><p>Why are films & TV series set in realms of fantasy, by definition the genre most suited to pushing the imagination, so... Similar?</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">The Franchisement of Middle-Earth</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZPWUBE15qjAzSNecJ5EvCw61Qgir-Nqxj8z1GFSuDZAoq-edMfNGlhSsx-UoaC1WdhfkhpILCdr7_31x-OAskx71-v3Tox4a8S8kiLhk4o9vYlxWbq5X0dQbob776fUZORobBxS_pezS-H4foe2LFBfO0kxtS2o5CqUXahG40aWIpVSTi1eRXkdqUQ/s2555/Justice%20Smith%20as%20Simon%20the%20Sorcerer_Dungeons%20and%20Dragons%20Honour%20Among%20Thieves.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1071" data-original-width="2555" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZPWUBE15qjAzSNecJ5EvCw61Qgir-Nqxj8z1GFSuDZAoq-edMfNGlhSsx-UoaC1WdhfkhpILCdr7_31x-OAskx71-v3Tox4a8S8kiLhk4o9vYlxWbq5X0dQbob776fUZORobBxS_pezS-H4foe2LFBfO0kxtS2o5CqUXahG40aWIpVSTi1eRXkdqUQ/w400-h168/Justice%20Smith%20as%20Simon%20the%20Sorcerer_Dungeons%20and%20Dragons%20Honour%20Among%20Thieves.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Justice Smith as Simon, an Elf Sorcerer (presumably <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_the_Sorcerer">no relation</a>) in <i>Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>But this is not a vaccuum: this is the same age as big-budget fantasy series like <i>Game of Thrones</i>, <i>The Witcher</i>, and <i>The Wheel of Time</i>. Moreover, it is the same age that Marvel, <i>Star Wars</i>, <i>Star Trek</i>, and other franchises are expanding rapidly to fill up ever-populating channels and streaming networks. And the irony is that in seeking to appeal to the broadest possible audience, the showrunners have run into the precise trap that they sought to avoid - homogeneity.</p><p><br />
</p><blockquote class="twitter-tweet"><p dir="ltr" lang="en">TOLKIEN FOR 2022: “The Rings of Power” co-stars Benjamin Walker (<a href="https://twitter.com/FindtheWalker?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@FindtheWalker</a>) and Ismael Cruz Córdova (<a href="https://twitter.com/IsmaelC_C?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">@IsmaelC_C</a>) discuss how artistic licence in “The Lord of the Rings” prequel is reinvigorating Tolkien. <a href="https://t.co/Gh7sca16vX">pic.twitter.com/Gh7sca16vX</a></p>— AP Entertainment (@APEntertainment) <a href="https://twitter.com/APEntertainment/status/1559544488510595074?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw">August 16, 2022</a></blockquote> <script async="" charset="utf-8" src="https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js"></script><p></p><p></p><blockquote>“There will no longer be a time where you can say there are no Elves of color. So we erased that one, you know? This conversation will never be there. No, I’m an Elf. The next person that comes after me won’t have to talk about this. That’s what it means to me. I always say that if you can see it, you can imagine it, then if you can imagine it, you can create it." - Ismael Cruz Córdova</blockquote><p></p><p>I've illustrated this post with examples of "elves of colour" (a phrase which, hilariously, Know Your Meme was <a href="https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/lord-of-the-rings-elves-of-color-hoax">calling a hoax</a> back in 2018) to show that, far from being a bold, brave new step, this is not new in the slightest - elves of colour (and Dwarves and Nelwyns for that matter) have been in fantasy films and television for decades, and they'll almost certainly be present in future productions. <i>Rings of Power</i> is not breaking new ground, beyond simply being the first <b>Tolkien </b>adaptation to depict elves of colour. Whether he means to or not, Ismael Cruz Córdova is himself erasing all the "elves of colour" who <b>did </b>come before him - Norda, Janai, Algrim, Diana, Dara, Eithné, to say nothing of elves of color in literature, comics, anime, video games - for the exact cause that he's trying to promote.</p><p>Likewise, for all Sophia Nomvete's personal pride in depicting the first major female dwarf character in <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> franchise, it is unfortunate that concentrating only on Tolkien means neglecting previous female dwarves, be they dwarf/Hobbit-adjacent like <i>Willow's</i> Kiaya Ulfgood & her children, "big people playing little people" like the unnamed female dwarves of Erebor in <i>The Hobbit</i> trilogy & named ones of <i>The Huntsman: Winter's War</i>, or actual female dwarf characters. The token black elf or dwarf has become a <b>thing </b>now - long before <i>The Rings of Power</i> came around - but that's just one of many counterintuitive issues resulting from box-ticking exercises.</p><p>Nonetheless, there's more at play here than a simple overabundance of cooks destroying a broth in death by committee. There is a sense of ownership the creators of Rings of Power have over Tolkien's world that only makes sense when you consider the contemporaries they wish to emulate - <i>Disney</i>. <i>Marvel</i>. <i>Star Wars</i>. <i>Star Trek</i>. All massive franchises; all have multiple stories & media. And, most crucially - all have multiple creators.</p><blockquote><p>I would draw some of the great tales in fullness, and leave many only placed in the scheme, and sketched. The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama. </p></blockquote><blockquote><p> - J.R.R. Tolkien, <a href="https://www.tolkienestate.com/letters/letter-to-milton-waldman-publisher-1951/">Letter to Milton Waldman</a>, publisher (1951)</p></blockquote><p>This excerpt from Tolkien's famous "Mythology for England" letter often comes up. While the main thrust of the argument over whether Tolkien intended his writings to constitute such a grand purpose has its <a href="https://thehistoryvault.co.uk/tolkiens-english-mythology/">advocates</a> and its <a href="https://luke-shelton.com/2022/02/12/why-calling-tolkiens-work-a-mythology-for-england-is-wrong-and-misleading/">critics</a>, I've seen the two sentences above quoted as tacit endorsement from Tolkien on the idea of "other minds and hands" working upon <b>his </b>legendarium. That the likes of <a href="https://twitter.com/tolkiensociety/status/1493139985658171397?lang=en-GB">the Tolkien Society</a>, <a href="https://www.theonering.net/torwp/2022/08/07/114025-the-rings-of-power-is-earning-trust-in-the-fandom/">The One Ring.net</a>, & <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lMIaqdnv8SQ">celebrity fans</a> use it as such should leave little doubt, no matter how often they tout Tolkien as The One True Creator.</p><p>But the showrunners evidently <b>do </b>think that they are those very "other minds and hands" whether Tolkien intended it or not. "<a href="https://wegotthiscovered.com/movies/lotr-the-rings-of-power-showrunner-calls-it-the-novel-tolkien-never-wrote/">Can we make the novel Tolkien never wrote?</a>" For all the talk about honouring the text, the fact that they are legally prohibited from adapting the vast majority of the text they're supposed to be adapting means they <b>cannot </b>honour it. Nothing that does not appear in <i>The Hobbit</i> or <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> can appear, or even be referenced, as seen in the farcical nod to the Blue Wizards in <i>The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey</i>. The creators are not acting like adaptors - they're acting like co-creators.</p><p>And why shouldn't they? They aren't thinking of Middle-Earth in terms of one man's creation, but as a multimedia franchise created by many minds and hands. George Lucas may have been the prime mover of <i>Star Wars</i>, but it would be unrecognisable without the contributions of Martia Lucas, Lawrence Kasdan, Irvin Kershner, Ralph McQuarrie, John Williams, Ben Burtt - and the fruits of later creators like Genndy Tarkovsky, Timothy Zahn, & Dave Filoni are considered as worthy additions to the universe. Likewise, Gene Roddenberry may be the Great Bird of the <i>Star Trek</i> Galaxy, but Gene L. Coon, Herb Solow, D.C. Fontana, Bob Justman, Matt Jeffries, Bill Theiss, Fred Phillips, Wah Chang, & Alexander Courage shaped & populated it. So is the case with all multimedia franchises from Marvel to Disney - including, ultimately, <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, and therein lies the rub.</p><p>Unlike <i>Star Wars</i> or <i>Star Trek</i>, <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> - and <i>The Hobbit</i>, and all the Middle-earth & Arda legendarium - was not a collaborative effort. It was not the result of discussions, debates, arguments, or shared creation - it had one author alone. Tolkien, of course, insisted on calling it sub-creation, as was his preference, but there is a significant distinction between a work and its author, and a franchise and its owners. For most of the recent history of <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, that distinction was maintained. No new authors wrote sequels or prequels or sidequels with little "Approved by the Tolkien Estate" stickers; nobody presumed to "complete" Tolkien's unfinished tales in the manner other authors' skeletons have been crudely animated; none dared to say Tolkien was only the <b>first </b>Middle-earth writer. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeNtJvUGnOcXb15NiWaXDnoAMu0ZSN4awC-JksCyUOGxXcsOPoPRkD6HR5Z7doAQBK02XRJwhHXxjHE6FV7xS0J-v3Jov8q-YVO_iBS7cZxBmTRyicFF0x2h1MbDN1GqGnnmG3p9r2Vdy_XgsCawcPtkpMNcuqIoPkDZ09U2qeDBqER1UOpdjwxpScw/s1200/LOTR-TWOTR-TT.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeNtJvUGnOcXb15NiWaXDnoAMu0ZSN4awC-JksCyUOGxXcsOPoPRkD6HR5Z7doAQBK02XRJwhHXxjHE6FV7xS0J-v3Jov8q-YVO_iBS7cZxBmTRyicFF0x2h1MbDN1GqGnnmG3p9r2Vdy_XgsCawcPtkpMNcuqIoPkDZ09U2qeDBqER1UOpdjwxpScw/w400-h225/LOTR-TWOTR-TT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the accomplished Kenji Kamiyama directing and the writers behind "The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance," how could it possibly fai-<a href="https://archive.ph/BsSZf#selection-713.260-713.385">DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT</a></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It is easy to say this is in large part due to Christopher Tolkien's stewardship of his father's work, mostly because it seems blatantly obvious. The actions of the Tolkien Estate since his departure speak for themselves. The goal is to begin a new age for Middle-earth, one of multiple media, to go beyond the mass commercialism of the early 2000s to include more Middle-earth - new Middle-earth that can be copyrighted, trademarked, monetised. I am not so naive as to think the Estate were perfect prior to 2017, but there is a distinct change of tact since C. Tolkien left, and it is not one I think his father would necessarily approve of.</p><p>So when Sophia Nomvete talks with great pride about being "<a href="https://kzsection-info.translate.goog/green/lotr-the-rings-of-power-cast-tell-us-about-their-characters-san-diego-comic-con-tv-insider/0amnfIl6pYyPoJs.html?_x_tr_sl=kk&_x_tr_tl=en&_x_tr_hl=en&_x_tr_pto=sc">the first female dwarf we see on screen in this world</a>," understand that from her (and the showrunners') perspective, Middle-earth is not a singular creation (sub)created by one author, which is complete and can never be added to or extended. They are looking at Middle-earth as a living document that can be extended, subtracted, and altered by "other minds and hands" - the kind of living document that can have milestones like "first black stormtrooper" or "first series with a female captain lead." It makes no sense otherwise.</p><div>Whether you think this is a good thing or not depends entirely on what you think of authorial intent, intellectual ownership, and franchises as a whole. In terms of franchises, the copyright holder is the arbiter of what is or is not "canon." Hence how what is now known as <i>Star Wars Legends</i> has been <a href="https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/star-wars-killed-a-universe-to-save-the-galaxy/">all but expunged</a> from Star Wars Canon, or how the heinous episodes "Turnabout Intruder," "Code of Honor," and "Threshold" are <i>Star Trek</i> canon while the sublime novels of Diane Duane, Peter David, and Diane Carey are not. Canon, a tool for codifying the works and acknowledging the rights of a creator (with a capital C or otherwise), is too often used as a weapon of control. As it can be with religion, so it is with fiction.</div><div><br /></div><div>To the people behind <i>The Rings of Power</i>, Tolkien is but one of many co-creators - perhaps afforded a pre-eminent position among them, but only as part of a greater process. After all, Tolkien did not create Halbrand, Bronwyn, Arondir, Sadoc, "Nori," or any of the other main cast members who are nonetheless sharing as much promotional time as Galadriel, Elrond, Durin, & Míriel, so who should get the credit for them if not the people who wrote them? </div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;">The Fanatics Taking Over</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQV4JdnZLJUS667RqB1_Fc_fDiZ0gwbYKDiluA6TiL-RCB63i0uSmyOA6FySrmA6Te16qWjyLI3zX47gv6Ns23E4sVIbqyJkQwnXJCrelHLsW9hALrBHAuT-tPOdoCAB7jBzyNsP7cZCiX_jjOzL_MfmdAsNoyY6U6ArTr-FPZuXVN43w4oEQMr4tN0w/s1600/What%20We%20Left%20Behind%20DS9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQV4JdnZLJUS667RqB1_Fc_fDiZ0gwbYKDiluA6TiL-RCB63i0uSmyOA6FySrmA6Te16qWjyLI3zX47gv6Ns23E4sVIbqyJkQwnXJCrelHLsW9hALrBHAuT-tPOdoCAB7jBzyNsP7cZCiX_jjOzL_MfmdAsNoyY6U6ArTr-FPZuXVN43w4oEQMr4tN0w/w300-h400/What%20We%20Left%20Behind%20DS9.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look, I loved DS9 & Ira Steven Behr's contribution was immense, but this pompous, arrogant image and <a href="https://trekmovie.com/2018/08/21/ira-steven-behr-reveals-how-he-really-wanted-star-trek-deep-space-nine-to-end-more-ds9-at-stlv-2018/">his idea for DS9's finale</a> can go straight to Gre'thor.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It is inevitable that, as a subcreation (I hate "franchise," "property," "content," or any other term that demeans a work in terms of economics) develops a following, there will come a time where members of that following wrest control of it from its creators. Usually (frankly, preferably) it takes place after the author's death: if the heir is generous, then they will not tamper with the original works, or leave them languishing out of print, or outright destroy them. But that's the thing - someone being a fan does not always mean they are well-suited to being caretakers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Such a statement may seem strange to someone who is, well, a gigantic fan. But if there's one thing I've learned about fandom, it's that they're full of deeply-held, vigorously argued, and completely contradictory sentiments. So when one fan - be it Ronald Moore for <i>Star Trek: The Next Generation</i>, J.J. Abrams for <i>Star Wars</i>, Russell T. Davies and/or Stephen Moffat for <i>Doctor Who</i>, August Derleth for the Cthulhu Mythos, or Kevin Smith for <i>Degrassi the Next Generation</i> - takes the reigns of a subcreation, it's practically a guarantee that some fellow fans are going to have massive disagreements about their direction. </div><div><br /></div><div>Is it preferable to having some producer drone looking only for a stepping-stone to a "real" project? Undoubtedly - but it does not eliminate the need for talent, resolve, and competence. Peter Jackson was a fan, and Crom knows I have my problems <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2012/12/good-scot-bad-scot-hobbit-unexpected.html">with</a> <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-amazons-of-far-harad.html">his</a> <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-hobbit-official-movie-of-game.html">adaptations</a>. Fandom is not an excuse.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBSW0wwHKnjqIi6y_agFvhKQcZ1OI3WZdcx5W62hYS0FmFArZplU-CLdjYYrhZocnkEwvNxrr55IH_yZ3ue-yK3ynWvOG-5x1Op38OvT05DINiEOybWqiFMJs4yr_kLYfmG9-GS_4ggfmBP1b9nSimlNtLW-KObsRVYUVeiW9VGaYrETOBMYTZsILvA/s800/Aragorn_Magic%20the%20Gathering.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="789" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBSW0wwHKnjqIi6y_agFvhKQcZ1OI3WZdcx5W62hYS0FmFArZplU-CLdjYYrhZocnkEwvNxrr55IH_yZ3ue-yK3ynWvOG-5x1Op38OvT05DINiEOybWqiFMJs4yr_kLYfmG9-GS_4ggfmBP1b9nSimlNtLW-KObsRVYUVeiW9VGaYrETOBMYTZsILvA/s320/Aragorn_Magic%20the%20Gathering.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“The folks at Middle-earth Enterprises take their roles as stewards very seriously, and every decision about characters has been made with deep reverence to the original,” wrote Wizards content manager Adam Styborski. “With that in mind, together we set out to make a set that follows two guiding principles: diversity and originality.” <br />So who's this character - a Harondarian who joined the Rangers of Ithilien, an Umbarian who rejected the Black Numenoreans, a warrior of Far Harad who made his way north? Nope - it's <b>Aragorn</b>. <a href="https://boundingintocomics.com/2022/08/19/wizards-of-the-coast-race-swaps-aragorn-for-magic-the-gatherings-upcoming-the-lord-of-the-rings-tales-of-middle-earth-set-our-goal-is-a-modern-take-on-the-work-of/">Le siiiiigh</a></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>See, when I said <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/02/khand-and-rhun-and-harad-too.html">a few posts ago</a> how I hoped the project which ended up being <i>The Rings of Power</i> would go <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2017/11/the-lord-of-rings-series-wild.html">beyond the worlds Tolkien described</a>, it was not in the spirit of "writing the novel Tolkien never wrote." Only Tolkien could do that. Nor was I saying it would be preferable to a genuine adaptation - if I believed these jokers were capable of that, I'd be screaming for one & tearing my hair out at the inaccuracies rather than shrugging with all-too-expected resignation. Rather, I was speaking from a position of seeing endless fan-fiction that just keeps repeating Tolkien's Greatest Hits without bringing anything new to the table.</div><div><br /></div><div>All the "new" stuff in the Jackson trilogies was just extrapolations of settings, people, and ideas that Tolkien did elsewhere, better. Lurtz is just another Uruk-Hai; Tauriel just another Silvan Elf; the less said about Alfrid the better. But it's every bit of Middle-earth "original fiction" that does this. <i>The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age</i> follows the adventures of (among others) Idrial, Berethor, & Hadhod - an elf, a man, and a dwarf. <i>The Lord of the Rings: The War in the North</i> follows the adventures of Andriel, Eradan, and Thandrin - an elf, a man, and a dwarf. <i>The Lord of the Rings: Shadow of Mordor</i> follows the adventures of Celebrimbor, Talion, and Torvin - an elf, a man, and a dwarf.</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, I'm exaggerating, but only by a bit. The vast majority of the Middle-earth expanded universe seems aggressively dedicated to known ground - which means that their imaginations are limited thus. As ever, it seems a shame that the only room for diversity in Middle-earth is in toneless, pointless box-ticking exercises that don't even glance towards the rich possibilities the source material offers. Those precious few folk of Khand, Rhun, Harad, and beyond, even when granted a cursory look, rarely get the opportunity to be anything more than accessory villains.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1S9B9jBnb1J_d1RTioHQJ8KvyiceRqYPICuXwQ2PmFAzGqbbVN1JMJYy2SFKnvRpOUu9UCE0ioJVhqZHD7habsA4GJYBvNP3iRgVAGAKG0bTzKgKFD9DFk12MzqW6ZKqs1U25rJm3ZPeWXIF5_5H3vUFbPFSXr3t9upLn3owVdvhFmdRQOQmx7Yn2nQ/s748/LOTRTCD_Kahliel.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="521" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1S9B9jBnb1J_d1RTioHQJ8KvyiceRqYPICuXwQ2PmFAzGqbbVN1JMJYy2SFKnvRpOUu9UCE0ioJVhqZHD7habsA4GJYBvNP3iRgVAGAKG0bTzKgKFD9DFk12MzqW6ZKqs1U25rJm3ZPeWXIF5_5H3vUFbPFSXr3t9upLn3owVdvhFmdRQOQmx7Yn2nQ/w279-h400/LOTRTCD_Kahliel.jpg" width="279" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whole nations and cultures ripe for exploration, but nooo, we have to have <b>more </b>Elves and Dwarves and Hobbits...</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If only the people behind The Rings of Power showed the same imagination as the <i>Lord of the Rings: The Card Game</i>, where Haradrim like <a href="https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Kahliel">Kahliel</a>, Firyal, Jubayr, and Yazan are heroes in the <i>Sands of Harad</i> expansion, or <i>The War of the Ring</i>, where the villainous <a href="https://lotrfanon.fandom.com/wiki/Saleme">Saleme</a> at least had agency & complexity. For all its faults, <i>Middle-earth: Shadow of War</i> at least attempted to flesh out the Haradrim with Baranor, and the Easterlings with <a href="https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Zh%C3%B3ja">Zhója</a> and <a href="https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Serka">Serka</a>. Even Games Workshop, which has a (let's just say spotted) history regarding extra-European fantasy cultures, put a fair bit of effort into the backstories for <a href="https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Sulad%C3%A2n">Suladân</a> and <a href="https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Golden_King_of_Harad">the Golden King</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Alas and alack. But perhaps it's for the best. "Other minds and hands" operate best beyond the auspices of Seals of Approval, Official Merchandise, and other such authoritative titles. I was <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2011/02/last-ringbearer.html">very harsh</a> - perhaps unduly so - on Kirill Eskov's <i>The Last Ringbearer</i>, but I absolutely applaud its boldness in taking on the cultural juggernaut, even if I don't agree with the interpretation of Tolkien which inspired it. If <i>The Rings of Power</i> ends up being the poorly-written, vaguely-conceived, threadbare-structured mess I fear it would be, then there isn't much point in hoping it'd be any better if just a few things were changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let <i>The Rings of Power</i> come and go as it pleases. If it brings more folk to Tolkien, so much the better. If it inspires authors to subcreate themselves - rather than flesh out Rhun and Khand and Harad, perhaps just write their own fantasy realms unhindered by Western Dark Lords and Northern Things - then that's the best outcome of all.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3RDaPV_rJ1Y" width="320" youtube-src-id="3RDaPV_rJ1Y"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><i>The Woman King</i> is out this year. It is not based on fantasy, but history - it tells the tale of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dahomey_Amazons">Agojie</a>, or "Dahomey Amazons," the inspiration for the likes of Zula, Dossouye, the Dora Milaje, and any number of African warrior-women in fiction. The usual disclaimers for any historical fiction - accuracy, representation, whatnot - apply here as much as they do for <i>Braveheart, Schindler's List, </i>or <i>The Last Samurai</i>. But I'm more excited for this than I've ever been for <i>The Rings of Power</i>. Perhaps this combined with the success of <i>Black Panther</i> means we'll see the likes of <a href="https://www.pulse.ng/lifestyle/food-travel/queen-moremi-did-you-know-about-the-courageous-legend-whose-statue-is-the-tallest-in/hr4llg4">Moremi the Liberator</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muhumusa">Muhumuza the Fearless</a>, <a href="https://www.ghanaweb.com/person/Yaa-Asantewaa-175">Yaa Asantewa</a>, and more join the Agojie, the upcoming Queen Nzinga series, and the recent biopic on Amina the Conqueror.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess the originals really are the best.</div>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-17735950495136572302022-06-24T21:37:00.002+01:002022-06-26T00:28:30.543+01:00The Road to Acheron, Part Four - "Zukundu of the Twilight" & "The Glacier of Time's Abyss"<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnrpZCxdtbffFUukQp6oh8trAvVxkssX8APnjaChhDGnxjC55CCQuBJhZzP7KHL-nstSEhzkhAKSIHe1dv93GLZfTqW7Ry5QgdXNNvfHoY3Y-6cCtpbkw-lZ01IY2ndIJOh1DW8xBDVM-l3Ytb_ZeXW_OVXSOKAKDyMUjbzkAjiZznLKzf-2W3jhBlA/s512/Zukundu%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnrpZCxdtbffFUukQp6oh8trAvVxkssX8APnjaChhDGnxjC55CCQuBJhZzP7KHL-nstSEhzkhAKSIHe1dv93GLZfTqW7Ry5QgdXNNvfHoY3Y-6cCtpbkw-lZ01IY2ndIJOh1DW8xBDVM-l3Ytb_ZeXW_OVXSOKAKDyMUjbzkAjiZznLKzf-2W3jhBlA/w400-h400/Zukundu%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><br /></i><p></p><p><i>(<b>DM's </b></i><i><b>NOTE: </b>The first story is the conclusion of the previous sessions' adventure, and some story elements of Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars" are included... with some significant alterations.</i><i> The thrilling finale to the Zukundu saga is here at last - and we even had time to fit in the next adventure! Both ripping yarns are included in this post - the question being, who survives?</i><i> )</i></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><i><br /></i><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-hJ047LtmAk" width="320" youtube-src-id="-hJ047LtmAk"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Tall Grass," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></i><p></p><p>The Jade Keep is empty of human life, save those remaining in the Hall of Khenaton. The adventurers - Amatagt, Arcus, Dusan, Kenyatta, Kryxus, Tiberius, and Zafia - and their Xhotatse allies are all that seem to be left... but they are not all that are breathing. </p><p>After cleaning the blood from their weapons, Kryxus and Tiberius had a search through the cadavers, only to realise they left it too late. Zafia rummaged through the fallen Mekutu for treasure, and was delighted to find many wondrous jewel-encrusted treasures embracing the limbs and necks of Khenaton and his favoured children. She was soon weighing herself down with bracelets, anklets, necklaces, hooped earrings, and stuffed her leather pouches with hastily extracted piercings and rings. Arcus searched for artefacts, books, scrolls, anything to shed light on who the Mekutu were: unfortunately, like many peoples in the southern Black Kingdoms, the Mekutu did not appear to have any written language in evidence. It's likely that, like those other tribes and cultures, the Mekutu passed down oral traditions through generations - meaning that their history, language, culture, everything, was now extinct, save for one lone survivor. Arcus noticed that the Mekutu piper he ensnared in his net had not undertaken the ghastly sacrifice like her kin: she sat on her haunches, trembling, terrified. Arcus dropped to a knee with Kenyatta to speak to the girl. She stopped trembling: she seems to understand the most basic words and commands, but did not seem capable of responding.</p><p>The adventurers did not have much time to breathe. Just after Kosu burst into the chamber, they were suddenly aware of a great hissing - the rumbling of many scaled bodies moving - from behind the walls, under the floor, in dark corners of the room. With all the Mekutu slain by their own hands, there were none left to placate the ravenous serpent-things that dwelt below - and they knew that the horrors would soon be upon them!</p><p>Arcus turns to the piper. "Where's her flute?" "I have it!" Kenyatta turns to his satchel, where he thought he had stowed it away - only to find it empty. "What? But I just..." With a slow turn and an expression that could curdle milk, Kenyatta glared in Zafia's direction. The Zamorian's wide-eyed expression of innocence was somewhat unsuccessful given her enthusiastic ransacking left the bone pipe protruding damningly from her own satchel. She reluctantly tossed the pipe back to Kenyatta, who in turn chucked it to Arcus.</p><p>"Your flute, can you use it?"</p><p>The girl took the pipe immediately, and began to play that strange trilling sound as she walked through the double doors of the Hall of Khenaton. The room was now starting to fill with the serpent-things, issuing from every crack and crevice in the Jade stonework. Kryxus noticed a black ceramic vessel beside one of the braziers: he snatched it up on the way.</p><p>The adventurers made their way hurriedly through the corridors of the Jade Keep, following the piper as she marched as briskly as she dared. The serpent-things writhed with such congestion that it seemed the walls and floors themselves were made of the twisting black fiends. The piper led the others through hitherto-unseen parts of the Jade Keep - the feasting hall, the torture chamber, the prison - all now swarming with reptiles.</p><p>Once the companions exited the secret entrance of the Jade Keep, they took a moment to look back. Black-scaled serpent-things were pouring from every window, dripping from the balcony like slime, the keep itself looking fit to burst from the surging horde. Amatagt looked to the other buildings - the reptiles began to crawl from them, too. The entire forest of this area would soon be washed under a tidal wave of this life. The three Xhotatse shook their heads. "We have to go quickly my friends, " and burst into a sprint back to the Ebony Keep. </p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 6: The Ebony Keep Burns</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vyJ3n_jYOv0" width="320" youtube-src-id="vyJ3n_jYOv0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The Ghost and the Darkness: Lions Attack, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><h3 style="text-align: center;">Jullah's Blood</h3><p>Amatagt, Tiberius, and - amazingly - Dusan charge on with great speed after the guides, leaving the rest to follow their dust. The adventurers raced back through the tangled vines of the city-forest straight for the Xhotatse territory. Even as they approach, they hear the din of battle and the bellow of the Feathered Ape, smell the acrid stench of fire, and see plumes of smoke snaking into the sky.</p><p>The adventurers arrive at the Path of Skulls, expecting to see their guides picking their way through carfeully. But the Path has been revealed - a winding wooden bridge camouflaged with vines and leaves is the only way across. Where once there stretched a green field, now only gaping chasms remain, revealing pits full of sharp spears and stakes. Impaled upon many of those spears were bodies - some still twitching, others lifeless and dead. All have curiously elongated skulls. </p><p>"The Tangini!" Jambi spits. "They are in league with the Feathered Ape! They were in league with the Mekutu!"</p><p>"Or perhaps they framed the Mekutu," Tenbo suggested. </p><p>Jambi shook his head. "We have to hurry! Our Queen is in danger! Let's go!"</p><p>Kenyatta hears a familiar growl - following the sound, he identifies the source as a very large, very pale cat, now thoroughly soaked in blood, feasting upon the choicest cuts of now abundant meat. Incredibly, one of the Tangini still lived: as Jambi and Tenbo cross the pathed, he started to lash out, gnashing his teeth, spurts of blood arcing from his wounds as it grasps for the Xhotatse.</p><p>Kryxus, Zafia, and Arcus dared a closer look. Kryxus figured that the Tangini was simply in the throes of battle fury - he had seen such berserk rage among the Picts, the Cimmerians, the blond savages of the far north, and even among some of his own kinsmen. Arcus & Zafia saw something beyond that: there is clear evidence of some sort of stimulant at work here, perhaps a drug or a medicine. Arcus spied a small dart embedded in the Tangini's neck: seeping from the wound is not blood, but that strange red sap - a much more vibrant and viscous type, as if it was distilled and treated with some alchemical process. The sight of the dart initially concerned Arcus, but when Zafia pointed out that the dart was attached to a cord around the Tangini's neck, he frowned in further confusion. They did this to themselves?</p><p>The call of the Feathered Ape cried out. Jambi, Tenbo, & Kosu charged on. Tiberius reckons that the Tangini were no longer threats, but they may still provide some insight: just as he was pondering questioning the last living Tangini, the Moon Lion pounced and tore out the wounded warrior's throat.</p><p>The adventurers walked through the Path of Skulls into the Ebony Keep.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">Beyond the Door of the Elephant</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gCPH0kg32v0" width="320" youtube-src-id="gCPH0kg32v0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Funeral," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The Door of the Elephant lay open, bloody handprings and the marks of Tangini clubs - vicious flat paddles studded with black obsidian teeth along the flanks - bit into the bronze. The adventurers were keenly aware of the fire and smoke billowing from within the Ebony Keep. Just as Tiberius and Arcus walked through, a gleam from the star-fruit's light caught their eyes: huge gouges torn through the black stone of the Ebony Keep's outer walls. They were certain those gouges were not there before - and they were very much the shape of the gouges they saw on the hunt for the Feathered Ape.</p><p>Many Xhotatse warriors lay where they were slain beyond the door in the courtyard, surrounded by piles of Tangini corpses. Tiberius recognised the bodies of the young men who he saw playing with the monkey yesterday, dead with spears in their hands. The older woman, too, lay still on the stone floor of the keep. All the Xhotatse bore the wounds of those wicked clubs - some beheaded through the force of the Tangini's rage.</p><p>The sounds of battle roared inside the keep itself, screams and bestial howls rangthrough the stone, the clash of weapons punctuated the rumble of flames. And before the pool, Amatagt saw one last Xhotatse figure, very close to death. Old Inokwe opened his eyes at the sound of the adventurers footsteps, his features creased in pain and hope renewed.</p><p>"They came so suddenly - led by the beast himself, and that clever woman at his heels - fighting like demons, caring nothing for their own lives. "The Dreaming Ones" - Dreams of Conquest!" he spat with bitter venom, blood spraying from his cracked lips. "The Queen! She's in the throne room. Just take her from this awful place."</p><p>"But how? Arcus asked with empathetic pain in his eyes.</p><p>The old one shook his head in devastated realisation - his eyes widening when he saw the Piper with her instrument. "The pipes - you have the Pipes of the Mekutu! It is said that their song can still the beasts - perhaps even the Sentinels beyond! Maybe you can escape from this place..." He gasped in agony, and coughed up more blood. "Just... Just save the Queen. You know she cannot defend herself. I tried, but-" he holds out his bloodied hands. "Please, just promise me, you must save my dear innocent Chitaka. Please."</p><p>Arcus solemnly pledged. "We will get the Queen."</p><p>An intense wave of relief flooded across Inokwe's face. He breathed out, his head slumped forward upon his chest.</p><p>Solemnly, the companions marched on with hardened resolve.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Feathered Ape Revealed</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/s6jjYiYs6Nk" width="320" youtube-src-id="s6jjYiYs6Nk"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Final Attack," The Ghost in the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The main hall was strewn with bodies and debris: tapestries drooped in tatters, smashed pottery fragments scattered, pools of blood spattered across the polished black floor. The door to the throne room has been hastily barricaded by a flaming palisade of wooden wreckage: behind it Zyanya, Tenbo, Jambi, Kosu, and perhaps another dozen Xhotatse warriors battled furiously against three times as many Tangini, each side taking turns diving past the burning barrier. The Feathered Ape, his immense size and presence framed in dark silhouette against the flames, was in the thick of battle. Xhotatse reinforcements racing from other parts of the keep charged in, only to be flung bodily into the walls and ceiling with the monstrous might of the Ape. Several Xhotatse corpses were testament to that sickening power.</p><p>But at the back of the Ape and Tangini was an unexpected sight - a woman. "Scraps?" Arcus whispered. She was no longer wearing the humble attire of a berry gatherer, but the full regalia of royalty - a spectacular golden crown, breastplates and pauldrons, bracelets and anklets, with a strange, shimmering, semi-transparent veil not unlike those worn by the Devis of Vendhya covering her body, and two elegant daggers thrust in her belt. Kenyatta could not help but make a sharp intake of breath, for she resembled nothing so much as one of the great Queens of Shumballah, Punt, or even the semi-mythical Kuth of the Star Girdle.</p><p>The woman heard the adventurers, craned her neck with the supple sinuous movement of a viper, and smiled broadly. "Oh, you're here. I'm so glad you made it! I trust, then, that you have slain the Mekutu for us? Well, there are only so many of these Xhotatse left - I'm sure my husband will allow you to claim your share of their heads!"</p><p>The realisation of the woman's words - for who was this if not Princess Anepor herself - slowly dawned upon the company, a terrible realisation creeping into their minds like a venomous spider crawling into their ears.</p><p>"Where is your husband?" Dusan demanded, who clearly did not come to the same conclusion as the others.</p><p>"My husband? Do you not see him? Why, Prince Azar is right there." She pointed with a knowing, disgustingly lurid smile.</p><p>"Is he in front of the big ape?" A brief paused followed. Dusan's face fell, and he groaned with a nausea alien even to his recently assaulted innards. </p><p>Anepor saw the disgust on their faces, and twisted her own in contempt. "You people, you outsiders, you think so small! Since my first husband was taken by the Xhotatse, I ruled alone for a time. But I saw Azar, and marvelled at his might, his power. Even in your strange lands, I wager your marriages are seldom for love - politics drive dynasties. Azar may never be my man, but he can be my champion, my prince. And who better to lead a kingdom than the mightiest warrior within it? Yes? Yes!?"</p><p>Anepor began to cackle, the madness finally breaking through her carefully controlled poise. Amatagt had heard enough: with a motion too fast for the eye to follow he drew, nocked, and loosed his bow. So confident was the Princess in her victory, and so delighting in fooling the adventurers into slaying the Mekutu for her, she did not foresee the black Stygian arrow soaring through the air - it struck her square in the left shoulder.</p><p>She staggers backwards. "I thought you would have more sense than this." Her viperish head whipped around. "Husband! deal with these interfering fools! Send them screaming to whatever Hell they fear!"</p><p>The Feathered Ape - Prince Azar - turns at Anepor's call. At the sight of his Princess bleeding, his face dropped in concern - then scowled as he howled in outrage: he grasped the corpses of two slain Tangini by their warped skulls, and launched them towards the invaders like they were dolls. Arcus and Amatagt ably dodged - but Zafia and Kryxus were struck square in their chests, thrown back several feet, and trapped under the warrior cadavers.</p><p>The party barely had time to react when Azar rushed with frightening speed towards Arcus: he grasped with his claws, gleaming goldly in the firelight. Arcus leapt with preternatural agility onto the wall, his feet touching and momentarily suspending him horizontally, as he nocked and loosed an arrow. The beast missed, the arrow sank into his chest - but in the adrenaline of the charge, the ape seemed not to notice the injury. Wheeling, the Ape turned its attention to the second largest primate in the room - Dusan. Azar loped towards the Hyperborean, and used all its primeval strength to batter Dusan with its enormous forearm. Dusan was launched backwards into the wall - but somehow, rather than knocking the wind or indeed the consciousness from him, the unholy blow from this gargantuan ape awoke something in his soul. Electrified, his entire body trembling with nervous energy, Dusan emerged from the crack in the wooden wall panelling left by the impact...</p><p>Princess Anepor wrenched the Stygian arrow from her shoulder, and reaches for a small pouch from her belt. She tears the cord around it, and thrusts it into the wound, her face tensing with pain as that familiar red sap starts to drip in rivulets from between her fingers, as her eyes roll back in her head and foam froths from her mouth. The mad princess charges towards Tiberius, flailing her daggers wildly: though he makes to parry, the tall princess is just too quick, and her daggers bit painfully into Tiberius' flanks.</p><p>With a strength belying her slighter frame, Zafia presses the Tangini corpse off, and kicks herself up to a fighting stance, scimitar at the ready with a flourish; simultaneously, Kryxus roughly tossed the corpse on him to the side. Amatagt unleashed a volley of Stygian arrows - all fell short of the mark, one splitting a dead Tangini's malformed head. Dusan, his heart bursting with an antediluvian fury, rushed at the ape, grasped it by the fur on its shoulders with his huge Hyperborean hands, and screamed a primal howl at the Ape. Azar, stunned that a blow which has slain lesser men only encouraged this strange, balder, smaller Ape, felt an alien emotion scratching his brain stem. A new emotion spread across the Ape's visage - Kenyatta could now say he saw an Ape that showed a very human emotion: fear!</p><p>As the Hyperborean roared, Tiberius saw an opening in the berserk Anepor's assault, and stabbed her in the unarmoured ribs - but where normal sheer fabric would surely have parted cleanly against a razor-sharp blade, it instead hardened like Hyrkanian silk. Tiberius glimpsed a slight bruising on Anepor's toned stomach, but no blood...</p><p>Arcus took Dusan's primal challenge, and loosed his arrows at Prince Azar once again: the arrows found their mark, the Ape howled in rage. Seeing his success, the Argossean chanced his luck - he drew a small ceramic vessel, struck a flint against the rag stopped in its mouth, and hurled it towards the Princess. The missile smote her in the back, shattered, spattering oil over her - which then burst into flames. Anepor screamed in rage, dropping her daggers and thrashing her arms furiously.</p><p>Zafia pounced at the burning princess, her scimitar flashing an arc overhead to smite Anepor on the pauldron: she hissed serpent-like at the attack. As she snarled at the Zamorian, a pike rushed from the shadows, striking her square in the chest - Kryxus used all his power to thrust his pike with enough force to launch the princess bodily through the air, tearing her shimmering veil away and sending pieces of her jewellery scattering across the floor.</p><p>Upon hearing his princess flying across the room, the Ape cried in distress. Azar shoved Dusan away, and leapt to cover Anepor's burning body, trying in vain to put the flames out. Amatagt took this opportunity to unleash another volley: the Ape saw this from the corner of his eye, and spread its arms over her, taking each arrow in his broad back. Anepor glares from under the feathered fur of her husband towards Kryxus, and screamed: it was a howl of sheer hatred and agony that almost made the stone walls themselves tremble. Her husband, feeling the pain and the rage of his still-burning princess, joins in the exultation of fury. The Gunderman, being made of exceptionally stern stuff, holds fast, and in fact roars back, matching the screams. Azar snarled, picked up a nearby Xhotatse spear, and launched it at the Gunderman - but Kryxus knocks it from the air with his pike despite the unwieldiness of his trusty weapon.</p><p>Anepor, her last gasp of hate and anger now spent, sighed, her eyes rolled forward, dilated almost black. The foam drooled from her mouth, her eyes stared sightlessly, her injured chest falling still. Azar senses her motion stopping, and looks down at his princess. A bewildered, mournful moan peals from the Ape, his brow and mouth upturned - Kenyatta recognised sadness of an all too familiar kind. Azar shook Anepor gently; then he raised her head in one enormous hand that spanned her whole skull, brushing her lips with his other hand; he pressed his forehead to hers, and drew her into a great hug. The flames which consumed Anepor spread to the Ape, his glorious feathers catching fire, his once silver fur now singed black: in sudden pain, he dropped the princess, letting her head thud sickeningly on the floor.</p><p>Azar regarded the flames creeping from his arms to his torso almost dumbly. But the fire reflecting in his great brown eyes started to kindle the only emotion that gave him security. The burning Ape inhaled deeply, and roared: he smote his chest with such emotion he left bleeding bruises where his fists beat the skin; he leapt and spun around the stone floor in a dervish, battering splinters and chunks with his great golden claws. Azar, Prince of the Tangini, was ablaze in body and in soul, and charged aflame at the slayers of his princess.</p><p>Kryxus, recalling Arcus's trick, picked up the oil vessel he liberated from the Jade Keep, and tossed it towards the Ape: it shattered full on the beast's mighty breast, drenching it in oil - which swiftly caught fire. The Ape, now resembling some fire demon of ancient myth more than a natural animal, threw its great arms in a futile attempt to smother the flames now utterly engulfing him.</p><p>Yet even this nightmarish vision ripped from a Stygian mystic's eschatologies did not deter the adventurers: Zafia darted in, her pilfered golden trinkets clinking in motion like wind chimes, danced a tarentella as deadly as those practised by the Priestesses of the Spider-God in her homeland, her scimitar singing wickedly. The blade sliced through flames and flesh alike, dodging the burning swipes of its burning arms. Amatagt lets loose with his final volley of arrows, sending them whistling into the Ape's flesh, pinioning his left arm. The Ape fell to a knee, clutching at the arrows, his great head bowed.</p><p>Much like how the power of the Ape's attack only envigorated Dusan, the image of a demon from Set's lakes of fire inspired only greater resolve in Tiberius. The Kothian climbed the back of the flaming ape, and drew his dagger neatly past its throat. Blood poured from Azar's jugular, his eyes glazed, and the mournful moan gurgled into a rasp.</p><p>Prince Azar, Lord of the Tangini, turned to the still-burning corpse of the Princess Anepor. He crawled using his one good arm towards her, finally collapsing over her small frame, his eyes staring into her dead face until the light fades from his own.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 7: What We Leave Behind</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8rQHMWoerEc" width="320" youtube-src-id="8rQHMWoerEc"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Remington's Death," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The survivors are surrounded by the dead. Of the Xhotatse warriors, only Zyanya remained standing - coated in blood, atop a small hill of Tangini warriors. Tenbo clutched his side, a grisly wound bleeding profusely: Jambi was sprawled, barely conscious, beside him.</p><p>"We did it! Brothers! We did-" Tenbo groaned with great effort, trying to get to his feet, only to collapse with pain. Arcus & Amatagt, seeing Tenbo in pain, rushed to aid him, staunching the flow of blood; Zafia saw to Jambi. The warrior awoke with a start: "My leg! I can't feel my leg! The Ape tore it off! Oh I cannot look!" Zafia frowned, and pointed at the bruised but otherwise intact limb. Jambi smiled awkwardly</p><p>Zyanya, barely daring to pause for breath, turned curtly to the barricade throne room door, knocking upon it in that familiar rhythm seen yesterday. The door swung open, and the face of the Queen peered from behind. She stares wide-eyed at the death in the throne room, shudders, screams, and runs back.</p><p>"She should be stronger than this!" Dusan muttered.</p><p>"There's nobody left," reminded Tiberius.</p><p>"Aye. She's queen of nothing but an empty worthless jungle," Amatagt snarled contemptuously.</p><p>The adventurers looked around. The Stygian was cruel, but not incorrect: of the hundreds of Xhotatse, Mekutu, and Tangini who lived in Zukundu this morning, only five remained living. And the adventurers were still trapped on this island.</p><p>Zyanya stepped through the corpses of friends and foes. Her face was inscrutable, but the pain in her eyes unmistakable. "We were preparing a great feast for you. We had fruit, wine, some meats the crawlers had not taken." She sighed, long and sad. "We are all dead now."</p><p>"But we can leave! We can escape! You can come with us," Arcus argued.</p><p>"No, we cannot. We cannot escape this place. You saw the sentinels. My duty is to a kingdom that no longer exists." The resignation in Zyanya's voice tolled like a funeral bell. She turned: Chitaka was peering from behind the throne. "At least she will be a queen wherever she goes."</p><p>"Well, that's not true. But you, Zyanya, you are a beast: you will do really well. How many men did you slay there, what, nine and a half?"</p><p>Zyanya's lip curled absently. "You trying to flirt with me, outsider?"</p><p>Arcus held up his hands. "No, no, you're far beyond my station, I know that. I'm just saying that you'll do well, and the Queen - she'll be fine, honestly."</p><p>On hearing Arcus's voice, the Queen emerges from the throne room, clutching the very doll he gifted to her yesterday. She looked out, and noticed the last survivor of the Mekutu hiding behind an upturned chair. The piper stared, frightened but curious, as the Queen approached. The piper withdrew to the corner, kicking her legs back fearfully, but the Queen simply knelt, and held the doll out to her. The piper stares for a space, then takes it. The two girls took turns stroking the doll's hair, smiling at one another.</p><p>Jambo stared, aghast. "Our Queen, and a Mekutu? It is as if she does not know what her people have done to ours?" Jambi cursed.</p><p>"That one hasn't done anything. She is a child, like her. And save for her, there are no Mekutu left anyway. Save for us, there are no Xhotatse either. Perhaps this is the last hope for all of us, then."</p><p>Jambo nodded. "But we cannot live here now. There are not enough of us alive. And there is nothing to stop the Crawlers from claiming the rest of the island..."</p><p>Amatagt turns to the adventurers. "Well, what's your plan? Tie some of those giant crocodiles together in a raft?"</p><p>Kenyatta frowned. "No, but... that gives me an idea for a better plan." Kenyatta turns to the girl. "You still have your pipes?" She shakes her head. Kenyatta closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and speaks softly while rising in volume to a crescendo: "Zamorian, while you are busy rummaging through corpses for shiny toys, would it trouble you too much to let us borrow those pipes so that we can FINALLY GET OFF THIS ACCURSED ISLAND!?"</p><p>The silence was interrupted by the clink of metal on metal. Kenyatta turned to see Safia's legs kicking absently from underneath Azar's smouldering bulk: she extricated herself triumphantly clenching Anepor's crown in her teeth. Seeing the expressions on the gathered companions, she rolled her eyes, and passed the pipes once again to Kenyatta. </p><p>The adventurers left the Ebony Keep with piles of gold from the Xhotatse's treasury in sacks on their backs. While Zafia managed to practically encase herself in glimmering metals, the others had their share of prizes Arcus claimed the Ape's golden claws, while Dusan took the Ape's exquisite neckpiece. With time running out before sunset - and the coming of the Serpent-Things - they had little time to deal with the dead. They hastily moved the Xhotatse dead to the crypt, while unceremoniously tossing the Tangini into the lions' pit. Princess Anepor's corpse was thrown into the pool to feed the ravenous fish. And the charred carcass of Prince Azar was hauled to the top of the Ebony Keep's walls, as promised to old Inokwe.</p><p>Zyanya took the adventurers to a wall overlooking what would have been a pier in Zukundu's golden age - no boats remain, the Sentinels having destroyed them as they did to the adventurer's own craft. Kenyatta rappelled down and strode to the end of the pier, eying the several dark shadows which started to converge with interest. Kenyatta looked to the Piper, who returned his gaze expectantly, then turned to play. For a space, the great beasts did not respond. But as Kenyatta continued to play, they thrust their great heads vertically from the water, swaying like charmed snakes. The Kushite kept playing, until they finally splashed down, and floated peacefully in the water - forming a rudimentary living bridge to someone brave or foolish enough to try!</p><p>Kenyatta, still playing, motioned to the adventurers. They descended the great wall to the pier, and carefully paced on the massive backs of these monstrous beings, which seemed to tolerate their presence only while the music played. Once all had crossed, Kenyatta attempted to coax the beasts to follow - but whatever force conjured these creatures from the ancient past also bound them to this lake, and they would not move from its waters.</p><p>From there, the adventurers parted ways once more. Tiberius took the survivors of Zukundu with him to a Mitraist shelter in southern Koth, where he hoped the last remnants of a lost kingdom could find a home. Kryxus returned to Gunder's Land, where he hoped to find news of his people. The others made their own way - some secretly hoping this would be the last time they would encounter certain members of the party, though the Threads of Fate have other ideas.</p><p style="text-align: center;">BUT THAT IS ANOTHER STORY!</p><p><br /></p><h1 style="text-align: center;">THE GLACIER OF TIME'S ABYSS</h1><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 1: Xholatar Khel Must Die</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KxxnACIpUUI" width="320" youtube-src-id="KxxnACIpUUI"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Early Arrival," The Edge, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The closed wagon creaked and groaned as the stout northern horses hauled it across the rude stone blocks of the last road out of Hyperborea. Dusan the Jolly stood proudly at the front of the wain, one foot on the edge, embracing the icy wind and sleet ravaging his face - truly, it was good to be back in a more reasonable climate after his hellish sojourn in the deep jungles of Kush!</p><p>He inhaled deeply, feeling the cold air spread through his lungs and blood: he held his breath for several seconds, and exhaled a great cloud of steaming breath with a sigh of pure satisfaction. "Aaaaah, that is good weather, my friends! Welcome to Hyperborea!"</p><p>He turned momentarily to regard the huddled souls shivering under the wagon's inadequate roof. Arcus, more used to the balmy climes of the southwest, was barely visible under piles of furs and wool, only a nose red with cold peeking from his hat betraying his presence. Tiberius the Kothian and Kryxus the Gunderman, while certainly used to freezing winters in their barbaric homelands, certainly did not enjoy them with the same vigour as their Hyperborean comrade.</p><p>The three Hyborians came at Dusan's personal request. The Zamorian and the Stygian, on the other hand, came along by pure circumstance. Zafia and Amatagt had their own reasons for making the journey to far Hyperborea - ones that they did not particularly wish to share with their companions at this point, not least because the two had fallen fast asleep among their furs.</p><p>Dusan, satisfied that he faced down the weather itself, returned indoors. He slapped the driver - a sullen, gaunt, deathly pale Hyperborean not unlike himself - and sat roughly with his back to the open door, blocking much of the weather with his own enormous back.</p><p>"It is good you came, friends. I think it is time I tell you what is going on. Balak, King of Hyperborea, has tasked me with a most serious mission. Several months ago, the King ordered a royal archaeological expedition to a location in the far north of the kingdom. The court historian, Verenik of Kytez, believed that one of the lost cities of Elder Hyperborea was located in a hidden mountain range. Nothing has been heard from them in the months since. The road ends at Lukomor: once there, we have to walk. We have enough supplies to last a few weeks, but I hope we find the expedition before that becomes an issue."</p><p>Tiberius was intrigued by the mention of lost cities. "What do we know of Verenik and this lost city of his?"</p><p>Dusan shrugged. "I was never one for history. Verenik was an old eccentric. Any time I saw him at court, he gibbered on about some nonsense - Ancient Hyperborean kingdoms, purple-skinned giants, Witch-Queens - things that make no sense to me. But the king finds him fascinating, somehow. Another reason I'm glad to have you is you won't have to deal with local politics!"</p><p>Arcus lifted his fur hat. "We're only too happy to help, my friend. I truth, your summons came at an opportune time for me."</p><p>Dusan frowned. "Something troubling you?"</p><p>Arcus shifted in his seat, and moved closer to Tiberius and Dusan. "Someone is trying to kill me, and I don't even know who he is. I don't know what's going on. Do you know Xholatar Khel? I don't know who he is."</p><p>Dusan's face darkened like a Hyperborean night. "I spit on that name. He's trying to kill you?"</p><p>"Yes, and I don't even know why!"</p><p>Tiberius' eyes flash with a hatred none of the companions ever saw in him before. "Khel!" </p><p>Kryxus had been listening, and upon hearing the name of his hated nemesis, he interjected. "He's the reason for my exile!"</p><p>"Wait, he's trying to kill Arcus, and he's the reason for your exile?" Dusan repeated to Arcus and Kryxus.</p><p>Arcus was flummoxed. "What? How?"</p><p>Tiberius smashed his hands on the deck. "He's the one who brought ruin to my shrine!"</p><p>Dusan shook his tousled hair. "The more I hear about this man..."</p><p>Arcus was flabbergasted that all the companions with him "Seriously, we really need to deal with this man."</p><p>"He has to answer for his crimes at Mitra's court!" Again, Tiberius slammed his fists.</p><p>"Indeed. This man is a threat to my people," the Hyperborean added.</p><p>"How is he a threat to your people?" Arcus inquired.</p><p>The Hyperborean was suddenly evasive: how much should he burden his friends with dangers from his past? "He- he just is. Besides, your testimony is reason enough to stop him. But there's little we can do about it here: for now, we must undertake the King's orders."</p><p>Kryxus nodded: he was well aware of a noble warrior's duties to his king. Tiberius pondered this strange situation - was this one of Mitra's esoteric machinations, pulling together heroes who were wronged by Xholatar Khel in order to ultimately defeat him? Even the hedonistic Arcus respected that loyalty.</p><p>The adventurers fell silent for the rest of the journey to the little community of Lukomor. After refilling supplies, checking knots, and some last-minute prayers to their myriad gods, the travellers ventured forth to the Icy Wastes.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 2: The Warden of the Icy Wastes</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xuKG88SQIWw" width="320" youtube-src-id="xuKG88SQIWw"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Ravine," The Edge, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Dusan marched out at the head of the adventurers' train, thoroughly in his element - even if he took the least efficient route short of going in a circle - while his allies struggled through the snowy landscape. </p><p>The farther north the companions travel, the more it feels like they're the only souls left on the Earth. The glare of the snow burned their eyes; the wild north wind screamed in their ears, biting their exposed skin. But what was most uncanny to them was the smell - or, rather, the lack of any smell. There was no wildlife, no foliage, no flowers. The smells of nature, from the delicate aromas of flowers to the pungent aroma of bodies and beasts, are completely absent. The southerners all thought back to the smells they took for granted: Arcus ached for the sharp salt of the sea air; Amatagt pined for the dry musk of the desert. Even Dusan, used as he was to the anosmia of frozen lands, could not shake the feeling that he was traveling through the Realm of Death Itself.</p><p>The cloudless blue skies blared in the daytime; the northern lights danced mockingly above at night. After some days of crossing a great frozen plane, they discovered what appeared to be foothills leading to the colossal blue mountains further north. They navigated these hills: as they crested the last hill, the familiar tang of blood, salty sweat, and upturned soil rushed into their nostrils. They almost savoured it after days of walking in the odourless ice. They looked down upon a valley strewn with dozens of dead bodies, half-frozen in the snow.</p><p>The companions rushed down the slope to the bottom of the valley. Dusan instantly recognises the burnished, gleaming scale corselets and spired fur-rimmed helms of Hyperborean soldiers - the expedition's guard, no doubt. The other warriors, however, were something Dusan dreaded. He thought it was too far north even for them - but laying on the ground were tall, blond-haired savages, of the tribes that were assaulting the borders of Hyperborea for generations.</p><p>These savages were brutish and primeval even beyond the most atavistic of the New Hyborians: to Dusan's eyes, they were as close to the Ape as they are to humans. Shaggy locks of yellow hair, from pale to strawberry blond, on their heads, chins, and cheeks framed their flat noses, wide mouths, and strong ridged promontory brows. Each was clad in furs, with great bulging muscles displaying a complete lack of extraneous flesh. Many were men, but there were some women among these savages: even with their divergent proportions, they were scarcely less formidably built than the menfolk.</p><p>West of the slaughterfield, a great rock jutted. Below that rock lay one of the savages, leaning against the stone face, cradling the body of a savage woman. Barely visible clouds of breath billowed from the savage's open mouth.</p><p>As Dusan opened his mouth, he felt a cold wind - from the corner of his eye, a great black shape hurtled towards him. Out of pure instinct, the companions bounded aside as a great chunk of ice and rock the size of an ox roared past them! The projectile crashed into the ground, and rolled up the valley for a few seconds before crumbling into pieces. Arcus heard great clumping sounds crunching through the frosty snow from the other side. A bellow like a bull with five times the lung capacity shook the hills. The adventurers drew their weapons.</p><p>The figure which loomed over the valley seemed like a figure of myth & legend. First a great head appeared, with low lips drooping past an absent chin, no visible nose, great tusks sloping each side of its wide mouth, and a single eye in the centre of its head. Its enormous torso rose over the snowbanks, with massive shoulders and arms, one heaving a great club of frozen wood and rock fused together with black ice. Its stout legs and hooflike feet finally trod over the ridge, with a strangely ungainly movement - like a creature which is not meant to stand on two feet. The giant stood above the adventurers, its great ribs expanding, expelling great gusts of frozen air with each breath. It stood some fifteen feet tall, Then it pounded its ice-club against the ground, raised it aloft, and roared an unmistakable challenge.</p><p>Dusan had never seen anything like this in Hyperborea before - but he'd never struck fear into a great ape until Zukundu, so he charged up with his Hyperborean sword aloft. Kryxus, his long Gunderman pike at the ready, broke into a jog, speartip aimed at the monster's chest. The titan loped down the hill, using its free hand to balance as it ran.</p><p>Kryxus braced as he thrust his pike towards the giant: it struck its left armpit, not puncturing it, but causing the beast to roar in pain. Just at that moment, Dusan cut his sword towards the creature's foot - but Kryxus left the creature unbalanced, so it lifted its enormous foot just out of Dusan's reach. Zafia charged, ducked between the giant's legs, slicing under the kneecap in the process - angering it, but not drawing blood.</p><p>Amatagt, shivering in this accursed cold, did not trust his arrows to find their mark, and so sliced his wicked Khopesh through the giant's inner thigh. Rivulets of blood started to gush. Tiberius saw Kryxus' pike pushing into the giant's armpit: he ran beside Kryxus, and pushed with the Gunderman together to twist the blade into its flesh. With their combined strength, Tiberius and Kryxus force the point of the pike through the armpit into the shoulderblade. The giant roared in agony and fury.</p><p>Arcus was struck with a whim: he looped a rope around an arrow, and loosed it over the giant's head, hoping to ensnare it. While it indeed soared over, it did not anchor itself in any meaningful manner - and instead struck the unwitting Amatagt on his brigandine vest. Arcus grimaced as Amatagt's expression darkened.</p><p>The giant, enraged, heaved its brutal ice club overhead down at Kryxus: the Gunderman, feeling he could somehow parry this gargantuan weapon, raised his armoured forearm in an attempt to deflect. He was successful in that he was not utterly destroyed: the momentum of the blow hurled him backwards. Fortune was kind on him, as he rolled to his feet, the sting of the impact pulsing in his nerves, his mail shirt still vibrating.</p><p>Hearing the Stygian's curses directed towards Arcus, the giant instinctively hauled its ice-club backwards towards Amatagt: he rolled nimbly away, the arrow still lodged in his armour.</p><p>All through this, Arcus shouted at the beast in all the languages and patois he picked up on his adventures. The creature did not respond to any of them: if it spoke any language, it was that of the beasts and birds. In frustration, Arcus snatched one of Tiberius's daggers and hurled it at the giant - it struck the monster on the forehead, where it embedded. The blade waggled grotesquely back and forth with the beast's confused movements.</p><p>Zafia, frustrated that none of the blood shed was caused by her, dipped and sliced at the creature's leg again. The Zamorian groaned petulantly when her cut did not erupt in a burst of dark fluid - but after a moment, a small trickle drips from a razor-thin wound. Zafia grinned sadistically. </p><p>Tiberius looked witheringly at Arcus. "I hate you." Affronted at the loss of his dagger, he scrambled up Kryxus's wedged pike, grasped the sparse tufts of fur on the beast's shoulders, and clambered around its neck to reach for his weapon. Amatagt, still dealing with Arcus's arrow, cut wildly with his Khopesh, only for it to glance from the beast's hide.</p><p>Dusan, seeing the precarious position Tiberius has climbed into, lifted his sword, and bellowed a challenge of his own. The giant momentarily forgot both the pike in its shoulder and the human on its back, and turned to face the comparatively tiny Hyperborean. Dusan looked square in the creature's face, trying not to take in the fact that the creature's tusks were as wide apart as his own shoulders.</p><p>Kryxus left his pike wedged in the creature's shoulder and drew his sword. He charged in and cut the back of the giant's legs in a single fluid motion: it roared again, and crashed to its knees. As it fell, it glared at Dusan with its singular eye, and brought its ice-club squarely on the Hyperborean's chest: Dusan was smashed violently into the snow. The titan then reached over its head for Tiberius: it grabbed the Kothian, and hurled him off like a child on a wild bull.</p><p>The companions were in disarray. Zafia looked around. Dusan was embedded in the ice; Arcus rushed to aid Tiberius; Amatagt was still wrestling with the arrow; she could not see Kryxus anywhere. As far as she was concerned, victory was up to her. A fiendish glee scrunched Zafia's face in a wild grin. She had purloined plenty of treasure from under her companion's noses, after all - why not take the glory of slaying this monster too?</p><p>The Zamorian twirled her scimitar like a Shadizar sword-dancer, twirled and bounded acrobatically, the blade flashing and blinding the creature's lone eye. Then, leaping into the air, she brought the blade down behind the monster's head, cutting through vertebrae, muscle, and hide. The creature's head thudded to the snow and rolled away: its body slumped forward, Kryxus's pike penetrating through its body. The Gunderman grimly walked up from behind the beast, wiping his sword on its hide, and extracted the spear from its corpse. Tiberius, limping from his unwanted flight, lurched to the creature's head, and withdrew his dagger. He glowered at Arcus, who could only wince apologetically as he strained to extricate Dusan from the Hyperborean-shaped mold left in the frost.</p><p>The Kothian cleaned his blades, and stood with hands on hips before the monster. The blood poured steadily from its wounds, most actively from its gory neck. Tiberius watched for a space - something was wrong, but he wasn't sure what. Then he realised: despite the extreme cold temperature, the blood was not freezing. It continued to pool around the corpse as a liquid even as the frost around it remained. What's more, there was no steam from the decapitation - it was as if the creature was cold long before it died. Dusan noticed this as well. The blood appeared natural, but strangely tainted, as if mixed with some unknown fluid.</p><p>The adventurers started to debate with one another as to the nature of this thing. Arcus recognised it as a Cyclops, a terrible giant of ancient Argossean legend from the days before the Great Cataclysm. Many stories are told of these flesh-eating monsters, their battles against the sea-kings and sailor heroes of the island kingdoms, enough for whole cycles of mythologies.</p><p>Dusan, however, came to a rather different - and startling - conclusion. He studied the beast's head with great curiosity: the tusks, the shape of the head, the texture of the fur, all seemed strangely familiar to him. He pried open the huge jaws, and inspected the great ridged molars within. With a start, he understood - he has encountered beings like this before. The tusks, teeth, fur - they belonged to a mammoth. The socket containing the singular eye, Dusan knew, was where the anchor of a mammoth's trunk should be. Looking closer, Dusan recognised that the skull itself had the shape of a mammoth: casting a bewildered eye to the body, he recognised the proportions of the limbs, the length of the torso, and the four thick digits on each hand and foot. By some evil method - science, or sorcery, or otherwise - this giant was fashioned with the flesh of a mammoth!</p><p>The party was speechless. "It's very strange," Dusan clarified in his usual understated manner.</p><p>A low, rasping laugh echoed in the valley. The adventurers turned in its direction. The blond savage still lived, and was laughing at the warriors who slew a giant.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 3: The Riddle of the Savage</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/o6rojj7E32U" width="320" youtube-src-id="o6rojj7E32U"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Mighty Hunter," The Edge, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>The groups trudged up the slope towards the survivor. He spoke to them in a language none could understand - but Dusan recognised as the language spoken by the same savages who attack the Hyperborean borders.</p><p>"Anyone understand him?" Arcus asked.</p><p>"He's probably saying something very rude," Dusan chided. He turned to the savage. "Do you understand Hyperborean?"</p><p>The savage looked strangely at Dusan, and gestured for him to come closer. Dusan did, but kept a safe distance. The stranger patted his chest, indicating himself. "Jarn, hefnir Olaf."</p><p>Dusan frowned. "He's saying his name's Jarn, son of Olar."</p><p>Jarn smiled, and extended his hand towards Dusan with eyebrows raised. Dusan frowned for a moment, then nodded. "Dusan."</p><p>"Dusan!" Jarn boomed. He pointed to the fallen giant: "Wodanaz!" then each of the warriors. "Wodanaz banamar! Ha ha ha!" The big man laughed heartily, prompting reciprocal echoes among the confused adventurers. He pointed to the monster again, then to a dark space in the mountains beyond. Arcus observed that the giant's footprints seemed to lead in the direction indicated.</p><p>"I think he wants us to bring his body back to his sacred territory," Arcus said solemnly.</p><p>"Or it might be where the beast has come from," Dusan questioned.</p><p>"Oh. That. That makes more sense. Yes." Arcus rubbed the nape of his neck.</p><p>"Perhaps there is some sorcerer who has made this," Dusan mused.</p><p>Jarn cradled the dead woman's head, combing her hair with his fingers. "Thyra..." At this, he fades out of consciousness. As the companions turn to confer, he awakes with a start. "Am I dead?"</p><p>Dusan is startled to realise he can understand Jarn. The savage looks at the adventurers. "Who are you?"</p><p>"Who are you?" Arcus responded, unthinkingly, in Argossean. Arcus was amazed to realise he, too, could understand what the warrior said.</p><p>Jarn stared, confused, for several seconds. Then he closed his eyes, drawing his lips pursed. "Ah. This happens sometimes. I am - I was - no, I am Jarn. I have been Hialmar, Horsa, Asgrim, Bragi. I have been many people. My time as Yarn is coming to a close. I came here hoping to slay the Jotun - but someone beat me to it! What is important is that it is dead: but it is not the only thing that needs killing in these lands."</p><p>With great pain evident on his face, he reached to the back of his belt. He extricated a waterskin. "I can see you are all confused. How you can understand me, and me you, in your own tongues. I do not understand it myself. But I do not have long in this body: take this." He held out the waterskin. "This will kill it. Do not let your naked flesh touch it. Place it upon your steel, and there will be nothing in this universe that it will not cut."</p><p>Arcus reached forward, and took the waterskin. Jarn relaxed. "But be prepared. The place you go is dangerous indeed. I go now. I do not know who I will be next. Mayhap I will rejoin Thyrsa at last. Perhaps I will be that cripple in the desert. He would not understand, but he was the bravest of us all." Jarn withdrew his shattered sword, and placed it on his chest. "Make it bleed."</p><p>A final cloud of breath, and Jarn, son of Olar, passed into the mists beyond this world.</p><p>Dusan looked on this erstwhile foe with a newfound respect. Nonetheless, he was here to find out what happened to Verenik's expedition, and nothing here has answered that question.</p><p>For once, the companions were appreciative of Zafia's thoroughness. While she of course kept the prettiest and most valuable of trinkets from the dead soldiers, she also found scraps of information - journals, watch rotas, inventory lists. The evidence suggested that the expedition was taken by surprise, ambushed by these savages. This explained the soldiers - but what happened to the scholars, the labourers, and Verenik himself?</p><p>Arcus hefted a particularly large and finely-clothed Hyperborean, whose gilt armour suggested a position of leadership. He was clutching a book in his arms: a leatherbound journal. It was written in a language he could not understand, though logic dictates it belonged to one of the scholars, if not Verenik himself.</p><p>"Tiberius, can you read this?" The Argossean turned to the only other scholarly man he knew. Tiberius shook his head. Arcus went in turn to the other adventurers, hoping beyond hope that they could read. "It's Hyperborean, definitely can't read it," Amatagt said curtly, still nursing his punctured armour. Arcus moaned, and finally approached the only Hyperborean in the party. "Dusan... honestly, I mean I know you can't read, but-"</p><p>"What do you mean I cannot read? I worked at the court! It was my job to read!"</p><p>"You can read?"</p><p>"Yes, of course I can read!"</p><p>"Well can you read this?"</p><p>"Of course I can read this!" Dusan ripped the book truculently from Arcus's grip, greatly insulted and a little hurt by his friend's supposition. "Just because I am from a cold place you think I cannot read?"</p><p>"I just assumed you were not literate!" Arcus spread his arms wide in a futile gesture.</p><p>Growling like a self-conscious bear, Dusan flipped the book open. He could read some of what was written inside: to his exasperation, much was encoded in an esoteric cipher. Scholars from Hyperborea to Vendhya jealously guarded their most treasured secrets and theories, which made things maddeningly difficult for the rest of the population. Discouraged, he turned to the cover, and read it out, hoping to impress his friends and salve his ego:</p><p>"Expedition into possible Cerngothic Dynasty ruins of the Reign of Loquamethros in the Year of the Green Spider: A Chronicle by Verenik of Kytez, Master Archaeologist and High Scholar of the Court of Balak of Hyperborea." He glanced sideways, hoping the company was suitably impressed by his elocution.</p><p>Dusan thumbed through the rest of the book, muttering some of the few words and phrases that were not disguised. "Fall of Commorium... Destruction of Antanok.... Uzuldarine Dynasty... Testament of Evagh, Slayer of Rlim Shaikorath... Parchments of Pnom..." None of the phrases mean anything to him. However, near the back of the book, one page caught his attention: a ragged scribble of notes next to a coding ring. Dusan reads out the translation:</p><p>"There is a code here. It reads "The tower is high, yet casts no shadow." And there are directions - they lead..." Dusan turned, and realised that the destination matched Jarn's direction.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 4: The Tower That Casts No Shadow</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_MltW5RKWMU" width="320" youtube-src-id="_MltW5RKWMU"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">("Birds," The Edge, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The adventurers traversed north. They arrived at a huge escarpment: it desceptively blended into the shape of the mountains beyond. The only passage appeared to be a small cave within the ice. Emboldened by their victory over the giant, the heroes entered the cave.</p><p>The walls glistened, the light scattering through the ice. As they journeyed further, they found the ice gave way to a natural rock cave. Dusan lit a torch. On the walls, they found cave paintings - rudimentary human-like shapes dotted with blond heads, hurling spears at a great one-eyed giant with tusks. They appeared to be driving the giant back, towards what looked like a giant tidal wave - an oddity for a cave so far from the coast. At the base of the wave stood a small square gate, guarded by two fabulous animals. Arcus recognised them as griffins - more beasts of the Pre-Cataclysmic Era, known to guard treasure. Within that wave was a shape: black pigment smeared in serpentine coils, dotted with white jagged points and flecks. The Hyborians did not know what to make of this, but something stirred in Amatagt & Zafia's memories, some ancestral dread that put them ill at ease.</p><p>Dusan passed his torch to Kryxus, and consulted the book. Sure enough, several of the creatures illustrated on the wall were represented in the book. Arcus leaned over, and was surprised to see many creatures completely unfamiliar to him. He prided himself on his knowledge of ancient creatures, yet some of them seemed utterly alien to his eyes.</p><p>The adventurers emerge on the other side. A vast canyon stretches out, almost further than any can see, on left and right: on the other side, connected by a thin bridge of ice, was the subject of the cave paintings. An enormous tidal wave, hundreds upon hundreds of feet high, frozen in place, as if held there by the will of some terrible god of ice. Icicles longer than the tallest trees dripped from the crest of that monstrous wave: dark shapes could be barely glimpsed within the semi-transcluscent walls of that mountain of ice.</p><p>The company stood, transfixed by the unreality of what they beheld. The light of the day, normally cold and blue, fluctuated here: the refraction of light through innumerable ice crystals and incalculable fathoms of frozen water cast a riot of colours across the landscape. But a single dark spot stood out amongst the bright colours - a square, dark, stone gate.</p><p>Arcus was the first to break from his transfixion with this otherworldly realm. The ice bridge looked solid enough to carry their weight without effort: it was wide enough for three to cross at once. Nonetheless, the Argossean was cautious... and slid across the ice on his front, like a humanoid seal.</p><p>Initialy perturbed, the other adventurers reasoned that the sailor perhaps knew something they didn't, and they followed. The sliding companions made it to a third of the way across without much incident. Zafia was absently peering into the ice chasm when a glint of gold caught her eye: some trick of the light cast a formation of ice in a manner strangely reminiscient of a pile of gold. As she leaned for a closer look, her avarice almost cost her everything - as she slid over the edge, almost falling into the abyss below!</p><p>Amatagt, who was following behind her, saw her banking slowly off course, and had the wits and strength to catch her before she plummeted down. Zafia could not stifle a bloodcurdling scream for the brief moment she felt herself suspended in air: it reverberated loudly across the chasm, even as Amatagt helped the Zamorian back onto the bridge. "Thanks," Zafia gasped. "Not the first time I've caught someone from a precipice. Usually runaway slaves, though."</p><p>Something else screamed among the stalagmites of ice far below them. The scream repeated, joined by more and more, until a chorus of screeches deafened the companions. Shadows fluttered from the gloom: a flock of what appeared to be birds erupted from the chasm below. And they were heading straight for Zafia.</p><p>The adventurers ran the rest of the way. Two thirds of the way across, and their pursuers were gaining. They had wings like bats stretching from fingertip to toe: long snouts like storks ending with a wet doglike nose and bristling whiskers. Small catlike ears fanned from their long heads, and big black eyes like Zamorian prayer beads bulged unblinking from their faces. Rows of needle-like teeth lined their jaws when they opened to screech. Arcus marvelled in equal measure to his horror - it is as if some madman took the skin of a mammal, and stretched it over the skeleton of a bird.</p><p>By the time they got to the end of the bridge, Dusan was batting the creatures away with his fists, shielding his eyes from their claws and teeth. Yet when they crossed the threshold, the fiends wheeled back, and flocked without pursuing - like an invisible barrier held them at bay. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they plunged into the abyss, and silence reigned once more on the ice.</p><p>Gasping for air, the adventurers did not dare to turn around until they were certain the creatures were gone. When they did, they looked at the gate anew. Strewn about were strange mirrors that seemed to have falen from mechanisms installed beside the entrance. A great sea-green jewel was set in an alcove above the door. Flanking the great stone structure - much larger than the distance suggested - there were two slabs. Upon those slabs were what appeared to be two statues, encased in a thick layer of ice. Tiberius was familiar with the Kothians' appreciation of lion sculptures - but these were no lions, or any sort of cat. Arcus recognised them as griffins.</p><p>Dusan peered through the ice. The creatures resembled their depictions in the book and on the cave wall superficially, but there was something twisted about these creatures in a way uncomfortably similar to the giant and those bat-things. The griffin, as depicted, had the head, wings, and forelimbs of an eagle, with the hindquarters of a lion. This creature was four-legged, sure enough, and it had claws, and a great beak, but there the similarities ended. This creature had the air of a reptile about it: golden scales covered its back and limbs, countless spines erupted from its tail, and the great crest sloping from its skull resembled some sort of bony shield. Dusan jumped back when one of its eaglish eyes turned to look at him. Kryxus tapped the ice near the creature's snout. Its eye darted towards the Gunderman. </p><p>Amatagt was in no mood for delay, so he strode up to the doors and pushed on them. As soon as his hands touched the strange metal, an almight crash shattered the silence. The ice around the statues splintered into fragments: the creatures shook their awful manes, flecks of gold dust sparkling with powdered ice. With a squawk like an eagle ten times deeper, they crouched, readying to pounce. Their eyes fixed on Dusan... and they waited</p><p>Nobody dared to move. Amatagt glanced at the mirrors, where the sea-green jewel was reflected. He recalled seeing something like it at one of the Black Pyramids of Luxor, a seat of the infamous Black Ring of Set. An old Stygian merchant told him that if properly illuminated, these jewels would react - conduct light through dark spaces, provide heat, even operate simple machines. Simple machines like doors. </p><p>"Dusan, what was the riddle?"</p><p>"The Riddle? Oh, the book!" Dusan opened the book, frantically flicking through the pages. "Yes, yes: "The tower is high, but casts no shadow." What does it mean?"</p><p>Amatagt froze in realisation. "Light. It's a beam of light! Use a mirror to direct the sunlight there, onto the jewel above the door!"</p><p>Carefully, the adventurers crouch, watching the creatures: they had not taken their eyes off Dusan, nor he them. The others painstakingly angled the polished metal discs until the doors parted. As the great doors swung open, the creatures relaxed, and bounded down into the abyss.</p><p>Amatagt stood, hands on hips, smiling with the grotesque satisfaction only a follower of Set could display. He spread his hands triumphantly. "What would you do without the Stygian?"</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 5: The Pool of Abominations</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/L55Vv6qkqs0" width="320" youtube-src-id="L55Vv6qkqs0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Deadfall" & "Bear Fight," The Edge, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The path through the gate was no less remarkable than the sight of the glacier from outside. They walked not through a stone hall, but a tunnel like a whirlpool running horizontally. The walls of ice were clear, allowing a great deal of light from the sky outside to filter through the eerie blue-green water. It illuminated a tableau of cataclysmic chaos. Bricks and stones, frozen in the glacier, whirled like schools of fish; fracturing towers loomed like whales; strange men and women, clad in garments unlike anything the adventurers ever encountered, were suspended in the ice, trapped for eternity, their faces sealed in an everlasting scream. It looked, for all the world, like the adventurers had paused time itself, and walked through a city in the midst of its destruction. The terrible power of the sea weighed on their minds in the terrible stillness of that nightmarish journey.</p><p>The corridor ended in a great spherical chamber - an enormous bubble in the sea. At the base of this sphere stood a platform. Other openings led out of the chamber, deeper into this frozen wave.</p><p>Dusan walked towards the platform. A pedestal stood in the centre. There were geometric shapes upon it, with levers and buttons along the outer edge. The shapes resemble the rooms of a building. He turned to the book, and found a sketch similar to the pedestal, but with the shapes in different configurations.</p><p>On a guess, Dusan shifted one of the shapes. A rumbling shook the room: the ice on one side started to crackle and splinter, and a new corridor appeared. Dusan shifted the other devices. An alcove behind the pedestal opened: something emerged from the space below.</p><p>A metal statue, sitting on a throne, greeted the adventurers. Amatagt had seen automata like this in the Palace of Luxor: usually they were simply elaborate puppets used by the priests to enrapture the populace. But he could not see any puppeteer for this.</p><p>The statue's mouth hinged open. A metallic voice began to speak in some ancient language. Dusan recognised a few words - Uzuldaroum, Avalzaunt, Lemuria, Mekkaram, Voormithadreth, Ubbo-Sathla - from the book, but their provenance was completely lost on him.</p><p>Of all the souls there, it was perhaps the least likely who responded to the statue's words. Zafia's people boasted a long history, dating back to the ancient Zhemri people of the Pre-Cataclysmic Age. She was dimly aware of Elder Hyperborea, but the automaton's drone stirred a memory in her mind. She recalled a myth associated with those strange ancients... "The Pool of Abominations."</p><p>The others turned to Zafia with interest. She shrugged: she wasn't normally talkative. "Everyone has their creation stories. Some say they were placed here by the gods. Others believe they evolved from lesser beings. I'd heard a story about the Ancient Hyperboreans. They believed that all life was spawned from a sing, horrible, evil pool - the Pool of Abomination."</p><p>She continued, walking towards the statue in wonderment. "There was a god, Ubbo-Sathla, the Unbegotten Source. It created constant permutations of life forms. They would spawn from this pool, and go on to terrorise the world. May-maybe this has something to do with that."</p><p>Dusan frowned, deeply disturbed by the implications of what the Zamorian said. "Maybe that is where the giant came from. Maybe this Pool of Abominations is here."</p><p>The Hyperborean felt something stirring in his blood - not pride, but some ancient primeval emotion that generations of civilisation and humanity had suppressed. He looked deep into the automaton's eyes, and carefully uttered a word: "Ubbo-Sathla."</p><p>The ice crackled again. This time, a corridor opened up on the ground, a steep spiral curling down into the glacier below. The light of day grew dimmer and dimmer, the vibrant blue-green melting into a nauseous murk. At the end of this tunnel, another chamber - this time irregular, like many bubbles bursting at once - gaped before the adventurers. The walls of one side of this chamber were flat - and depicted a scene from the darkest dreams of a lotus-fiend.</p><p>Creatures of every shape and size floated, suspended, in the ice. A strange purple light from some unseen source cast these poor beings in an unholy light. There were recognisable ones - beasts of burden, big game, exotic animals from far climes. Some were animals that were believed long extinct - great reptiles and mammals from the Elder Earth.</p><p>At the base of this frozen specimen cabinet was a rupture. Strange liquid - semi-transparent like water, but with a sickly tinge - flowed into a pool that spread over a third of the ground. Within this stagnant pool, hideous beings thrashed and raved: fighting and mating and eating one another, roaring with unearthly shrill calls. Some resembled beasts of legend, but malformed, disfigured, warped - like some perverse mind took a true animal and reshaped it into a monster.</p><p>A more terrible thing loomed above the pool. Standing aloft on enormous spider-like limbs, a writhing mass of black tentacles pulsated. Within its slick flanks gleamed white bones - the skeleton of some terrible sea serpent. Its enormous skull hung from the centre. And within this skull, the adventurers saw a human. Dusan recognised him as Verenik!</p><p>Verenik was covered in the black tendrils of the Things above the pool: they seemed to probe into his brain, reaching through his ears and nostrils. Above the din of the horrors below, the adventurers could just about hear his voice, stuttering, broken, rasping. Only Dusan understood, and even then, the words had no meaning to him:</p><p>"The cavity at the front of the skull appears to house a significant muscular hydrostat, suggesting that the Cyclopes' field of vision was impeccable and capable of precisely coordinated muscle contractions. The tusks are positioned far forward of the molars, and so must function for combat or display rather than eating. The mandible..."</p><p>As the garbled witterings echoed unnaturally through the chamber, the adventurers watched as the Thing reached a tentacle through the fracture: it dragged one of the creatures down, through the gap, and into the pool. There, the pool churned anew, and a new beast emerged, flailing in pain and terror and rage.</p><p>The adventurers stood, stupefied. Dusan dropped the book in horror. "A Pool of Abominations indeed, Zafia - and we are trapped with its spawn!"</p><p style="text-align: center;">TO BE CONTINUED...</p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-90822637925993991632022-06-19T00:50:00.007+01:002022-06-24T21:54:35.483+01:00The Road to Acheron, Part Three: "The Fall of Zukundu"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy4KJSu03mGrXAjBy36fGe682HJLHnwJOaWFzQNo9WgeKjJ4iF53hqQ6nNarRJ7KsvBaRxbmnRg-9vD4_6OCnPhW85cVaDbqN_x79uqTiLD8dTRvs3tjdnvocQAy2OvWriMxEfNqkJ5oBlTZ4-7iTaNTyy5CSSyfz6DkUYmI_Qx4PxGF6wef1ntINQg/s800/Red%20Creeper%20Silver%20Ape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTy4KJSu03mGrXAjBy36fGe682HJLHnwJOaWFzQNo9WgeKjJ4iF53hqQ6nNarRJ7KsvBaRxbmnRg-9vD4_6OCnPhW85cVaDbqN_x79uqTiLD8dTRvs3tjdnvocQAy2OvWriMxEfNqkJ5oBlTZ4-7iTaNTyy5CSSyfz6DkUYmI_Qx4PxGF6wef1ntINQg/w400-h400/Red%20Creeper%20Silver%20Ape.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>(<i>DM's note: In my optimism, I projected that this adventure would be finished in one session. The players, being the wonderful meandering adventurers they are, saw fit to extend this story for another session - so much so, in fact, that the final chapters will take place in the first part of next week's session. I wouldn't have it any other way - though I'm going to take steps to improve my time management for the next set of stories!</i></p><p><i>As with <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-two-children.html">the previous week</a>, plot elements from Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars" may be spoiled for anyone who wishes to play that adventure in its unadulterated form</i>)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/N0jbW-uE5ck" width="320" youtube-src-id="N0jbW-uE5ck"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Lion's Reign," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Horror in the Greenhouse</h3><div><br /></div><p><i>Amatagt and Kryxus met each other somewhere outside of Kush. When they learned they shared the same destination, they agreed to work together - for now. Both heard different stories about the lost city of Zukundu, of what may lie behind its great walls, and the dangers that lurk within. The pair brave the jungles of Kush and its denizens, and arrived at the great basin where the city dwelt. They skilfully avoided the monstrous reptiles infesting the lake surrounding the city, and climbed the outer walls.</i></p><p><i>When they entered the city, they saw a woman. When she noticed them, she froze, before turning and racing into the jungle. The two began a pursuit, and followed her to a doorway leading downwards, overgrown with red vines. They heard a bloodcurdling female scream from below, and ran down into the corridor. They entered a strange greenhouse-like room with green glowing windows, stone planters, and red vines growing over all of them. The woman, standing in the centre, was trembling in terror: she spoke in Kushite, and though Amatagt is not well-versed in the language, he has taken enough slaves to understand "No! Get away! Get away!"</i></p><p><i>Something grabbed Amatagt by the waist, constricting around him like a snake. Before he can reach for his sword, Kryxus felt more constrictions binding his limbs, and snaked across his chest. Both were jerked backwards into the darkness, their vision swimming in a sea of red...</i></p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><i><br /></i><p></p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Q-6m3f42tI4" width="320" youtube-src-id="Q-6m3f42tI4"></iframe></h3><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Mahina's Death," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The adventurers see spiky and thorny vines erupting from the undergrowth, lashing & writhing horribly like tentacles, dragging Tenbo away into the darkness. Dusan charged to grab hold of the guide in his ursine arms: he managed to seize the smaller man, but was unsettled to realise that he was being carried away with Tenbo. As Tiberius rushed forward to aid the Hyperborean and Xhotatse, Arcus quickly tied off a rope to an arrow and took aim with his bow. The Kothian's efforts and extra weight were enough to prevent the vine from pulling Tenbo any further, and Arcus loosed his arrow. It found its mark, striking the vine with a sickening squelch: some very unpleasant liquid, like a red syrup, erupted from the wound. The vine releases Tenbo and withdraws, the rope rushing behind: the arrow embedded in a clump of vines on the wall, the rope snapping taught. Immediately, another vine whipped out around Tenbo's waist: the guide and his two companions use Arcus' impromptu line to hold steady against their assailant.</p><p>By now the whole room seems to have come to horrific life, tendrils and tentacles squirming around with nauseating slops. Kenyatta looked around, trying to make sense of this mad scene - everything tells him that even with its mad motions and malign intentions, this was indeed some sort of plant. What insane branch of evolution this creeper sprouted from Kenyatta could not even guess, but at least it was earthly life he faced down. Dusan kept hold of Tenbo while Tiberias stabbed at the vine with his dagger. Zafia darted from the shadows, arcing her scimitar in a flash down at a questing vine: she cleaves the vine in twain, that unpleasant, viscous red liquid drenching her arms and face. It was sickly sweet in odour, and the Zamorian felt a strange sensation on her skin.</p><p>With this sudden suppuration of its life-sap, some of the writhing began to wane. Some of the vaguely man-shaped and sized bulging tentacles begin to quiver. Even among the din, some of the adventurers can hear shouts from within those forms - and the hints of familiar accents. A fist bursts from one of the larger protuberances, the wrist encircled by the bracers and armlets favoured by Men of Gunder. A second swelling bursts open, a wicked Stygian khopesh slicing furiously through, the snarling face of a helm fashioned after a cobra's hood emerging. Two figures stand, staggering, dripping with that sickly-sweet red fluid, as the thrashing tendrils begin to struggle to lift their own weight. Kryxus & Amatagt have reunited with the rest of the party.</p><p>The deluge of what must have been its life-sap seriously hindered the vines from threatening the adventurers further - but the adventurers were in no mood for clemency. Amatagt brought down his khopesh on one defiant vine, while Kenyatta's blade bisected another. Kryxus wrenched his sword clear from the vine's clutches, and hacked at it with all the fury of a Man of Gunder who just experienced captivity. By this point, the thing was clearly in its death throes: all the noxious sap was now only oozing from its flesh at a trickle.</p><p>Dusan was probably the only one to be delighted to see them. "Hey, it's you two! Have you been here this whole time? Arcus, ever the dramatist, made a great show of drawing his bow, staring down the last pathetically wriggling vine, and pinning it to the floor with an arrow.</p><p>Immediately the churning of this hideous Red Creeper shudders, and the many vines slump to the ground, including several which crept along the ceiling. Several corpses are suddenly disgorged from their grim cocoons. Zafia pounces on one, rummaging desperately for loot, as is her way: unfortunately, even after a thorough search, she was disappointed to find none. Any valuables that were on these individuals' persons were long dissolved away in the creeper's juice.</p><p>Zafia, Kryxus, and Amatagt suddenly realise that they were covered in the same red sap as these corpses: they felt strangely drained, as if it was drawing their very life energy out. Amatagt retrieves his canteen, thankfully intact, and douses himself in water: Kryxus and Safia follow suit. </p><p>The company takes a moment to inspect the corpses. They can see, even with their various states of decay, three distinct groups among the dead. Some are physically normal, and likely to be Xhotatse. Others, even the old withered husks, were missing much of the flesh on their face, especially their cheeks and eyes - "Ah, Mekutu!" Jambi muttered, tutted and hissed, and the weirdly gregarious Dusan had unconsciously started to do it too. A third type had unnaturally elongated skulls - logically, these must be the Tangini.</p><p>Tenbo and Jambi see the adventurers' questioning faces. "Yes, these ones without their faces, they can only be Mekutu - the long skulls, they must be the Dreamer Tribe, the Tangini." </p><p>"This is the tribe we haven't seen for a very long time, is it not?" Arcus said.</p><p>"No, we have not seen them for a long time at all."</p><p>"Did they look like this before?"</p><p>"Yes, this is what they've always looked like. When they are babies, the Tangini put boxes on their heads: they believe it will expand their skulls, and open their minds to worlds beyond our ken."</p><p>The Stygian scoffed. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."</p><p>Jambi shrugged. "It is their way. Whether it works or not, the Tangini believe that it works."</p><p>Closer inspection reveals that while most of the bodies are dead, one shows signs of life. "I'll dispatch him," Amatagt snarled as he sternly raised his khopesh for the kill, but Jambi & Tenbo stepped before him, spears raised at the unconscious body. Tiberius moved to intercept as Arcus called out. "Ho, ho, ho, Tenbo, Jambi, remember why we're here."</p><p>"But they are Tangini!"</p><p>"Yes, I understand what you're saying, but we're here for a purpose."</p><p>"Ah, but they are long gone by now, look at their shallow breathing, their sallow flesh, their bones straining against their skin!"</p><p>"Listen to what I'm saying - why are we here?"</p><p>Jambi sighed. "To stop the feathered ape."</p><p>"Killing these people, long term - fine; short time, it could stop us from proceeding."</p><p>Jambi and Tenbo growl with cognitive dissonance. Dusan, sensing the impasse, ventured a comment: "Maybe it's not our place to step in the way of their politics?"</p><p>Arcus, outraged by a Hyperborean who has the temerity to have a point. "I'm not saying there's no logic to it, and you're absolutely right - far be it from me to act all colonial, all right? Every second we spend in this death jungle is a chance something's going to kill us, am I right?"</p><p>Dusan's eyes widened. "You're right - he's right!" He proclaimed to the adventurers, who still didn't know what prompted Dusan in the first place.</p><p>"Yes, alright. Now, Jambi, how are you?"</p><p>Jambi continues to wrestle with the dilemma. Kryxus looks at the barely-living man: he clearly needs immediate medical attention. Tiberius, Arcus, and Kenyatta attempt to administer aid. At this point, even Tenbo turns to Jambi, groaning indecisively. "Oh, Jambi, we cannot help the enemy?" "But, the, I mean, we" "But we - oh!" The two guides also attempt to help. Alas, it is too little too late: from opening his eyes, Tiberius can tell that even if the poor soul was brought back to consciousness, their mind was lost, their brain senseless. A few seconds later, he stopped breathing.</p><p>Arcus straightened up and sighed. "Next time, let's not have a conversation about whether we decide to step in, before we decide to step in!"</p><p>"It was a very sad situation, I was emotionally challenged," argued Dusan, unconvincingly.</p><p>As the Argossean and Hyperborean bickered about action in crises, the others noticed that Tenbo's attention had turned toward the far end of the room, to the other door. He snapped his head back. "I heard something. Someone's breathing out there."</p><p>Tenbo and Jambi padded towards the doorway, and took each side of the portal. They peered through to the darkness. After a few seconds, they looked back to the party, and motioned for them to follow. Amatagt sheathed his khopesh, and unslung his Stygian bow. A short staircase, much like the one they descended to enter the chamber, reached upwards. </p><p>A woman was sitting on the top of the staircase.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">Berries for the Princess</h3><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6i263nwUSrg" width="320" youtube-src-id="6i263nwUSrg"></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Ghost Tribe," Congo, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The woman looked dazed, as if caught in a daydream. She carried a small pouchful of berries on her lap, which she absently picked at and ate from. Amatagt & Kryxus recognise her as the woman who ran from them when they first arrived here. "We saw her when we came here," Amatagt whispered. "She ran to this chamber soon as she saw us." Amatagt strode up the stairs: being closer to her than before, the Stygian noted with unease the long shape of her skull, swept back in an ornate braid. He grasped her shoulders, and gave her a shake. "Hello... again." </p><p>The woman did not respond. He frowned, glanced down at the berries, and swatted them away down the stairs. She did not appear to notice - in fact, she continued to pick at her palm, her brow creasing in consternation at the absence of her berries. Maintaining his glare, Amatagt pointed backwards towards the rolling berries. "Does anyone know what those are?" Arcus grasped an errant fruit as it rolled to his feet, and examined it closely - a gooseberry, much like those grown in the Meadows of Shem and the plied in the trade markets along the Black Coast, a delicacy in the southern kingdoms. It seemed completely harmless to the Argossean's inspection. "Gooseberries, my Stygian friend," Arcus said. "Surprised you aren't familiar with them considering where you've been." "I've been many places, my friend - many places," the Stygian muttered.</p><p>Kryxus paced up the stairs to gently touch the woman on the shoulder, seeking to rouse her in a more gentle manner than his rough compatriot. She does not respond, but something in her eyes suggests she registered - as if she sensed the party's presence as ghosts in her dream. She was no longer alone, and she started to panic.</p><p>Dusan threw his bearlike arms in the air. "I guess we have to kill her too?" Tiberius turned sharply to the Hyperborean - "Is that why you think we're here, you sick bastard?" Kryxus protested "I've been digging myself out of a damned plant!" Amatagt concentrated, his bifurcated tongue licking out demoniacally. </p><p>The woman started to mumble. "Berries... I have to bring berries home... Berries for the princess..."</p><p>Arcus takes one of the berries and puts it in her palm. "Oh yes, the Princess will love these gooseberries - ai!" The stranger suddenly startled to her senses. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Give me my gooseberries!"</p><p>"Your gooseberries?" Arcus enquired, holding the pouchful of berries away with his hand as she snatched to grab it.</p><p>"Yes! Gooseberries for the princess!"</p><p>Dusan shrugged. "Jungle law, finders keepers." Arcus shook his head: "We can find you more gooseberries."</p><p>"Oh, but not like these," - and she turned to bark at the Hyperborean - "and we are not in any jungle. This is the land of Princess Anepor."</p><p>Arcus narrowed his eyes. "Are you princess Anepor?"</p><p>The woman's eyes widened. "Oh, no, but I am bringing them to the Princess. I am the Berry Forager: it is my task."</p><p>"Right, and you are eating the gooseberries right now?"</p><p>The woman seemed bashful & evasive "Please, please, I have to make sure they have not gone off for the Princess: could you imagine the shame if I poisoned my darling Princess because I gave her bad gooseberries?"</p><p>"Sure. that's true. What's your name?"</p><p>"Oh, I was never given a name. I am Tangini. We are all Tangini. I am... Berry Gatherer."</p><p>Dusan did not have any particular patience for people that did not have names. "All right, let's go with Scraps. She looks scrappy." Arcus glances aside to Dusan momentarily, before continuing. "Alright... Scraps. I'm Arcus, this is Kenyatta, this is Tiberius, this is... the Gunderman, this is Dusan, and Amatagt. Oh, and of course, this is Zafia, from Zamora."</p><p>As Arcus gestured towards Zafia, the Zamorian's eyes met those of the stranger. While her face was held in a polite smile, her eyes scrolled downwards towards the Xhotatse jewels hanging from her neck. Zafia followed her cold gaze, not appreciating the stranger's scrutiny. "I see you wear jewels around your throat."</p><p>Arcus, also detecting the ice in her voice, interjected "Oh, this is Princess Zafia, I meant to say."</p><p>Scraps did not seem to notice. "Oh, your majesty, I did not know - but I would recognise the jewels of Great Zukundu around anyone's neck - and you know only gifts from the rightful ruler could be imparted without causing great insult to our ancestors and our tradition."</p><p>"You make it sound like there's only one, and that is your princess."</p><p>"Oh, of course, Princess Anepor is the true ruler of Zukundu, yes." Amatagt burst into laughter: Scraps glanced to the Stygian with a withering smile that he has seen many times, but never understood the significance of.</p><p>Tiberius was watching the conversation with interest. "Have you been daydreaming? How many are there of your people?"</p><p>"Of the Tangani? We do not count anymore. There are so few of us that if we keep inventory, it will just depress us." Zafia, seeing the attention was off her, quietly folded the jewels into her blouse.</p><p>Something was nagging at the back of Dusan's mind. "What day of the week is it?" "Oh, it is the 47th Day of the 59th Season of the age." This meant nothing to Dusan, who shrugs at the group.</p><p>"Ah, it is Jullah's blood. I see some of you bear the residue." She points towards some spatters of the red sap on Amatagt, Kryxus, and Zafia. We sometimes go to the to the Red Creeper and we very carefully extricate some of it, it can open up our minds to new levels of consciousness. I'm afraid it would not do any good for you, for you do not have the brain capacity."</p><p>Kenyatta nods in agreement as the rest of the party gasps in outrage and shame. But at the mention of the effects of Jullah's blood, Arcus wondered if this could be responsible for the blood-feud between the three tribes. But while Tenbo & Jambi still grasp their spears tightly, they do not appear to show any signs of narcotic influence. For Scraps, on the other hand, it is entirely possible: her eyes were deeply dilated, her gait swaying like a banner in the breeze.</p><p>"Well, if you please let me have the gooseberries back: because our princess and of course she's so hungry. And her husband the Prince, Prince Azar - oh, he would be so upset. He is a wonderful, wonderful man, but he dotes after the Princess, so he dotes. So if you please-"</p><p>The howl of the Feathered Ape split the serenity of the city-jungle. Scraps recoiled in mortal terror. Arcus grabbed her attention. "Don't run. If you run, it will chase you. Stay with us. We'll keep you safe." She nodded vigorously. "Pulled someone's head off just yesterday," Dusan unhelpfully specified. Scraps's trembling accelerated to almost a blur. "Is-is-is it the Feathered Ape?"</p><p>The party nods - and they begin their chase for the Feathered Ape.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Ape and the Arena</h3><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Gl2FJC1VTOo" width="320" youtube-src-id="Gl2FJC1VTOo"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Claws" (Revised), The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The bellowing of the Feathered Ape echoed through the chambers and thickets of Zukundu: Tenbo and Jambi already raced away into the green, with the company in hot pursuit. They burst through the foliage and vegetation, Tenbo and Jambi impressed by their resilience - "I'm glad you are with us, friends" - as poor Dusan, his sweating flesh cooking like honey-glazed ham in the Kushite sun, loped with the elegance of a mule with an ear infection.</p><p>At last, after ten minutes, the company catches up to their quarry. Standing on an archway at one end of a clearing in the city-jungle, the Ape was partially revealed in the late afternoon daylight. Where previously they saw only the blurred silhouette of the beast, now they could see the fine silverish fur covering its great muscular limbs, head, and shoulders. Indeed, this fur is everywhere except its chest and stomach, great and round as burnished silver shields. But most curiously, woven through its fur are dozens of feathers of various hues. Some were arranged in a mantle above its mighty chest, others fanned from its arms like ornamental wings, but most were placed at random throughout the silver fur. Kenyatta knew several tribes who wove feathers into their hair, and he also heard of apes using simple tools - but nothing to this level of intricacy and detail. The feathers were not natural features of the creature's biology, but adornments - certainly an adornment is the headdress it was bearing as well, a golden circlet with huge bush of feathers on his head, with some gold trinkets on its wrists, ankles, and neck. It made a deeply unsettling sight.</p><p>The Ape watched the party. Each adventurer knew animals in their homeland - they've encountered predators. They knew what a predator's gaze looks like. That was not how this thing's looking at them - the Feathered Ape regarded the party with an expression of pure hatred, a very uncanny intelligence about it. In one hand, it grasped a dripping head - Dako's, which he's still been carrying around all this time. As soon as all the companions caught up, it lurched back into the forest.</p><p>Tiberius noted this encounter was different from last time. The Ape had clearly slowed down - whether due to exhaustion, the terrain, or some other factor, the Kothian was confident that the party could catch up. Tiberius said as such: Kenyatta agreed. "Gorillas are habitually sprinters, not runners: If this beast is anything like a gorilla, with a sustained chase, we could run it down."</p><p>"We can see him! We can kill him!" Tenbo & Jambi did not wait before they resumed the chase: quick-witted Zafia was second off the mark, followed by Kryxus and Tiberius, then Amatagt. Kenyatta saw Dusan struggling, and held back to assist him.</p><p>As Zafia raced through the branches and vines, she heard Tenbo and Jambi arguing in front of her - with Kenyatta further behind she did not understand, but did hear "Makutu" among the dialogue. After some minutes of chasing, Zafia crashed into Tenbo & Jambi's outstretched arms, holding her back - she was almost teetering over the edge of a huge stone chasm. The bottom is so dark she could not see it. Fallen across this chasm, with one end before them, was a great fallen tree trunk - and scrambling along the centre of this trunk was the Feathered Ape.</p><p>The Ape paused every few seconds to look over its massive shoulder, watching its pursuers. Tenbo and Jambi motion for Zafia to wait here for the others while they crossed the trunk in single file. Zafia hears movement in the jungle behind her: Kryxus and Tiberius hurtle out of the foliage. She spreads her arms, holding them back to prevent them from plummeting into the chasm below. When the guides were quarter of the way across, Zafia danced nimbly across the trunk.</p><p>By the time Kenyatta dragged a boiled Dusan to the chasm, the guides were halfway across, Zafia close behind. Kenyatta watched the Ape with mounting unease - this creature was not acting like an animal in flight. It was leading the company on - it wanted them to follow it.</p><p>Kenyatta boomed "I have hunted things such as these before. It is leading us on..."</p><p>Dusan, the sweat on his face steaming into the jungle air, was aghast. "Do you think there is more of them?" Kenyatta shuddered with the realisation. "I think it is a trap!" He called to the guides & Zafia as Amatagt loosed an arrow - it soared high, but landed just before the Ape, shuddering into the tree trunk. The Ape turned and glared at the Stygian, before scrambling the last few feet across.</p><p>Tenbo & Jambi are almost halfway across. Zafia, having heard Kenyatta's warning, was turning about. As the Ape reached the other side, Kenyatta cried out to the guides, begging them to turn back - but their blood was up. "We are so close, we can slay it, brother! We're going to get you, you monster!"</p><p>The Ape looks back. Kenyatta had seen many expressions on an ape's face, but never one that looked so unnervingly human - a look that could only be disgust. It grabbed the end of the fallen trunk, and with a truly hideous strength, lifted it from the ground - turning it, and letting it fall into the chasm - with Tenbo, Jambi, and Zafia still climbing!</p><p>Jambi immediately saw what was happening, and ran back across, not even taking care for falling. "Run Tenbo, he's casting us unto the abyss!" But young Tenbo is frozen with terror, and clutched the bark of the trunk with his white-knuckled fingers. Zafia pounced from the trunk quickly, and the adventurers urged Jambi on as the trunk tumbled into the darkness below.</p><p>The adventurers caught Jambi as he leapt from the falling "That was close, Tenbo," gasped Jambi. "... Tenbo?" The party heard the crash of the trunk - somewhat sooner than expected given the darkness of the chasm. Jambi turned stiffly as the realisation his friend was not with him pressed into his tortured head.</p><p>Silence reigned. The Feathered Ape glared from the other side of the gulf, pounding Dako's ruined head against a rock. The sickening rhythm of skull on stone echoed across the cliffs. Kenyatta was filled with a terrible resolve: he hefted his spear up, his ancestors pounding songs of vengeance in his eardrums, and with what seemed like generations of rage concentrated into the tip of a single spear, he hurled it into the sky. Amatagt, spurred by a grudging respect to Kenyatta's reaction, knocked and loosed his Stygian bow too.</p><p>The faster missile missed its mark, falling somewhere in the foliage behind the target. The Ape watched silently as the spear soared into the heavens, the sun blinding it momentarily - then a deep thud rebounded against the rocks. The Ape glanced down: the spear punctured its great muscular breast, rivulets of blood cascading down its slate skin. The spearhead did not penetrate past the ribcage, but the Ape's disgusted expression warped into a snarl of unmistakable fury. It wrenched the spear from its chest, held it out towards Kenyatta, and splintered it effortlessly in its gargantuan fist. The two halves of the spear clattered into the abyss below, and the Ape retreated into the forest.</p><p>For a moment, all was quiet again. Jambi fell to his knees. "Oh, Tenbo, why didn't you move?" A voice called from the abyss. "I can see vines on this side! If you all climb down here and go across, we can make our way to the other side. Jambi scrambled to his feet "Tenbo, you dog! You gave me the fright of my life!"</p><p>The adventurers make their way down the trunk, which fortuitously had lodged itself on some broken masonry with enough force to secure it. Climbing down, at about halfway into the chasm, the party understands why the bottom seemed so dark: a canopy of vines stretching from each side sheltered the floor of the chasm, casting deep shadows on the already dark ground. Upon reaching the ground, the tangled vines and creepers trap moisture and cold, leaving the area dark and dank. Kenyatta noticed the pale shapes of bones - birds, monkeys, and some larger predator bones that resemble big cats.</p><p>Zafia was conscious of breathing sounds - punctuated, staggered, and inhuman. Arcus peered into the darkness - and saw eyes staring back. A set of great white eyes, some forty feet away. The eyes were milky - like the eyes of a blind creature. The breathing sounds rebounded from the rocks and bones. The eyes followed - in the direction of the company. Tenbo waved his hand to get their attention, drawing his mouth to his lips. At the merest movement, the eyes stopped, turned in the direction of the sound, and paced forward. The eyes stepped into a dappled circle of light, and for the briefest moment, Arcus saw the face of a huge, pale-furred cat. Kenyatta recognised it as a lion - a large one, and of a breed unfamiliar to him.</p><p>Arcus reached into a pouch, withdrawing an oil flask - and froze when he realised he didn't have a lit torch, so reaches for his flint. The company very quietly crept towards Tenbo, who was already ascending the vines crisscrossing the rock wall. Unfortunately, Dusan did not have the temperament necessary to hush, his wheezes occasionally catching the lion's interest - but each time, it stepped forward into the light, and withdrew as if in pain. With the aid of the sunlight and their own wits, the company climb the vines out of the lion's reach: when Dusan's foot slips and sends a scattering of pebbles down into the abyss, the lion turns its head. As if deeming any prey above to be beyond its reach, it resumed its patrol of the shadows, with that strange throaty growl.</p><p>Kenyatta was perturbed, for lions do not make sounds like this. He took a moment to study the creature. He heard tales of certain cities or the ancient Kushites. They used to breed Lions for gladiatorial entertainment - a horrible, savage practice this, of course, his people would have nothing to do with it. Under the grounds of ancient Shamballah, the capital of Kush, it was rumoured that some of these lions still survived over centuries and millennia, and adapted to the darkness: these creatures are known as Moon lions, so called not just for their eyes but also their pelts, drained of colour by generations of darkness. The Kushite could tell it wasn't in any distress, well fed, definitely no shortage of prey - but at the same time, clearly it could not be responsible for the lack of ground wildlife on this island, although it may have contributed.</p><p>The adventurers and their guides reached the top of the chasm. Jambi & Tenbo hugged one another fiercely. </p><p>"I thought you were gone!" </p><p>"Of course I'm not gone!" </p><p>"Pull yourself together, not in front of the outsiders!"</p><p>"Pull yourselves together, Tenbo & Jambi!" Kenyatta barked, "Not in front of the Tangini! Wait... where is she?" The company realised with a start that Scraps had deserted them - probably a while ago, when the hunt for the Ape began. "Damn it, Tenbo, that was your job!" Kenyatta admonished, to the guide's confusion. The call of the Ape cried out again. "The Feathered Ape!" cried Jambi. </p><p>Tenbo narrowed his eyes. "We are deep in Mekutu territory now: why would it go so far into this place? Unless... Jambi, you don't think?" </p><p>"Oh no, Tenbo, no we - but I think we will know soon enough." Jambi hissed in response.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 4: Beneath the Jade Keep of the Mekutu</h2><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eS9bZN7SSv0" width="320" youtube-src-id="eS9bZN7SSv0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("John's Nightmare," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Jade Fountain</h3><div><br /></div><p>The company followed the guides. The overgrown buildings in this part of the city were smaller than previous districts: after five minutes, Tenbo & Jambi slow to a jog, before stopping entirely outside a great jade stone temple - curiously not overgrown like other buildings. Evidently someone has been pruning errant plant life around it. There was a fountain before the temple - an inset, and a semi-circular well. There were drips of blood leading towards the fountain.</p><p>Inscribed above the fountain were words in Old Stygian. Amatagt read it: "For the Pleasure of Lord Khenaton." Khenaton was an old Stygian name, used by princes, priests, and sorcerers throughout history. He wondered at the presence of his homeland's language in this ancient city of Kush - and who was this "Khenaton" was. Owing to his companions' obstinance, he did not see fit to share this with the group.</p><p>Dusan, however, was more concerned about the fountain itself. Peering into it he sees, bobbing up and down in the red water... several human hands. One of them, a fairly familiar looking human head - Dako. For a moment, his heart broke, as he thought one head belonged to that of poor Scraps - but it was a trick of the light, and his heart lightened. At least they didn't let the Ape take her, too.</p><p>Jambi & Tenbo followed Dusan to the fountain. "Well, this proves it! The Feathered Ape, it's doing the work of the Mekutu! Look how they put their heads here as trophies! I've had enough of this - I'm going to kill them all!"</p><p>"Jambi, wait, we need to think about this!"</p><p>"Tenbo, you know they are-"</p><p>As Jambi & Tenbo debated, Dusan lifted a head from the fountain to inspect it. Dako's head is about a day old: other heads may be a couple of weeks old. Another one, probably a couple more weeks older than that. Then there were a few rotting heads probably a few months old - the Feathered Ape had been terrorising the city for a while.</p><p>The guides turned to Kenyatta. "We cannot - we dare not go through the front. But there is a secret tunnel in that we have not ventured through before because, we could not spare the men. But I think we can manage it with you outsiders, because you have proven yourselves capable. If we go through the source of the tunnels, we may be able to get the drop on them."</p><p>"Sewers?" Arcus said.</p><p>"Yes, sewers. Don't you have sewers in your civilisation?"</p><p>"Our civilisation was burned alive."</p><p>Unphased, the guides crouch, and begin to circle the Jade Stone building. They arrive at a side with a door - that looks completely unguarded. But as the company start to make for the door, Jambi holds out a hand. "No, this is the Killing Ground."</p><p>"The Killing Ground?"</p><p>"The Killing Ground. Soon as we step out into the glade-" Jambi makes a whooshing sound - "arrows. We must go round."</p><p>The party moves on, skirting the foliage around the now deeply ominous space. Tenbo & Jambi take the adventurers to a small building that seems unconnected to the temple at first. A few of the stronger men lift the heavy wrought grating barring access, and they enter the sewers.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Crawling Caves</h3><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>The guides carefully went down a staircase - the stair leads straight down for some distance, and then it levels off on a stone passage. Hanging in clumps from the ceiling are strange glowing green fruits, creating light similar to that seen on the ceiling above the Ebony Keep. "Ah, these are the Star Fruits," Tenbo explained. "We don't know why they glow. They don't taste nice, but they are useful for illumination." </p><p>Arcus reached out and took a bite. It tasted of bile and lemon, and these ones are clearly rotten. Arcus retches. "This is horrible, but I feel protected from scurvy" Dusan mumbles through a mouthful of the glowing fruit. Pieces are lying at regular intervals on the ground: some are hanging from iron hooks on the ceiling.</p><p>The tunnels are initially smooth and round, but as the adventurers go deeper, they note the increasing prevalence of a strange sediment deposit encrusted on the walls - salts, grit, chalk, very rough and abrasive to the touch - so that after time it felt less like a sewer, and more like a cave. A horrible stench wafts through the tunnels - meat and dung. Kenyatta recognised something else - an all-too-familiar reptilian odour.</p><p>The party froze. Over the general subterranean sounds of a sewer, they heard the rattling sound of reptilian slithering. They also heard a strange trilling sound - sibilant, not unpleasant, a musical instrument of some sort? Tenbo & Jambi melt into crevices formed by the encrusted deposits. Kenyatta listened to the trilling - there's something about the timbre of the sound which was somewhat unnerving and a bit chilling for all its pleasantness. Remembering something he learned from Akkuto the Carver, Bandit Lord of the Tibu, he reached down into the water - an errant rib bone floated by his hands. He started whittling the bone flute, as the rest of the group looked on baffled.</p><p>As this happens, the piper turns the corner, illuminated by the eerie green light of the Star Fruit. Clearly another Kushite, but very different from Tenbo & Jambi: this one was covered in ritual scarification, and wearing a strange mask, attached to the bone pipe making those uncanny sounds - an elaborate flute that seems carved from a human sternum, ribs, clavicle, and sinews still attached. She reverently looks down, playing to points in the ground - Tiberius follows her gaze, seeing a sickeningly serpentine shape churning in the water. He slowly craned his neck down - to his abject horror, he realised that he and his companions were surrounded by countless snakes!</p><p>Yet these were not like natural snakes. They had thin, spindly arms and legs, long, sharp iridescent scales that were almost mesmerising to look at, cruel little horns adoring their skulls. They appeared not to be asleep, but in a daze: upon hearing the grisly piper's tune, their shimmering yellow eyes rolled back in their heads, their tense coils relaxing. Dusan saw small ones the size of a worm - others looked big enough to swallow him whole. Dusan briefly pondered simply leaping into the air and crushing the snakes under his weight, but the memory of that poor monkey in the Ebony Keep pool snapped him back to his senses. Dusan realised that even disturbing one of these creatures would be enough to break the spell, and the entire sewers would erupt in a hurricane of teeth, claws, and scales.</p><p>Arcus looked towards Tenbo & Jambi, who were motionless, their eyes burning with a keen hatred of the Mekutu. The party waited for the piper to pass, before following - the party simultaneously figured that the figure was on some sort of patrol, and that following would lead them to the Jade Keep itself.</p><p>Tenbo was like a ghost in the shadows. Jambi, though, sharply inhaled as he felt his foot step on the head of one of the serpents! Luckily, Tenbo was quick enough to catch him before he put his whole weight on the fiend: the party held their hearts in their throats, but the piper continued, and they carried on, Kenyatta studying the notes.</p><p>In time, they followed their unwitting guide into the Jade Keep. </p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 5: Inside the Jade Keep</h2><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nfAw0UHWdts" width="320" youtube-src-id="nfAw0UHWdts"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("John's Nightmare," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>The reptilian stench disippated, replaced by a sweet incense, burning in bowls suspended from the sickly jade walls. The incense is so powerful it seems to be making waves in the air, like a heatwave. If the adventurers weren't made of sterner stuff, they knew this drug would undoubtedly affect their perception and coordination - and that anyone living in this keep would have acclimitised.</p><p>On turning the corridor, the adventurers meet a grisly sight - dozens of withered bodies, impaled on spikes, punctuating the corridor. They bore the marks of torture and mutilation. Some of them are recognisable as Xhotatse, just by the fact that they lack the peculiarities of the other tribes. Tembo looked at one of them. "I know him. That is Macat. He disappeared. Long ago. I always hoped, but... I will avenge you, Macat."</p><p>Some other corpses have elongated skulls - the Tangini - and others could only be Mekutu. Evidently some have displeased whoever this Lord Khenaton is. One of them is still in good enough condition to resemble what he must have looked like in life. Much like the piper, who has disappeared in a hallway somewhere, intricate scarification covered their skin - and then their faces. Tiberius doesn't know how they're how they could have lived like this. Their ears were gone. They had no eyelids - they had been surgically cut away at some point. They had no nostrils, because their noses have been cut away leaving only the skull shaped orifices. And they had no lips, and their cheeks - the thought occurred to Tiberius that this must have been torture, but no, these these are healed over. They've been alive with these wounds. "How could sleep? How could they do anything with with their eyes like that?" Tiberius stammered. And yet, there they are with their faces carved into a perpetual grin.</p><p>Tenbo sidled next to the stunned Kothian. "Now you see why we call them the Smiling Ones."</p><p>The adventurers have seen war, blood, violence - but this level of depravity was beyond anything even they had encountered before. Coming from Zamora, a city that was brutal to its felons, she had seen her share of horrors, and wouldn't let a little thing like half-flayed corpses get in the way of loot. Yet again, she was disappointed, as any valuables were taken from the corpses prior to their impalement - though she did notice that one of the bodies which clearly hasn't been dead for long, has tiny little bite marks all over his body, like something was biting and chewing at it.</p><p><br /></p><p>They continued their journey through this hauntingly empty house. Just like the ebony keep, this place is much too large for the population which must be living here. There were hundreds and hundreds of rooms, which, at one time, would have had many scores of servants and retainers. Now, the silence of these rooms is sepulchral. This made the footsteps which Kenyatta heard clapping on the floor all the more foreboding.</p><p>Ahead of them, far down the corridor, the company glimpsed two men dragging a third by the arms. They only just saw those ungodly staring eyes and hideous grins, on both carriers and carried - Mekutu, all of them. The third Mekutu was moaning in pain. Kenyatta understood his cries, in a dialect similar to the ancient Kushite spoken by the Xhotatse - "the eyes! the eyes burn into me! Aiii!"</p><p>And almost as soon as they appeared, they were gone. The party had the uncomfortable feeling that they were being watched. Kryxus turned, looked down the other end of the corridor, to see the piper staring at them. Holding the gory instrument in one hand, she slowly lifted her hand to her mask - removing it revealed full, healthy lips and cheeks. Evidently she has not undergone the rituals of her older kin. She blinks - the first time anyone has seen a Mekutu blink - and runs.</p><p>The adventurers gave chase. The piper dropped her bone flute behind her: Kenyatta snatches it up in his hands. Amatagt stumbled, knocking his head against the wall. Tenbo and Jambi raise their spears. Thinking quickly, Arcus unhooks his net and tosses it with expert technique: it envelops the piper, and she falls to the floor with a distressing squeal, kicking and screaming.</p><p>Upon catching up with the protesting Mekutu, they are dimly aware that they have stopped outside a great double door. The screaming captive elicits shouts and whispers from beyond it: before the adventurers can react, the doors are thrust open with a crash.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Hall of Khenaton</h3><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_WtufEg88xs" width="320" youtube-src-id="_WtufEg88xs"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Cave," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>A tall, skeletal, truly bizarre individual emerged. The two halves of their body were divided down the centre. One half was fleshy and voluptuous, with curved tattoos and scarification evocative of Kushite depictions of femininity; the other was starkly skeletal, sinewy, tattooed and scarred in angular masculine patterns. The head was shaved on one side, intricately woven and styled on the other. One eye was gone, replaced with a jet black orb. Unlike the other Mekutu, only one side of the face - eyes, ears, nose, lips - was removed in the Smiling Ones' style. The tableau froze for an eternity of an instant as Lord Khenaton and the intruders faced one another.</p><p>"Sssso, it has come to this!" the spectre hissed through their teeth - one side gleaming, the other filed and engraved. "Xhotatse pig-dogs bring outsiders, sent in to destroy us at last! No, you will not take the Jade Keep - come, my children! Protect your Mother-Father!"</p><p>Rampaging towards the Hyperborean is the largest woman any of the party has seen in their lives. Dusan has seen bears with less mass than this individual, this mountain of muscle wielding in one hand the thigh bone of what must have been some sort of elephant, studded with sharpened stones. Dusan braced himself. "I will headbutt the big woman, she will submit." </p><p>A small, dwarfish youth, ghoulish and skeletal, scampered towards the Gunderman and the Kushite, a blowpipe in one hand and a set of those grisly bone-pipes in the other. He tittered madly at Kryxus, pointing and dancing, while what looked like a black stole on his neck swayed back and forth - until it hissed to life and sprang to the adventurer's face!</p><p>Arcus nocked his bow in preparation for combat just as what looked like a shorter mirror-image of the freakish Khenaton approached. She raised her hand, a gruesome dagger that seemed to be made from one of those reptilian horror's teeth wrenched from their very jaws.</p><p>A more terrible visage lurched towards Tiberius and Amatagt. At first sight, the two thought they faced an animated corpse - but it was alive, after a fashion. In place of eyes were glowing green stones, much like the ones they saw at the bottom of the of the pond in the Ebony Keep, but burning much brighter - and that light is seeping through the veins in his chest and arms, a deathly glowing root spreading through the body. The corpse lurched towards the two adventurers with outstretched hands.</p><p>Zafia was left alone in the shadow of Khenaton. The jewels she hid under her blouse were exposed in the chase, and Khenaton had most certainly noticed. "So, you too have taken the Treasures of Zukundu! I will rip them from your broken neck!" </p><p>The battle commenced. The monster woman hoisted her gruesome weapon almost to the roof with a strangled roar, and brought it down onto where she predicted the comparatively smaller Dusan would dodge. Unfortunately for her, Dusan had an established habit of daring objects much larger and heavier than him to back down, so she did not expect him to stand completely still - the club smote the floor with such force that it rebounded, smashing her squarely on the forehead. </p><p>The stole of the little man menacing Kenyatta & Kryxus flies from his neck, and Kryxus is astounded to realise it was in fact one of the smaller spiny serpents. Instinctively, the repulsed Gunderman caught it on the end of his pike: the reptile gnawed ferociously, confounded at the enemy's lack of reaction to its bite. The woman attacking Arcus plunges her dagger towards Arcus... who instinctively holds the net-covered piper in the way in a panic.</p><p>The green-eyed thing drops its arms, and stares at Tiberius. It felt to the Kothian that all the heat, light, and colour in the room rushed out, leaving only a cold grey emptiness - and those terrible green eyes, burning into his skull. Tiberius's faith in Mitra is resolute, but not invulnerable: he stands shaken. The other adventurers felt this wave of dread wash out from the room. Kenyatta shuddered in horror; Kryxus feels his legs tremble under him. Amatagt froze - he knew this sensation. He was in the presence of a terror like this long ago, in another lifetime - memories long thought buried flooded back into his mind, and he fled the chamber. Dusan - perhaps shielded by the small island of flesh between him and the source of the dark sorcery - felt the hairs on his neck prickle.</p><p>Khenaton cackled maniacally. "Now you see what power resides in Lord Khenaton's fingertips!" His stare bored into Zafia: something about that gimlet eye, the incense still powerfully hanging in the air, and the sinuous motion of this outlandish creature bewilders the Zamorian. She feels her dagger-arm falling to her side, even as her mind protested her body's surrender.</p><p>Yet something sparked in Zafia's mind as the cold steel of her blade grazed her knee - a defiance, a resilience, an inner resolve that saved her in moments where she most needed it. With a snarling shout, Zafia heaved her arm, struggling to lift it as if some unseen force was holding it down, finally breaking the hold to bring the dagger's bite under Khenaton's collarbone. Khenaton stumbles back, wounded more by the outrage of Zafia's defiance than the actual injury, staring and gibberingly silently at his assailant.</p><p>Dusan, feeling invincible from the failed assault from the largest fighter in the room, braced his feet, and looked squarely at Khenaton. "I've come here from the North, I could make you bow before me like your king!" The lord looked him up and down, and burst into crackling laughter. "You? Oh, Red-Faced Man, you think you could impress me?" Kryxus, enraged by Khenaton's arrogance, thrusts his pike into the ghoul-boy, raising him writhing into the air: simultaneously, Kenyatta brought his shortsword in a whistling arc before stabbing him through the heart. "I will make a flute out of your windpipe!" The ghoul splutters, shudders as his last energy leaves his body, and slumps limp on Kryxus's pike as his pet snake slithers into a crevice.</p><p>Tiberius, steeling himself and whispering a prayer to Mitra, forces himself to charge the green-eyed husk - he embedded his dagger deep into its flesh. A glob of glowing green blood spurted from the wound, and started seeping from a wound that should be gushing liberally. Amatagt recovers from his fright just as he crosses the threshold, and he wheels to loose his arrow back at the thing which made him run - a black Stygian arrow thudded into the corpse-thing's chest, and it staggers backwards.</p><p>Khenaton, enraged at the direction the battle was taking, drew a fine dagger from his waistband and darted his long limb at Zafia, hissing "Dieee!" as he struck. When the Zamorian nimbly parried the blade with her own, he gaped in disbelief - he was too used to his victims placidly accepting their fate. The giant woman hefted her great bone-club again: this time, she knew the man would move, he would not goad her a second time. Dusan disappointed her by doing - or, rather, not doing - exactly the same thing as before. Not only did the bone bounce right back into her face as before, she collapses backwards, her head cracking on a stone stool - the bone club landing on her head on the way down.</p><p>Dusan had defeated the mightiest warrior of the Mekutu by standing completely still. Khenaton, seeing two of her warrior-family fall to these invaders, hurled his dagger at Kenyatta - Amatagt, reacting too fast for his Stygian mind to intervene, rushed to his aid. But the Kushite contemptuously deflects, sending the dagger clattering to the floor. The glowing fiend clutched at Tiberius with its claws: the Kothian wrestled from its grip, its ancient body too damaged.</p><p>Zafia, emboldened by her triumph over Khenaton's mental attack, slashes at him with her blade. The Lord of the Mekutu, still not quite understanding how mere mortals dare assault a God, looked at the blood now pouring from many wounds. "Nooo! My family-subjects, protect me! I am at death's door! These demons mean to drag me to Hell!" At this, the remaining subjects converge around their parent-god, screaming "Father-Mother, no!"</p><p>Dusan sights the younger Khenaton, and swings his sword at her - but she dodges ably from the arc of his blade. Tiberius stabs the fiend squarely in the chest - he knew not how or why, but this blow unknit whatever was holding the thing together, and it collapsed in a grotesque shamble to the floor. As the skull cracks on the jade flagstone, the two eyes pop wetly from the sockets - still glowing, but clearly not providing any more life for the cadaver.</p><p>The servants and slaves of the Mekutu crowded around their parent-god, but they could not stop one sword from snaking through the bodies to spit the dreadful fiend through his back out of his chest. Dusan's cold Hyperborean sword plunged through Khenaton's ribs: with an inhuman screech, Lord Khenaton of the Mekutu's tongue lolled from a slack jaw, and rasped his last breath. His one eye stared out at the face of Zafia - she who, alone of all souls, refused the power of his will - snarling with all the pity of a vulture stalking a dying wildebeest. The last remaining of his Favoured Children screamed "No! Father-Mother-God, no!" and promptly stabbed herself in the fury and misery of defeat.</p><p>The servants and slaves all followed suit, wailing and screaming and stabbing themselves in the heart, a monstrous last sacrifice to their heathen deity-sire. The adventurers could only watch aghast as all the Mekutu, even the warriors, ended their own lives in their grief over Khenaton.</p><p>For a time, the astonished adventurers paced listlessly in the Halls of Khenaton. Even Zafia, who would normally be frisking the dead for trinkets, was lost. The guides, Tenbo and Jambi, did not share the malaise: they whooped and danced. "Victory! The Mekutu are undone! The Outsiders have slain them! Oh, what a feast we shall have at the Ebony Keep for them!"</p><p>The celebration, such as it was, did not last long. The sound of footsteps hurrying down the corridor snapped the adventurers from their daze, and they readied their weapons again. An exhausted Xhotatse warrior, eyes agog at the carnage around him, stumbled into the hall.</p><p>Jambi tensed. "Kosu! What is it?"</p><p>The runner gasped for air. "The Feathered Ape! He has brought war to us - The Ebony Keep burns!"</p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-four-zukundu.html">TO BE CONTINUED...</a></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-20604022741895382542022-06-09T21:26:00.014+01:002022-06-24T21:50:29.407+01:00The Road to Acheron, Part Two: "The Children of Zukundu"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspVCImxtZlgrmWhKB9kVaA6JmFMVjCUdOVy8a2LehXERhI_VY5YDGwZ2lw85sXybA4y-PYueHzcx-79JGUCrESv6HQZ6aGNnFLzcHIBibGKn_zqjhn9BWUSPP4g0SnDmtWMr_tHubSui4vW0nh8e9AdBZ3dIl6_mFxFW_nSxqfkjeziT7uYLa_XMM1A/s512/Feathered%20Ape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspVCImxtZlgrmWhKB9kVaA6JmFMVjCUdOVy8a2LehXERhI_VY5YDGwZ2lw85sXybA4y-PYueHzcx-79JGUCrESv6HQZ6aGNnFLzcHIBibGKn_zqjhn9BWUSPP4g0SnDmtWMr_tHubSui4vW0nh8e9AdBZ3dIl6_mFxFW_nSxqfkjeziT7uYLa_XMM1A/s320/Feathered%20Ape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Welcome to the second session of <i>The Road to Acheron</i>. Last time, seven adventurers escaped the very pit of the serpent: Python, the capital of the Nightmare Empire of Acheron, was struck down by mighty magic practically unseen even in this sorcerous realm. Amatagt the Stygian, Arcus the Argossean, Dusan the Hyperborean, Kenyatta the Kushite, Kryxus the Gunderman, Tiberius the Kothian, and Zafia the Zamorian were some of the few who escaped the writhing death throes of a screaming city.</p><p>After putting many miles between themselves and the site of that unholy destruction, the seven departed. Amatagt, Kenyatta, and Tiberius rode out on their own, each having their own goals and quests in mind. Arcus, Dusan, Kryxus and Zafia, however, formed a band of their own, and roamed the ruins of Acheron as a team. Several months pass: coin is won and lost, adventures were told and experienced, blood and sweat and tears were shed, as the survivors of Python's fall made names for themselves across the western continent. These stories may also be told, in time - but that is for another day.</p><p>Something - the will of capricious gods or devils, or fate, or simple happenstance - conspired to draw them together once again.</p><p>(Note: this is a heavily altered adaptation of Helena Nash's "Devils Under Green Stars," collected in the Conan RPG supplement <i>Jewelled Thrones of the Earth</i>. It's a beautiful adventure with some great ideas, but I wanted to put my own mark on it as a DM. While there are some changes, anyone who plans on playing the original adventure should keep in mind there will be some elements from the original adventure within, & might want to avoid spoiling themselves.)</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><h2 style="text-align: center;">Nightmare in Ruins</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/sjNj8I5cd4s" width="320" youtube-src-id="sjNj8I5cd4s"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(The Salamander, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>A year has passed since the fall of Python. Acheron has fallen: that black colossus that seemed nigh unassailable four seasons ago has been comprehensively sundered. The Hyborian Tribes surged from the northern tribelands to a man, woman, and child, leaving their desolate homes behind. Epemitreus, a charismatic and determined sage of Mitra, convinced the two most powerful leaders, High-King Tamar of the Aquiloni and High-King Numa of the Nemedi, into forming a truce. The united might of all the People of Bori - Aquiloni, Nemedi, Argosi, Brythuni, and countless smaller tribes like the Men of Gunder, the Bosso, and the Khossi - flooded over Acheron in a wave of humanity, leaving only smoking ruins where once the gleaming purple minarets of cities once stood.</p><p>The devastation was so sudden and brutal that not even the Kings of Acheron could react in time. Whatever weapon the feather-clad shaman wielded in his grim right hand, it was enough to undo even the most powerful sorcery Acheron could muster - and formidable though the soldiers of Acheron were, even they could not stand against an entire people. The Kings and their soldiers fought valiantly, praying for Set to intervene and deliver them from these savages, to no avail. Those arrogant Priests of Set who sought to defy Epemitreus were soon undone, their sorceries rendered inert by the power of the blood-red jewel, and helpless against the thousand battle-axes red with blood closing on his head. Xaltotun, the High Priest and true master of Acheron, has disappeared: some say he fled in disgraced exile into Stygia, others that he was snatched up by Set Himself and borne away to the underworld. Within a year, all that remained of Acheron, a civilisation claiming a tradition of almost a thousand centuries, were charred ruins and dark memories.</p><p>That black abyss was quickly claimed by the conquerors. Epemitreus's efforts kept kings and chieftains from openly warring, but the division of spoils was tense and fraught nonetheless. The tribes carved scores of petty kingdoms for themselves, some under the dominion of a High-King, others fiercely independent. The Men of Gunder formed such a sovereign land in the northern reaches of Acheron just south of the gloomy hills of Cimmeria, naming it Gunder's Land. King Khossus of the barbaric Kothians marched into Koth to liberate it from the pitiful Acheronian remnants. King Argo, on the other hand, marched his people further southwest until they reached a fertile coastline, citing folklore of the Argosi's bloodline bearing ancient links to the seafaring kingdoms from before the Great Cataclysm. "We once ruled the seas, and we shall once again," he declared. The ancient kingdoms of Corinthia and Ophir, seeing the writing on the wall, invited the New Hyborians into their lands, offering land and wealth in exchange for protection from their brethren.</p><p>The rest of the world held its breath: with Acheron gone, it seemed that Stygia would be emboldened to make its move, snaking its influence across the rest of the continent. But revolution is contagious: the long-suffering sons of Shem and Kush saw that sorcery and power was not indomitable, and rose up against their hated conquerors in a bloody and violent revolt. Then Khossus, eager to reclaim all the subjugated lands of Koth with interest, led his wolves on a brutal trail of fire and blood all the way to the eastern Stygian citadel of Kuthchemes, striking down the terrible priest Thugra Khotan himself. Stygia withdrew her forces back across the River Styx - at least its dark waters would halt the roving hosts in their track, the black arrows of Stygia's warrior-nobles holding them at bay. Stygia survived where Acheron fell - but only just, and Stygia would not forget this outrage in the centuries to come.</p><p>Yet this is an ancient world with many mysteries yet to discover. Arcus, Dusan, Kenyatta, Tiberius, and Zafia found each other somewhere on the way to Kush, travelling south in search of a lost city. Some sought gold, jewels, treasure, and wealth; others sought power; and others had their own reasons for daring the gruelling jungles south of the Land of Kush...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/xuunN2JtQ_I" width="320" youtube-src-id="xuunN2JtQ_I"></iframe></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Welcome to Tsavo," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 1: Strangers on the River of Time</h2><p style="text-align: center;"><i>"There is no glory in slaying snakes - or dying from their bites." - Old Cimmerian proverb</i></p><p style="text-align: left;">The boat glided smoothly down the waters of the river, one of the many unnamed winding waterways of the deep jungles in the Black Kingdoms. Two local tribesmen pilot the craft, making minor adjustments to its heading whenever the giant Hyperborean lurched over the gunwales to retch violently into the churning wake. "Damn and curse your face, Argossean, for bringing this sickness on me," Dusan spluttered in Arcus's general direction: the horrendous fever he caught on one of their prior adventures not helping his chronic seasickness in the slightest. Arcus had heard Dusan's complaints often enough that he no longer noticed them - besides, the Argossean was too enthralled by the lilt and sway of the water to care. Zafia's keen eyes darted around, fascinated by the vivid greens and colours of the deep jungle, alien even to her well-travelled Zamorian senses; Tiberius wondered at the vibrancy of this land, so different from the dark grey north of his homeland. Of the five travellers, Kenyatta alone was not awestruck by the wonders of the wild river. He plied his trade all across Kush and the other Black Kingdoms, and so was keenly aware of the dangers that watched keenly beyond the gloom of the forest's shade. It is not the snake you see that you must fear, after all - but the snake that you don't see.</p><p style="text-align: left;">As the boat tacked round the river bend, Kenyatta spotted a shape on the far bank. A figure stood out against the dark of the jungle: a man's pale face loomed from the shadows, seemingly floating in the gloom. The face did not move while the boat approached: it stared, motionless, as Kenyatta discerned that the contrast of his dark clothing presented a somewhat supernatural image. Yet when the boat was almost abreast the shoreline, the palour of the stranger seemed even more otherworldly. Gaunt, severe, pallid, sombre, ageless, like the face of some terrible spirit of Death, a dark tangle of black hair framing his features, the stranger was clad head to foot in strange black clothing - like robes, but not matching the cut of any Kenyatta had seen. Thrust in a strange green sash around his waist were two carven clubs of odd design. His left hand rested on the intricate hilt of a straight thin sword: his right gripped a curious wooden staff, tapering to a point at the bottom, topped with a carved cat's head. The stranger's gaze pierced through to Kenyatta's very soul, his grey eyes chilling him with the cold of fathoms of ice.</p><p style="text-align: left;">The other travellers notice the stranger. Tiberius carefully moved his hand to his belt. Arcus ventured several greetings in various languages and patois, only to be met with that frozen stare in grim response. After a final attempt to communicate, the stranger turned to the jungle behind him, and called out in an unplaceable accent: "<i>Zuna!</i>"</p><p style="text-align: left;">After a few moments, another figure strode from the jungle. The contrast with the ghostly figure was remarkable: the newcomer was a lithe, young Kushite woman, clad simply in the loincloth and accoutrements typical of countless river tribes. Her petite stature and lively demeanour was almost comically incongruous with the sober phantom beside her, but her broad smile and bright eyes were in no way diminished in his presence. She responded warmly in perfect Kushite, as eloquent as any tribune from the Court of Shumballah. "You must forgive my friend, he is not used to this jungle!" Dusan's impeccable timing selected this moment to once again feed the river perch with his breakfast. The woman winced sympathetically. "Not unlike your tall companion there, poor boy!"</p><p style="text-align: left;">The strangers kept pace as the boat slowly continued on its path. Kenyatta translated to the company, and acted as ambassador for the group. "We are bound for an ancient city somewhere in this region. Do you know where this river ends? Are there any dangers we should watch for?"</p><p style="text-align: left;">The woman paused and frowned in thought, before her eyes widen in recognition. "Ah, you seek lost Zukundu, yes? You are not the first, and I doubt you'll be the last. But there is nothing left of old Zukundu save stone and bones, and worse dangers than even these waters."</p><p style="text-align: left;">"That may be, but we're looking for it all the same."</p><p style="text-align: left;">The woman smiled wryly, and imparted directions to a part of the vast jungle which is not often frequented by the locals - a place shunned by even the most daring of explorers. The man was silent during all this, watching the travellers intently. After a last warning to the adventurers fell upon deaf ears, the woman waved them away, and turned to the man. "Come, <i>Sullamun</i>, let us find <i>Unlungu</i>." Without a word, the stranger turned, his eyes lingering on the travellers until his pale face disappeared behind the shadow of his hair, and his silhouette merged with the forest beyond.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Sentinels of Zukundu</h3><p style="text-align: left;">Hours pass. The tribesmen, aided - at least in the mind - by Arcus and Kenyatta, avoided some of the treacherous rapids, hidden rocks, entangling plants, and other potential deadly hazards. In time, they came to a series of cascades: despite the locals' complaints, they were convinced to navigate carefully through the falls on the promise that the travellers would carry the boat back up to the main river themselves on the return journey. A lively and very wet ride down the falls ensued, with the boat and some very wet travellers following a stream through thick foliage into the open air.</p><p style="text-align: left;">They emerged into the blazing sunlight of the south. Once their eyes adjusted, they beheld a great lake flanked on all sides by sheer cliffs - a blind rift valley, perhaps formed in the wake of the Great Cataclysm, or simply the natural process of the landscape. The foreboding blue-black walls would be all but impassable to most adventurers: it seemed that the comparatively tiny cascade was the only means of entrance and exit into this great geological trap.</p><p style="text-align: left;">In the centre of the vast lake rose an island, situated roughly in the centre, and from this angle appearing trapezoid-shaped. The island seemed perhaps a half-hour's journey away. From this distance it appeared to be fringed with massive, thick mangrove trees, and topped with leaves and vegetation. Shining angular shapes glinting through the greenery suggested the presence of some form of man-made structures. The company urged the bewildered boatmen to venture forth. Kenyatta, ever wary of other denizens of the jungle, surveyed the surface of the lake. It was difficult to see anything in that water despite its clarity: the lakebed must be many fathoms below. Cloud shadows darkened the lake further, creeping across the surface as if they were predators stalking prey. </p><p style="text-align: left;">The Kushite was disquieted to note that there did not appear to be any of the life that would normally be teeming in such a body of water - no fish or frogs, not even insects. "This is a dead lake. It does not bode well for us." Arcus, intrigued, took a flask from his knap and scooped a sample of the water. Holding it up to the light, he could just about discern a translucent shape within the water, writhing furiously like a wriggling worm on a hook. Realising with mounting horror what he was looking at, the Argossean did not have time to react when the worm-thing coiled at the bottom of the flask and launched itself like a spring - <b>straight into Arcus's eye!</b></p><p style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/x2mzIaJhAZw" width="320" youtube-src-id="x2mzIaJhAZw"></iframe></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Crocodiles," King Solomon's Mines, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></p><p>Arcus dropped the flask and clutched frantically at the fiend: wrenching his eyeball near clean from his socket, the worm-thing's barbed maw lost its grip and it let go. Arcus hurled it onto the ship's deck. "Get it! Don't let it get away!" Dusan hooted in surprise and brought his heavy shod foot down upon the invader with a most terminal splat. Arcus, one hand clapped over his stinging eye, slapped his forehead with his free hand in resignation. "I meant capture it, not kill it. I was going to study it." The wounded Argossean turned sternly to the Kushite. "A dead lake, is it?!" Kenyatta seemed as surprised as anyone - and started to eye the water even more furtively than before.</p><p>None ventured to test the waters again, and all except Dusan shuffled away from the gunwales - he was already at death's door, and he sardonically figured perhaps he could pit the parasites infesting him against one another, ending the siege on his body in the process. Zafia squinted at the glimmering shapes: the unmistakable gleam of polished metal, and if her eyes did not deceive her, the occasional sparkle of gemstones. Her avaricious Zamorian soul was ablaze, practically salivating at the possibility of riches beyond dreams. </p><p>When the boat was a quarter mile from the island, the details became clearer. The grey margin marking the circumference of the island was not the assembled trunks of mangrove trees at all: it was a great wall, built from vertically-placed monoliths, carved in curious patterns. They reminded Kenyatta both of the mighty baobab trees of his desolate homeland, and also the great menhirs populating the holy places of the Black Kingdoms. Yet to see so many massive stones planted in a lake like a huge palisade wall confounded Kenyatta: this was a construction effort that even the kings of Stygia would be hard-pressed to attempt. </p><p>The adventurers gaped in awe at this sight. Arcus, eying the wall with his good eye - a scrap of cloth covered his wounded one - figured that access would be a daunting challenge, but not insurmountable. "Tiberius, I've got it - let's get our climbing gear out. Should only need one pitch. You lead & set up anchor, I'll spot." The two Hyborians unpacked their knapsacks, withdrawing several lengths of rope, slings, braces, awl spikes, and two climbing axes, while the boatmen steered the boat as close to the wall as the gently heaving lake allowed. Arcus clambered up the mast to look for a hold: although the masthead was barely half the height of the wall, he could spy the lip of the great stone palisade through the bushy leaves surmounting it.</p><p>Tiberius, fully suited in slings and rope, brandishing a climbing axe in each hand, hopped confidently onto the wall. The strange carvings offered enough of a grip for the blades of his axes, and he scaled the walls carefully but efficiently. Grinning with the confidence of all Kothians, he almost lost his footing when he heard a scampering sound on his right: to his amazement Zafia was scrambling up the wall like a cat, free-handed and without gear. Without even pausing her rapid ascent, she turned and taunted Tiberius with a wicked smile, giggling fiendishly. Not to be outdone, the Kothian redoubled his efforts. A minute later, he reached the top, and beheld the beaming face of the Zamorian, who waited lying on her belly. She extended her hand generously, which he grasped with grudging courtesy. </p><p>The two glanced around. The roof of this palisade resembled the floor of a jungle: a thick forest of trees prevented visibility beyond a few dozen feet, and the ground was rich soil feeding the vegetation. The two spied a particularly sturdy looking trunk, and within moments, they had a solid anchor. </p><p>This was most fortunate. Tiberius tossed the rope down to the boat: Dusan & Kenyatta stared up from the deck, Arcus waved from the masthead. But Tiberius noticed something else as he surveyed his surroundings: some of the cloud shadows seemed darker than the others. Long, tapering, and twisting slightly, like living things. They started to turn against the wind's direction, and converged - heading for the boat!</p><p>"Something's in the water! Go!"</p><p>Kenyatta turned, and saw the shadows. Turning to warn the boatmen, he was stunned to see both diving into the water, evidently choosing to abandon ship to whatever horror was rapidly approaching the craft. "Cowards!" Kenyatta spat with an oath, grasping his weapon and bracing against the gunwales.</p><p>Dusan heaved to his feet with a truly heroic effort. He fought down the last dregs of his breakfast trying to escape his gullet, and wrenched his rebelling joints into action. The big Hyperborean leapt to the gunwale, launched to the wall, and grasped for dear life... for a half second. His screaming finger joints betrayed him, and he dropped into the water like a bearded boulder.</p><p>Arcus snapped to face the lake. He knew that he didn't have time to descend the mast and climb the wall from the deck, even with the rope's assistance. Pressing his lips together in determination, he whipped the coiled rope from over his shoulder. "Zafia!" he called, and hurled the rope towards the Zamorian's outstretched hands. She caught the loop, and attached it to the anchor point. Arcus braced, breathed deeply, and launched himself towards the wall. Such heroics are the bread-and-butter of the son of a maritime people. Unfortunately, some of his knotwork was less than cooperative, and he was outraged to find himself smacking into the cold stone. It was only Lady Luck's sheer brazen sense of humour which saved him from the water, as the capricious goddess saw fit to tangle his leg in a rope loop.</p><p>Dusan, meanwhile, had emerged from the water with the confounding relentlessness of a man too sick to die, grasping each handhold with a ferocity that would crumble a lesser rockface. Four worm-things like Arcus's recent acquaintance squirmed on his back, trying to gnaw through his mail hauberk with futile savagery.</p><p>Kenyatta alone stood on the boat, blade in hand, eyes blazing in anticipation. Whatever was gliding under the surface of the lake, it would greet cold steel when it met -"Kenyatta! Leave your damned stubbornness on the boat and get up here!"</p><p>The Kushite quickly turned, and realised he was, indeed, alone on the boat. Glancing upwards, he saw Dusan labouring up the wall while Tiberius and Zafia hauled a dazed Arcus by the ankle. Almost disappointedly, Kenyatta snarled back to the ever-closing shapes "You live - for now!"</p><p>Just as Kenyatta jumped, the boat exploded in a shower of timber fragments and water spray. A deep, guttural growl rattled the adventurers' ribs: the observers on the ridge saw glimpses of great scaly jaws lined with brutal conical teeth crunching through the wood with horrifying ease. Kenyatta did not dare to look back, but the dangling Arcus saw a face of nightmare and lunacy burst from the water after the Kushite. It looked like one of the terrible dragons of legend: a long snout the length of the very boat they just destroyed, huge golden eyes, and rows upon rows of serrated scales like armour plating adorning its gigantic back. Kenyatta was just out of reach of the snapping jaws: within moments, he clambered up the wall, passing by the exhausted but determined Dusan, and helped pull Arcus up.</p><p>The four on the top of the wall looked down at their pursuers. "Crocodiles," Kenyatta ventured, "but larger than any I've seen, even on the River Styx." The monstrous reptiles thrashed furiously in the water, some launching up in fruitless attempts to snatch the adventurers. After a minute or so, they abandoned their siege, instead circling and pursuing the splashing boatmen now halfway to the shore.</p><p>All was once again quiet. The travellers looked into the island forest beyond. Zafia could just about perceive the outline of rooftops and strange spires - all seemingly cast from some bright metal. Kenyatta listened for animal life: all he could discern were bird calls high in the canopy, no sign of ground life. Tiberius gave a silent prayer to Mitra. Arcus was still recovering from repeated bounces against the stone.</p><p>A wet, trembling hand slapped the stonework, followed by a straining arm, and a very miserable Dusan. The other four turned, suddenly remembering their companion, and rushed to help him up. The expression on the Hyperborean's face - equal parts pain of surrender and rage of patience lost forever - had not changed since emerging from the water. Gasping for breath, he turned to regard the boat. The ruins of the boat, now in pieces barely sufficient for firewood, bobbed dolorously on the water's surface: the rudder, mast, and sail sank into the gloom below, the final resting place of the little ship. "A shame. It was a good boat. I will avenge it."</p><p>Arcus raised his arm to slap the Hyperborean warmly on the shoulder, only to recoil upon seeing his unauthorised passengers.</p><p>"Dusan, you, uh... you have something on your back."</p><p>Dusan did not immediately respond. "How many."</p><p>"Four."</p><p>There was no verbal response. The Hyperborean simply closed his eyes, and toppled flatly backwards like a drawbridge, squashing the squealing parasites under him.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: center;">"They Have Slain Sweet Dako!"</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pGn0kMRXQtA" width="320" youtube-src-id="pGn0kMRXQtA"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("The Wall," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>The company took a spell to recuperate. Arcus was relieved to find only light bruises under his scalp, through his eye was still stinging, his vision still blurred. Dusan lay on his back for the duration, a deep drone grumbling from his chest through his nose. Zafia scouted ahead to look for a route through the thick forest: she returned shortly, reporting a sort of thoroughfare not far ahead. "Onward, then" sighed Dusan, rolling with great stiffness to his hands and knees, and then his feet.</p><p>Kenyatta hacked through the greenery with expert cuts. He still could not spy any animals - no game, no scavengers, not so much as a mouse. Plenty of birds, though: he heard the familiar calls of turacos, coucals, parakeets, trogons, barbets, all high above in the canopy - no calls of terrestrial birds or waterfowl. "Why do animals shun the ground," the Kushite pondered - and he did not like the hypotheses which crept into his mind.</p><p>Zafia had no interest in wildlife: her eyes were fixated on the glimmers through the trees. She could see structures through gaps in the canopy: stone buildings capped with shining metal domes and minarets, and roofs plated in that same metal. Studded along the walls in intricate patterns and carvings were shining jewels and glasswork of a highly developed aesthetic. Zafia moved a little faster through the thickets than the rest.</p><p>The adventurers broke through the perimeter forest to Zafia's thoroughfare. Reaching out before them was the remnants of what must have been a main street of sorts: paved and decorated with mosaics, yet barely eroded by time. Only the strength of the plantlife cracked through that stonework. Looking more closely, the adventurers realised that the forest had in fact covered the buildings so thoroughly as to obscure them - they were not walking through a forest, but the city itself, reclaimed by the forces of nature almost completely!</p><p>Trees burst through windows and doors; branches cradled fallen towers and stelae; vines and creepers strangled walls and balconies. Tiberius studied a nearby dwelling. Even if the travellers could cut their way through the conquering green to the building interiors, anything of worth would be either long rotted away or inaccessible, claimed as nature's spoils. The thoroughfare, overgrown as it was, presented the path of least resistance, and so the company continued down that road.</p><p>Soon, they came to a long staircase. It led down into a wide stadium of some sort, flanked on all sides by similar terraces of stairs. The tree canopy opened up, bathing the plaza in sunlight. The remains of some sort of feature - a fountain, sculpture, memorial, or shrine - were utterly overwhelmed by great bromeliads, ferns, and orchids. The explorers descended the stairs, with Dusan's fatalism-powered courage carrying him forward, even as he tangled with the creepers. "Damnable vegetation!" He muttered, pulling his foot sharply from a particularly belligerent weed. Just as he did, a sharp buzz sped past his face: instinctively turning, he saw a black shape clatter against the wall and fall to the ground - a dart! The company froze, not daring to move - but before they could exhale, a tremendous crash sounded behind them, repeated in an accelerated percussion of doom. Dusan forced his reluctant body to turn and face the noise, as he perceived a shadow growing over his. A great piece of masonry was tumbling down the stairs towards him!</p><p>Arcus, Tiberius, Zafia and Kenyatta had the wherewithal to leap from the projectile's path. Dusan did not move immediately: whether it was resignation of yet another miserable thing to happen to him, or an obstinate refusal to move himself out of the way for a mere rock, the unforgiving stone was almost upon him before he realised that this was a battle of wills that he could not win. Dusan waited until his bullish forehead actually made contact with his adversary before rolling from its path. It is as well he did, for the stone collided with great prejudice against what remained of the plaza's centrepiece, sending bits of stone and leaves flying in a cloud.</p><p>Dusan, bleeding heavily from his wounded forehead, teetered on his feet. "This has not been a good day." At that presise moment, Tiberius was aware of movement in the canopy above. A sound of crunching branches and snapping twigs: looking up, he saw a shape flopping through the canopy. Zafia & Kenyatta heard and saw too: "Get back!" the Kushite called, at first fearing some predator was attacking - but the movement was too haphazard and uncontrolled. No, not attacking - it was falling.</p><p>The Hyperborean was still too dazed to notice the noise above - but he certainly saw the blur and heard the sickening thud mere inches from his feet. Blood spattered Dusan's face. The adventurers looked aghast - the headless corpse of a woman fell from the trees!</p><p>Kenyatta knew that jaguars would store their kills in the trees to prevent lions or hyenas from stealing them: his eyes darted among the canopy for the slayer. And across the plaza, on the opposite side to the companions, he indeed perceived a shape - but this was no jaguar, nor was it any sort of cat. The silhouette dropped from the canopy to land on its hind legs: great long arms spread out, the hint of a huge chest and head, and the barely perceptible gleam of black eyes. The outline of the shape was strangely blurred and undefined, like a cloud, or a smeared cave painting: flecked among the darkness were flashes of striking colours - azure, scarlet, emerald, saffron - and in the thing's left hand dripped a human head. </p><p>For a space none dared move. Then the shadow cast back its head, calling an unearthly roar - the cry of a great ape, yet terribly - impossibly - human-like. In an instant, it was gone - it melted into the gloom of the forest. The roar came again, farther this time - much too far for the time passed.</p><p>The companions were unsure what to do. Tiberius knew that there was no way they could catch up to the fiend, whatever it was. Arcus stood dumbfounded: he knew of legends of terrible savage ape-men that harassed the northlands, but this was unlike even those grim tales. "Kenyatta, what was that?" he whispered. "An ape. It must be. A gorilla, maybe. But that cry - that wasn't an animal's call. Whatever it is, it is no natural beast - at least none I've ever seen, or heard." Dusan, wiping the blood from his brow, looked at the decapitated cadaver. "Could it have done this?" he ventured.</p><p>Kenyatta walked over to the body. By her skin tone she was clearly a Kushite, but beyond that Kenyatta could not determine. Her attire was strange to Kenyatta: the weave of the loincloth, the style of the beads, and the pattern of various accoutrements were curiously archaic. Rather than the distinctive tribal fashion of the many Kushite tribes or Black Kingdom peoples, this woman's outfit resembled more the depictions of ancient Kushites seen on the historic carvings and friezes of Shumballah. But most remarkable was the amount of gold & jewellery this woman bore - earrings, nose piercings, armlets, bangles, bracelets, necklaces, medallions, anklets, rings on every digit. This woman carried more gold on her than even the King of Punt on parade. Zafia overcame any revulsion she may have upon witnessing a gruesome dead body when the glitter of gold caught her eye, and she eagerly ransacked the corpse for every bit of gold she could remove without resorting to more violent efforts.</p><p>Arcus heard a noise from the west stairs. To most of the outsiders, they heard a shout in a language they did not know - Kenyatta, however, could just about understand an obscure Kushite dialect. "Aii! Outsiders! They have slain sweet Dako!"</p><p>The adventurers wheeled to face the source of the sound. Several men, armed with black-tipped spears and red shields, burst from the foliage with murder in their eyes. They approached in tight formation, shields held high, spears aloft. Some eight in all descended the stairs to meet the company. As they approached, they saw Zafia crouched over the body, her hands still untangling a jewelled chain from the deceased's waist. Their expressions hardened, and they shouted venomously at her. Kenyatta struggled to understand the curses, but it was clear from context that they did not wish the Zamorian well.</p><p>Tiberius knew he had to act. Without a thought to translation, he howled in his best approximation of the sound that they heard just minutes earlier, then making motions towards the treetops, and pointing in the direction the shadow retreated. Some of the warriors' expressions changed, their fury dropping into questioning frowns: a few looked towards one another uncertainly. One, however, continued to bark orders, and they continued to march towards the group - when another voice pealed from the east, again in that archaic Kushite, but in a timbre Kenyatta found easier to decipher. "Put your spears down, you fools! They are just strangers. They had nothing to do with this."</p><p>A woman strode down the eastern staircase, and stepped into the daylight. She was tall and impeccably built: the corded muscles of her long limbs gleamed and rippled like a panther's with each step. She bore a spear and shield like the warriors, but in addition to the proliferation of golden jewellery she bore a striking coronet with feathers, suggesting some sort of status above the others. "This is the doing of the Feathered Ape!"</p><p>At this, the assembled warriors suddenly started to wail plaintively and glance furtively at the canopy. One young-looking spearman started to crouch on his haunches and rock back and forth, comforted by an older compatriot. "Up, Tenbo, it knows you're afraid." The woman looked at each of the adventurers in turn. She pointedly glared at Zafia, still clutching Dako's jewels, and extended a hand expectantly. Zafia turned to the others for support, but seeing none, grimaced in disappointment before reluctantly handing over her spoils. The woman returned to her appraisal of the strangers, ending on Kenyatta. "You understand me, yes?"</p><p>Kenyatta ventured a response slowly. "I can, but your language is strange to me. Who are you? Is this Zukundu?"</p><p>The woman straightened, her expression inscrutable. "I am Zyanya. We are Xhotatse. This is Zukundu. I expect you have many more questions. We shall take you to the Queen. Come with us. It is not safe here." </p><p>As if to punctuate her point, Tiberius heard something fly behind him, then a clattering on the stones, followed by several more. Arcus saw wickedly serrated black-tipped arrows inches from where Tiberius was standing!</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 2: The Path of Skulls</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KMVjl8X_qSc" width="320" youtube-src-id="KMVjl8X_qSc"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("You've Been Hit," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>Zyanya wheeled. "Mekutu! Shields!" The warriors raised their shields towards the hail of arrows in an expertly knit mantle: Tenbu and the older warrior motioned to the adventurers to get behind them. They rushed under the shields, and with a word, the warriors rushed in formation up the southern staircase. Zyanya turned back to the company: "Move out!"</p><p>Arcus peered through a gap in the shields to get a look at the ambushers. Just beyond the trees he could perceive arches in overgrown stone walls: within those arches, the Argossean saw wildly staring eyes and flashing smiles - smiles much wider than they should be. Arcus shuddered as the company ran, arrows thudding against the shields. Dusan, who was already the least dextrous of the group, was fortunate to be practically carried by the collective mass of the adventurers and warriors, almost instinctively following their steps rather than by any conscious effort. </p><p>The hunters were relentless, and seemed to have bottomless quivers: the hunted only found a reprieve when they arrived at a tunnel, and plunged into the darkness. They followed the light at the end to what initially appeared to be a large open space, apparently overgrown - but Kenyatta could tell that the twigs, branches, and vines had been placed here. Traps, Kenyatta thought. Across from the tunnel was a great black stone fort with an enormous bronze door, wrought with the image of an elephant's head in strong relief. But as the company looked around, they realised that they were now indoors - this keep was inside a larger room, uncannily lit by what appeared to be green stars on the roof. Zyanya panted, "They will not follow us here. We are safe for the moment."</p><p>"Mekutu, correct?" At the mention of that name, the warriors made hand gestures & strange hissing & tutting noises in all directions, as if driving away any Mekutu ghosts that may be watching. "Who are they? Is there anyone else in Zukundu?"</p><p>Zyanya inhaled deeply. "Yes. We, the Xhotatse, are the Glittering Ones, so named for, well," and she motioned towards the jewels on her naked chest. Dusan, not quite understanding what she was referring to, caught himself staring, and turned away blushing. Zyanya either did not notice, or was unfamiliar with Hyborian notions of modesty. "The Smiling Ones you have already met. They are decadent, degenerates, evil creatures who perform terrible rites. They do unnatural things to their bodies, of which their monstrous smiles are but the least. Pray you do not meet their lord and his court: if you get close enough to see why they are called the Smiling Ones, I only hope you can stomach the revelation."</p><p>"There is a third tribe, but we have not seen or heard for them for years now. The Tangini, the Dreamers. They are strange and uncanny, always sleeping or dozing under the trees, never rousing even when shot with an arrow. None know how they even sustain themselves - food, drink - save that they are certainly alive, as we can tell by their breathing. They also talk in their sleep - the mad ravings of deep dreaming and unfathomable nightmares."</p><p>Dusan seemed strangely offended by the indolence of this tribe he had never met. "Well, if all they do is dream and laze about, why did the Mekutu not destroy them and take their land and treasures? Or you, for that matter?"</p><p>"Because the Tangini are not alone in their territory. Something there guards them from tresspassers, allowing them to indulge. All we know is that few of our scouts make it out alive - and those that do seem possessed of a terrible madness, frothing at the lips, eyes wide and bloodshot, before they die mere hours later. I suspect the Smiling Ones' scouts suffer a similar fate."</p><p>Zyanya held an arm up to the warriors, who started to move down the corridor, and turned again to the adventurers. "We still have to cross the Path of Skulls. Tread carefully, and do not stray from our path."</p><p>The adventurers watched as the soldiers began to stalk in single file, winding in a strange twisting path. Tiberius saw a pile of bones & skulls, bleached by the sun, arranged in a grim display - presumably those of trespassers on Xhotatse land. The adventurers followed the soldiers' tracks. Kenyatta listened: he could hear movement beneath the foliage. Something was prowling under there...</p><p>Shortly, the adventurers and their escort were at the door. Zanya turned to them. "The Ebony Keep, residence of Queen Chitaka of the Xhotatse. This is the Door of the Elephant, our last defence against the hated Mekutu. I will inform Her Majesty of your arrival." She turned curtly, and rapped her spear on the bronze door in an intricate drum, the strikes making a ghostly metallic echo. Presently the door swung open, the trunk and tusks of the elephant parting as it moved.</p><p>Within was darkness. The adventurers walked on through the Door of the Elephant...</p><p>Within was a small gatehouse, leading out into a bailey - again, lit eerily by those strange green stars. A few dozen individuals were milling about, with a few noticing the newcomers and forming a small crowd around them. Zyanya proclaimed "Behold, my Xhotatse family, outsiders - warriors from afar, come to aid us against the Great Enemy Mekutu!" At that, the tuts and gestures, followed by warm smiles and some small chatter. Zafia surveyed the crowd which gathered: it seemed Zyanya was accurate in describing them as family, as there was an undeniable familial resemblance amongst all the individuals, young and old. But the keep was clearly far too large for the small numbers which gathered here - what remained would only be a fraction of the workforce necessary for the maintainance and upkeep of a fort of this size, let alone a sustainable population. There appeared to be no children among the Xhotatse - at least, not present here. Tiberius noted this too: each smile on the Xhotatse faces was nonetheless marked with a terrible sadness and regret. The Xhotatse were dying - and they knew it.</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Pond and the Monkey</h3><p>Zyanya turned to the adventurers. "Wait here a moment, I shall return shortly." The company took the opportunity to examine the Ebony Keep and its denizens. Kenyatta noted that while the keep itself was in remarkably good condition given its presumed age, there were many ad-hoc alterations and additions, presumably built up by generations of Xhotatse well after Zukundu's golden age. These ramshackle features were poorly maintained, with several ladders, platforms, and balustrades simply lying where they fell. Zafia watched as some young men chased a small grey monkey around the grounds. The young men were laughing and tripping, with an abandon and uncoordination that seemed more like children than their age suggested. Kenyatta heard them call back "Mother, look, we are catching the Feathered Ape!" Zafia followed their look, and saw an older woman smiling with that same sadness. The Zamorian knew the physical and mental tolls that endemic inbreeding can incur on a population. Arcus attempted to lighten the sense of relentless doom by noting the attractiveness of several Xhotatse and some comments about repopulating the city, but it could do little to overcome the overwhelming hopelessness of their situation.</p><p>Dusan watched the young men chasing the ape to the centre of the bailey. A large ornamental pond lay there, with a small island in the centre featuring what looked like a tiny house with a large door on one side. Descending from the starry roof above are thick vines and fronds, almost like tentacles emerging from a cursed night sky. Some sprouted pleasant white flowers, others a vibrant yellow bloom. The ape, enjoying the chase almost as much as the young men, scampered over the flagstones and clambered up one of the vines, leaping and swinging with delight. The company, amused by these curious antics, ambled over to the pond. Zafia peered into the waters below, noting a strange green glow - with a deeper look, she could tell that strange glowing stones were illuminating the pond. Once again, the rapacity that would shame even her fellow Zamorians bubbled to the surface, and she whispered a plan of distraction to Tiberius and Dusan, hoping to snatch the undoubtedly valuable stones.</p><p>Events proved to have a discouraging effect on Zafia's notion. The grey monkey was still swinging and leaping vine-to-vine with great enthusiasm - but upon grasping one vine, it suddenly slipped, and plummeted into the water below. A hush fell upon the watching Xhotatse. Within moments, the water started to froth and churn like rapids: flashes of silver scales, wide hateful eyes, and flashing yellow teeth broke through the spume. The monkey's playful cries transformed to gurgled screams of terror: within seconds, the water turned a deep red, the monkey's grey fur disappearing under clouds of crimson, revealing streaked white bones grasping desperately for the vines. The young men shrieked in distress, rushing to the woman, cowering into her like frightened children.</p><p>For a moment the adventurers simply gazed, aghast at this fresh horror - before Zafia, still fancying her chances, started to reach into the pool. Dusan instictively held out an arm across her chest to hold her back, slowly shaking his head. Zafia harrumphed. </p><p>Zyanya returned from the tall arched chamber leading to the Throne Room. "The Queen shall see you."</p><h3 style="text-align: center;">The Throne of Zukundu</h3><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GlIHRBlN76M" width="320" youtube-src-id="GlIHRBlN76M"></iframe></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;">("Over There," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</div></span><p>The Xhotatse led the adventurers into the Throne Room. Unlike the "outside," great braziers and torches provided light, which was intensified by burnished golden mirrors: the carved ivory ornaments gleamed in the warm light, and the strange subterranean flowers bloomed with unusual hues. Throw rugs were scattered on the floor, the pelts of known beasts of the jungle - including that of the great Golden Leopard, as well as a strange pale cat that none of the company could recognise.</p><p>Sitting dantily on the throne was a young woman, bedecked in golden trinkets, fine jewels, dazzling feathers, and ivory finery. She smiles broadly towards the outsiders and nods courteously. Beside her, a tall elderly man, similarly clad in precious stones and metal but to a smaller degree, gently waved a large feather fan. He leant to one side, obscuring his face from view as he conferred with the Queen. The Queen nodded, and the man turned to the guests.</p><p>"Queen Chitaka of the Xhotatse bids you a thousand welcomes to the Ebony Keep, honoured visitors. Our loyal general Zyanya has passed word of your esteem and prowess in facing our dreadful foes." Arcus glances questioningly to Zyanya, who pointedly continues to stare forward. The man continues. "I am Inokwu, who speaks for the Queen with her blessing. I expect you have questions?"</p><p>The company, speaking through Kenyatta, relate the story of their journey to Zukundu and their encounter with the Feathered Ape. Kenyatta, however, had a particular question in mind. "I have seen strange, green lights in this place. There is a gem of great power in the north: I have seen it lay waste to an entire city." </p><p>Inokwu narrowed his eyes. "You speak of the Eyes of Derketa," he replied frostily. "You will have seen them in the Pond outside, yes?" </p><p>Zafia, who had been distracted by the many gold baubles, fixed her attention on Inokwu in a most unsubtle manner. "Oh, the ones you see have long been drained of their potency over lost millennia: they bring light, nothing more."</p><p>Kenyatta was unconvinced. "Is there no possibility that some remain with their old power?" Inokwu sighed. "If there are, then mark my words, brother: the only ones in Zukundu who would dare deal with such sorcery are among the Mekutu." The tuts and hisses echoed in the chamber. Arcus was intrigued to note the Queen joined in, but with none of the hatred of her fellow Xhotatse - she seemed to treat it as a game. Inokwu glanced sharply at the Queen, who straightened herself up. Inokwu continued. "And if you saw what dabbling in that unnatural magic did to those fiends, then I suspect you would understand why we shun them."</p><p>Prompted by Tiberius, Kenyatta turned to another line of questioning. "There are so few Xhotatse left. Why do you not leave?"</p><p>Inokwu lowered his head sadly. "None have ventured beyond the walls in generations. You saw the Sentinels, placed here by our forefathers to defend against invaders. They are determined to ensure no-one enters Zukundu - and just as devoted to ensure no-one leaves. Many have tried, but we have lost our ancestor's arts in construction and shipbuilding. If there was some secret tunnel to the shore, it has long been reclaimed by things which lurk in the deep. No, I'm afraid there is no escape from our prison-palace. You are of Zukundu now. Our fates are entwined now."</p><p>At that, Inokwu motioned to a young warrior. "Fetch some trinkets from the treasury." The warrior departed. "Being as our destinies now converge, our Queen bids you this: hunt the Feathered Ape. Find it and slay it. Bring back its hideous body, that we may place its hide upon the Ebony Throne and pile its bones atop the walls of the Ebony Keep for all to see!"</p><p>The warrior returned, bearing several sets of golden necklaces tinkling with jewels and ivory around his neck. Inokwu took them reverently from the bowing warrior, and handed them to Kenyatta. "Please take these. Much more will be yours upon the completion of this task, besides the eternal gratitude of the Xhotatse.</p><p>Somewhat surprised, Kenyatta turns to the company, holding enough gold in his hands to buy a castle in Keshan, and translated Inokwu's decree. Arcus, speaking in Shemite directly to Inokwu with Kenyatta translating, objected: "My friend, we ask for no reward in return. We would gladly rid Zukundu of this terror without recompense."</p><p>Inokwu held up a hand. "Your generosity shames me. But as I said, our fates are entwined. You are now of Xhotatse, and so, you are entitled to everything that any Xhotatse is." He gestured towards the servants and warriors of the Throne Room, all carrying pounds of gold on their bodies. "There is more gold in our treasury than we know what to do with. You are welcome to all you can carry, even if I fear there is no way to spend it."</p><p>Dusan stared gruimly. "We entered Zukundu despite the big lizards. We will find a way out." </p><p>Inokwu was unmoved. "Until then, you are Xhotatse. Tenbo will take you to the residences, where you may rest." He turned to the queen, and spoke behind the fan again. "The Queen requires rest herself. My undying thanks, once again. May the ancestors grant us the strength to prevail."</p><p>Tenbo marched forward, expecting the company to follow. They did - but just before exiting the chamber, Arcus stopped. Something had been bothering him during the discussion, but he could not quite put his finger on it until he looked back. Inokwu knelt next to the throne, stroking the Queen's head. The Queen smiled up into his face as he whispered to her. Arcus realised that Inokwu did not always pause to speak to the Queen before answering responding to the company's questions. Arcus didn't like mysteries, so he tapped Kenyatta's shoulder, boldly strode back into the throne room. Inokwu glanced up, his expression freezing; Chitaka turned, still smiling. As Arcus paused, he was aware of a blur on his right side - and within moments, the imposing form of Zyanya was between him and the throne, black-tipped spear held aloft. Arcus tried to move the spear in any direction other than his sternum, but it would be easier to move the Blue Mountains than to shift that spearhead. Arcus instead positioned himself around Zyanya and her spear, which followed his direction until he was on the other side.</p><p>"Allow him approach, gentle Zyanya. I trust your aim will stop any unpleasantness before it manifests." Inokwu then turned to Arcus. "The Queen will be happy to answer any questions on the morrow."</p><p>Arcus was curt, speaking again with Kenyatta translating. "I would like to speak to her. Without someone speaking for her." Arcus and Inokwu held each other's stare.</p><p>"This is against the way of our people. I understand that you are outsiders, so I will forgive this slight against our tradition. But the Queen tires, and-"</p><p>"What are you not telling us, Inokwu? Why can the Queen not speak for herself?" For the briefest of seconds, Inokwu's stone face trembled, his eyes watering. "It is not your concern. Please leave us, now, the Queen must rest."</p><p>Arcus looked around Inokwu to see Chitaka directly. "Your majesty, are you alright? Are you safe?" Kenyatta translated - but the Queen did not respond, simply continuing to smile. Inokwu watched, strangely expressionless. Arcus waved Kenyatta away. He put his hand to his chest. "Arcus." The Queen still smiled, not appearing to understand. A thought occurred to the Argossean. He reached into his pack - Zyanya tensed instinctively before relaxing - and withdrew a small straw dolly, like the Hyborians crafted for their children. Chitaka's smile grew, her eyes widened, and she looked expectantly at Arcus: when Arcus handed the doll to her, she grasped it, and gently stroked its hair, crossing her legs on the throne. She looked, for all her finery and regality, like a little girl on her birthday.</p><p>Arcus turned to see Inokwu, tears suddenly bursting from behind his eyes. He stretched out his arms, as if asking "now do you understand why she cannot speak?" Arcus understood the gesture. Turning to Kenyatta, Arcus said "We will find the ape. We will ensure no harm comes to her." </p><p>Inokwu nodded. wiping tears from his wisened cheeks. "Please, I beg of you - let none among the Xhotatse know. She is the last child to be born among the Xhotatse. Her mother - my sister - she passed. Few of our women have carried, and none survived to term. We are dying. Our people, our history, our memories. We are breaking apart - and only the hope that our Queen can rule is keeping us from anarchy. If they knew she did not have the competent mind we need to survive... All we have left is this palace, a prison that we cannot leave to the despicable Mekutu, the wretched dreaming Tangini, or the nightmare of the Feathered Ape."</p><p>The elder looked to Zyanya, and nodded. Zyanya lowered her spear. Arcus bowed to the queen, still cradling her gift, rocking gently to and fro, incongruous in her elegant accoutrements and the grandiose throne. Arcus and Kenyatta followed Zyanya in silence to the residences. These were accessed by the anterior wall of the citadel, into a great chasm where houses were cut into the rock itself. Hundreds of these homes reached almost to the green-starred ceiling, but barely a dozen were lit with simple torches, huddled together in a corner - showing just how far the population of Zukundu had fallen. Zyanya led the companions to a house on the ground, and they remarked upon the spaciousness - dozens of flat stone beds lay empty. Dusan slumped on the nearest slab, followed shortly by Tiberius and Zafia. Zyanya spoke briefly with Kenyatta before he took to bed, her final words "Do not leave the city at night - it is not safe." Arcus was last to lie, and last to sleep, troubled by the melancholy misery of a city approaching death.</p><p>Arcus's last waking thought was his final glance at the throne room, where he remembered a dignified royal advisor quietly sobbing into his fan, stroking the head of a queen, singing an old Kushite nursery rhyme to her dolly.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 3: The Hunt for the Feathered Ape</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/295kVq0jik8" width="320" youtube-src-id="295kVq0jik8"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Prepare for Battle," The Ghost and the Darkness, Jerry Goldsmith)</span></div><p>A hollow, forlorn trumpet blast awakened the adventurers. Dusan stretched, feeling remarkably recharged after the night's rest. Zafia started awake, withdrawing her sprawled limbs under her like an alarmed hound. Kenyatta snorted to consciousness, momentarily startled to see so many pale faces - something he still wasn't used to despite all his travels and trading. Tiberius's eyes fluttered open, and he raised his head - he slept in a sitting position typical of Mitraic meditation practises. And Arcus, who didn't get much sleep at all, nonetheless felt rested enough to trek through the jungle. Zyanya arrived shortly after, accompanied by two familiar faces. "I trust you slept well, brothers, sister. We have few scouts to spare, but Tenbo and Jambi offered themselves to accompany you. They are young and fit, and know the city as well as anyone. Good hunting."</p><p>As suddenly as she arrived, Zanya wheeled and jogged back to the keep. Tenbo and Jambi shuffled their feet expectantly. Dusan grinned: amongst his strange people it might be called warm, but outside the frozen north it had the savage ferocity of a starving wolf. "You saved our skins, boys, time we repaid that debt, eh?" The Hyperborean slapped Tenbo resoundingly on the chest, Kenyatta hurriedly assuring that this was not a challenge. "He is from far away, his ways are strange." Tenbo was not reassured, the gigantic pale, blond, bearded figure as alien and frightening to him as any spirit of the Outer Dark. Nonetheless, the adventurers readied themselves, and the guides took them from the keep, across the Path of Skulls, out to the corridor, and back above the Roof of Zukundu to the Circle of the Sky - the last sighting of the Feathered Ape, and location of poor Dako's corpse.</p><p>For a moment, the companions were unsure where to begin, all looking about, hoping for some clue to present itself. Tenbo and Jambi looked to one another. "This is not the first time the Feathered Ape has struck. We could take you to the previous attack, if that would help?" Tenbo winced, hoping he was being helpful. </p><p>Tiberius nodded purposefully. "That's an excellent plan, Tenbo. Take us there!"</p><p>The hunters paced through the overgrown jungle, always keeping an eye out for predators - animal or otherwise. Eager to break the silence, Jambi spoke up. "Before this happened, we thought the Ape was simply a just-so story, a fable made up to frighten the Children of Zukundu. It was no more real to us than the tale of how the Elephant got his trunk, or how Tortoise got his shell. But then, none of us have seen an Elephant. Or a tortoise. Not for many generations."</p><p>Kenyatta was intrigued. "I noticed there were no animals living on the ground here. Only birds, and that grey monkey at the pond."</p><p>Jambi nodded grimly. "Aye, only small beasts that can escape into the trees live on Zukundu now - or beasts with spears and wits." He held his spear aloft.</p><p>"But surely the Feathered Ape can't have killed all the animals - what would it feed on otherwise?"</p><p>"Oh, that is not the Ape's doing. That is the work of the Crawlers Beneath. You remember the Sentinels, yes? They are not the only scaly things here. There is a reason all Xhotatse retreat to the Ebony Keep at night. Some are trapped outside by Mekutu" - tut, hiss - "others lost in the jungle. Few return in the morning. Those that do tell stories of crawling, twisting, things worming through the jungle floor. We can avoid them by day - but the Feathered Ape hunts when the sun is up. Perhaps he commands these things himself - why not? If the Feathered Ape is true, then what of the stories of its powers?"</p><p>Kenyatta recalled with an icy chill a story he learned from a wandering Shemite: there were some stories of terrible snake-like creatures which acted as guards for cities, like the terrible Sacred Sons of Set that lurked in dark Khemi. Their masters controlled them with pipes of curious design. Kenyatta told this to the company: on a whim, he and Zafia took some hollow sticks on the ground, and started to whittle rudimentary pipes as they walked. Pleased with their handiwork, they ventured a tune. Silence reigned in the jungle - if anything heard their music, it was not stirred to respond.</p><p>Nonetheless, there was use in Kenyatta & Zafia's diversion: while looking for more sticks, they spotted tracks. The Kushite recognised the articulated thumb and long toe marks of an ape - but much larger than any gorilla he had seen, and uncannily elongated, disturbingly reminiscent of a human. As the group searched for more spoor, they found a flagstone marked with three lines - the strength needed to make such a trace would have been immense, and the clean gashes suggest rough but sharp claws. Kenyatta was dumbfounded. He knew the might of apes in his home kingdom, but this was a monstrous power beyond even a bull silverback. The Kushite started to wonder if there was truth in Jambi's remarks.</p><p>"There, more tracks! I think I know where it went!" Tenbo excitedly rushed forward. "Tenbo, get back here, keep your head!" Jambi pursued his errant friend. The company followed. Dusan, who was still amazed at the colours and beauty of this landscape, was vaguely aware that the foliage - blooms, flowers, orchids, vines, leaves - were starting to shift. Where once the jungle was overwhelmingly green, now everything started to turn red. Reaching out to touch a particularly vivid red blossom, he was relieved to note that the red was not the unmistakable spatter of blood - but still, he could not shake a sense of foreboding about that crimson bloom. </p><p>A short time later, the adventurers caught up with Tenbo and Jambi, who stood unmoving outside a doorway. Steps leading down could just be seen in the gloom, with the evidence of light further below. Erupting from the darkness were vines and tendrils, like the ones hanging from the forest canopy - but where they were green, these were that unsettling blood-red hue. Tenbo pointed down the entrance with his spear. "That way, I'm sure of it." Dusan was not happy about this, but again gripped by the mad recklessness of his people, he grumped past the guides into the unknown.</p><p>The adventurers descended the stairs carefully, trying to avoid the red creepers almost unconsciously, perhaps fearing they would spring to life and entangle them like serpents. Jambi's eyes darted around. "Our guides have not been here for many years. These red vines are like the strange plants in the Tangini's territory. We should take care."</p><p>The hunters emerged into a room. It resembled nothing so much as a weird greenhouse: Two walls and the bow-shaped ceiling were covered in irregular crystal windows of a design totally unfamiliar to even Kenyatta, who knew of the marvels the Stygians could work in glass. Behind the frosty glass were green lights - perhaps more Eyes of Derketa - bathing the room in that sickly emerald. Yet even that green could not dilute the cruel crimson of the vines, which snaked all over the floor, the planters housing strange and unknown herbs and orchids. On the other side of the room Dusan could just about discern another door.</p><p>Tiberius, however, was fixated on the vines. One vine in particular seemed disgustingly fat and pliant, as thick as a tree-trunk. He followed it behind one of the stone planters, watching with mounting anxiety as it thickened with his gaze. On the other side of the planter, the vine was sickeningly plump - and large enough to hold a human. Tiberius almost robotically unsheathed his dagger, and pierced the vine. A dark, syrupy, red liquid oozed from the puncture - and the vine moved.</p><p>A cry rang out. Tenbo screamed as something pulled him sharply into the darkness.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-three-fall-of.html">TO BE CONTINUED...</a></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-84919779379917943172022-06-02T21:51:00.006+01:002022-06-24T13:38:15.111+01:00The Road To Acheron, Part One - "The Seven Sacrifices"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjUoRCFzQbtqDIN1pDfr-fkSxOg2vN3Ma1zpIzPf6VXX8ZDah5Myt1lww2l_W5efDnWyU1R_KJBJl5wpKceszIpwoiNDf00vhvqSGn-E2xMouhH7eIk378FN4Z7RG3rrfUEkQUi6LMryicsCJt3PxejXOZOfHHcnxZNUyhNqlV0_AYohYiYqiFw_IyA/s800/Acheron%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUjUoRCFzQbtqDIN1pDfr-fkSxOg2vN3Ma1zpIzPf6VXX8ZDah5Myt1lww2l_W5efDnWyU1R_KJBJl5wpKceszIpwoiNDf00vhvqSGn-E2xMouhH7eIk378FN4Z7RG3rrfUEkQUi6LMryicsCJt3PxejXOZOfHHcnxZNUyhNqlV0_AYohYiYqiFw_IyA/w400-h400/Acheron%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Last night was the first proper session of my game of <i>Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed Of</i>. Following <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/05/the-road-to-acheron-saga-in-age.html">character creation</a>, I took a cue from a few Howard stories and started the action with the heroes in captivity: their weapons, armour, equipment, and allies all taken from them, leaving them with only a deliberately abrasive tunic & their wits. Will this first adventure be their last? Well, only one way to find out...</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter One: Eyes in the Dark</h2><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven lambs in seven cells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven wolves in seven fells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven seas for seven shells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven coins for seven wells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven rites for seven spells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven chimes of seven bells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Seven souls for seven hells</i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><i> - Old Shemite shibboleth</i></p><p>The captives responded to their incarceration differently. The Kothian prayed daily for Mitra to grant him strength and resolution in the very den of his great enemy. The Kushite and the Stygian exchanged grumbling pleasantries, each stinging remark the gesture of a perverse seraglio dance, revealing the naked flesh of their contempt for one another until no threat was left unveiled. The occupant in the farthest cell crouched in the shadows, watching, inscrutable. The Hyperborean enjoyed the dark futility of his situation with the mirthless grin of a trapped wolf. The Gunderman, unused to enclosed spaces and fiercely prizing the freedom of his people, tried the strange, ornately-wrought cell door - but not even the fabled iron grip of Bori himself would have been sufficient to dislodge it. As for the Argossean, well, he was practical: he recounted as much detail as possible.</p><p>Every half-hour or so, the clang of a metal door on stone would shatter the uneasy silence: the clap of footsteps upon the floor would refrain, pausing regularly with a hushed jangle followed by a low grunt. Observation revealed that the <i>Phylacist </i>- the jailer - was trying the locks. "Every half hour?" thought the Argossean. The Kushite broke from his still-ongoing debate with the Stygian to note this weird regularity on the part of a paranoid jailer.</p><p>The Argossean was in no mood to extend his sojourn any longer than necessary. As soon as the loud clanging stopped ringing in his ears, he tore a scrap of his tunic free and jammed it into the lock. He waited, endeavouring not to interject on the sparkling repartee between the Kushite and the Stygian, for everyone knew the hatred between those two southern nations. The Gunderman across from him watched, understanding his plan, the spark of a new hope - escape - flashing in his mind.</p><p>In time, the terminal clang of the outer door sang again, and the Phylacist resumed his routine. The Argossean immediately dropped to the floor, face down, and feigned death with an ease that could only come from regular deployment. He heard the muted clink of a key fumbling in a jammed lock, the pained grumble of the Phylacist - and then a sharp silence. Then a scrabbling and louder jangle of keys, followed by the cell door swinging open, and the Argossean sprang to life, charging at the jailer. The big man was knocked backwards to the opposite cell, where the Gunderman lay in wait: great brawny arms thrust between the iron and held the jailer in place. Shouting in profane oaths, the Jailer flailed for his cudgel - and dropped the keys at the grinning Argossean's feet. </p><p>Snatching them up, the Argossean raced down the corridor to the gigantic Hyperborean. "You, Hyperborean, you can fight, yes?" </p><p>The giant rose to his full height. "Aye," he replied with a fatalistic glimmer in his cold rimefrost eyes.</p><p>"Well, there's a man that needs fighting if ever I saw one" - the Argossean gesturing to the jailer thrashing and kicking against the Gunderman's vice-like grip. The Hyperborean nodded, and the Argossean swiftly unlocked the door. It was a timely intervention, as the jailer just barely extricated his sweat-slicked arm from the Gunderman's grasp: freed, he loped down to meet the two free prisoners. The Hyperborean was taller, but the jailer easily heavier, and the two collided like great bull apes as the Argossean slipped by. The Hyperborean was confident in tests of strength, having wrestled with bulls, bears, even mammoth calves in his youth - but the jailer used the giant's own height against him, pivoting with his lower centre of gravity and twisting the Hyperborean back into his cell. The Jailer, snarling triumphantly, reached to his belt for the keys - his grin dropping into an O of surprise, as he followed the jangling of his keys back to the Argosseon, who was now attempting to free the Kothian.</p><p>With a heathen oath, the Jailer was about to charge, at the Argossean, still trying the lock - only to find all was dark. He grasped at his face, screaming in outrage at the texture of a prisoner's tunic. Within a few moments, he had ripped it off, and beheld the nude Stygian, pointing and gesticulating as he cursed in his strange language. After the jailer cursed the Stygian with a remark on his unmistakable rank odour, the jailer grabbed his cudgel and raced up the corridor - but not before the Kothian stepped out from his unlocked cell.</p><p>The two faced one another, and the Kothian realised that his jailer was one of his own - a traitor to his people and his god, one of the "civilised" Kothians whose people were under the heel of Acheron and their Set-worshipping devils. But he did not pause: he strode purposefully towards the jailer, and as his larger countryman reached out his massive arms, the Kothian ducked. The two twisted to face each other again, and the Kothian smote the jailer square in the face. The Kothian heard and felt bones cracking upon contact - his own, as well as the jailer's. The Kothian recoiled and shook his injured hand as the jailer staggered backwards, steadying himself against a cell door. Slender hands struck out from the darkness and grasped the jailer's topknot - the occupant, a Zamorian, braced her feet against the iron cell door as she wrenched with all her might to hold the jailer. The Kothian and Argossean then rushed in to hold the jailer's arms, each the size of one of their own legs.</p><p>The Hyperborean, his pride bruised more than his body, emerged from his cell with a cold fury burning in his eyes. He walked, then jogged, then sprinted down the corridor towards the jailer, who could do nothing but kick his legs pathetically as three sets of arms held him in place. As he accelerated, the Hyperborean bellowed, and leapt into the air, bringing his massive iron foot up to head height, using all his rangy body weight to thrust it into the defenceless jailer's face. What remained of the jailer's already hideously scarred face caved in, the back of his skull making a sickening crack against the cell door, and the tensed quivering body suddenly fell limp. Even the combined strength of the Zamorian, Argossean, and Kothian could not prevent the mass of humanity from slumping to the ground. The Hyperborean lay prostrate on the floor, the enthusiasm of his vengeance leaving him open to hubris: he leapt with such height that he landed flat on his back, smacking his skull against the ground. The Kothian helped the giant to his feet as the Argossean freed the Zamorian, and in short order all the prisoners were released.</p><p>It was only at this point, in the post-battle lull, that the others noticed the Stygian and the Kushite had been trading insults <i>all through the fight</i>.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 2: The Unshakable Towers of Dread Python</h2><p>As soon as the group told the bickering couple to cease their yammering, their attention turned to the next move. The Argossean gestured towards himself, and spoke in the common Shemitish trading creole; "You alright there, friend? I'm Arcus, by the way," and extended his hand towards the Hyperborean, who was still cradling his sore head. "Dusan," the giant slurred. In turn, the rest volunteered their names: "Zafia" piped the Zamoran, "Kryxus" rumbled the Gunderman, "Tiberius" declared the Kothian, "Kenyatta" boomed the Kushite, and "Amatagt" barked the Stygian.</p><p>Arcus clapped his hands with anxious enthusiasm. "Well, now that introductions are in order, it seems good time to leave. Shall we?" As all responded in some way recognisable to the affirmative, Arcus was pleased that they could, at least, understand one another. What was of greater concern was exactly how they would leave. "I need my things," Dusan grumbled. "We go get my things."</p><p>The light from the small circular windows projected beams of amethyst light, but looking through revealed a tunnel stretching several feet - suggesting a very deep wall. What little light was permitted entry into this tenebrous void provided precious little visibility for the group, so they turned towards the only interior source of light - the gate at the end of the corridor. Beyond the ornately twisted bars of the gate, several sconces were lit - purple flames burning eerily in the darkness. But what was not evident on the gate was a keyhole - or indeed a lock of any kind.</p><p>Kenyatta took a moment to study the door. It was wrought from some form of metal, that much was clear, but the shape and the texture seemed wrong. Just as he was about to reach towards it, a dark memory struck his mind, and he recoiled with a start. His master taught him many secret arts, but many were kept hidden to him: one such art was in the forging of certain things - imbuing metal with a living essence, to strengthen it far beyond natural metal's capabilities. Whatever was living in those iron structures, however, did not want to remain trapped inanimate for eternity. "Sorcery! Do not touch the gate!" spluttered Kenyatta just as the Gunderman looked to open the it in his own muscular way. </p><p>The Gunderman groaned, his break for treasured freedom obstructed just as it seemed in his grasp. As if in response to the group's shared confoundment, a strange, guttural sound crept through the silence - rising to a sinister chuckle, then a thunderous laughter which seemed to reverberate in the very masonry. There was no joy in that hideous roar than there is warmth in the frozen hearth of Ymir the Frost-Giant: even the Hyperborean's skin rippled uncomfortably at the deathly ice in that voice.</p><p>Arcus and Tiberius peered through the door. Standing before them, flanked by those weird torches, was a tall, pale man - taller than even the Hyperborean by almost a head. A great cascade of black hair surged over his shoulders, like a dark lion's mane; a similarly leonine beard framed thin, colourless lips; a dark robe with esoteric symbols picked out in gold thread draped over broad shoulders, with corded neck muscles lit in stark relief by the purple torchlight. But most remarkable were the figure's eyes, hidden in shadow by his pronounced brow: strange golden light danced in those eyes, like those of a great cat or serpent, refracting eldritch lights that only his eyes could see.</p><p>"Well, little lambs, you see now escape is impossible. It was... entertaining to watch your attempts, sensing the fire in your hearts kindling, then bursting into flame... Only to be snuffed out." As the voice spat out those final words, the torches died, smothered by some unseen gust.</p><p>Shaking himself from his momentary inertia, Arcus spoke up. "Why are we here? For what reason are we imprisoned?"</p><p>The uncanny, unearthly beauty of the man's face did not betray any emotion. "The Stygian knows why he is here. You barbarians are here for your blood. As for the Kothian... ah, tell me, Tiberius, are you close to your lord? Not the witless savage deigning himself to be the true king: no, has your god spoken to you? Has he answered your prayers? Appeared to you? Even spoken a whisper in response to your prayers?" The man's lips drew cruelly across his teeth. "I expect even your Mitra knows the true power of Father Set." Tiberius stared coldly at this servant of the implacable enemy.</p><p>Shaking his head, as if catching himself from a distraction far beneath his worth, the man snorted derisively. "Enjoy your last night, lambs. Your blood will fuel a worthy cause." A joyless smile revealed his teeth in a predatory snarl, and he turned to walk away. At this point the stunned Hyperborean finally seemed to notice the stranger. In desperation, Arcus called after him. "But why would you need our blood? Surely our exalted lord Xaltotun can be reasoned with?"</p><p>The figure stopped, turned, with the merest hint of amusement creeping across his face. "Xaltotun cares not whether you acknowledge him or not. Does the tiger care if the fawn worships him? Does the serpent care if the mouse prays for his mercy? Your blood is but a drop in the ocean required for our Great Work. And your people, Kothian" - he nodded towards Tiberius - "Your people will play their part."</p><p>Tiberius steeled his resolve. "My people, my king, and my god march even now towards you! The power of Set will be broken, even if we die treading your snake-father's head under our heels!"</p><p>That grotesque laughter again. "Oh indeed, little Kothian lamb? You think that a rabble of fur-clad barbarians can stand against the might of the Snake That Coils The Earth? Even ants have more reasonable expectations - and greater capability. It was generous of your barbarian friends to bring themselves to Python, that they may cast themselves willingly into our pits, their blood fuelling enough power to remake the world as we see fit. But I've wasted enough time: in any-"</p><p>A sound of thunder. A flash of light. The tower rocked. The stillness was broken with a cacaphony that near burst the prisoners' eardrums. The very masonry seemed to scream, as if in agony, and howls of pain and terror began to fill the air outside. The prisoners stagger with the suddenly unsteady floor. Outside, an ominous rumble, like incoming squall, started to swell. A shadow blotted the light from the windows, one by one.</p><p>An almighty crash. The stones screamed again, and chaos erupted all around: rocks and dust soared through the dark, light bursting the darkness. Several prisoners were thrown to the ground, battered in a hail of stone fragments. The purple light of what would pass for Day in Acheron poured into the corridor. Three of the cells were gone: a huge cavity gaped into the open air, dust and smoke obscuring the world beyond.</p><p>Amatagt stalked forward, shielding his eyes from the dust and light. He walked through the doorway - the metal now twisted into strands of grey grass - and ventured a look below. He could barely see the ground over a hundred feet below. But propped against the lip of the chasm was the crumbling remains of the northeast Castellum tower. Outside, the all-too-human screams of pain and fright and rage sang a horrible dirge. </p><p>Just then, another sound of thunder. A ray of light, like a finger of the gods, pierced the swirling dust. It came not from the heavens, but from the ground, reaching to the dim silhouette of another of Python's great towers. As soon as the light touched the tower, that hellish scream of stone cried out, and the tower began to fall, bricks scattering into the sky. As it plummeted, it seemed to disappear into the dust and smoke below.</p><p>Amatagt turned to the others. "I'm going down. Remain if that's your choice." With that, he leapt with the nimble finesse of a jackal, and started to run down the steep slope of the fallen tower. Arcus took a brief glance through the corridor gate, to find that the stranger was gone: only the afterimage of that strange face, and those terrible eyes, lingered in his vision a little too long after his sight should have adjusted. He wasted no more time, and followed the Stygian - as did the others, just as the fallen tower started to groan.</p><p>The prisoners raced down the precipice. The lithe Stygian had little dificulty avoiding the rapidly disintegrating stonework, used as he was to navigating the treacherous Kharamun Desert. Zafia, her legs still sore from leveraging a Kothian three times her size, stumbled but nonetheless surged onward. Unfortunately, Dusan, still discombobulated from his heroic charge, found running headlong through stinging dust down a deteriorating tower too great a challenge for his rangy frame. The Hyperborean swiftly overtook the others through spectacular - if inelegant, and entirely unplanned - acrobatic tumbles down the remaining length of the impromptu bridge. In a stroke of good fortune, the ground was kind enough to break his fall. He would not appreciate that generosity when he came back to his senses - again.</p><p>Just as the last prisoner alighted back on the earth, the remnants of the northeast tower finally gave, shattering like a fine glass sculpture. The rude, squat silhouette of the Place of Chains itself still stood, with only the scar left by the tower remaining. A flash of light, a snap of thunder: another tower, closer than the one Amatagt saw, started to fall. The seven watched in dreadful awe as the bricks themselves seem to unknit, with the tower's contents - furniture, doors, cauldrons, cages, humans - plunging with them. Rather than the single reverberating boom a falling tower would normally make, this was like a shower of hailstones magnified a hundredfold.</p><p>Arcus turned away from the horror. He noticed glinting among the ruins of the tower. Clearing away some of the rubble, he found weapons and armour: wicked glaives with waving blades like bifurcated snake tongues; cruel swords marked with esoteric Acheronian script; black tower shields emblazoned with coiled snakes and surely mythical creatures too terrible to be real; jewel-encrusted cuirasses and crested helms that refract the weird purple light of this land. The Pythonian Guard were more interested in flaunting their realm's vast wealth than pure practicality - even they knew that sorcery, not swords, were the true power of Acheron.</p><p>Arcus turned to the others. "Might be Acheronian, but a blade's a blade, & I'd rather be with than without." The others assented, and began to rummage. With some assistance, Dusan once again rose to his feet, growling and muttering in ignominy. Shaking the dust from his rattled head, he eschewed the ostentatious arms of Acheron and grasped two particularly weighty-looking bricks. Upon touching them, he noted with curiosity that the electric sensation which juddered him in his cell was absent: the bricks now felt like normal, natural stone to him.</p><p>He called out to the Kushite in staggered Shemitish. "The stones. They feel different. The sorcery... gone?"</p><p>Kenyatta inspected a broken block. The giant spoke true, he thought, as he ran his fingertips over the surface. "That light, the beam which struck the towers. Whatever magic is in it, it seemed to undo the sorcery which held these towers aloft. That must be mighty magic indeed."</p><p>Tiberius frowned. He knew that his god Mitra often manifested as shining light: driving away the forces of evil, dispelling dark sorcery, even doing harm to dark beings. But to outright overpower and destroy the magic of Acheron, to cast down the spires of its very capital? Was this possible?</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 3: The Pit of the Python</h2><p>Now armed and armoured, the band surveyed the situation. Zafia was the only one who knew the general layout of the city, and so noted the two best chances of escape: the southern gatehouse, and a culvert which drains into the River Tybor. The gatehouse is likely to be guarded, but offers the quickest route of escape; the culvert, while safer, will take longer to traverse, and if struck by the beam could be their tomb.</p><p>Kenyatta was not waiting. Weighing up an Acheronian sword, he marched towards the Castellum portcullis. Seeing this, Kryxus followed, listening keenly for sounds outside the wall. The clatter of footsteps, the hoarse shouts of marching orders, the jangle of mail - </p><p>"Guardsmen, just outside!" hissed the Gunderman.</p><p>"Right," muttered Arcus. Within moments, the Argossean laid a trap: he positioned his comrades behind cover, at elevated positions, forming an ideal vector for a killing ground. Within moments, the guards had marched through the gate. They did not march with the regimental efficiency such warriors normally exhibited, nor were their faces fixed in a mask of haughty superiority. Their captain, a great hawk-faced man rivalling even the Hyperborean in height, beheld the ruins of the northeast tower, spitting an unholy oath in the guttural Acheronian tongue.</p><p>The Argossean loosed an arrow at the guardsmen: this signalled the attack. Dusan leapt from a pile of ruins like a Gray Ape, slamming the bricks full on a guardsman's breastplate, knocking both to the ground. The captain arced his brutal glaive at Zafia, but he stumbled on the rock-strewn surface, allowing the Zamorian to duck under the flicking blade. Amatagt cast his blade in a whirlwind, hemming two guards in to prevent them from flanking. The stone-wielding fists of the Hyperborean hammered upon the prone guard's helm, sparks flying from the metal: Dusan struck with such force one of the blocks split cleanly in two.</p><p>For a spell, guard and prisoner exchanged blows, neither gaining ground against the other. The roars of the siege and stinging dust of ruin unnerved both parties. Arcus attempted to breach the impasse, but his impressive volley of arrows clattered harmlessly from the guards' helms and cuirasses. When Dusan's foe finally fell limp, his victorious snarl was enough to bolster his allies' morale. Zafia darted in, her sword striking under an Acheronian's arm like a scorpion sting. The guard lolled in confusion before dropping to his knees, blood pouring from his cuirass, and finally slumping forward. In an instant, the stalemate was broken.</p><p>The captain hurled his glaive aside in fury, and drew two short swords from his belt. He snarled in broken Shemitish, "You worthless curs will not escape the pit of the Python!" As Tiberius wiped the dust and sweat from his eyes, the captain sprinted towards him, arms spread like the wings of some predatory bird: Tiberius braced himself against the charge, just barely lifting his sword horizontally to deflect the blades. The Acheronian pinned Tiberius to the ground, both blades narrowly missing the Kothian's ears. Wrenching every sinew until he thought his heart would burst, Tiberius held the captain's weight above him and drove his sword through the narrowest of gaps in the Acheronian's armour. The blade slipped through, and hot blood gushed over the Kothian; the Guardsman gasped, the fire in his eyes dimming until Tiberius saw only the dull glassy stare of a dead man. He heaved the corpse aside, and lurched to his feet.</p><p>Two guards remained. As they beheld the cadaver of their commander, their response proved to be polarised. One, maddened with rage, charged towards the Kothian, whirling his glaive overhead like a scythe. The other, terror evident in his face, turned and fled. Kryxus was in no mood for clemency: with a strength and finesse few outside the Men of Gunder could conceive, he hoisted his purloined glaive over his shoulder and tossed it like a javelin towards the coward. The missile speared the pathetic wretch between the shoulder blades: he twisted around, clawing desperately at his back, only to fall backward and thrust the glaive clean through his breastbone.</p><p>As this dark pantomime played out, the last guard fixed his sights on Tiberius. This singularity of purpose left him completely blind to the giant Kushite to his flank: Kenyatta pounced like a panther, the blade in his hands as fatal as any great cat's jaws. The slaughter was over: the companions heard no more sounds of guardsmen outside the gate, but the growl of crumbling towers did not abate. The amethyst sky they came to resent in Acheron had turned red, with flickers of fiery orange licking the horizon like salamanders from hell.</p><p>Zafia, ever resourceful in times of violence, ransacked the remains of the captain. While prying a few jewels from the late commander's breastplate with his own shortsword, her wandering eye roved to a weird glinting bauble on his limp left hand: a jade ring of curious design. It was not Acheronian, nor could she recognise any sculptural or artistic school - though she remembered the people of the eastern lands worked with jade. She impassively hacked the finger clean off and removed the bloody ring, tucking it in a pouch pilfered from the captain.</p><p>Kenyatta and Dusan had little time or inclination for looting - but as they raced out of the gate, they noticed a side entrance leading to what appeared to be a storage room. Dusan noticed a familiar shape peeking from a cloth sack - his family's horn! He pivoted as he ran, Kenyatta following in kind: they had found their confiscated equipment. As the two giants emerged wordlessly with sacks slung over their broad backs, the others made the realisation. Soon enough, seven adventurers, clad in stolen armour, carrying sacks of personal belongings over their shoulders, and grasping bloody weapons from dead men, strode out of the ruined Place of Chains... and into a landscape of hell itself.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Chapter 4: Into The Dust Shall Acheron Fall</h2><p>Python, the purple-towered capital of mighty Acheron, the pinnacle of civilisation in the western world, was crumbling in flaming ruins. Where once scores of minarets reached up to stab the stars, now less than a dozen remain standing. The great curtain wall, coiled around the city like the great serpent which shared its name, was swarming with what looked from this distance like fireflies - wolfskin-clad savages bearing torches and axes. An enormous breach in the wall gaped where once the massive Black Gate stood, with a wave of barbarians pouring like a tide of blades and humanity. Beyond the walls, the war-chants of untold thousands of blood-mad barbarians roared, the beat of great drums innumerable pounding like the heart of some savage titan. Fireballs launched from crude siege weapons soared through the sky to join the festival of flames within.</p><p>The great square of Python seemed to be flooded with a strange, black liquid, waves lapping around a white pyramid. Folk shared tales in taverns and dives about the Pyramid of Skulls in dread Python: some say a ritualistic shrine of inscrutable religious purpose, others a sick whim of the Kings of Acheron erecting a monument to their sadism. But actually seeing countless thousands upon thousands of human skulls, piled upon one another, in the midst of a city of sorcerers, with their own eyes, shook the companions to their souls. And as their eyes burned into that macabre monstrosity, they started to discern the black pool which surrounded it. It was not water, or oil, or any liquid - it was snakes. Innumerable multitudes of black serpents writhed obscenely around the Pyramid of Skulls!</p><p>They were of many sizes: some the length of a modest desert asp, others closer in scale to the Sacred Sons of Set which slithered in the streets of Khemi at sundown. A few terrible coils the circumference of tree trunks broke the surface of that nauseating mass. But the companions missed the most terrible of these serpents, mistaking it for a statue - a truly gargantuan serpent was coiled around the King's Tower, its hiss the rasp of a hurricane. Even those huge tree-trunk pythons seemed like earthworms compared to the monster entwined around the tower.</p><p>The beam that rent the towers now pierced the burning sky and smote that terror. Its agonised writhing broke the tower it coiled around: its flesh burned and flaked away as would a charred branch in the wind after a wildfire. The King's Tower reeled and crashed into the Pyramid of Skulls, the sea of serpents erupting.</p><p>Tiberius stared in awe at the power of this magic. He followed the beam to its source. Through the dust and smoke, he just discerned a pinprick of red light, held aloft in the hand of a human figure. He was clad in furs, but also bore an elaborate headdress and mantle of feathers: his white beard and hair billowed in the wind, stained red in the light of that strange red jewel. He recalled rumours among his people - of a shaman, a sage, a champion of Mitra, who would turn a weapon of the Great Enemy against him and his devils. Tiberius's heart swelled and his face broke into a wide smile at the vindication of his faith and his god.</p><p>Nonetheless, the barbarians' axes were hungry. In their fervour, they would not necessarily delineate friend from foe, especially anyone found in the dread city of Python. Tiberius turned to Zafia: "We need to get out of here. Where's that culvert?"</p><p>Zafia led the companions through winding alleys, dodging rushing guard patrols, evading uncontrollable fires, and hoping that the barbarians would take their time and be thorough sacking and pillaging. As they heard the last tower fall, they turned a corner to the culvert. A dozen horses were frantically pawing at the iron portcullis which would lead them out of the city. Kenyatta managed to calm the horses while Tiberius, Dusan, and Arcus used all the strength they had left to raise the iron sluice. The band led the horses through the tunnel, their freedom just a few moments of swimming away.</p><p>They emerged on the other side of the wall. After leading the horses from the water, they rode as hard and as far as they dared. Half an hour later, they stopped at a small copse on a hill overlooking the plains surrounding Python. Python was no longer standing: all that remained was a fire pit, black smoke swirling into the sky. Arcus looked beyond into the distance, where he knew another Acheronian city lay. There he saw another plume of smoke. And behind that, another...</p><p>The seven sacrifices waited for a space to take in the immensity of what they witnessed. Where they would go, and what they would do next, was not yet clear. Certainly the Stygian and the Kushite did not wish to spend any further time in each other's company than necessary. But even amongst those implacable foes budded a grudging acknowledgment of that bond forged in the fire of adversity. Perhaps in time the seven sacrifices would meet again, face new challenges, and experience new adventures.</p><p style="text-align: center;">BUT THAT... <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-two-children.html">IS ANOTHER STORY</a>!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-81720152925969092472022-05-26T19:30:00.303+01:002022-06-20T21:46:28.731+01:00The Road to Acheron - A Saga in An Age Undreamed of<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRmhKl14AP7w52gtZO6ynwaG0JrEafBKhjnUv6L7KAU5QIuSYc--rt2j3PNDYFYMIkLxN8vsc3U5TFej4IhOobqMbt-nj84VZIXmjKES0Z7sm196vFCxK9NXYzU-PeLG3p1RftY8D_761tTY1lzdJ8HdZEz3cyIwQNpisHnAb_VjZkdl0zN_SKR4Mfw/s1000/Acheron.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsRmhKl14AP7w52gtZO6ynwaG0JrEafBKhjnUv6L7KAU5QIuSYc--rt2j3PNDYFYMIkLxN8vsc3U5TFej4IhOobqMbt-nj84VZIXmjKES0Z7sm196vFCxK9NXYzU-PeLG3p1RftY8D_761tTY1lzdJ8HdZEz3cyIwQNpisHnAb_VjZkdl0zN_SKR4Mfw/s320/Acheron.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It seems like an eternity since I first went to Cross Plains. It leads on from the story of how I got into Conan. To recap: in the early 2000s, I picked up a copy of Fantasy Masterwork's <i>The Conan Chronicles Volume One: The People of the Black Circle</i>. I recognised the name from the plethora of Conan media, but to see it included in the <i>Fantasy </i><b><i>Masterworks</i> </b>subline (number 8 out of what would be 50) piqued my interest. Given that the first story I read (after the "Hyborian Age Essay" which I naturally ate up) was the magnificent "The Tower of the Elephant," of course I was hooked. Shortly after, I started posting on the late lamented Conan.com forums. I started to get acquainted with folk who knew a great deal about not just Conan, but his creator and his work. Over time, I mustered up the gumption to start this blog, & within time, I was nominated for a Robert E. Howard Foundation Award... which led me to Cross Plains, a shy, over-excited Strange Scot in a Strange Land eager to finally meet people who I'd been conversing with, and a pilgrimage to the homeland of an author whose work meant so much. Without exception, each of the regulars - and fellow newcomers - was generous, accommodating, and welcoming, and I'll never forget that.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p><br /></p><p>Here are some of those gentlemen - complete with the mandatory Hawaiian Shirts and Sweet Hats - playing a bit of the newest tabletop role-playing game based on the Bard of Cross Plains' most famous creation:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TXbi6Sv6zcU" width="320" youtube-src-id="TXbi6Sv6zcU"></iframe></div><br /><p>Finn! Jeff! Indy! Grub! Todd! And... is that Mark there too? I know these weirdos! And even though I'm keeping up with them on their blogs and other sites, there's something about seeing them in the Howard house, a place I've been, playing a game that some of them worked on, based on recent scholarly explorations & contributions that I followed as it happened. While I enjoyed the Mongoose Conan RPG, it was beholden to the quirks & contradictions of the established pastiche material, which is fine for those who enjoy them. This new Conan, however, used the original stories as a basis, with extrapolations & suppositions delineated and contextualised. Sure, there was stuff I wasn't a big fan of - but since I'd taken a sideways step from Howard studies in pursuit of my country's future, I could hardly complain. Besides, the beauty of RPGs is the DM can alter and tweak as they see fit.</p><p>I miss them. I miss Cross Plains. I miss talking with them in person, seeing their faces, sharing stories and anecdotes. I even miss complaining about the ungodly heat and the demon mosquitoes and the weird sockets that look like they're screaming when you plug into their eyes. I miss immersing myself in the presence of an ancient landscape <a href="https://pubs.usgs.gov/bul/1096b/report.pdf">which was once the bed of a great sea</a>, imagining fathoms upon fathoms of ocean above as Cretaceous life swims around. No wonder Howard's imagination spread to cataclysms, knowing the deep prehistory of his land. But there are ways I can feel connected to them beyond social media.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_xi_-QlgXHFvD5ROdL_TF0vz_BK3h036r-8Bmfn3fenBAg8qH7lvsFcg56J_WS9Bvae73fVzRFs0UbrCz_aW9R1teS_SSoXJ9cct9fvQ7o8TqORNAgLKtJJJ56Z-4EVDipkwpfOpfnXhjOu6yh4_ca2YiNVrAoGQ-y7cwyeVXISLaYKHyz-LfMaoyQ/s500/Conan%20Adventures%20in%20an%20Age%20Undreamed%20Of.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="389" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_xi_-QlgXHFvD5ROdL_TF0vz_BK3h036r-8Bmfn3fenBAg8qH7lvsFcg56J_WS9Bvae73fVzRFs0UbrCz_aW9R1teS_SSoXJ9cct9fvQ7o8TqORNAgLKtJJJ56Z-4EVDipkwpfOpfnXhjOu6yh4_ca2YiNVrAoGQ-y7cwyeVXISLaYKHyz-LfMaoyQ/s320/Conan%20Adventures%20in%20an%20Age%20Undreamed%20Of.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><p>Not too long ago, I was introduced to a local tabletop RPG group. I had a brilliant time in each adventure across multiple systems, genres, and settings - Chaosium's Call of Cthulhu, White Wolf's many Worlds of Darkness, DC Adventures, R. Talsorian's Cyberpunk, Warhammer, the myriad Apocalypse Engine games, and more - and was eager to start running games as a DM. Alas, the gulf of time since my last dungeon-mastering combined with general anxiety made me reluctant to make a start... until now.</p><p>I've gotten to know the regulars at the group well enough to propose running a block of <i>Conan: Adventures in an Age Undreamed Of</i>. To my delight, I received more than enough interest to set up a full complement of adventurers. And so, last night, we began the adventure with character creation (a saga in itself, as any system that has <a href="https://conan.modiphiusapps.hostinguk.org/">a web application</a> to help with the mathematics must be!), which we'll follow with an introductory adventure next week.</p><p>Now, me being an absolutely gigantic Howardist pedant, I knew that one of the possible obstacles to overcome was players' familiarity with the Hyborian Age. Most of them were at least familiar with the films, and others games like <i>Conan Exiles</i> - one even played <i>Age of Conan: Hyborian Adventures</i> back in the day. The question is, how much do I want to be <b>that </b>guy - the one who says NO to everything that a player would have no reason to think was un-Howardian given they appeared in official content? "No praying to Crom!" "No Riddle of Steel!" "No Greco-Roman Aquilonians!" Would I demand everyone do homework on the latest Howard scholarship? Well, I came up with what I think could be a good middle-ground - time will tell if it works out.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6TS8q9vbBqhx3KQ5TsiGi8e7BNEEiza7VlrdjSsfsVDl-sbFodnlw8WycCy4StmJD_SXXdVtqsNpV9cjc-PemRT6ToJb6SKb6adJ-muf8X01w5sxF6rSfymsEGad0N__96aO5vg4ovgOUJMq5dhlNbZ8WJx-EXxY9RCV63kP2DPc13wo845Is9y92Q/s1280/Age%20of%20Acheron%20Map%20Small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="1280" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6TS8q9vbBqhx3KQ5TsiGi8e7BNEEiza7VlrdjSsfsVDl-sbFodnlw8WycCy4StmJD_SXXdVtqsNpV9cjc-PemRT6ToJb6SKb6adJ-muf8X01w5sxF6rSfymsEGad0N__96aO5vg4ovgOUJMq5dhlNbZ8WJx-EXxY9RCV63kP2DPc13wo845Is9y92Q/w400-h259/Age%20of%20Acheron%20Map%20Small.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rough, hastily-drawn extrapolation of the major powers in the Age of Acheron (subject nations are included as part of the area of influence - and remember: <a href="https://www.outsideonline.com/outdoor-adventure/exploration-survival/how-maps-lie/">maps always lie</a>.)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>That elective decision is to <b>set the game 3,000 years before Conan was born</b>. This means that the ancient "bronze age aesthetic" so beautifully rendered in most Conan media by the likes of <a href="http://roncobb.net/09-Conan.html">the legendary Ron Cobb</a> wouldn't necessarily be as much at loggerheads with Howard's descriptions. Aquilonia, Nemedia, Argos, Brythunia, Gunderland, the Bossonian Marches, and the Border Kingdom thus do not exist, their predecessor tribes (The Men of Aquilon, Nemed, Argo, Brythu, Gunder, and Bosso perhaps being their ancestor-heroes?) lurking in the north; the elder Hyborian nations of Koth, Corinthia, and Ophir can lean into the more "ancient" look for Hyborian civilisations than from Howard's time; the distant realms of the Black Kingdoms and the Blue East may be familiar yet distinct, before Turan and the Hyrkanian Migrations; over all brood the ancient sorcerous empires of Elder Stygia and the Nightmare Empire of Acheron. This time of great upheaval and ancient horror, to me, allows for an interpretation more in-tune with what the players may have in their minds eye - and, perhaps, open up for some insight into Howard's original creation in the process.</p><p>This has the added bonus of removing the elephant-sized shadow in the room that is Conan himself: he can't barge in and take over the story like he always does (it is, after all, the <a href="http://thedarkstormfiles.blogspot.com/2010/12/tao-of-conan.html">Tao of Conan</a>) if he doesn't exist yet. It also means a lot more room for stuff that bridges the gap between Hyborian and Thurian Ages - Atlantis, Valusia, and the Cataclysm was much more recent, after all, so there could be some holdouts that were long lost by Conan's time.</p><p>But this is all by-the-by - pseudohistorical essays & worldbuilding might be my jam, but the power of the Conan stories is in the economy of detail among the action and atmosphere. "The Hyborian Age" and Nemedian scholarship is a necessary foundation to build a game world, but it not the space the players occupy - theirs is the world of story, adventure, and subjectivity, where the truth is only that which they can see and hear and touch. Just what nature of adventurers will be starring in these stories?</p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>It is the memory rather
than the light of dawn which wakes you, for it is always dusk in
Acheron. You glimpse through a small portal in your cell, the only
natural light in an unnatural world. Black clouds spiral like haunted
whirlpools in the weird amethyst sky. You hear the distant thunder of
stormclouds that never rain, the chittering and hissing of unfamiliar
creatures, screams and howls from sources you dare not spending time
contemplating.</i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><i>Your cell is large
enough to stand straight and lie flat, while being small enough to
suppress your comfort. The masonry is typical of Acheronian
architecture: smooth stone of a dark purple hue, with the individual
bricks slotted together with uncanny precision, and without mortar.
Channels and grooves in esoteric shapes thread through the surface.
Skin contact with this rock is uncomfortable, like touching a
lightning rod after a storm. There are no furnishings, only the hard
floor – no one is expected to make a long stay in these cells...</i></p><p>In one cell paces <b>Amatagt</b>, an exiled Stygian scoundrel with the lean features, piercing eyes, & rangy frame of a desert vulture, educated on the battlefield and at home in the baking sands of the southern desert. In the cell to his left broods a man from practically the other side of the world: <b>Dusan </b>the Jolly, a tall & deathly dour Hyperborean warrior, born to a mercantile family & raised under duress in the savage court of his country. On the Stygian's right is an Argossean named <b>Arcus</b>, a hedonist fisherman whose curiosity got the better of him. Across from the vulture <b>Kenyatta</b>, a big Kushite wandering craftsman stares fiercely, unblinking, towards his ancestral nemesis. Across from the Hyperborean stands <b>Kryxus</b>, a proud & courageous Man of Gunder who has nothing to lose and everything to prove. Finally, deep in prayer to his patron, kneels <b>Tiberius</b>, a fallen Kothic Priest of Mitra consumed with rage on being trapped in the dark citadel of his faith's great foe. The other cells appear to be empty, with only a barely-discernible shadow belying the presence of a seventh tenant - <b>Zafia </b>of Zamora - in this Place of Chains.</p><p>Will these seven trapped souls leave this place alive? If they do, what will be the price of freedom? Will they work together to survive in this savage and merciless world, or will old feuds and ancestral hatreds tear their fire-forged alliance to pieces? Will this be a tale of High Adventure, a saga of tragic heroism, or a nightmare of dreadful horrors? Only they will know what they find as they walk...</p><p>... the Road to Acheron.</p><p><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-chapter-one-seven.html">Part One: The Seven Sacrifices</a></p><p><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-two-children.html">Part Two: The Children of Zukundu</a></p><p><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-road-to-acheron-part-three-fall-of.html">Part Three: The Fall of Zukundu</a></p><p>Part Four: ...</p><p>Part Five: ...</p><p>Part Six: ...</p><p>Part Seven: ...</p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-48460865510207264542022-02-11T18:14:00.003+00:002022-02-11T18:56:51.771+00:00Khand and Rhûn and Harad Too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAgrpKFG3r4vd33maFnY71pbGhytUjhd_d7xZL8DJ6J7J9c4dykj6Zc254U4Q-5MP6mR3Bw59Opdf723a4p6jXlFsGr1FKI3SQh7PQXpSpy0-GumYtrYk9pFhuk-jIklTOQPsNwiVtLGJlKQz8Cnh7FmzD3cT2XZLmnsy5X-qsbLIqeSw4B2nuELtoAA=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgAgrpKFG3r4vd33maFnY71pbGhytUjhd_d7xZL8DJ6J7J9c4dykj6Zc254U4Q-5MP6mR3Bw59Opdf723a4p6jXlFsGr1FKI3SQh7PQXpSpy0-GumYtrYk9pFhuk-jIklTOQPsNwiVtLGJlKQz8Cnh7FmzD3cT2XZLmnsy5X-qsbLIqeSw4B2nuELtoAA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>More information regarding the upcoming <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> series, now subtitled <i>The Rings of Power</i>, has emerged. The response has been predictably polarised between folk excited to see any new Middle-earth content, and unreconstructed individuals who think the people of Middle-earth were ethnically monolithic in their nature. Unfortunately, as is the standard for modern internet discourse, there is little room for nuance. Folk wonder why people are so easily radicalised nowadays, yet the immediate reaction is "SJW/PC/Woke nonsense" on one hand, and "racist/reactionary/privileged bigotry" on the other - leaving folk to either search for a middle ground that serves nothing and only perpetuates the idea of the two poles in the first place, or naturally find themselves caught in one pole's gravity in the end.</p><p>The essential issue is one, I think, of intellectual laziness that borders on timidity - of wanting the veneer of diversity, progressiveness, and inclusion, but stopping short of anything beyond the bare minimum. The problem, for me, is not the mere presence of ethnic minorities - far from it. </p><p>The problem is it doesn't go nearly far enough.</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><h2 style="text-align: center;">Stories of Nations</h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ZHfY92AKVWqb5j-8pmrjrAzd8Fg4obF5_ULvm_QkLLN6G-FxgmIzNpd_B-GjcIthmet5sz3LLDBdxxgnqYE_7h7wgFzx9Pejb7f-eLwWWwY0LNGR3gSzRDeHuHg_s2RB6HRGliKiHlsJpqq0dqIFasDyYpCM-z622AMTp7T_tstiMBX66BiQkSKniA=s652" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="652" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ZHfY92AKVWqb5j-8pmrjrAzd8Fg4obF5_ULvm_QkLLN6G-FxgmIzNpd_B-GjcIthmet5sz3LLDBdxxgnqYE_7h7wgFzx9Pejb7f-eLwWWwY0LNGR3gSzRDeHuHg_s2RB6HRGliKiHlsJpqq0dqIFasDyYpCM-z622AMTp7T_tstiMBX66BiQkSKniA=s320" width="245" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Many fantasy settings have a multitude of different groups of humans and human-like beings, reflecting the great range and diversity of our own Earth's cultures - sometimes explicitly linked to our past, as Middle-Earth and the Hyborian Age are. I can think of very few fantasy settings where there is no such variety, as it seems practically anathema to the very idea of fantasy fiction. These lands have their own histories, backgrounds, and cultures, and they all have their origin stories.</p><p>This sense of lineage is very important. The origins of nations - be they territorial, ethnic, cultural, or social - is historically of vast importance in securing those nations' recognition and legitimacy. <a href="https://www.nrscotland.gov.uk/files/research/declaration-of-arbroath/declaration-of-arbroath-transcription-and-translation.pdf">The Declaration of Arbroath</a> was written to prove that Scotland had a history distinct to that of England, one that was equal in consideration in the eyes of God. To do that required evidence - from the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scota">folklore of Scota and Goídel Glas</a>, to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legendary_kings_of_Scotland">legendary pre-Alpin kings</a>, to more <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Scottish_monarchs">historically supported</a> genealogies:</p><blockquote><p>Most Holy Father, we know and from the chronicles and books of the ancients we find that among other famous nations our own, the Scots, has been graced with widespread renown. It journeyed from Greater Scythia by way of the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Pillars of Hercules, and dwelt for a long course of time in Spain among the most savage peoples, but nowhere could it be subdued by any people, however barbarous. Thence it came, twelve hundred years after the people of Israel crossed the Red Sea, to its home in the west where it still lives today. The Britons it first drove out, the Picts it utterly destroyed, and, even though very often assailed by the Norwegians, the Danes and the English, it took possession of that home with many victories and untold efforts; and, as the histories of old time bear witness, they have held it free of all servitude ever since. In their kingdom there have reigned one hundred and thirteen kings of their own royal stock, the line unbroken by a single foreigner.</p><p>The high qualities and merits of these people, were they not otherwise manifest, shine forth clearly enough from this: that the King of kings and Lord of lords, our Lord Jesus Christ, after His Passion and Resurrection, called them, even though settled in the uttermost parts of the earth, almost the first to His most holy faith. Nor did He wish them to be confirmed in that faith by merely anyone but by the first of His Apostles - by calling, though second or third in rank - the most gentle Saint Andrew, the Blessed Peter’s brother, and desired him to keep them under his protection as their patron for ever.</p><p>The Most Holy Fathers your predecessors gave careful heed to these things and strengthened this same kingdom and people with many favours and numerous privileges, as being the special charge of the Blessed Peter’s brother. Thus our people under their protection did indeed live in freedom and peace...</p></blockquote><p>Every nation on Earth, from ancient republics and constitutional monarchies to modern democratic states and the many tribes of all continents, has a story - an origin, a timeline, a narrative. And one of the most profound crimes that can be done is to deprive people of their nation's story.</p><p>Among the many atrocities committed against ethnic groups, the removal of their past - in many cases, their very names - is one of the most insidious. Not only were they taken from their families, their homes, their people, they were severed from their memories. Africans kidnapped while young may never have learned their parent's names, their language, their history, because that sort of thing didn't matter to their kidnappers. Hence the descendants of those who experienced those atrocities cannot follow their ancestor's paths, and trace their way through time and space in the way their kidnappers could - or, indeed, their own people who were not kidnapped could. An easy way to dehumanise someone is to treat them as if their ancestors didn't matter enough for you to remember them.</p><p>One of my most treasured quotes is from the late <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bashir_Ahmad_(Scottish_politician)">Bashir Ahmad</a>: "It's not where we came from that's important, it's where we're going together." It is a great sentiment in regards to Scotland's direction in a civic national context. But Mr Ahmad, like myself, knew where he is from. He was born in Amritsar when it was "British India," and emigrated when it was part of the new nation of Pakistan. He knew his ancestors, the ancestry of his nation, and the lineage that took him from British India, to Pakistan, to Scotland. It is not a case of him being formerly Punjabi or Indian or Pakistani and <i>then </i>Scottish - he was all those things at once, the citizenship being a legal formality. His being Scottish - and a member of the Scottish National Party, at that - did not erase his being Punjabi any more than the reverse was true. To say he was just Scottish would be to diminish his remarkable story.</p><p>Which leads me to fantasy fiction.</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">Whole Wide Worlds</h2><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglrCMTvWE1YGLqxnIajHBYXH8A5uaPhknqduJLWFchrdIFcz2B0KmQv8tykI6bZ47-r0U2uTXaQErMZXEfD059omwGvWSks87Rl8H4khbv-oSpnDiGWqsDJsWulpcE5CIgBI7tXZt_3zdCDYX13mWtKR6h_Af3Mcuz-CP-aVHp93mL6MzzvReJg1PXHA=s553" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEglrCMTvWE1YGLqxnIajHBYXH8A5uaPhknqduJLWFchrdIFcz2B0KmQv8tykI6bZ47-r0U2uTXaQErMZXEfD059omwGvWSks87Rl8H4khbv-oSpnDiGWqsDJsWulpcE5CIgBI7tXZt_3zdCDYX13mWtKR6h_Af3Mcuz-CP-aVHp93mL6MzzvReJg1PXHA=s320" width="289" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2011/03/dan-meths-fantasy-world-map.html">Still needs more Nyumbani</a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Fantasy worlds may echo our own, but they are not. Decisions made, disasters suffered, and roads traveled are not inevitable. That's what makes them fantasy worlds. But a lack of imagination can sometimes mean reinforcement of historical wrongs - even when the intent was the polar opposite.</p><p>Consider <i>The Witcher</i>, a world where there are indeed multiple ethnic groups and nations. There is no need to choose between ethnic diversity and cultural continuity when both can be done at the same time. Any show would be blessed to have talented actors like Mimi Ndiweni, Wilson Mbomio, Anna Shaffer, Chuey Okoye, Adjoa Andoh, Terence Maynard, and more in important roles, and so <i>The Witcher</i> is. The problem for me is that the showrunners relied on the Royal Shakespeare Company mantra that "skin colour doesn't matter" - not as a (correct) statement of a person's worth & value, but as an excuse to keep the show pseudo-European without going to the effort of showing a wider world beyond. "<i>Yes, we can have people of different skin colours - but they only get to play in <b>our</b> castles.</i>" How much richer would the world of <i>The Witcher</i> be if we saw more of the deserts of Ofir, the tropics of Zangvebar, the canyons of Zerrikania, and the people populating those lands? Again, those who've seen the show know <a href="https://www.reddit.com/r/witcher/comments/rjd3be/fuck_it_i_decided_to_compile_a_list_of_every/">how much of it is not in the books</a> - so why not go in a different direction?</p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Likewise with <i>The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power</i>, which is explicitly pastiche drawing upon <i>The History of Middle-Earth</i> rather than a finalised, polished work by one of the great authors of the 20th Century - in other words, they <b>have </b>to make some things up. There are several characters who are explicitly creations of the showrunners, indicating that there are going to be further inventions in the narrative, and their casting of people with a lot more melanin than the stereotype suggested the possibility of going further beyond the lands Tolkien concentrated on. The announced cast was even more tantalising: Lenny Henry, Ismael Cruz Córdova, Cynthia Addai-Robinson, Nazanin Boniadi, Thusitha Jayasundera, & Sophia Nomvete. The fact that I didn't have a clue who they would portray had my mind racing.</span></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"><b>Great</b>, I think: we can finally expand Tolkien's world of Arda beyond that of the northwest corner which forms Middle-Earth. </span>Tolkien provided <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2010/01/the-barbarians-of-middle-earth-haradrim.html">more than enough material</a><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"> to inspire a nuanced depiction of Harad - a people with a legitimate grievance with the imperialist Númenóreans and their Gondorian heirs: a series set in the Second Age is thus the perfect time to explore Harad and perhaps <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-amazons-of-far-harad.html">come up with some heroes of their own</a>. </span>And since the networks are all about the "grimdark," we can see a dark side to the Forces of Good in the <span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Númenórean</span>'s conquest of Tal-Elmar's people & their massacres of Haradrim in sacrifice to Melkor, as well as the Rohirrim's persecution of the Drúedain.</p><p>Some might think this a stretch: after all, the Second Age lasts thousands of years, with human lifespans mere ticks in the Clock of Ages. But we know that, like the New Line films before them, the showrunners will <a href="https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2022/02/amazon-the-rings-of-power-series-first-look">condense the timeline</a>:</p><blockquote><p>Speaking of Sauron, the villain’s presence is a major factor throughout the Second Age, culminating in his resurrection as a tyrant. As the show begins, there are only hints of the danger to come. Some see them clearly; others don’t necessarily want to. Bayona drew from his memories growing up in Spain, a country still recovering from a civil war decades before he was born. “We had a dictatorship for 40 years, so you notice the repercussions of war and the shadow of the past,” he says, noting that “Shadow of the Past” is in fact the title of the first episode. “I think this is all about the repercussions of war. There is an idea that feels very faithful to Tolkien, which is intuition. Galadriel has an intuition that things are not fixed, and there is still something lurking.”</p><p>In the novels, the aforementioned things take place over thousands of years, but Payne and McKay have compressed events into a single point in time. It is their biggest deviation from the text, and they know it’s a big swing. “We talked with the Tolkien estate,” says Payne. “If you are true to the exact letter of the law, you are going to be telling a story in which your human characters are dying off every season because you’re jumping 200 years in time, and then you’re not meeting really big, important canon characters until season four. Look, there might be some fans who want us to do a documentary of Middle-earth, but we’re going to tell one story that unites all these things.”</p></blockquote><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyFlv7r756Ir9dwz0lCmqtKeD_tuoPryVulCAABzClPdwV8HgxwsFR-6Kj2_GA8nxx16a81ZAAWO8SICgEaSALfOfwT9khN-YiXnoGdcHEXSh2JmRrL2lf3bmu9kvwp2_6VEnvOZAKir_EAvVk-fepcofCVRCHrkjtO6f-xAe_FztvOtDiBrw6mtzbzw=s480" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyFlv7r756Ir9dwz0lCmqtKeD_tuoPryVulCAABzClPdwV8HgxwsFR-6Kj2_GA8nxx16a81ZAAWO8SICgEaSALfOfwT9khN-YiXnoGdcHEXSh2JmRrL2lf3bmu9kvwp2_6VEnvOZAKir_EAvVk-fepcofCVRCHrkjtO6f-xAe_FztvOtDiBrw6mtzbzw=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy, I'm getting a lot of use out of this gif...</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Now, on the face of it, I (obviously) profoundly disagree with this choice and decision: the idea of a few immortals surrounded by changing supporting cast over the centuries is, to me, a massive <b>distinction </b>of this story, not a detriment. It is, in fact, thematically foundational to the story Tolkien was trying to tell - the disparity between the mayfly lives of Men and the functional deathlessness of Elves and other beings, the passing of magic, the battle between change and stasis. It's almost one of the pillars of the entire legendarium! If familiar faces and actor contracts are an issue, then the inventive solutions presented in <i>Cloud Atlas</i>, <i>American Horror Story</i>, and <i>Foundation</i> (and no doubt the upcoming sequel to Dune) show that actors can play characters of the same soul or family or genetic code across time and space as a visual shorthand to present familial and genetic history. Alternatively, while <i>The Witcher's</i> time-jumping was obfuscating to non-readers, that is more a fault of execution than a fault of concept. "But that's confusing!" <b>Then pay more attention</b>. Other shows can be put on the background for background noise as you're doing the laundry.</p><p>Nonetheless, in compressing the timeline in this fashion, it does allow the opportunity to expand certain human characters - and kingdoms. In particular, the kingdoms of Harad are of particular importance in Second Age history, being so relevant to the Fall of <span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Númenór</span>. Just think of the possibilities! We can see the people of Khand, Harad, Rhûn, Umbar, and Dorwinion before Sauron conquered and manipulated their nations into joining him in the war on the hated imperialist successors of <span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">Númenór</span>! We can visit the Sunlands desert where the Mûmakil riders roam, the Eastern steppes where the Kine of Araw herd, and all the other locations only hinted at in Tolkien's work! We can right the historical misconception that the lands of what the Edain called "Men of Darkness" were inherently evil, rather than being the first to fall to Sauron in his conquest, who had their own heroes and rebels fighting against the forces of Sauron! We could even (if we're willing to go with <i>The Peoples of Middle-Earth</i> over <i>Unfinished Tales</i>) have the Blue Wizards appear - and since Gandalf, Saruman, and Radagast took the forms of old white-haired wanderers that wouldn't arouse much attention in Eriador, does it not stand to reason that the forms taken by Alatar and Pallando would resemble the peoples of the South and East?</p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgo57K-jXTb-0nEPNYgQX97mU63dpnxyTrT_7EcWmCbi4kdLwXMy0IsZt21QFlic3ifAiUQyOAvlC8yoE_5Is159uq4Bp5Iob5QD9P9urklam7dS6FaOQOEPw5jlUP9MRAeZtGcVSbX3nDW1CWbb-NPCcPPhBFkV76OySWI2O2AN3bl2k0PA6m3t-NGRw=s1920" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="1920" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgo57K-jXTb-0nEPNYgQX97mU63dpnxyTrT_7EcWmCbi4kdLwXMy0IsZt21QFlic3ifAiUQyOAvlC8yoE_5Is159uq4Bp5Iob5QD9P9urklam7dS6FaOQOEPw5jlUP9MRAeZtGcVSbX3nDW1CWbb-NPCcPPhBFkV76OySWI2O2AN3bl2k0PA6m3t-NGRw=w400-h153" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at this <b>art</b> by <a href="https://www.artstation.com/artwork/EOGE4">Tomasz Jedruszek</a> for the One Ring Card Game: imagine stories set in such a landscape, with characters completely different from the established wisdom of what a Middle-earth story could be!</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-poiln3 r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0">No such luck. </span>Ismael Cruz Córdova will be playing the Silvan Elf Arondir in another tiresome "forbidden love story," while Sophia Nomvete will be a Dwarf princess, and Lenny Henry will be a Harfoot Hobbit. Only Nazanin Boniadi's human Bronwyn (not exactly the most Southron name), who is said to hail from the "Southlands," seems to actually take advantage of the cultural enrichment possibilities of Middle-Earth. As of right now, it's unclear what roles Cynthia Addai-Robinson & Thusitha Jayasundera will take: my hopes that they will portray Haradrim, Khandians, Easterlings, or anything <b>interesting</b> like that is rapidly diminishing. </p><p>I'm tearing my beard out in frustration at the missed opportunities. Hopes for Harad lay dashed on the forest floor of Ithilien, because we need yet another Elf/non-Elf romance; rumours for Rhûn are silenced, because there aren't enough dwarves in Middle-Earth already (and they didn't even take the daring solution of <a href="http://middleearthnews.com/2018/01/09/playing-the-pronoun-game-are-all-of-the-hobbits-dwarves-male/">casting a woman as a "male" dwarf</a>, which I think would've been quite a clever idea for <i>The Hobbit</i> - since we're already making changes and all). Khand might as well not exist, Rhovanion is rust, and the Druedain are likely to never appear because we can't have moral complexity with the "Good Guys." </p><p>How on Middle-Earth is casting Lenny Henry & others as an invented "<a href="https://www.theonering.net/torwp/2021/10/12/111617-sir-lenny-henry-confirms-role-as-an-early-hobbit-in-amazons-lotr-show/">multi-cultural tribe of Hobbits</a>" meant to mean anything when entire nations of brown people are depicted purely as villains in league with the enemy? Samwise's iconic rumination on the heart of the dead Haradrim soldier doesn't mean much if the only other Haradrim we see are fighting alongside monsters against the Forces of Good. Again - <b>they're already making characters and stories up</b>, so why not make up characters and stories that do justice to the most marginalized & maligned people on Middle-Earth?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH_miVJy--EC6ZqBTaYQsKBwYFiR6srUYUZaa7PqMqqkgE8pKir71IOt7x3p2-yYBET13To44xpuXa9UTniOFnCd9MBUrqmkhtmkVLBT8DwWNYeVS4WLEmqjYUR84QE9KTGblPH88KY5WFPkaLvhdwq0tLBIAVyg8evoDfH7zNhAfb6GlZr0lyQPu4zA=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="1280" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH_miVJy--EC6ZqBTaYQsKBwYFiR6srUYUZaa7PqMqqkgE8pKir71IOt7x3p2-yYBET13To44xpuXa9UTniOFnCd9MBUrqmkhtmkVLBT8DwWNYeVS4WLEmqjYUR84QE9KTGblPH88KY5WFPkaLvhdwq0tLBIAVyg8evoDfH7zNhAfb6GlZr0lyQPu4zA=w400-h208" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More <b>Art </b>with a Capital A from <a href="http://musingsofatolkienist.blogspot.com/2015/06/4-observations-of-umbar.html">Scharb</a> depicting a different landscape from the typical forests and mountains of Eriador</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Because, for all the showrunner's fine talk of inclusion and togetherness, it's only (literally) skin deep:</p><blockquote>“It felt only natural to us that an adaptation of Tolkien’s work would reflect what the world actually looks like,” says Lindsey Weber, executive producer of the series. “Tolkien is for everyone. His stories are about his fictional races doing their best work when they leave the isolation of their own cultures and come together.”</blockquote><p>That's a revealing comment. The idea that fantasy world "would reflect what the world actually looks like" sounds like a nice line, but in practice it's antithetical to the very idea of fantastic fiction. "What the world actually looks like" is that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meghan,_Duchess_of_Sussex">a brown person can be a princess</a>, but the grotesque systemic inequality inherent in monarchy must remain; <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barack_Obama">a black person can be a President of a modern democracy</a>, but he can't change the laws which protect the elite in any meaningful manner; "Races doing their best work when they leave the isolation of their own cultures and come together" only works when you're part of the <i>right </i>cultures - the predominantly Western European ones who are familiar and safe and comfortable. <i>You're allowed to play in our castle, just pull the drawbridge up when you come in</i>.</p><p>This has consequences for the story. In modern times, in questions of equal opportunities or status or employment, absolutely it is completely irrelevant who your parents were, where your ancestry hails from, and what hue your skin is. That is how it is, and that is how it should be - just like equality of access to healthcare or education, citizenship, and all these other things that too many nations take for granted. But we're talking about a world where only some people are allowed to rule even in the "good" nations: a world where who your parents were defines much of who you are and what you will do. This is a world where many of the appendices are dedicated, quite literally, to <a href="http://lotrproject.com/">genealogy trees</a>. For Disa to be a Dwarf Princess that looks so dramatically distinctive from the majority of her subjects (and, indeed,<i> absolutely fabulous</i>, let it not be denied), her family tree should reflect and explain her story. People of colour have indeed been monarchs of Western European countries, so it is not an insurmountable cultural barrier by any means. But is the series going to acknowledge what would surely have been a rich, fascinating history of how she came to be princess - perhaps a descendent of the little-known clans that dwelt in Rhûn like the Ironfists, Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, or Stonefoots - or are we just meant to ignore it, in a story where genealogy and ancestry is so prominent?<br /></p><p>For all the showrunner's talk of dragging a work written over half a century ago into the 21st Century (not to mention the breathtaking arrogance in stating their belief that the show "could be the novel Tolkien never wrote") there's an amazing reticence in tackling the even older concepts which have gone unchallenged - likely because the showrunners personally benefit from the notion that some people deserve to have <a href="https://time.com/6078311/jeff-bezos-net-worth-record/">stupidly more money</a>, power, and influence than the vast majority; that some countries are <a href="https://www.cmi.no/publications/file/2120-is-it-wrong-to-rank.pdf">just inherently corrupt</a>, evil, or otherwise "lesser" than our enlightened modern civilisation. Are we going to see a democratic revolution take place in Calenardhon that creates a Republic of Rohan? Will we witness a denunciation of state-mandated Valar worship in the interests of secular agnosticism? What about an movement to rehabilitate Orcs, the most hated and feared creatures in Middle-earth, the loss of their free will considered Morgoth's greatest crime by Tolkien himself? That would be bold, that would be interesting - but I doubt we'll be seeing anything like that, because reconstruction will only go so far.</p><p>Oh, and they'll all have <a href="https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TheQueensLatin">received pronunciation</a>, won't they, save for the Salt-of-the-Earth Know-Your-Place Hobbits with accepted regional British accents, right?</p><h2 style="text-align: center;">The Novel Tolkien Never Wrote</h2><p style="text-align: left;">I would be lying if I said I didn't get my hopes up, because I can't help myself. I honestly prefer to be disappointed by high expectations than surprised with low ones, because willing something to be good is preferable to me than just expecting something to be bad. And I'm sure the series will be technically excellent, beautifully directed, and well acted. I just think that when the boats are pushed so far out in other areas of production, the casting and scripting could do so much better than they do in so many fantasy series. Thus far, the biggest issue for any Middle-Earth adaptation has always been the script - this, despite dialogue usually being (unfairly) placed in prominence above nearly all other considerations in film criticism. If a script is bad, the whole film's bad; if it's good, everything can be forgiven because the script's good. So why are fantasy film and series scripts so often content with mediocrity?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilUriuRnKPW1RODvRfabiRD-mVI-fJuptwSL0ZAJWQRZqwcEgc7I9b4hAn0jmNiInCsXEwmE6Sn6F84WBhH6zD7okjh8gzTxneeZcQVbazb4u1-l49IhjNktvmUcr-GeXbGqHSLBk9ap__EhIuSJ1PuMyk451QUeVHI4unVyMIAdhP74qILQaLTqJs1w=s787" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilUriuRnKPW1RODvRfabiRD-mVI-fJuptwSL0ZAJWQRZqwcEgc7I9b4hAn0jmNiInCsXEwmE6Sn6F84WBhH6zD7okjh8gzTxneeZcQVbazb4u1-l49IhjNktvmUcr-GeXbGqHSLBk9ap__EhIuSJ1PuMyk451QUeVHI4unVyMIAdhP74qILQaLTqJs1w=w305-h400" width="305" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Perhaps I have only myself to blame. In my presumption, I had let my imagination run wild. I had imagined a story where a great <a href="https://www.glyphweb.com/arda/k/khamul.html">King of the East</a>, one of Nine Great Kings of Men, would be a major character in a story about the Rise of Sauron. A story not just featuring him, but his allies, his family, his circle - those who counseled him against accepting the gifts of a strange Westerner, who warned him not to trust appeals to power and riches. A story of a great, noble leader, whose grievances against the Western Invaders made him amenable to the manipulations of a true master puppeteer, and the consequences of his choices. A story showing the tragedy of a king who became a wraith.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTMGWxLg1xtwep4ZNyzHpvfb9D0rVHJdUwQ5tdSsDnyESUoY54KeuNyNmYzQjySiEmNTBS0vt9wBwdvS4SinEfTXrNITpiQzQOIwtR64nJZL__wFizHndQNGFqYsDx4lWs_-rORdn3wbrvhW9dX1DDfO9aAF6GOfjJTgcU6KmPPZx1GPmdbVz0cxHBww=s686" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="686" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTMGWxLg1xtwep4ZNyzHpvfb9D0rVHJdUwQ5tdSsDnyESUoY54KeuNyNmYzQjySiEmNTBS0vt9wBwdvS4SinEfTXrNITpiQzQOIwtR64nJZL__wFizHndQNGFqYsDx4lWs_-rORdn3wbrvhW9dX1DDfO9aAF6GOfjJTgcU6KmPPZx1GPmdbVz0cxHBww=w400-h297" width="400" /></a></div><p>I had imagined a story where the tribes and kingdoms of the coasts and sands lived their lives free from the treachery of Elves - until the Men of the West came. They called it "civilising" when they indoctrinated their children against the Old Ways; they called it "progress" when they destroyed their sacred sites and built their towers of stone over our holy places; they called it "good" when they outlawed our religion and replaced it with theirs. When the people dared to defy them, they were put to the sword. When <a href="https://www.glyphweb.com/arda/b/blacknumenoreans.html">some of their own</a> defy their island masters, promising vengeance and recompense for their crimes, of course they sought their aid. A story showing the sins of the ancestors echoing through fear and resentment.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTut40mzzeSrUA7XEi9WtPOn0G3C6SjNwy_jq4YPxKM5y4_2BMQ8Da_OoTH5DD_A4U4GIt-9CncR48N9neKHCOMIChHWnpmzT-zb_4RWldHNKs4bvg7emNkR5oky_HHTuEodfPHceaAf3PwTEuUjP7FbgxNtDz-Ih9DRR2b-bnPqFkEl6b853LDYMTWg=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1280" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTut40mzzeSrUA7XEi9WtPOn0G3C6SjNwy_jq4YPxKM5y4_2BMQ8Da_OoTH5DD_A4U4GIt-9CncR48N9neKHCOMIChHWnpmzT-zb_4RWldHNKs4bvg7emNkR5oky_HHTuEodfPHceaAf3PwTEuUjP7FbgxNtDz-Ih9DRR2b-bnPqFkEl6b853LDYMTWg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.deviantart.com/ralphdamiani/art/Alatar-and-Pallando-639679370">It just makes sense</a>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had imagined two mysterious old men travelling through the burning sands, the vast steppes, and the hidden forests beyond the lands of Middle-earth, where they fought to undermine the growing corruption and conquest of Sauron and his minions, sparking the fires of rebellion and kindling the flame of hope in the hearts of the people. Initially, <a href="http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Blue_Wizards#Earlier_writings">they would fail</a> - but later, <a href="http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Blue_Wizards#Later_writings">they would succeed</a>, neither falling into irrelevance like the Brown, nor succombing to the shadow like He Of Many Colours, redeeming their failures by ensuring Sauron's forces could not overwhelm their allies in the West. A story of the best intentions leading to a Fortress of Fire - and of cooperation moving Mountains of Doom.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI2l3EyC939WrxrRbSBH0m1z1YQ0Prs3sU0NAbpOlBU2iWiziy0UsgKPAQNxE4a52hK3jvHVnbaDI5ly8bUlzzFg9rL42cuKyK6RX2brx6bSQ_62YEsDmEg4rI3f3Zqo0LZZmPMOvQuGPgARnNGQgDDpX4Bmb8kS50T5YiUXFlEBJH0r_XUMxyrPpCGA=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="1280" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI2l3EyC939WrxrRbSBH0m1z1YQ0Prs3sU0NAbpOlBU2iWiziy0UsgKPAQNxE4a52hK3jvHVnbaDI5ly8bUlzzFg9rL42cuKyK6RX2brx6bSQ_62YEsDmEg4rI3f3Zqo0LZZmPMOvQuGPgARnNGQgDDpX4Bmb8kS50T5YiUXFlEBJH0r_XUMxyrPpCGA=w400-h239" width="400" /></a></div><p>I had imagined a story of <a href="http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Pre-N%C3%BAmen%C3%B3reans">indigenous people</a> who had to deal with newcomers to their shores: strangers with great boats, strange clothes, and mighty weapons, who claimed to come in peace and friendship - but ultimately brought only domination and oppression. Some of those original inhabitants persisted, fleeing into the wilderness, while others remembered that the lands of Drúwaith Iaur, Gwathuir, Minhiriath, and Enedwaith had once belonged to them. A story of a people forgotten, but never lost.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMCJa8Y9bz1BorI1UkzWnm0Ut6Yh6JLCyfBf14prREY8uK2Do4ain9N3-PQBH-zMlE6BpZKRwGScLmTolC1ReXE5Oyevmd5CU9dyG7pGdoSsKCXhrSHVPPKv1WAOY3UmRZSaCRjELQg3wIRAepDDYYPPBCtjOqH9_XB5DWIBQ57WFD1ahYnAcZtD3zqQ=s765" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMCJa8Y9bz1BorI1UkzWnm0Ut6Yh6JLCyfBf14prREY8uK2Do4ain9N3-PQBH-zMlE6BpZKRwGScLmTolC1ReXE5Oyevmd5CU9dyG7pGdoSsKCXhrSHVPPKv1WAOY3UmRZSaCRjELQg3wIRAepDDYYPPBCtjOqH9_XB5DWIBQ57WFD1ahYnAcZtD3zqQ=w295-h400" width="295" /></a></div><p>I had imagined a land occupied by the forces of darkness where some still chose to stay and fight. The shadow is strong, but the Sun is stronger still in Harad where the Stars are strange. Some are resigned to their pact with evil, their very kings shackled to their ironically titled Rings of Power, so long as it allows them to destroy their hated foes - others are not. Some are content to see their people transformed into raging fanatics and <a href="https://www.glyphweb.com/arda/t/trollmen.php">worse</a>, the <a href="https://www.glyphweb.com/arda/e/elephants.html">animals</a> they ride and worship transformed into <a href="https://www.glyphweb.com/arda/m/mumakil.html">monsters</a>, their history warped and supplanted by worship of a prisoner god - others are not. And there were more among those who defy the Great Enemy than he would like the Elves, Dwarves, and Men of the West to think. A story of those who chose to stay and fight.</p><p>Bah. Enough of this negativity. Perhaps it was too much to hope that <i>The Rings of Power</i> would show the creative chutzpah to go beyond Fantasy England. We can still hope that the late lamented Charles Saunders' <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/21/books/charles-saunders-dead.html"><i>Imaro </i>series</a> gets some traction. Perhaps the inevitable blowback from the timid "representation" in <i>The Rings of Power</i> once people realise that this is still a Western European Fantasy Land will encourage TV fantasy to go further. <i>Black Panther</i> certainly showed it is possible in superhero cinema; <i>Lovecraft Country</i> showed it is possible in horror series. </p><p>In a sea of sub-par Generic Fantasy Worlds, is there not space for a goddamn decent black fantasy series? Can we not see maps of Nyumbani, or Abengoni, or Meji in the background of titles? Could we have fantasy series with non-European Fantasy being the star, rather than the guest? Would it not be, at the very least, refreshing to see black speculative fiction that doesn't rely on adjacency to <a href="https://www.newuniversity.org/2021/04/19/exploitation-of-black-trauma-or-reality-the-controversy-of-amazons-them/">black trauma</a>?</p><p>The time will come, no doubt. Sooner, rather than later.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/90LjRagJXs4" width="320" youtube-src-id="90LjRagJXs4"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-42803977587144798162022-01-22T19:39:00.002+00:002022-01-22T19:39:44.625+00:00Swording With Shadows: The Long Shadow of Robert E. Howard on his 116th<p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3nPYm2Rm17Dmn7ifMrRFkV8m2yIA0e1vL6QfXzNNeuks1G331EC-dn2F2FiKhyrGdEw7Lm1t4OgaohienuSqkNIbt24pAmcywzrlpOP3Y8MromSCXviekLki_gnaBWCRQm7J1riSejfv-Z9hXvWeSNc7DITLc3AUZhSPUckl3Y-evhk-f2OwJhqhIXw=s475" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="294" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi3nPYm2Rm17Dmn7ifMrRFkV8m2yIA0e1vL6QfXzNNeuks1G331EC-dn2F2FiKhyrGdEw7Lm1t4OgaohienuSqkNIbt24pAmcywzrlpOP3Y8MromSCXviekLki_gnaBWCRQm7J1riSejfv-Z9hXvWeSNc7DITLc3AUZhSPUckl3Y-evhk-f2OwJhqhIXw=s320" width="198" /></a></div><br /><p>So the 22nd of January once again comes around. Currently I'm researching for a post on Ossian and the Celtic Revival in Scotland (watch this space), and I'm looking into the mythologisation of Scottish historical figures. Macbeth, the Red King, is perhaps the most myth-shrouded of all, famed as he is from Shakespeare's tragedy. For one of Scotland's greatest and most successful kings to be so traduced in the convening centuries - first by his own people, and then by one of the greatest authors in the history of the planet - is a tragedy a thousandfold that of the thrilling fiction.</p><p>Blame cannot truly be placed on Shakespeare: he was faithfully adapting the centuries-past recollection of <i>Holinshed's Chronicles</i>, itself based upon the black propaganda first recorded in Andrew of <i>Wyntoun's Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland</i>. The notion of Macbeth the murderous usurping tyrant did not begin with Shakespeare. What Shakespeare did contribute, however, is a captivating study into power and humanity, ambition and destiny, with some spooky goings-on for good measure.<br /></p><p>And yet, even as I'm deep in Scottish history, I think of Howard.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><blockquote><p>"To MacBeth mac Finlay, High King of Scots!" he shouted. "Health—and a sharp sword!"<br /> - Thorfinn the Mighty, half-brother and sword-brother to Macbeth, <i>Macbeth the King</i>, Nigel Tranter<br /></p></blockquote><p>As part of my research, I revisited Nigel Tranter - in this case, <i>Macbeth the King</i>. For a work published in 1978, it's amazing how few others have approached its quality. Here is a story which course-corrects the propaganda, using rigorous historical research as the basis for a new tale - one of a generous and conscientious king, a pragmatic and caring queen, bonds of brotherhood and familial betrayal, all against a backdrop of internecine conflict and cultural upheaval. And what a cracking read it is!<br /></p><p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPA8VAvTirG7uwyKK1df9QhkYUKihms-xEDnzIrq1C8REcnTUoeN90_BtVCiuI6nN-YHhhJsj5BMk4kINRHQcRsrGEKzxGZSdPTdMAFN5rM6gtD7NxM27Jzxt-hyfBP8eem3ZC8R_8Z9pWjjvOxv77DRHtdQ9mBYFHKM2y7ZQerLtsmP8L2tlcyDsuxw=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="791" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPA8VAvTirG7uwyKK1df9QhkYUKihms-xEDnzIrq1C8REcnTUoeN90_BtVCiuI6nN-YHhhJsj5BMk4kINRHQcRsrGEKzxGZSdPTdMAFN5rM6gtD7NxM27Jzxt-hyfBP8eem3ZC8R_8Z9pWjjvOxv77DRHtdQ9mBYFHKM2y7ZQerLtsmP8L2tlcyDsuxw=w248-h400" width="248" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p>Read this passage from the opening chapter, and tell me you don't see echoes of "Spears of Clontarf," "The Dark Man," or indeed any of Howard's "Northern" stories ringing like the clash of flasing steel and the boom of freezing waves:</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><blockquote>THE TALL, FAIR-HAIRED man stood on the high cliff-top amongst the wheeling gulls, grey eyes narrowed against the glitter of the sun on the wrinkled sea as he gazed south-eastwards.<br /><br />"I count twenty-eight sail," he said, in the soft, lilting Gaelic, which might have seemed to come oddly from so strong-featured a young man, so deep of voice and of such strange, quiet but withheld inner force. "His full strength, I think. Which must mean... retiral."<br /><br />"Retiral, yes. Retiral, to be sure!" his companion agreed, without agreement. "With lesser men it might be called flight. But the Raven Feeder never flees. He but retires to Cromarty to rest himself!"<br /><br />"You have an over-sharp tongue, Neil Nathrach. Hold it."<br /><br />"Yes, my lord Mormaor." The speaker, holding the two shaggy Highland garrons, grinned wickedly. He was an extraordinarily different-seeming man to be so closely related to the other, slight, dark, wiry, quick and flashing-eyed, the dark Celt indeed, as against the fair. Nathrach meant serpent. Yet they had had the same father.<br /><br />His half-brother stared out to sea wordless, assessing, deducing. He had a great gift for silence. But at length he spoke again.<br /><br />"I see no pursuit. So the King bides at Inverness. Meantime. We need not sound the call-to-arms yet, I think. How say you?" Neil Nathrach made no answer. "You think otherwise?"<br /><br />"I am holding my tongue, MacBeth mac Finlay."<br /><br />"Watch, then - or one day I shall cut it out." That was said as softly as the rest, but flatly also. And the dark man's mobile features tensed suddenly. He knew that the other was capable of doing it.<br /><br />He swallowed, and found the horses in need of attention.<br /><br />They stood on the summit of the South Sutor of Cromarty, the taller of the two towering rock bastions which guarded the narrow entrance to the Cromarty Firth, lofty, windswept, spectacular. Southwards, across the wide Moray Firth, the great land of Moray stretched from green plain to blue mountains, a noble prospect; eastward only the Norwegian Sea. And behind them their own firth opened to what was really a vast landlocked bay, at the head of which stood Inverpeffery, that the Vikings called Dingwall, capital of the mormaorship and province of Ross, one of the seven lesser kingdoms of Alba, or Scotland.<br /><br />MacBeth - more properly Mac Beatha, Son of Life -was calculating again. He reckoned, at the pace Thorfinn was apt to drive his longships' oarsmen, that they would make their landfall in well under the hour.<br /><br />"Back to Rosemarkyn, Neil," he said. "Tell Malduin mac Nechtan to stand down his companies, meantime. And to send word to Inverpeffery. A guard of five score at the boat-strand. To greet our guests. Take both horses. I shall not need mine."<br /><br />"Yes, lord."<br /><br />MacBeth looked after the other as he mounted and rode off, and a faint smile played about his firm mouth.<br /><br />Soon he set off downhill, long-strided, the two miles to the small haven of Cromarty, or Sikkersand as the Norse, had it, in the jaws of the firth-mouth.<br /><br />He had not long to wait before the first of the fleet of long-ships, the dreaded Viking host, appeared round the headland, driven fiercely by all but naked oarsmen, four to an oar, twenty-benched, the great single square sails above painted with the black raven symbol of Orkney, the high-beaked prows open-mouthed in savage menace. The first and largest vessel turned landwards, more a galley than a simple longship, with forty double-banked oars. It flew at its single, central masthead a great white banner bearing the spread-winged raven of the Earl Thorfinn Sigurdson, the Raven Feeder, of Orkney and Caithness, the most dreaded emblem but one in a score of kingdoms.<br /><br />Only this one long, low vicious-looking craft turned into Cromarty's haven, where MacBeth stood alone on the strand, backed at a respectful distance by a cluster of watchful and none too happy fishermen, whose every instinct was to flee from that raven symbol, rather than trust their lord.<br /><br />The galley's snarling-dragon prow had barely made contact with the shingle when an enormous man leapt down from between the ranked, colourful shields, into the shallows, and came striding ashore. The quiet waiting man was tall and well-built, but this newcomer made him seem of very modest size, the great golden helmet with the flaring black wings adding to the impression. Whereas MacBeth was dressed simply in a belted tunic of saffron linen, its lower half forming a knee-length kilt above bare legs and sandals, his only sign of rank a dirk-belt of solid gold, this other was in the full panoply of war, in the Norse fashion, black leather long tunic studded with metal scales as armour, breeches bound to the knee with leather strapping, golden earl's shoulder-belt supporting a huge wide-bladed sword, bare hairy arms hung with bracelets of gold and bronze, the medals of his kind, white bearskin cloak hanging from one shoulder by a great jewelled clasp. This man, unlike most of his race, was dark-haired, black as one of his own ravens, with forked beard, down-turning moustaches and the hottest of pale-blue eyes.<br /><br />"The Son of Life himself - looking still as death! As ever!" this apparition cried, in a voice to match his appearance, mighty, harsh, yet in as good Gaelic as MacBeth's own. "Smile, man - laugh, at sight of me!"<br /><br />"May any man smile at sight of Thorfinn Raven Feeder?"<br /><br />"Not any man, no. But you might, now and again." </blockquote><p>And so I find myself thinking: <i>wouldn't Howard have just <b>loved </b>this book</i>.</p><p>Howard certainly loved Shakespeare's <i>Macbeth</i>, frequently evoking the play inside and outside his fiction. He even has Solomon Kane quoting the play in "The Blue Flame of Vengeance," presumably fresh off a visit to a performance from the Lord Chamberlain's Men himself! But how much more would Howard have loved a story that's real - a story of a great king by his own hand, who led a nation to a decade and a half of peace and prosperity, before being undone by the bane of clans and families humanity-wide - the blood-feud? As Canmore's father slew Macbeth's father, so Macbeth him, to be slain in turn by Canmore - himself, ultimately, slain in the blood-feud.</p><p>What a tale - and one that Howard, I have no doubt, would have relished. <br /></p><blockquote><p>He glanced at the stiff corpses about the beach, at the charred embers of the skalli and the glowing timbers of the galley. In the glare the priest seemed unearthly in his thinness and whiteness, like a saint from some old illuminated manuscript. In his worn pallid face was a more than human sadness, a greater than human weariness. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>"Look!" he cried suddenly, pointing seaward. "The ocean is of blood! See how it swims red in the rising sun! Oh my people, my people, the blood you have spilt in anger turns the very seas to scarlet! How can you win through?" <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>"I came in the snow and sleet," said Turlogh, not understanding at first. "I go as I came." <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>The priest shook his head. "It is more than a mortal sea. Your hands are red with blood and you follow a red sea-path, yet the fault is not wholly with you. Almighty God, when will the reign of blood cease?" <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>Turlogh shook his head. "Not so long as the race lasts."<br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p> - "The Dark Man," Robert E. Howard <br /></p></blockquote><p></p><br />Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-8206297718425722832021-06-26T17:08:00.004+01:002021-06-26T17:26:27.521+01:00All The Time in The (Jurassic) World (Dominion)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWv4wZ0-9HIiGxxGS-QOuh8SONoBZeiPbOT5sS_Oin7PaXYzxDEBPYTqWY4FUcnOU6SRJh5xiK0-TsXuSUJsmGjiGErbByLXlqU7hBzrRT7i4Kti3GqBdLkV9s-OMgC10H8987taFk-qe6/s953/James+Hutton_Sir+Henry+Raeburn+1776.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWv4wZ0-9HIiGxxGS-QOuh8SONoBZeiPbOT5sS_Oin7PaXYzxDEBPYTqWY4FUcnOU6SRJh5xiK0-TsXuSUJsmGjiGErbByLXlqU7hBzrRT7i4Kti3GqBdLkV9s-OMgC10H8987taFk-qe6/s320/James+Hutton_Sir+Henry+Raeburn+1776.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>The concept of Deep Time in terms of Earthly geology has its roots, in large part, to the work of Scottish geologist <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20080415155107/http://www.james-hutton.org.uk/">James Hutton</a>. His study of the great natural wonders of his native Scotland - the <a href="https://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WM3F65">Isle of Arran</a> with its fault line dividing the Precambrian and the Carboniferous; the dolerite/basalt <a href="https://www.scottishgeology.com/geo/regional-geology/midland-valley/salisbury-crags-edinburgh/">Salisbury Crags</a> of Holyrood; the rugged uncomformity of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hutton%27s_Unconformity#Siccar_Point">Siccar's Point </a>with its clash of sandstone and greywacke - inspired the theory that geological features were not necessarily static and timeless, but transformed and changed over unfathomably long periods of time. This meant that the Earth could not be as young as previously believed, and must have been changing for billions, not thousands, of years. This soon developed into <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uniformitarianism">uniformitarianism</a>, and the modern science of the Earth which we know today.<br /></p><p>Understandably, such a monumental paradigm shift in humanity's understanding of the planet on which they live every day of their lives was controversial. Certain religious organisations <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/father-modern-geology-youve-never-heard-180960203/">rejected</a> the idea outright, perceiving it as an attack on their scripture: more traditional scientists were skeptical, viewing it as incomplete or unconvincing. In <i>The Science of Life</i> (1929), H.G. Wells & Julian Huxley noted the psychological barriers in getting human minds around such gigantic eons of history can be surmounted with a little effort:</p><blockquote><p>To think in such magnitudes is not so difficult as many people imagine. The use of different scales is simply a matter of practice. We very soon get used to maps, though they are constructed on scales down to a hundred-millionth of natural size; we are used to switching over from thinking in terms of seconds and minutes to some other problem involving years and centuries; and to grasp geological time all that is needed is to stick tight to some magnitude which shall be the unit on the new and magnified scale - a million years is probably the most convenient - to grasp its meaning once and for all by an effort of imagination, and then to think of all passage of geological time in terms of this unit. <br /></p></blockquote><p>Alas, despite the centuries since Hutton's discovery (& decades since Wells and others developed the Popular Science genre of non-fiction), it seems Deep Time lies beyond the grasp of even the most intellectual of Holywood movie producers...</p><p> </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5noMDYNk_18AveAuv1trpH5U0VNll_-g7zkaHvb8ropHhnwEEjEKynsjU-dO77KahHZYv9Kz_rf3CDfkT47ocRCAr_NiE3EwFOyDcRuggjeU1uExayaTCCdxb-lllsZG92A_Va1BK5nPj/s1210/calvin-hobbes-dinosaur-003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1210" data-original-width="980" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5noMDYNk_18AveAuv1trpH5U0VNll_-g7zkaHvb8ropHhnwEEjEKynsjU-dO77KahHZYv9Kz_rf3CDfkT47ocRCAr_NiE3EwFOyDcRuggjeU1uExayaTCCdxb-lllsZG92A_Va1BK5nPj/w324-h400/calvin-hobbes-dinosaur-003.jpg" width="324" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p><blockquote><p>"I don't think we should kid ourselves. We haven't re-created the past here. The past is gone. It can never be re- created. What we've done is reconstruct the past - or at least a version of the past. And I'm saying we can make a better version." <br /> - Dr. Henry Wu, <i>Jurassic Park</i>, Michael Crichton<br /></p></blockquote><p>Ironically (or not), it took a while for Deep Time to filter into popular consciousness. Even at the turn of the 20th Century, popular science journals and newspaper archives refer to dinosaurs living mere millions, rather than tens of millions, of years before the dawn of humanity, and the failure to filter-down to popular consciousness meant that hominids and Cenozoic animals were depicted living alongside dinosaurs well into the second half of the 20th Century.<br /></p><p>So on to <i>Jurassic World Dominion</i>. The <i>Jurassic </i>franchise has always had a deeply <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2014/12/palaeontology-weeps-in-jurassic-world.html">complicated</a> relationship with scientific accuracy. The original novel was written, after all, by Michael Crichton, who prided himself on the realism of his techno-thrillers like <i>The Andromeda Strain</i> and <i>Disclosure</i>: while the passage have time means some of the palaeontology has been <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-44293060">superseded</a> (most infamously the "<i>Velociraptor </i>and <i>Deinonychus </i>are synonymous" proposition which didn't even last the period between the book's publication & the film's release). Likewise, one of the primary goals in the original <i>Jurassic Park</i> film adaptation was to create the most accurate & lifelike dinosaurs yet seen in popular media:</p><blockquote><p>"One of my favorite scenes in the first movie was the kitchen scene. The original script had the raptors coming into the kitchen - they were after the children at that time - and sticking out their forked tongues, very much like snakes or lizards do. And I stepped in and said, "They really can't do that. Dinosaurs didn't have forked tongues like lizards or snakes, so we need to take that out." Steven didn't argue with me - he sometimes argued with me, but this time he didn't - but he said, 'You know, We need to fill that space. If we're going to take that scene out, we need to fill it with something else.' And so it was later decided that before the dinosaurs come into the kitchen, they would look through that window into the kitchen and the dinosaur would snort and it would fog up the window. Only warm-blooded animals can fog up a window, so it's a tiny little suggestion that dinosaurs are warm-blooded." <br /> - <a href="https://laist.com/news/entertainment/meet-the-real-life-paleontologist-b">Jack Horner</a>, Palaeontology Consultant on <i>Jurassic Park</i><br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>I bought every book that came out on dinosaurs. So I was pretty well in tune with what the state of the science was at that point in time. Crichton would have a Tyrannosaurus pick up the jeep like <i>Godzilla</i>. I was like a reality check to say 'well no he wouldn't do that, because... the physics don't work.<br />... I have completely different ideas of what [dinosaurs] should be like now. If we were making a different dinosaur movie that didn't have to be <i>Jurassic Park</i>, I would do things totally differently. a lot of this stuff that they've discovered about feathers is pretty significant and there's a lot of really interesting things you could do. <br /> - <a href="https://paleontologyworld.com/entertainment/does-jurassic-park-make-scientific-sense">Phil Tippett</a>, Dinosaur Supervisor on <i>Jurassic Park</i></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>[The idea was] to get as far away from people’s perceptions of dinosaurs as possible, the upright bulky, clumsy kinds of creatures that have been seen in previous movies. The idea was to show that we were up-to-date on the current thinking that dinosaurs were probably warm-blooded and birdlike, rather than cold-blooded and lizardlike. <br /> - <a href="https://jurassicpark.fandom.com/wiki/Mark_McCreery#cite_note-Cinefex55p48-1">Mark "Crash" McCreery</a>, Concept Artist on <i>Jurassic Park</i><br /></p></blockquote><p>(Given the biggest film featuring dinosaurs before <i>Jurassic Park</i> came along was <a href="https://characterdesignreferences.com/art-of-animation-2/the-land-before-time">an animated ode to Disney's <i>Fantasia</i></a>, that wasn't going to be a challenge.)<br /></p><p>Yet when <i>Jurassic World</i> came along, the passage of time meant accuracy had to give way to a more powerful and lucrative force - nostalgia. Now, I cannot say I ever had nostalgia for <i>Jurassic Park</i>, because the key thing about nostalgia is separation, as folk remember their childhoods & how they felt back when they watched the film as children - since I never left <i>Jurassic Park</i>, I cannot really say I feel nostalgic for it. Nor can I say that <i>Jurassic World</i> was <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2015/06/8-year-old-reviews-jurassic-world.html">entirely without merit,</a> as there were clearly some interesting ideas in among the soulless marketing dictats and fiats. However, I am not most people - and evidently, the people who thought the time was right for more <i>Jurassic </i>films a decade after <i>Jurassic Park 3</i> felt that people wanted the nostalgia hit - and that meant the scientific concensus from 1993 must be upheld. </p><p><a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2015/06/unanswered-questions-jurassic-world.html">In-universe</a>, there's a ready-made explanation for why the dinosaurs of <i>Jurassic Park</i> don't resemble their prehistoric selves, and it's reiterated a number of times in the franchise's history. </p><p>This is made particularly explicit in<i> <a href="https://jurassicpark.fandom.com/wiki/Jurassic_Park_III_Film_Script#Scene_7:_Auditorium">Jurassic Park III</a></i>:</p><blockquote><p>Student: Your theory on raptors is good and all, but isn't all this conjecture kind of moot? I mean, once the U.N. and Costa Rica and everyone decides how to handle the second island, scientist will just go in and look for themselves. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>Grant: No, and let me be perfectly clear on this point. Dinosaurs lived 65 million years ago. What's left of them is fossilized in stone the actual scientists spend years to undercover. What John Hammond and InGen created are theme park monsters. Nothing more, nothing less. <br /></p></blockquote><p>and in <i><a href="https://jurassicpark.fandom.com/wiki/Jurassic_World_Film_Transcript">Jurassic World</a></i>:</p><blockquote><p>Dr. Henry Wu: You are acting like we are engaged in some kind of mad science. But we are doing what we have done from the beginning. Nothing in Jurassic World is natural. We have always filled gaps in the genome with the DNA of other animals. (voice rising) And, if their genetic code was pure, many of them would look quite different. But you didn't ask for reality. You asked for more teeth! <br /></p></blockquote><p>and the original novel:</p><blockquote><p>"But, Henry, these are real dinosaurs. You said so yourself." </p></blockquote><blockquote>"I know," Wu said. "But we could easily breed slower, more domesticated dinosaurs." </blockquote><blockquote>"Domesticated dinosaurs?" Hammond snorted. "Nobody wants domesticated dinosaurs, Henry. They want the real thing." </blockquote><blockquote>"But that's my point," Wu said. "I don't think they do. They want to see their expectation, which is quite different." </blockquote><blockquote>Hammond was frowning.
"You said yourself, John, this park is entertainment," Wu said. "And
entertainment has nothing to do with reality. Entertainment is
antithetical to reality."</blockquote><p>Here's the important thing: <b>all this applies to the cloned dinosaurs living in modern times</b>. It explains why <i>Dilophosaurus </i>has a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chlamydosaurus">Chlamydosaurus</a>-esque frill & expectorates blinding fluid; it explains why <i>Spinosaurus </i>is a long-legged round-sailed killing machine; it explains why <i>Ankylosaurus </i>is all spikes. The cloned dinosaurs and prehistoric creatures are explicitly genetically altered & engineered in such a way that they are not 1-1 reproductions of the fossil record. They can be close approximations, or loose extrapolations - but they are not the same, even if they are still animals deserving of the same respect as any naturally-occurring species.</p><p>The only arguable exception is the fossil raptor seen being excavated in Montana early in the first <i>Jurassic Park</i>, which is quite clearly of the same dimensions of the "genetically engineered" <i>Velociraptor </i>of the park: that's an unfortunate result of the aforementioned "<i>Velociraptor </i>and <i>Deinonychus </i>are synonymous" idea, but it can be <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20160324101159/http://www.jplegacy.org/jpencyclopedia/?p=101">explained fairly easily</a> given the presence of similarly sized Dromaeosaurids in Cretaceous what-is-now-America. Up to this point, this mystery raptor and the fossils of the Visitor's Centre were the only direct depiction of actual prehistoric life free from genetic chimaerification in the Jurassic franchise.<br /></p><p>... Until J<i>urassic World Dominion</i> <a href="https://www.empireonline.com/movies/news/exclusive-colin-trevorrow-talks-jurassic-world-dominion-imax-preview/">threw a rock hammer</a> into the fossiliferous strata.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkiX4h_CY4-U0c3MKl9rjmbuj2gt6i9FlL2nHxyr6a3i3hn2Ecz-xXOzFfFFVjqxfedZ9BmqP1daXkZfQoYD8LlYsVMUppAVay28DUNlhEXJxxiNZC4iEBKT1EkU_QmcOiCSYyli4oMAq/s1400/Jurassic+World+Dominion_Moros+Intrepidus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkiX4h_CY4-U0c3MKl9rjmbuj2gt6i9FlL2nHxyr6a3i3hn2Ecz-xXOzFfFFVjqxfedZ9BmqP1daXkZfQoYD8LlYsVMUppAVay28DUNlhEXJxxiNZC4iEBKT1EkU_QmcOiCSYyli4oMAq/s320/Jurassic+World+Dominion_Moros+Intrepidus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><blockquote><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"></span></p><p><i>Jurassic World: Dominion</i>
is still a year away. For hyped-up dinosaur enthusiasts, not to mention
aficionados of Ian Malcolm, that wait may as well be 65 million years.
But fortunately, director <a href="https://www.empireonline.com/people/colin-trevorrow/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_self">Colin Trevorrow</a>
and Universal have put together a special treat for fans to help the
time fly by, a five-minute preview of the movie that will play before
IMAX screenings of <i><a href="https://www.empireonline.com/movies/reviews/fast-furious-9/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_self">Fast & Furious 9</a></i>.</p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><p><i>Empire</i>
got to see the footage earlier this week, up on a brachiosaurus(s<i>ic</i>)-sized
screen, and it begins with something new for the franchise: an epic
flashback to prehistoric times, teeming with all manner of toothy, scaly
beasties (plus a buzzing, DNA-extracting mosquito or two). After a
fierce showdown between a <i>T-Rex</i> and enormous debuting dino the
<i>Giganotosaurus</i>, it cuts to the modern day, and a sequence in which a
drive-in cinema is under assault by the <i>Rex </i>we know from previous
movies, with a military helicopter in hot pursuit. It’s the kind of
huge, kinetic spectacle we’ve been missing, and we spoke to Trevorrow
over Zoom to find out how it came to be.</p></span> ...<p></p></blockquote><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">an epic
flashback to prehistoric times... After a
fierce showdown between a <i>T-Rex</i> and enormous debuting dino the
<i>Giganotosaurus</i></span></span></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><i>...</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"></span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><b>prehistoric times</b> showdown between a <b><i>T-Rex</i></b> and
<b><i>Giganotosaurus</i></b></span></span></span></p></blockquote><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"></span></span></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="font-family: courier;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AbJ5vmK_VG4fWvy84n_K3vEeHR8d3KygcZkXkFpnByoGrveEbvSmwtuUegqXbU4tz7Ea_TEXaPKk8tuyrYsDoOyayVRjpTBLd2d0OWfM2fJc80_zMM-BVTjqPHjrVJ9I7OE1Q5o2akkP/s570/Windows+Error.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AbJ5vmK_VG4fWvy84n_K3vEeHR8d3KygcZkXkFpnByoGrveEbvSmwtuUegqXbU4tz7Ea_TEXaPKk8tuyrYsDoOyayVRjpTBLd2d0OWfM2fJc80_zMM-BVTjqPHjrVJ9I7OE1Q5o2akkP/s320/Windows+Error.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="font-family: courier;"><ERROR: 37-YEAR-OLD ALY HAS ENCOUNTERED AN ERROR AND NEEDS TO BE SHUT DOWN></span><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">... Let <a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/search/label/8-Year-Old%20Reviews">me</a> take it from here.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">I understand there are adults who read this blog: generally speaking, unless you're a giant dinosaur nerd like 37-year-old Aly, some of the finer points of palaeontology might escape you. So allow me to explain as simply and in as adult-friendly a way as possible.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">Ever since the discovery of the <i>Tyrannosaurus rex</i>, the Prize-Fighter of Antiquity, Absolute Warlord of the Earth, <i>et cetera et cetera et cetera</i>, children of all ages have pondered: who could possibly challenge the King of the Dinosaurs? For almost the century since the <i>T. rex's</i> existence, only the mighty <i>Triceratops </i>- the great horned herbivore which we now know definitively <a href="https://www.cnet.com/news/fossil-shows-t-rex-and-triceratops-locked-in-battle-to-the-death/">from the fossil record</a> did engage in titanic combat with the Tyrant Lizard King - was seen as a worthy opponent, and even then, it could never shake the stigma of being prey. In terms of carnivores, there were no challengers: nothing approached its size, its range, or its effectiveness anywhere in its territory. The world of 65 million years ago was much more divided on a continental level, with <b>North America divided from South America by a great sea</b> (which would over time shrink into the Caribbean):</span></span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHm6F01jQ0_Kn5aSpcuP2Wd_rEgApY4FWdbXVMeHVkPE0FSi-HePt6dJ8rC14D4WHaGO5cXRzXepjPRTyFRXkGqYhpHH2Iy5RGfHbD7qtSI9n2z0AvF4TajuM1b76tzjSsBOUsXNZqCxm/s1920/66+Million+Years+Ago_Hell+Creek+Tyrannosaurus+Location.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHm6F01jQ0_Kn5aSpcuP2Wd_rEgApY4FWdbXVMeHVkPE0FSi-HePt6dJ8rC14D4WHaGO5cXRzXepjPRTyFRXkGqYhpHH2Iy5RGfHbD7qtSI9n2z0AvF4TajuM1b76tzjSsBOUsXNZqCxm/s320/66+Million+Years+Ago_Hell+Creek+Tyrannosaurus+Location.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Hell Creek is the site of <i>T.rex's</i> discovery, but remains have been found from as far north as Alberta, Canada to as far south as Tornillo, Texas.</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">What is now North America was an island continent - as, indeed, were South America, Africa, India, Western Europe, and Asia. Yet even accounting for other continents, only the closely related <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarbosaurus">Tarbosaurus</a> </i>approaches it in size (and the jury's still out as to whether it is synonymous with its Yankee cousin).</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span class="jsx-3852935145 content">Which brings us to <i>Giganotosaurus</i>.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>Cast your minds back to 1995. It's only 2 years since <i>Jurassic Park</i> was released, and sent the latent love of dinosaurs present in all small people into overdrive. Dinosaurs were popular, sure, but never on <i>this </i>media-saturation level - toys, games, posters, clothes, pinball machines, memorabilia, merchandise of all shapes and prices. And hot off the palaeontological presses was a monster of a bulletin - a new carnivorous dinosaur had been discovered which could challenge even the mighty <i>Tyrannosaurus</i>!</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"WOW, a meat-eater as big as a T.rex?! Tell me all about it!"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>I surely will, speculative fellow young person! Its name is <i>Giganotosaurus carolinii</i>: it means "Giant Southern Lizard." The species name is in honour of its discoverer, Rubén D. Carolini, who found it while dune-buggying around the badlands near Villa El Chocón, in the Neuquén province of Patagonia, Argentina.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span> "Dude, I want to go dune-buggying in badlands to find dinosaurs!"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span> Me too, pal, me too.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"So how big was it exactly?"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>Well, the largest <i>T.rex</i> known at the time belongs to a skeleton named Sue. Sue's femur (thigh bone) was 130 centimetres (or 51 inches) long. The <i>Giganotosaurus's</i> holotype femur was 5 centimetres (or 2 inches) longer than Sue's, and thicker too. Palaeontologists estimated the skull to be 5.3 metres (or 5 feet) long; and the whole animal to be 12.5 metres (41.5 feet) long!<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"That's amazing! But how did it live with the <i>T.rex</i>?"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span> It didn't.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"It didn't?"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>It didn't. Remember where and when the <i>T.rex</i> lived?</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"Sure I do: North America during the Late Cretaceous, 65 million years ago!"</span></span></span></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRPPrwlvf90djZb7lFQ8qgTCJM4-7i2QI4ScCULO7aq4feo6ZpGkZuWjUgFPFc_nxG5_Epb_34RwfUia6Ra8XZkbs24ZVcQvhEAFVcxoWUtBTbOawBL0Kmxw8szn9_BOlvc2vT7TY5OhX/s1920/66+Million+Years+Ago_Hell+Creek+Tyrannosaurus+Location.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="1920" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBRPPrwlvf90djZb7lFQ8qgTCJM4-7i2QI4ScCULO7aq4feo6ZpGkZuWjUgFPFc_nxG5_Epb_34RwfUia6Ra8XZkbs24ZVcQvhEAFVcxoWUtBTbOawBL0Kmxw8szn9_BOlvc2vT7TY5OhX/w400-h193/66+Million+Years+Ago_Hell+Creek+Tyrannosaurus+Location.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span><br />Well done! At the time of the Tyrant Lizard King - the Maastrichtian Age of the Late Cretaceous Epoch - what is now North America was an isolated continent. The tiny strip of land which would become Mexico was largely submerged under the Proto-Caribbean Sea, and the rise of the Rocky Mountains made the route to Asia all but impassible.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6nm0PNbpziMeE_au6x8YwxHg3m_dam0Q0JWsFw9s9MwJHG4-5A3ilw6Np8smjrSz5kNd-pts_kVBKYzonMdpkZIcXN-EfwpHSg8TgaHDdo9Xyu7ng425SCZ3LbJMZFbUELRgle-wUioQ/s1920/105+Million+Years+Ago_Candeleros+Giganotosaurus+Location.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="1920" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim6nm0PNbpziMeE_au6x8YwxHg3m_dam0Q0JWsFw9s9MwJHG4-5A3ilw6Np8smjrSz5kNd-pts_kVBKYzonMdpkZIcXN-EfwpHSg8TgaHDdo9Xyu7ng425SCZ3LbJMZFbUELRgle-wUioQ/w400-h193/105+Million+Years+Ago_Candeleros+Giganotosaurus+Location.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"That's right - and Argentina's in South America, so it wouldn't have been able to get there - unless it fell in the sea and somehow got washed up on the coast."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>There's a problem with that too: Remember how T.rex lived <b>65 million years</b> ago? Well, the Candeleros Formation where <i>Giganotosaurus </i>was found dates back quite a bit earlier - to the Late Cenomanian Age, <b>99 to 97 million years</b> ago.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"Jings. That's <b>32 million years</b> between them - almost half the distance between T.rex and us!"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>Aye. So just like with the Spinosaurus - who lived around 99-93 million years ago in what is now North Africa - <b>the Giganotosaurus would need to travel through hundreds of thousands of miles in space and millions of years in time in order to meet a T.rex</b>.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>"But that's ok in <i>Jurassic Park</i>, after all, they're clones in the present day, right?</span></span></span></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Aye, <a href="https://www.empireonline.com/movies/news/exclusive-colin-trevorrow-talks-jurassic-world-dominion-imax-preview/">about that</a>...</span><br /></span></span></p><blockquote><p>Well, we start with the <b><i>Dreadnoughtus</i></b>, which was discovered not long ago, those bones. And it's one of the great things about being able to rip dinosaurs from the headlines, that we're able to see something exciting and do some research on it, then build a model and put it in the movies. The <i>Quetzalcoatlus</i>, which we've never seen before, which is much bigger than a <i>Pteranodon</i>. We're following this massive <i>Quetzalcoatlus</i>, and then it lands and you see all these <i>Pteranodons </i>at its feet like birds, and you realise how big the thing is. And then we have our first feathered dinosaur, the <i>Oviraptor</i>. <b>I feel like that's going to be a bit of a headline for those who care about paleontological accuracy</b>. Another one [with feathers], which is the one in the picture, is the <b><i>Moros intrepidus</i></b>. That one showed up maybe two years ago. It probably popped up into your feed, that people found a tiny, <i>T-Rex</i>-like feathered dinosaur. And that was one of the quickest turnarounds that we've had, from discovery to putting it on screen. <br /></p></blockquote><p><span style="color: #0b5394;">But there's <a href="https://screenrant.com/jurassic-world-3-trailer-new-dinosaur-species-explained/">more</a>...</span></p><blockquote><p><i>Jurassic World: Dominion</i> isn't just relying on dinosaurs fans have seen
before. The sequel is introducing 7 new dino species that really
existed.</p></blockquote><p><b></b></p><blockquote><p><b>Dreadnoughtus -</b> A massive new sauropod similar to
the Brachiosaurus, the bones of the Dreadnoughtus were only discovered
in real life in 2005. The herbivore makes its <i>Jurassic World</i> debut in <i>Dominion'</i>s prologue.</p>
<p><b>Quetzalcoatlus -</b> The Pteranodons were introduced in <i><a href="https://screenrant.com/jurassic-park-3-spinosaurus-new-dinosaurs-franchise-problem/">Jurassic Park III</a></i> and returned in the first two <i>Jurassic World</i>
movies but the Quetzalcoatlus is an even bigger and scarier winged
dinosaur. The <b>Pteranodons </b>even treat the Quetzalcoatlus as an alpha.</p>
<p><b>Nasutoceratops -</b>
The Nasutoceratops is similar to the Triceratops and the Sinoteratops
but this huge dinosaur has shorter horns extending from below the bony
armored plate in its head. <br /></p><p><b>Iguanodon -</b> The Iguanadon is another large herbivore that debuts in <i>Jurassic World: Dominion</i> and is sighted briefly in the film's Cretaceous prologue.</p>
<p><b>Oviraptor -</b> The Oviraptor is a feathered dinosaur that's similar to the Velociraptor but smaller in scale. It's one of the first <a href="https://screenrant.com/jurassic-park-dinosaur-mistake-fix-future-feathers/">dinosaurs with feathers in the<i> Jurassic</i> franchise</a>, which is more scientifically accurate.</p>
<p><b>Moros intrepidus -</b>
Moros intrepidus is a feathered dinosaur that resembles a tiny T-Rex.
Discovered only two years ago in real life, Moros intrepidus is the
fastest case of a new, real-life dino discovery being included in a <i>Jurassic</i> movie.</p><p><b>Gigantosaurus -</b><i> Jurassic World: Dominion</i> also
introduces a huge new apex predator in the Gigantosaurus, which battles
the T-Rex in the Cretaceous period. However, the Gigantosaurus also
appears in the present-day story of <i><b>Jurassic World: Dominion</b></i> so it may be a threat that <a href="https://screenrant.com/jurassic-park-lost-world-alan-ellie-not-return/">Alan Grant, Ellie Sattler</a>, Ian Malcolm, Owen Grady, and Claire Dearing will have to face.</p></blockquote><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCYNMY-WDbnUChiYb6JMVaX7Hp1TiUIB86qgwH7AdyrYBul-0FVHRTlY50hWHhXkO1fD63p4rqZkjRC4eS8QEeaxNx9Dj3zAcm2tHgUAGHZGSSExy3BNf-D6_WEGa-MKXErdPYzj6NzOU/s480/The+Angry+Dome.gif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCYNMY-WDbnUChiYb6JMVaX7Hp1TiUIB86qgwH7AdyrYBul-0FVHRTlY50hWHhXkO1fD63p4rqZkjRC4eS8QEeaxNx9Dj3zAcm2tHgUAGHZGSSExy3BNf-D6_WEGa-MKXErdPYzj6NzOU/w400-h300/The+Angry+Dome.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">37-year-old Aly's mandated single GIF per post<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>To clarify for those who are not 8 years old.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Dreadnoughtus </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cerro_Fortaleza_Formation">here</a>, 75 million years ago.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFCRgxSu-D5hG4OeBA85W6j_WHDu-V0c6Kmug_02CVRX77KbpSi2w4YzwYIWTF6oTSrqbaQaFrxmCORJdvraDYl1e0v5J6CnwoUfihSC4mWsJHPpDKpQMdz0bga_wbeLI42qM5ZkktjYv/s1920/90+Million+Years+Ago_Dreadnoughtus+location.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="1920" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFCRgxSu-D5hG4OeBA85W6j_WHDu-V0c6Kmug_02CVRX77KbpSi2w4YzwYIWTF6oTSrqbaQaFrxmCORJdvraDYl1e0v5J6CnwoUfihSC4mWsJHPpDKpQMdz0bga_wbeLI42qM5ZkktjYv/w400-h194/90+Million+Years+Ago_Dreadnoughtus+location.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Quetzalcoatlus </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Javelina_Formation">here</a>, 65 million years ago.</span></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYyaKpEsHv4gdGlJoT6yGPaTtxVLALsMuWYb-Cdp1LPRL9nDasYOghGc7VRwj4efpdlFzYRe_81SOVcBue8dvlF6kGFdNmLxWIiNB4shxJ2c62OZUPqj3S5MTxMuiMutt3KV5Rqg7RvVI/s1920/66+Million+Years+Ago_Javelina+Formation_Quetzalcoatlus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1920" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYyaKpEsHv4gdGlJoT6yGPaTtxVLALsMuWYb-Cdp1LPRL9nDasYOghGc7VRwj4efpdlFzYRe_81SOVcBue8dvlF6kGFdNmLxWIiNB4shxJ2c62OZUPqj3S5MTxMuiMutt3KV5Rqg7RvVI/w400-h193/66+Million+Years+Ago_Javelina+Formation_Quetzalcoatlus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>Pteranodon </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smoky_Hill_Chalk">here</a>, 86-84 million years ago.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrFwX8EyFUtI25XcHwn4Xfi0pV6dsh5rXe9wJ2SoP8PHSBgJLIWzsRX-OXrYdAK93cDILdaMUrrG8l1RMXFQgHRbfBqlr8kEQVdlxNRe2udmRB26Ck83w1A9O3gIhCKCsMpMGoQYJIJq1/s1920/86+Million+Years+Ago_Smoky+Hill+Chalk+Formation_Pteranodon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1920" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVrFwX8EyFUtI25XcHwn4Xfi0pV6dsh5rXe9wJ2SoP8PHSBgJLIWzsRX-OXrYdAK93cDILdaMUrrG8l1RMXFQgHRbfBqlr8kEQVdlxNRe2udmRB26Ck83w1A9O3gIhCKCsMpMGoQYJIJq1/w400-h193/86+Million+Years+Ago_Smoky+Hill+Chalk+Formation_Pteranodon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Nasutoceratops </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grand_Staircase%E2%80%93Escalante_National_Monument">here</a>, 75 million years ago.</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuH13do8ye4s8Waw_H7pWwIT5Vrf135Hf8X8CFrdIYna6sHTV7yUUb0uxQUdt_rpSAlkHGNH9le7K-qzaVPDHtM95W78pc2dZKT5RpPMRY9ZHlbxjar4h3-8kRr__LilpPm5dRP8ETxEK/s1920/75+Million+Years+Ago_Grand+Staircase+Escalante+Formation_Nasutoceratops.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1920" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuH13do8ye4s8Waw_H7pWwIT5Vrf135Hf8X8CFrdIYna6sHTV7yUUb0uxQUdt_rpSAlkHGNH9le7K-qzaVPDHtM95W78pc2dZKT5RpPMRY9ZHlbxjar4h3-8kRr__LilpPm5dRP8ETxEK/w400-h194/75+Million+Years+Ago_Grand+Staircase+Escalante+Formation_Nasutoceratops.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Oviraptor </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Djadochta_Formation">here</a>, 65 million years ago. </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCLlhSRGufBV5KzFvVWFWorChe4n3VrA4fbpouRKF-BPudR1d13AlGIDYfLyN9ux5hfoP20Xo0aLEBBBJvtMttYhbPR-izkb19hz4Ubm6Xqn-i5sZujpyBbg04Ev9uF37YwyjHlXbATMa/s1920/66+Million+Years+Ago_Djadokta+Formation_Oviraptor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1920" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCLlhSRGufBV5KzFvVWFWorChe4n3VrA4fbpouRKF-BPudR1d13AlGIDYfLyN9ux5hfoP20Xo0aLEBBBJvtMttYhbPR-izkb19hz4Ubm6Xqn-i5sZujpyBbg04Ev9uF37YwyjHlXbATMa/w400-h194/66+Million+Years+Ago_Djadokta+Formation_Oviraptor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p> </p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Iguanodon</i> (or at least, the only evidence of a North American species) lived <a href="https://tpwmagazine.com/archive/2016/apr/threedays_canyon/">here</a>, 115 million years ago.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeSv7Z6_jaYw9VWQ9hvU6ei7HrugeWk2XtHtAxnKgKIwo0j9uAsgDWA9_Bd-0RKQ3RTlOpkoftbcBm3bPpasK9qCe6Jl4YYPNrvRY5o49m-JIWU_Ab63s4AoTSjQVsFH2kXAo9tZPhJ-V/s1920/115+Million+Years+Ago_Canyon+Lake_Iguanodon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="1920" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeSv7Z6_jaYw9VWQ9hvU6ei7HrugeWk2XtHtAxnKgKIwo0j9uAsgDWA9_Bd-0RKQ3RTlOpkoftbcBm3bPpasK9qCe6Jl4YYPNrvRY5o49m-JIWU_Ab63s4AoTSjQVsFH2kXAo9tZPhJ-V/w400-h194/115+Million+Years+Ago_Canyon+Lake_Iguanodon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><i>Moros </i>lived <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cedar_Mountain_Formation">here</a>, 90 million years ago.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIkwCu2JFkP3HdPTZA4O8UdqHCRg9ShOHINdGKICDce-sFEr1_48lmwyOwG6J2Xrb8VNJtIIKBv6TmrXU9-BR5JkbK21l7R8i2m0CxBhDj0ur4RNG8_bV21mZo40x_CpuG-y-RYwD76OB/s1920/90+Million+Years+Ago_Moros+Intrepidus+Location.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="929" data-original-width="1920" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIkwCu2JFkP3HdPTZA4O8UdqHCRg9ShOHINdGKICDce-sFEr1_48lmwyOwG6J2Xrb8VNJtIIKBv6TmrXU9-BR5JkbK21l7R8i2m0CxBhDj0ur4RNG8_bV21mZo40x_CpuG-y-RYwD76OB/w400-h194/90+Million+Years+Ago_Moros+Intrepidus+Location.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Literally only <b>3</b> prehistoric creatures out of <b>10</b> (<i>Ankylosaurus</i>, which appeared in every <i>Jurassic </i>film since 3, and <i>Pteranodon</i> are also featured in the Cretaceous prologue) in a scene which everyone and their mother is falling over themselves to assure us is the most accurate depiction of dinosaurs in cinematic history, actually could have appeared in the same time and place as one another. Either they lived a continent away (<i>Oviraptor</i>) tens of millions of years earlier (<i>Nasutoceratops</i>, <i>Iguanodon</i>,<i> Pteranodon</i>) or both (<i>Dreadnoughtus</i>, <i>Moros</i>, <i>Giganotosaurus</i>).</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>But hey, it's just a movie, right? Nobody goes to these movies for education, or for realism, or for any of that nonsense. This is a big dumb action movie for big dumb idiots to take their big dumb families to waste a few hours of their big dumb lives. Palaeontology is nowhere to be seen.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Except no, that's not what Colin Trevorrow is going for <a href="https://collider.com/jurassic-world-3-preview-plot-colin-trevorrow-interview/">at all</a>:</span></span></p><blockquote><p>Some of the new dinosaurs in this movie, you'll see again, in a bigger, a more richer way. I think that what's exciting about this for me is <b>we get to see these dinosaurs in their paleontologically correct form</b>. It's the first time that we don't have dinosaurs that were completed with frog DNA, and therefore inaccurate for those who really pay close attention. Steve Brusatte and Jack Horner, who are two brilliant paleontologists, really dug in here, <b>to make sure that if we're going to show the Cretaceous period, that we're not going to get too many letters about our inaccuracy</b>. And it means a lot to me that <b>this feels like you're actually in that moment in Earth's history</b>. <br /></p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>we get to see these dinosaurs in their paleontologically correct form</b></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b></b></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><b><b>make sure that if we're going to show the Cretaceous period, that we're not going to get too many letters about our inaccuracy</b></b></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><b></b></b></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><b><b>this feels like you're actually in that moment in Earth's history</b></b></b></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Well. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>I mean. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>How much clearer do I have to be?</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #3d85c6;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQYZyDJz_jW5-9_oe8p8k3OA680lkvijzP7nL8fPbcSq9H15529l1HVHz3foJ4ZWLGfMAj0M56hgns5gQTqK3Pjj2P8CX-WHMopu62SCTGjAh2XptVoFazlfptIwHr0tcKhdfllveDKpC/s400/Orbis-Dinosaurs-1992-1994-Magazine-Collection-40-Dinosaur-Magazines.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQYZyDJz_jW5-9_oe8p8k3OA680lkvijzP7nL8fPbcSq9H15529l1HVHz3foJ4ZWLGfMAj0M56hgns5gQTqK3Pjj2P8CX-WHMopu62SCTGjAh2XptVoFazlfptIwHr0tcKhdfllveDKpC/s320/Orbis-Dinosaurs-1992-1994-Magazine-Collection-40-Dinosaur-Magazines.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>See, when I was now years old, I collected <i>Dinosaurs!</i> Magazine (which some kind and generous soul has archived in its entirety online <a href="https://read.ukprintarchive.com/De%20Agostini%20and%20Orbis%20Publishing/Dinosaurs%20-%20Orbis%20Play%20and%20Learn%20Collection/">here</a>). It started before <i>Jurassic Park's</i> release. Every issue has a spotlight on three dinosaurs or prehistoric animals, all of which have something like this:</span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjsU3F0NV1iQUz1804XNXq0rRj9ffJXSwdlZXKZXaryaLTI0G-0mvBT5OtvA6pd6j-rfqLUNXchENAxFVrmbWCfFFPIKooh8vXBzg3V2RVeZEXcpOX2FI1ygO5Gw-7DvBE1RcJJVK__KW/s500/Monster+Facts_Diplodocus.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="429" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIjsU3F0NV1iQUz1804XNXq0rRj9ffJXSwdlZXKZXaryaLTI0G-0mvBT5OtvA6pd6j-rfqLUNXchENAxFVrmbWCfFFPIKooh8vXBzg3V2RVeZEXcpOX2FI1ygO5Gw-7DvBE1RcJJVK__KW/w344-h400/Monster+Facts_Diplodocus.jpg" width="344" /></a></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><b><i>Name, size, food, lived</i></b>, the basic <a href="https://www.nhmshop.co.uk/museum-dinosaur-top-trumps.html">Top Trumps</a> statistics any small child with the slightest interest in dinosaurs would know. These are the absolute minimal basics that any child with any serious interest in dinosaurs would learn as soon as they were capable of reading and understanding the concepts of space and time. Admittedly, a very small dinosaur enthusiast like 3-year-old Aly might not immediately understand, as he is still trying to get to grips with things like language development and motor functions - but 8-year-old Aly? <b>He knows</b>.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Indeed, a particularly up-to-date 8-year-old Aly might even point out how unnecessary this dinosaur soup is. Consider Hell Creek formation, one of the most famous & thoroughly excavated T.rex hunting grounds: there are animals there which could easily replace the anachronisms. Why have <i>Oviraptor, </i>who has appeared in multiple dinosaur films for decades, when <i>Anzu</i> is right there? Why transport poor <i>Moros </i>across continents & eons when the fascinating <i>Pectinodon </i>deserves a spotlight? <i>Iguanodon</i> and <i>Nasutoceratops</i> - what about <i>Edmontosaurus</i> and <i>Torosaurus</i>? Rather than <i>Dreadnoughtus</i>, why not the comparable <i>Alamosaurus</i>, which lived a bit further south on the continent? Instead of having Palaeo-Rexy die at the teeth of a <i>Giganotosaurus</i>, why not a larger rival, or even a big bull <i>Triceratops</i>?</span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1nuhzJO-Vu6yyd5A6Jkbxtx8mrdM7JZiG-puWKN8-URJsrkgoHdMq3g-SS-Upl4vSD6l8pDgige5FQxWR-XO6ACrDlprlF8LBS1yWPPNgx3ICX_waO8d_5M25WfJdEvjMmYdIWlP66ho/s1280/paleop_Dinosaurs+of+Hell+Creek+plus+visiting+Alamosaurus.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="1280" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1nuhzJO-Vu6yyd5A6Jkbxtx8mrdM7JZiG-puWKN8-URJsrkgoHdMq3g-SS-Upl4vSD6l8pDgige5FQxWR-XO6ACrDlprlF8LBS1yWPPNgx3ICX_waO8d_5M25WfJdEvjMmYdIWlP66ho/w400-h139/paleop_Dinosaurs+of+Hell+Creek+plus+visiting+Alamosaurus.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For more excellent palaeobiota drawings, visit <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/paleop/art/Dinosaurs-Of-Hell-Creek-revised-revised-Alamo-591277855">paleop</a>.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Unfortunately, the entire point of the exercise precludes the possibility of a truly accurate Late Cretaceous before we even start - it's a prelude to a <i>T.rex</i> vs <i>Giganotosaurus</i> showdown at some point in the present day. Back in the past, the <i>T.rex</i> we all know and love was slain by a rival theropod - the sort of "rival to <i>T.rex</i>" that bad science journalists have been craving for decades. But that dinosaur's DNA was preserved in amber, in blood taken from it by a mosquito (which has always been <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosquito#Fossil_record_and_evolution">a sticking point</a> for JP/palaeontology fans too) - now, its "descendent" is here to even the score.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>It's an unbelievably pulpy premise, and were this a franchise other than <i>Jurassic Park</i> (and were it written sometime prior to 1960) I would have absolutely adored it. But for all the flak the original <i>Jurassic Park</i> received for superseded science and wilder ideas, at least it <b>tried </b>to keep to the science in spirit. The only reason this scene exists is to provide a narrative reason for the <i>T.rex</i> and <i>Giga</i> to fight - as if two highly territorial carnivores need a reason to - because the idea of an ancient feud between warring dynasties of monsters seemed to be a thing when these films were in development.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #3d85c6;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/giOerkcIB6U" width="320" youtube-src-id="giOerkcIB6U"></iframe></div><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>They just can't seem to do it, can they? First <i>The Land Before Time</i> was going to be a silent prehistoric documentary. Then Disney's <i>Dinosaur</i>. Then the actual <i>Walking With Dinosaurs</i> movie. Finally, the single most successful dinosaur franchise in cinematic history makes a shot at a proper, cutting-edge depiction of the Cretaceous period as the science of the time understands it, and... they <b>still </b>can't do it right. Instead of sticking to their assigned and much-trumpeted goal of extreme palaeontological accuracy, they literally took dinosaurs Ripped From The Headlines.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>The sad thing is these changes just aren't worth it. The sight of seeing a Giga and a T.rex fight for a fraction of a second in a fake Late Cretaceous time soup <b>is not cooler</b> than absolutely blowing everyone's minds with a depiction as close to the actual Cretaceous as possible. Any idiot film can stick dinosaurs from all time periods and have them fight - any idiot film already has. It's not new. it's been done. What hasn't been done is exactly what Colin Trevorrow says they've set out to do, but failed to as soon as they added another gigantic apex predator in a place where a gigantic apex predator has long eliminated any competitor:</span></span></p><p></p><blockquote><br />... we get to see these dinosaurs in their paleontologically correct form. </blockquote><blockquote>It's the first time that we don't have dinosaurs that were completed with frog DNA, and therefore inaccurate for those who really pay close attention. </blockquote><blockquote> Steve Brusatte and Jack Horner, who are two brilliant paleontologists, really dug in here, to make sure that if we're going to show the Cretaceous period, that we're not going to get too many letters about our inaccuracy. </blockquote><blockquote>And it means a lot to me that this feels like you're actually in that moment in Earth's history. </blockquote><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>That would be amazing. That would be something that hasn't been done before. That would be something worth talking about. But this hodge-podge of dinosaurs plucked from bad science journalism (<a href="https://wildernessofpeace.wordpress.com/2018/04/27/the-young-palaeontologists-guide-to-media-scepticism-how-bad-dinosaur-journalism-destroyed-my-trust-in-the-craft/">"bigger than T.rex!"/"cousin of the T.rex!"/ancestor of the T.rex!"</a>) undermines that to the point of collapse. Whatever Trevorrow tried to do, he lost it as soon as <i>Jurassic World Dominion</i> transplant a creature that not only didn't coexist with a <i>T.rex</i>, but <b>couldn't</b> coexist with a <i>T.rex</i>. What animal competes with the yiger in India? What predator rivals the polar bear in the Arctic? What marine terror challenges the mighty orca in the oceans? Such is the case with the <i>T.rex</i>, which was the largest predator by a considerable margin in its time.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>And this isn't 37-year-old Aly with all the powers of the internet and decades of dinosaur research in my head: 8-year-old Aly knew this, and he's 8. 8-year-old Aly knew that the raptors were the wrong size, that Dilophosaurus had an entirely fictional predation method, and that the T.rex's top speed may have been somewhat exaggerated - but these were acceptable because, in universe, these dinosaurs were not meant to represent 1-to-1 interpretations of the fossil record - informed by it, and heavily skewed towards realistic extrapolations of it, but not ultimately beholden to it.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>It's like book adaptations: you don't have to be faithful to the book if you don't want to. 37-year-old Aly just watched Ken Russell's <i>The Lair of the White Worm</i> and loved it, because it wasn't trying to be a faithful adaptation of the deeply flawed and fatally-monkeyed-about-with final Bram Stoker novel - it was Ken Russell deciding to parody a Hammer Horror before Mel Brooks got around to it. When viewed on those merits, it's utterly fascinating. <b>All I ask is that when you're adapting a film, or presenting scientific ideas, you only be as faithful or accurate as you say you are going to be</b>.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span>I guess I'm still going to have to wait for that true "window into the prehistoric world" experience that so many directors have promised and either abandoned or bungled. The wait wouldn't be so frustrating if directors would just be honest with us.</span></span></span></p><p><span class="jsx-3852935145 content"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></span></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-86764430414248087742021-01-22T19:56:00.003+00:002021-01-22T19:56:55.258+00:00Robert E. Howard in Scots: "The Ride o' Falume" (Poem)<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://howardworks.com/verser.html#THE_RIDE_OF_FALUME">"The Ride o' Falume"</a></h2><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Ride_of_Falume"><span style="font-size: medium;">Screivit by Rabert E. Howard </span></a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4AHEBjTESV2y4YVu1CrVfL3X_akZs7whjshHZZALzmes46r81PfWr_75nA3yP8hxyoUivLWlwRDKZV2jGAgLFtFHo8k1dUf7W2-m6LBbU7RcYhyWrCPCX3A8ZaXQgc3ncrtM20Pgt8rd/s2048/Albrecht_D%25C3%25BCrer_-_Knight%252C_Death_and_Devil_%2528NGA_1943.3.3519%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1580" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4AHEBjTESV2y4YVu1CrVfL3X_akZs7whjshHZZALzmes46r81PfWr_75nA3yP8hxyoUivLWlwRDKZV2jGAgLFtFHo8k1dUf7W2-m6LBbU7RcYhyWrCPCX3A8ZaXQgc3ncrtM20Pgt8rd/s320/Albrecht_D%25C3%25BCrer_-_Knight%252C_Death_and_Devil_%2528NGA_1943.3.3519%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span><a name='more'></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<p></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Falume o’ Spain rade
furth amain whan the gloamin’s cramasie fell</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Tae drink a toast wi’
<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bahram">Bahram’s</a> ghaist in the scarlet laund o’ Hell.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>His rowels clasht as
swift he dasht alang the flamin skies;</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>The dayset rade at his
bridle braid an the muin wis in his een.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>The waws war green wi’
an eery sheen owur the braes o’ Thule</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>An the ripples beat tae
his horse’s feet lik a serpent in a puil.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Oan vampire weengs the
shaidae things wheelt roon an roon his heid,</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Till he cam at lest tae
a keengdom vast in the Laund o’ the Wanrestfu Deid.</i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhzZX_5xqXJCPrD5fVwU15oCjMmkXXvqZMzImXsx5a9mfgm80VG8r-l0lvm4KFYk7Zap0hDssoaoka-YEPPSwW8J75MAF6O4XG6KoyVviXadYCKVF_mMDm_Html2F7ZErrBNfrBUo5Vcy/s637/Frazetta+Knight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="507" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhzZX_5xqXJCPrD5fVwU15oCjMmkXXvqZMzImXsx5a9mfgm80VG8r-l0lvm4KFYk7Zap0hDssoaoka-YEPPSwW8J75MAF6O4XG6KoyVviXadYCKVF_mMDm_Html2F7ZErrBNfrBUo5Vcy/s320/Frazetta+Knight.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Thay thrang aboot in a
grisly rout, thay caucht at his siller rein;</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>“Avant, fool host!
Tell Bahram’s ghaist Falume has come frae Spain!”</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Than flam-arrayt ris
Bahram’s shade: “Whit wad ye hae, Falume?”</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>“Ho, Bahram wha oan
yird I slew wherer <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tagus">Tagus</a>’ watters bung,</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Nou tho I shuir yer
life o’ yore amid the burnin Wast,</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>I ride tae Hell tae bid
ye tell whaur I micht ride tae rest.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Ma beard is white an
blee ma sicht an I wad fain be gane.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Speak wi’oot guile:
whaur ligs the isle o’ meestic Avalon?”</i></p>
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"><br />
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiPbQlXmUrGg9VqG7XcqJ9oKMiGmr1eoPnyVuTVcev4USt9W1girEu_sUf4MLpHbQv8qWEWx1GLLIwP7Wt7VKz566DoHUtGJkyx0LeXrxmlj3xkDlnavtaaRpukhFaebFiDDj4GTpOrYcG/s1500/mounted-knight-by-howard-pyle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1256" data-original-width="1500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiPbQlXmUrGg9VqG7XcqJ9oKMiGmr1eoPnyVuTVcev4USt9W1girEu_sUf4MLpHbQv8qWEWx1GLLIwP7Wt7VKz566DoHUtGJkyx0LeXrxmlj3xkDlnavtaaRpukhFaebFiDDj4GTpOrYcG/s320/mounted-knight-by-howard-pyle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>“A league ayont the
wastern wind, a mile ayont the muin.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Whaur the blee seas
rair oan an unco shuir an the driftin starns lig strawn:</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>The lotus buds thare
scentit the wids whaur the quate rivers glim.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>An keengs an knichts in
the meestic licht the ages drouse an dream.”</i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i> </i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Wi’ suddent bund
Falume wheelt roon, he fleed throu the fleein wrack</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>Till he cam tae the
laund o’ Spain wi’ the dayset oan his back.</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>“Nae dreams for me,
but leevin free, reid wine an battle’s rair;</i></p><i>
</i><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i>I breest the gells an I
ride the trails until I ride nae mair.</i></p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"> </p><p class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GNzQlJ6x0cI4UPH_8DeeKnNfCcC0gRywpj-nybFL2OnnGDpcUw3esoQlUD_xlX0_Sp_vZ-cOamHvrkOjjfX_fD-36fOkGFd9CcGaRpZryjn5-P9mcmrglOv_TIBg48PsktOPEjWXtuo1/s971/wyeth-knight-horse1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="971" data-original-width="736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-GNzQlJ6x0cI4UPH_8DeeKnNfCcC0gRywpj-nybFL2OnnGDpcUw3esoQlUD_xlX0_Sp_vZ-cOamHvrkOjjfX_fD-36fOkGFd9CcGaRpZryjn5-P9mcmrglOv_TIBg48PsktOPEjWXtuo1/s320/wyeth-knight-horse1.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-85761186188698760132020-11-13T23:38:00.007+00:002020-11-13T23:38:50.883+00:00170 Years of Robert Louis Stevenson<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMdOGtWFNWoVKHaXVwZDZSHp4IUcilugExHxa-k0IkYohe8niQkvnbI_sWaOqaEYJZdc2HTlSNPRRYr1wJKfxWMd7Imt9r7yXRiywUwOcx1XKC36cFzWZ-XtgZmY1TjSqY27PQUEyjBDo/s1138/Robert_Louis_Stevenson_by_Sargent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="1138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMdOGtWFNWoVKHaXVwZDZSHp4IUcilugExHxa-k0IkYohe8niQkvnbI_sWaOqaEYJZdc2HTlSNPRRYr1wJKfxWMd7Imt9r7yXRiywUwOcx1XKC36cFzWZ-XtgZmY1TjSqY27PQUEyjBDo/s320/Robert_Louis_Stevenson_by_Sargent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Well, if you want to get technical, <a href="https://twitter.com/WeirdScotland/status/1210978940245938176">it isn't for a wee while yet</a>. Mr Stevenson <a href="https://vermonthistoryexplorer.org/images/stories/articles/greenmountaineer/annieidesnewbirthday.pdf">legally waived</a> all rights to 13th of November as his birthday to a Ms Annie Ide:<br /></p><blockquote><p>Most of us - especially when we are young-look forward to our birthday each year. Greeting cards arrive in the mail. There may be some exciting presents and perhaps a party with friends. It's a special day and it's fun to be the center of attention. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>But suppose that special day happened to come on December 25, the biggest holiday of the entire year? Noone would even notice an ordinary birthday in the middle of Christmas. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>Annie Ide of SI. Johnsbury had just such a birthday. Annie was born in 1876 and when she was fifteen her father went to the island of Samoa in the South Pacific. There he met Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous author of Treasure Island. The two men became good friends. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>One day Annie's father told his friend that because his daughter was born on December 25, she had never had a real birthday celebration. Stevenson offered to give his birthday to Annie so she could have a day all her own. He mailed her a document that said, <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>"I, Robert Louis Stevenson, ... have attained an age when, 0, we never mention it, and... have no further use for a birthday of any description... do hereby transfer to... (Miss) A.H.Ide, all and whole my rights and privileges in the thirteenth day of November, formerly my birthday, now, hereby, and henceforth the birthday of the said A(nnie) H.Ide, to have, hold, exercise and enjoy the same in the customary manner, by the sporting of fine raiments, eating of rich meats and receipt of gifts, compliments and copies of verse, according to the manner of our ancestors."<br /></p></blockquote><p>Well, while I'm sure Annie enjoyed every 13th of November of her life, it would be a most diminished world if only one person could claim a day for their birthday, wouldn't it? I have <a href="https://dmrbooks.com/test-blog/2020/11/13/bettering-the-tradition-of-mankind-robert-louis-stevenson-at-170">a post</a> over at DMR books talking about three of Stevenson's most important works, and how they affected me personally.<br /></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-37512138533517555732020-09-07T13:08:00.006+01:002020-09-08T14:48:13.440+01:00Pumzika Kwa Amani, Charles R. Saunders, Griot for Another World<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmkr_GCMzEx8oV_cgqmnLRCOkYUE7GYwd05fOCCFupu0C6fzNHlfiq4lPZFxaWeVztl20aUHKVNJbQ578XgxP_PnWcPJS5quWIcx8ut90FJwxoA_Gk8pzA6M30kRlizwXgTNyeAVJkaVb/s1196/CharlesRSaunders_Upscaled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJmkr_GCMzEx8oV_cgqmnLRCOkYUE7GYwd05fOCCFupu0C6fzNHlfiq4lPZFxaWeVztl20aUHKVNJbQ578XgxP_PnWcPJS5quWIcx8ut90FJwxoA_Gk8pzA6M30kRlizwXgTNyeAVJkaVb/w194-h400/CharlesRSaunders_Upscaled.jpg" width="194" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I was just digesting the shocking news of Chadwick Boseman's death when I heard about <a href="https://differentdrumming.com/">Charles R. Saunders</a>, Sword and Soul pioneer and lovely man, who has also passed away. Fellow Howard reader Ben Friberg's parting gift to me before my long absence from Cross Plains was a copy of <i>Imaro: The Naama War</i>, which I read as soon as I got home to Scotland. Fellow New-Pulp and black speculative fiction creators <a href="https://www.facebook.com/charles.saunders.98/posts/10223334990113240">Milton Davis</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/K_Ibura/status/1302339098183716865">Kiini Ibura Salaam</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/GarethMiles11/status/1302226534686765056">Gareth Miles</a>, & <a href="http://darkworldsquarterly.gwthomas.org/charles-saunders-1946-2020/?fbclid=IwAR3RiwKJTZ9yPkE7kmoJnf11gMKsxNBi4lyZSHGDy-W_OuE6ZQn6iiTI_Mw">Derrick Ferguson</a> offered tributes, as well as <a href="https://locusmag.com/2020/09/charles-r-saunders-1946-2020/">Locus Magazine</a>, <a href="http://www.airship27.com/r-i-p-charles-saunders/">Ron Fortier</a>, <a href="https://ryanharveyauthor.com/2020/09/03/remembering-charles-r-saunders-imaro-trail-of-bohu/">Ryan Harvey</a>, <span class="post-author vcard"><span class="fn"><a href="http://adventuresfantastic.com/rip-charles-r-saunders/">Keith West</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/TaaqKirksey/status/1301645559103594496">Taaq Kirksey</a>, & no doubt more to come.</span></span></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"><span class="fn"><span></span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a> <p></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"><span class="fn">I cannot make any pretentions to being anything more than a Facebook friend to Charles, but I was immensely honoured to share some online conversations with him, even to have him visit this blog once every so often. I hope he knew how much I appreciated him and his work. Of course I loved Imaro, a hero that could easily stand beside Conan, Tarzan, Kane, and any number of Sword-and-Sorcery heroes: he had an agency & power that distinguished him among other black sword-and-sorcery heroes who played supporting roles in established stories. Dossouye, the warrior woman inspired by the historical Dahomey Amazons, blazed a trail hotly followed by Grace Jones' memorable Zula and Marvel's Okoye and Nakia. </span></span></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9UwUDlgE9mF3sbkN-yYJH6VWfdrOZcdMQ7RIRHZQYaI-c_65P_sfyvgjn-QVYRzAASiF_5ByEWJFXqhxDG4A9kV1JeBTTnKRqyoxSWVBgMa1Gt12muyUCujpt9YZnigjJ0aAFOYo-gde/s457/Abengoni.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="318" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr9UwUDlgE9mF3sbkN-yYJH6VWfdrOZcdMQ7RIRHZQYaI-c_65P_sfyvgjn-QVYRzAASiF_5ByEWJFXqhxDG4A9kV1JeBTTnKRqyoxSWVBgMa1Gt12muyUCujpt9YZnigjJ0aAFOYo-gde/w279-h400/Abengoni.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br /><span class="fn"><br /></span><p></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"><span class="fn">The most personally affecting work Charles wrote, for me, was <i>Abengoni</i>. The Imaro and Dossouye stories were naturally steeped in African legend and lore: anything European was the domain of the dark Atlantean Mizungu. <i>Abengoni </i>explored a cultural meeting between Celtic mythology and African legend, with the crew of a ship from mysterious Fiadol finding themselves on the shores of the august empire of Matile Mala:</span></span></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"></span></p><blockquote><br /><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106">It’s not just the content of these two creations that is different, however. Imaro was born not solely from my enjoyment of heroic-fantasy fiction, but also from dissatisfaction. My love of the genre was tempered by discomfort with the racist depictions of black people and Africa that were found far too often in its stories. I wanted to promote positive portrayals of blacks, and present mythic and folkloric visions of Africa that would counter the “jungle stories” stereotypes. I wanted to show that African mythology, culture and history were as valid as the Celtic and other European traditions on which much of modern fantasy is based. To the extent that whites were depicted at all in Imaro’s milieu of Nyumbani, they were foes, not friends.</span></span></span><span class="post-author vcard"><p> </p></span><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106"></span></span></span><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106"></span></span></span></blockquote><span class="post-author vcard"><blockquote><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106">For
<i> Abengoni</i>, a different creative drumbeat thrummed in my mind. What if
there were another Earth in which people from parallel versions of
Europe and Africa encountered each other on an equal basis, rather than
fictionally reprising the racism and colonialism that have for centuries
wracked the so-called “Dark Continent” of the world we know? What if
European and African folkloric traditions could be integrated within the
context of an epic fantasy saga, rather than remain at racial
loggerheads?</span></span></span><span class="post-author vcard"><p><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106">The Abengoni series is my answer to those questions. It was conceived and written in a spirit of amity rather than anger. Yes, the people of different races within the pages of First Calling are aware of their surface differences, such as skin tone and nose width. They are not color-blind. But they do not attach the suite of negative stereotypes to those differences that have led to the bigotry, discrimination, segregation and apartheid that have plagued our world for far too long. The distorting lens of racism does not exist in Abengoni.</span></span></span><br /><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106"></span></span></span></p></span><span class="fn"><span class="readable" id="reviewTextContainer2521444546"><span id="freeText1171209904589432106"> - Charles R. Saunders, "<a href="https://www.baen.com/Chapters/9780996016728/9780996016728.htm">Another Calling</a>," <i>Abengoni: First Calling</i><br /></span></span></span></blockquote></span><span class="post-author vcard"></span><p></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"></span></p><blockquote><span class="fn"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscUrwYQvEzUfQsSldxF6sJxp2-F7KmX3wqM1n9WlKBUtCStvNSp_rr5AoJap6VTEUBdgSlXtuEx3TqC5O1Nb9jOeLS6JEJ4gFxJoQQ5KY9g4XayfJq1M0P_HOWWk6qYdJuEiQBcmUu5n8/s1000/ryan-coogler-chadwick-boseman-black-panther-variety-feature-16x9.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscUrwYQvEzUfQsSldxF6sJxp2-F7KmX3wqM1n9WlKBUtCStvNSp_rr5AoJap6VTEUBdgSlXtuEx3TqC5O1Nb9jOeLS6JEJ4gFxJoQQ5KY9g4XayfJq1M0P_HOWWk6qYdJuEiQBcmUu5n8/w400-h225/ryan-coogler-chadwick-boseman-black-panther-variety-feature-16x9.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Whether you’re conscious of it or not, you have an ancestry that is very hard to trace. You have roots that are hard to connect to. You can’t call out your ancestors.</span><span class="post-author vcard"></span><span class="post-author vcard"></span></blockquote><span class="post-author vcard"><blockquote><span class="post-author vcard"></span><span class="fn">“It may be true for some Europeans or Asians as well. But it’s not, in most cases, this catastrophic event that cuts off your ability to know certain information. Nor do you have to look at cargo records or bill of sale records or property to figure out who your family is. That’s what [we] have to do. </span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="fn">“To commit to the continent, you can also have a very idealized point of view of what Africa is as an African American. You’re picking from all of the countries there, not knowing: “This is where I’m from. This is the ethnic group. This is what they eat, the music that they listen to.” </span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="fn">“There’s always a conflict there. And then, going to the continent and meeting a person that’s African, you feel that conflict. In order to do this, you have to find ways to make those connections, especially because the character is coming from a place that doesn’t have those conflicts. They know exactly who they are, they know exactly who their ancestors are.</span><span class="post-author vcard"></span><span class="fn"></span></blockquote></span><span class="post-author vcard"><blockquote><span class="fn"> - Chadwick Boseman, <a href="https://variety.com/2020/film/news/chadwick-boseman-dead-black-panther-ryan-coogler-1234753349/">Variety</a><br /> </span></blockquote></span><span class="post-author vcard"></span><p></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"><span class="fn">I recalled Charles' introduction when I learned that Chadwick Boseman had <a href="https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/features/chadwick-bosemans-agent-he-chose-roles-always-bringing-about-light?utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=social">turned down roles</a> which, he felt, perpetuated negative and damaging stereotypes:</span></span></p><p><span class="post-author vcard"></span></p><blockquote>Chad always made sure of the integrity, the ethics, the morals. I’ve
represented a lot of clients, and started a lot of clients. His
commitment and loyalty was amazing. It’s not typical in Hollywood. It’s
typical that actors do a $100 million film like <i>42</i> and
everybody’s after them, and it’s not easy to keep those clients. But he
was honorable and felt that we could absolutely do it together and that
all the other smoke and mirrors were not really real...<p>... <b>The amount
of time that we strategized over whether he should do a role for the
betterment of humanity</b> — it was always about utilizing his platform.
"<b>How can I give back? How will this be valuable to the Black community,
and the community at large?</b>"...</p></blockquote><blockquote><p>... There is a project we were supposed to get into soon, <i>A Civil Right</i>,
which was a historical story about how they desegregated the beaches.
He definitely wanted to tell that story. He was very much about telling
new stories and having new images - that’s why he took <i>Black Panther</i>.
After he’d been hired, he said, "<b>I will only do this with an African
accent.</b>" They were like, "Well, no, we want it to be South African." He
said, "<b>I’m a king of Africa. I’m going with the customs that we fought
and fought and fought for.</b>" It was that kind of detail. He was like,
"I’m going to make sure that everything is accurate, that we’re telling
the story a certain way." Every single day, he and Ryan [Coogler, <i>Black Panther</i>
director], were talking about what it meant to the culture and how
important the scenes were. They almost didn’t do the waterfall scene,
and Chad just fought so hard and said, "<b>This is historical and the
people need to be dancing with African music.</b>" He had learned Xhosa on <i>Captain America</i> with the actor who played his father [John Kani], and he said he would only do <i>Black Panther</i>
if he could do it with an African man’s voice and dialect. He was
willing to walk away from anything that became too rushed or was not
going to be handled beautifully. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>There was a strong interest after <i>Black Panther</i> to do a
branding opportunity. Somebody came to us and said, "Do you want to have
equity in a liquor company like George Clooney and a lot of the others
have done?" He said, "<b>I can’t, because how can I show young Black kids
and kids of color that they can be superheroes, [then do this]</b>?"</p><p>He stopped doing his first TV show, <i>All My Children</i>, which
[a teenage] Michael B. Jordan took over. After Chad’s first script, they
literally said, "Oh, here’s your next script, and your mother’s a
crackhead and your father left." And he goes, "I’m not playing those
images," and he went into the writers room, and they fired him. I
remember him and Tessa were offered a movie, it was about two slaves,
and he was like, "I do not want to perpetuate slavery." It was like,
"<b>We’re not going to keep perpetuating the stereotypes</b>," and that’s why
he wanted to show men of strength and of character.</p><p><b>It was always
about bringing light</b>. That’s why we never did really dark movies or
movies that were just people shooting everybody and perpetuating
darkness. He accomplished so much, and all while he was fighting the
darkness, literally. Until the last couple of days of his life, he was
fighting it.</p></blockquote><p>I would compare and contrast this desire to build a better, different world with another recent New Pulp tale which has recently made its way to the screen: <i>Lovecraft Country</i>.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNz6_6Hk8sXa6dmXY56gu1s668c3mcpwyvLJMID6gq0RkehvkNj3CRPC8fAcm1AsDuaacIGaXfCiHhak_AClDGE1xnx2Kls4CLmhacIKDtoqn_nWYmfvz85KfEXW2P544W_OpHqmN_Co8/s1200/Lovecraft+Country.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="630" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGNz6_6Hk8sXa6dmXY56gu1s668c3mcpwyvLJMID6gq0RkehvkNj3CRPC8fAcm1AsDuaacIGaXfCiHhak_AClDGE1xnx2Kls4CLmhacIKDtoqn_nWYmfvz85KfEXW2P544W_OpHqmN_Co8/w210-h400/Lovecraft+Country.jpg" width="210" /></a></div> <p></p><p>(Note: as of writing, I have only seen the first episode, on account of it being the only one available to me in Scotland for the moment. Discussion will thus be limited to that episode).<br /></p><p>A perusal of this very blog would show that I've wrestled with the subject of -isms in pulp literature. Certainly I have to square my appreciation for H.P. Lovecraft not only with some of the worldviews that are deeply damaging to fellow human beings, but some that insult me on a <a href="https://wildernessofpeace.wordpress.com/2018/08/21/as-ithers-see-us-the-most-terrifying-thing-h-p-lovecraft-ever-wrote/">practically existential level</a>. By all rights, I should have as meager regard for Lovecraft as I should for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Defoe#Anglo-Scottish_Union_of_1707">Daniel Defoe</a>, or <a href="https://briandosborne.wordpress.com/entertaining-dr-johnson/">Samuel Johnson</a>. It would be better that Lovecraft was alive and the world could engage with him productively, but alas, his death in 1937 trapped him forever in time as he was.</p><p>One of the things which distinguishes <i>Lovecraft Country</i> from any other television series related to Lovecraft is the treatment of bigotry. The story takes place in the 1950s United States, during the twilight years of Jim Crow law. The death throes of that monstrous injustice made it incredibly dangerous for black Americans, just as the US Civil Rights movement began to gather momentum. Our main cast of characters are almost entirely composed of black Americans: the few who are not are either active antagonists, or mysterious figures of unclear motivation. Throughout, the characters face all manner of bigotry, from thoughtless mockery outside a gas station to attempted murder in the middle of nowhere. Very dark - and very real - evils are alluded to, from <a href="https://koreanwarlegacy.org/chapters/african-americans-in-the-korean-war/">resistance to military desegregation in the Korean War</a> to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nightmare_Town">Izzard</a>-like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sundown_town">Sundown Towns</a>. </p><p>It's difficult to imagine Chadwick Boseman being involved in <i>Lovecraft Country</i>, for it invokes some of the most unforgivable sins of human history - indeed, it demands you look on it, a Ludovico technique that just barely stops short of the dreadful conclusion most confrontations of this nature make. Yet there is a dichotomy here between facing the horrors of the past with uncompromising candour (<i>Lovecraft Country</i>), and imagining a better reality to aspire to beyond those horrors (exemplified by the Afro-futurist majesty of Wakanda).</p><p><i>Lovecraft Country</i> itself alludes to this with the spectacular opening scene, and the following conversation about <i>A Princess of Mars</i> between Atticus and an older fellow passenger from the back of a segregated bus:</p><blockquote><p>“You said the hero was a confederate officer.” <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>“Ex-confederate.” <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>“He fought for slavery. You don’t get to put an ‘ex’ in front of that.” <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p>“Stories are like people. Loving them doesn’t make them perfect. You just try to cherish them. Overlook their flaws.” <br /></p></blockquote><p>Later on, we hear that Atticus' father, insensed at his son daring to read a book written by Lovecraft, made him memorise one of his most <a href="https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/On_the_Creation_of_Niggers">notorious poems</a> as a method to discourage Atticus from reading such "trash." (The question of exactly <i>how </i>Atticus' father even heard of a poem that wouldn't be published until L. Sprague de Camp's 1975 <i>H.P. Lovecraft: A Biography</i> is something of a mystery, but perhaps Mr Turner had his sources). Atticus defied his father, and the notion that some fiction wasn't "for" him - the first book he went to in his hometown's bookstore was a copy of the seminal <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Outsider_and_Others"><i>The Outsider and Others</i></a>. The younger and older generations will disagree on the arts regardless of their background, but this seems so much sharper in the black American community given the nature of popular art & literature, especially in the 20th Century.<br /></p><p>To bring all this back to the beginning, Darrick Ferguson showed that same <a href="http://darkworldsquarterly.gwthomas.org/charles-saunders-1946-2020/?fbclid=IwAR3RiwKJTZ9yPkE7kmoJnf11gMKsxNBi4lyZSHGDy-W_OuE6ZQn6iiTI_Mw">defiance of expectations</a> as a younger man:</p><blockquote><p>I discovered<i> IMARO</i> sometime during the 1980s when I spent a
lot of time on weekends hanging out in Manhattan’s used bookstores. At
that time, I was hip deep in Robert E. Howard, Michael Moorcock, Edgar
Rice Burroughs, Lin Carter, Fritz Leiber and the sight of a Heroic
Fantasy/Sword & Sorcery paperback with a black hero on the cover was
enough to drive all the air out of my body. I bought the book on the
spot, asked the guy behind the counter if he had any more books like
that. He gave me that; “Get outta here, man,” look and so I took the
book home and during that weekend read it two times. Next weekend I read
it two more times. It was that much of a revelation to me.</p>
<p><b>You have to understand that I didn’t get much encouragement from
black folks as to the stuff I liked to write. Even other black writers
didn’t have much respect or liking for my pulp influenced actions
adventures or Science Fiction or Sword and Sorcery. “That’s stuff for
white people” I would be told or, “You need to write books that will
educate. Our kids don’t need that.”</b></p>
So when I found Charles Saunders it was akin to Indiana Jones finding
the Ark of The Covenant. Here was proof that what I liked to write
could be published. I could write what I liked to write and it would
find an audience.</blockquote><p>That transgressive spark - the notion that <i>you cannot segregate stories</i> - fuels the fire for some truly great works. Sword-and-Sorcery used to be "stuff for white people" - until Imaro crashed onto the scene and upended everything. Likewise, any storytelling from any culture - European, Asian, African, American, Oceanic - which is dismissed as being something that "our kids don't need" is just begging for an enterprising transgressor to explore. Perhaps the most poignant scene in <i>Black Panther</i> is T'Challa's confrontation with his ancestors, who built and maintained Wakanda isolated and unknown from the rest of the world: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KxiL4bBj1pg" width="320" youtube-src-id="KxiL4bBj1pg"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"You were wrong - all of you were wrong - to turn your backs on the rest of the world! We let the fear of discovery stop us from doing what is right. No more! I cannot stay here with you. I cannot rest while HE sits on the throne! He is a monster of our own making! I must take the mantle back. I must! I must right these wrongs!" </div></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>Charles R. Saunders saw that nobody decides who is allowed to write Sword-and-Sorcery; <i>Black Panther</i> showed that nobody decides what a superhero should be; <i>Lovecraft Country</i> shows that nobody decides what stories you read.</p><p>The world is poorer for his passing, but the stars have gained a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Griot">griot</a> as brilliant as any of them to tell them new tales.<br /></p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-38506791314340936012020-08-07T23:16:00.000+01:002020-08-07T23:16:48.520+01:00The Phantasmagoria Metallique: 100 Years of A. Merritt's "The Metal Monster"<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKt2nBwY6JX8wqoBx0nK-G1R3nCrrxoYdXhjzolTbE83bk7nBHlZesr52wEqb2e7NcjngZheE_RPRbWo_GfH7RayVOOX0SYSIp22BrAJl0q9p_lTZiy8nyP4KcWR3k7K_-O_TO8hpnjB2/s1080/The+Metal+Monster_Avon+1975.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKt2nBwY6JX8wqoBx0nK-G1R3nCrrxoYdXhjzolTbE83bk7nBHlZesr52wEqb2e7NcjngZheE_RPRbWo_GfH7RayVOOX0SYSIp22BrAJl0q9p_lTZiy8nyP4KcWR3k7K_-O_TO8hpnjB2/s640/The+Metal+Monster_Avon+1975.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><blockquote><p>
Sphere and block and pyramid ran together, seemed to seethe. I had again
that sense of a quicksilver melting. Up from them thrust a thick
rectangular column. Eight feet in width and twenty feet high, it shaped
itself. Out from its left side, from right side, sprang arms—fearful
arms that grew and grew as globe and cube and angle raced up the column's
side and clicked into place each upon, each after, the other. With magical
quickness the arms lengthened.
</p>
<p>
Before us stood a monstrous shape; a geometric prodigy. A shining angled
pillar that, though rigid, immobile, seemed to crouch, be instinct with
living force striving to be unleashed.
</p>
<p>
Two great globes surmounted it—like the heads of some two-faced
Janus of an alien world.
</p>
<p>
At the left and right the knobbed arms, now fully fifty feet in length,
writhed, twisted, straightened; flexing themselves in grotesque imitation
of a boxer. And at the end of each of the six arms the spheres were
clustered thick, studded with the pyramids—again in gigantic, awful,
parody of the spiked gloves of those ancient gladiators who fought for
imperial Nero.
</p>
<p>
For an instant it stood here, preening, testing itself like an athlete—a
chimera, amorphous yet weirdly symmetric—under the darkening sky, in
the green of the hollow, the armored hosts frozen before it—
</p>
<p>
And then—it struck! </p><p> - "The Metal Monster," A. Merritt </p></blockquote><p></p><p>Today marks the 100th anniversary of the publication of A. Merritt's "The Metal Monster," one of my <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2013/01/abraham-merritt-metal-master.html">very favourite</a> weird tales and a truly remarkable work of science fiction.</p><p>Pal of the Blog Deuce Richardson very kindly hosts <a href="https://dmrbooks.com/test-blog/2020/8/7/a-new-world-a-metal-world-the-metal-monster-at-100">my exploration</a> of just how rich and expansive the story's links to modern science fiction are.<br /></p><p>For such a visual feast, there's remarkably little illustration out there for "The Metal Monster." Stephen Fabian's <a href="https://www.comicartfans.com/gallerypiece.asp?piece=1225660">cover art</a>
for the 1976 Avon Books publication (pictured at the top of the post)
is a bit closer to the modular, weird nature of the Monster, but there
are some other interesting ones out there.</p><p><br /><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicY6tKHj0-3HdPpOD_9IkAxlU8UoQFye-T4PvvLBKrRNNPYkOm_cORmRtcJDYBRVfltNlA0B0JAlx6o_1MtaGQUBVsQFZLntMwj781mEINUtPQhyphenhyphenH0fjBMozq5N21_EOTtpmwC2NCEALho/s573/Metal+Monster_Argosy+1920.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicY6tKHj0-3HdPpOD_9IkAxlU8UoQFye-T4PvvLBKrRNNPYkOm_cORmRtcJDYBRVfltNlA0B0JAlx6o_1MtaGQUBVsQFZLntMwj781mEINUtPQhyphenhyphenH0fjBMozq5N21_EOTtpmwC2NCEALho/s0/Metal+Monster_Argosy+1920.jpg" /></a></div><p>Argosy's bold, imperious depiction of the Metal Monster with an uncanny humanoid face isn't too far away from some Transformers, especially the original Marvel comics.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 40px; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJ8l18rwckGblUtukq1YSyHc8VTvC49Kj1yCvWVetHWKW1wWtXAzk3SeFFgS8cIctKTo376IsBUUCAFubN-ztBjCG4bP7R4i83iSmK-Q9APXCZK85TVagnWme050NOYNgWqK-_12UcUSa/s1095/The+Metal+Monster_Avon.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1095" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSJ8l18rwckGblUtukq1YSyHc8VTvC49Kj1yCvWVetHWKW1wWtXAzk3SeFFgS8cIctKTo376IsBUUCAFubN-ztBjCG4bP7R4i83iSmK-Q9APXCZK85TVagnWme050NOYNgWqK-_12UcUSa/s640/The+Metal+Monster_Avon.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 40px; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This depiction is rather more in line with traditional pulp fiction, but the simple geometric shapes work well enough for the concept, with the floating pyramidal orbs suggesting the modular nature of the beings. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdIrLCavMeqwsBiZlZ7XjlKhO8NYZk1ZgiQIzAAXxIx8Lfd7I8HKeJ3DSI4t_IgSs7hI84eImrlWWwNFrgFit0gRU-EQizALzB1YWVcXxuHvQBGUEDFDOlG9_edvhrXfKTXv-IH7RnWGs/s1600/JimCawthorn_MetalMonster.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJdIrLCavMeqwsBiZlZ7XjlKhO8NYZk1ZgiQIzAAXxIx8Lfd7I8HKeJ3DSI4t_IgSs7hI84eImrlWWwNFrgFit0gRU-EQizALzB1YWVcXxuHvQBGUEDFDOlG9_edvhrXfKTXv-IH7RnWGs/s400/JimCawthorn_MetalMonster.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A personal favourite is <a href="https://www.savoy.abel.co.uk/HTML/cawthpic.html">Jim Cawthorn's</a> 1962 illustration of the Monster in its "walking bridge" form, curiously reminiscent of some great "nightmare Brontosaurus." Comparing sauropod's biomechanical structure to suspension bridges has been <a href="https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1634776/">supported</a> by modern science ever since D.W. Thompson <a href="https://www.cabdirect.org/cabdirect/abstract/19431401837">compared the <i>Diplodocus</i> to the Forth Bridge</a> in 1942. Back in the 1920s, though, science fiction still depicted them as tail-dragging behemoths rather than the sophisticated biological feats of engineering they're recognised as now. Indeed, some architects are looking to dinosaurs for inspiration in <a href="https://blog.everythingdinosaur.co.uk/blog/_archives/2012/02/10/tokyos-new-dinosaur-bridge-to-open-this-weekend.html">future bridges</a>. As of yet, however, I don't think anyone's taken it as far as Merritt in making perambulating bridges. <br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7WlPpUOpqiSAyIkOYMGO_OpwlEFVGKgsTYWWUGwdx3JFPWB3kjRAOsflFIclZ4W_LN7pFTflJ2vn9k3AVyy-bMW3ugLjddKXkyDiXXMeTURmHXZJiJmMcRMwIOvUJIf_1OtXSOP5zhmR/s2048/The+Metal+Monster_Virgil+Finlay+1941+bw.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1982" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii7WlPpUOpqiSAyIkOYMGO_OpwlEFVGKgsTYWWUGwdx3JFPWB3kjRAOsflFIclZ4W_LN7pFTflJ2vn9k3AVyy-bMW3ugLjddKXkyDiXXMeTURmHXZJiJmMcRMwIOvUJIf_1OtXSOP5zhmR/s640/The+Metal+Monster_Virgil+Finlay+1941+bw.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><p></p><p>For my money, though? As with many of his subjects, the supreme illustrator of "The Metal Monster" must be none other than Virgil Finlay. In addition to his typically exquisite linework, his interpretation of the Metal Things in <span class="css-901oao css-16my406 r-1qd0xha r-ad9z0x r-bcqeeo r-qvutc0"><i>Famous Fantastic Mysteries</i> (August 1941)</span> is functional, yet still very alien: common geometric shapes given an unearthly presence and intelligence.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM61gKtVu-srlgn4CL_eWHByT_cjeO7mnmHorCEf3rrqHgn5OJA2PrgtP80aOJEYtdca3U-mm6XaM4M7JuIccqfqSgLG9icgQDGtqIl6vDYTsey5ZANI1wFiK10CmpoWnx2mIcIPFq8JvC/s1200/Transformers+vs+GI+Joe_DeceptiScots+vs+AutoVikings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="773" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM61gKtVu-srlgn4CL_eWHByT_cjeO7mnmHorCEf3rrqHgn5OJA2PrgtP80aOJEYtdca3U-mm6XaM4M7JuIccqfqSgLG9icgQDGtqIl6vDYTsey5ZANI1wFiK10CmpoWnx2mIcIPFq8JvC/s640/Transformers+vs+GI+Joe_DeceptiScots+vs+AutoVikings.jpg" /></a></div> <p></p><blockquote><p>I always saw us creating a new universe with this book, that goes
from the distant past to the far future. It's a whole universe with eons
of unwritten history. I want to explore and create and plant flags in
the dark unexplored corners of this universe. I live for that. <br /></p></blockquote><blockquote><p> - Tom Scioli</p></blockquote><p>A final story to share: many moons ago, I met <a href="http://www.ambarb.com/">Tom Scioli</a> at Phoenix Comic Con. Tom's a comics writer-artist who provided me with no small measure of inspiration: his then-new comic <i>Final Frontier</i> utilised a raft of visual techniques (Steranko-inspired surrealism, anaglyphic 3D, "Kirby Dots") not just for visual flair, but to represent different dimensions & plot points within the story itself. He had recently been signed on to write <a href="#" id="https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Transformers_vs._G.I._Joe" name="https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Transformers_vs._G.I._Joe"><i>Transformers vs. G.I. Joe</i></a>, a love letter to not only the two '80s stalwarts, but also the Silver Age of comics and their wonderful eagerness to embrace the wild and the wonderful.<br /></p><p>Tom was very accomodating to this daft displaced Scot, and we spent a good bit of time talking about classic comics and their pulp predecessors - so much so that when I mentioned "The Metal Monster" being possibly the earliest example of the Giant Transforming Alien Robot, he made a point of writing it down in his notebook! <br /></p><p>Although I would never be so arrogant as to think Tom had the <i>Transformers'</i> spacecraft the <i>Ark</i> land on an island off the coast of Scotland, and for the Scotland-born C.O.B.R.A. villain Destro to adopt the metal mask after slicing off a Decepticon's face & wearing it as battle armour against a host of viking warriors (not to mention casting this century's iteration C.O.B.R.A. as a cult of snake worshippers that would have Bran Mak Morn's teeth on edge), as a result of our conversations, I'd love to think that some bit of the original Transformer made its way into its grandsire's pages.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-60908926446016292272020-06-11T20:51:00.001+01:002020-06-11T20:52:04.533+01:00Robert E. Howard in Scots: Echoes from an Anvil<br />
<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://howardworks.com/versee.html#ECHOES_FROM_AN_ANVIL"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Echaes frae a Stiddie</span></i></a></h1>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Screivit by Rabert E. Howard </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDiRCA8bc6PbGhvBXq0wRsNKcdm7Mh_QS8aOMsMctQSyq3vZGY9Gb17iJeIXLF0cnfC-aQvkHuyC5dAlqelyWR8Xsgs4fl9scuQaoat88zFI81q3XoXpOcas30xzuxYHhD14uypUf-PTb/s1600/CURACAO-TULA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="886" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdDiRCA8bc6PbGhvBXq0wRsNKcdm7Mh_QS8aOMsMctQSyq3vZGY9Gb17iJeIXLF0cnfC-aQvkHuyC5dAlqelyWR8Xsgs4fl9scuQaoat88zFI81q3XoXpOcas30xzuxYHhD14uypUf-PTb/s400/CURACAO-TULA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I leave tae pegral makars</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">The tabor an the lute;</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I sing in drums an tom-toms</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">The bleck bysmal bruit – </span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma vyse is o’ the people,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Thon etin wild an mout.</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Wi’ bluid o’ aw the ages</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">His braken nails are bleck,</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">The hale waurld wechts an burdens</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">His birsie beastial back;</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">He shammles doon ivermair</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">A blin an fankelt track.</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<i>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I bring nae sneithit diamants,</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Nae gems frae Lunnon toun;</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Nae culturt wheem or teevock</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma rochle varses croun;</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">You find here nocht but pouer</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">That braks a ceety doun.</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDqqSCHkuQTppjqaiomrdjBX4uxAUaHMZH7N-IqJumBiKPev_ju53ab0PS4d37RMc3FZFXcUSPBYKdSAXkMdq5hNn4UHgNM_h5H1XBgQf5fIrl9HOYgTVZlR7f8IjTKDE-dkZkiN8c8ir/s1600/La+vengeance+des+fils+Antar_Alphonse+Etienne+Dinet_Zanj+Rebellion_869.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="808" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDqqSCHkuQTppjqaiomrdjBX4uxAUaHMZH7N-IqJumBiKPev_ju53ab0PS4d37RMc3FZFXcUSPBYKdSAXkMdq5hNn4UHgNM_h5H1XBgQf5fIrl9HOYgTVZlR7f8IjTKDE-dkZkiN8c8ir/s400/La+vengeance+des+fils+Antar_Alphonse+Etienne+Dinet_Zanj+Rebellion_869.webp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I spill nae wirds o’ beauty,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Cuinyies frae a siller purse,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma hauns are built o’ airn,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">An airn is in ma varse.</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I bring nae luve but fury,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Nae blissin but a curse.</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma law-fung brou is slentit,</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma een are burnin reid,</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-US">Wi’ fairce bleck primal veesions</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">That thunner in ma heid;</span></i></div>
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</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ahint ma hert the rivers</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">An aw the jungles spreid.</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I sclaved in starn-girt Babel</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">An lauboured at the wa’;</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I watchit the birth o’ pavies</span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Aneath ma clourin mell – </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">An in a frenzied dawin</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I saw her tours faw.</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkkhT45UaFJeT6lBb3KBaPEm6npl7_g0d78y3Crc4KHeJhNam91MLR1QA0JsRO23MWd4eG_MZTDloheLtjb_XfgWJs4flN6FW-OiUZnoOqPphem2-l4KUk_5ciSPKDfS26GziHvUX9L8w/s1600/Bitwa+na+San+Domingo_January+Suchodolski_1845.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="642" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkkhT45UaFJeT6lBb3KBaPEm6npl7_g0d78y3Crc4KHeJhNam91MLR1QA0JsRO23MWd4eG_MZTDloheLtjb_XfgWJs4flN6FW-OiUZnoOqPphem2-l4KUk_5ciSPKDfS26GziHvUX9L8w/s400/Bitwa+na+San+Domingo_January+Suchodolski_1845.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I toiled in Tuscan vinyairds,</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I brak the beaten laim,</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I streend agin the haimer</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">That drave the clourer haim;</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I sweitit in the gaileys</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">That brak the road tae Roum.</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Och, Khan an keeng an pharaoh!</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">In cauld an drouth an heat</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">I bled tae build yer glore,</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">An eemock aneath yer feet – </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">But aye ris a mornin</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Whan bluid ran in the street.</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">The waurld upon ma shouders</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Knee deep in muck an silt,</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Ma haun aneath ma tatters</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Still grips the hidden hilt – </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Wha fed the auncient rivers</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span lang="EN-US">Wi’ bluid rebellions spilt?</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZeKGl7_u95RisZI11re2gTgC780ewAaww4zIAQK-itb5BNOiyy6v-F43lr6Oaqx2PgtbAEWYnOsUJ4YAP8UkzFm4icWNrA1cjSeKefpIRRM2CFAH3akQr6x7pV9VexMTXi4dFjq3MjC2/s1600/faye-at-matanzas-triumvirato-rebellion-monument_carolota_1843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="520" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZeKGl7_u95RisZI11re2gTgC780ewAaww4zIAQK-itb5BNOiyy6v-F43lr6Oaqx2PgtbAEWYnOsUJ4YAP8UkzFm4icWNrA1cjSeKefpIRRM2CFAH3akQr6x7pV9VexMTXi4dFjq3MjC2/s400/faye-at-matanzas-triumvirato-rebellion-monument_carolota_1843.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<![endif]-->Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-35454502610556400282020-03-11T14:48:00.000+00:002020-03-11T14:48:44.885+00:00Jurassic Park and the End of Man's Dominion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHj7hAVJqhrIFo2N3Drve8Wr_K5YWH3WZsF4XRYVgPVHzVBTDLP2ObpkeWE_lednYDBJ6bfiZKE3nTXgHWaEcn9dN8EbALYbHH9_MQiZhoi7VtI8FJQqPZtuVRdhkCyPOrIyLyPQ68VIyG/s1600/Jurassic+World+Dominion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1067" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHj7hAVJqhrIFo2N3Drve8Wr_K5YWH3WZsF4XRYVgPVHzVBTDLP2ObpkeWE_lednYDBJ6bfiZKE3nTXgHWaEcn9dN8EbALYbHH9_MQiZhoi7VtI8FJQqPZtuVRdhkCyPOrIyLyPQ68VIyG/s400/Jurassic+World+Dominion.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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In which I ponder the new title for the upcoming third <i>Jurassic World</i> film, and how it relates to Robert Burns.<br />
<br />
Because that's the sort of Venn Diagram this blog is all about.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqhBnQHTKYmx1l2Jsb27xIPtSoIHpo9a6oLkQcx7YUB5lssduUsNp-LksSWof1s8JfeJoWGJ9Z8DDRPl5jWsYR2trNWwEAPJEXJugLGCfR0djYp2wxe3vx5ZqhQvzIl8vaLbayPNMsGp_/s1600/Dominion_Tom+Holland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="832" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiqhBnQHTKYmx1l2Jsb27xIPtSoIHpo9a6oLkQcx7YUB5lssduUsNp-LksSWof1s8JfeJoWGJ9Z8DDRPl5jWsYR2trNWwEAPJEXJugLGCfR0djYp2wxe3vx5ZqhQvzIl8vaLbayPNMsGp_/s320/Dominion_Tom+Holland.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
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Already folk are <a href="https://metro.co.uk/2020/02/26/jurassic-world-3-title-revealed-mean-12307415/">speculating</a> over the meaning of <i>Jurassic World: Dominion</i>, which has supplanted <i>Jurassic World: New Era</i>. It isn't the first time in the franchise we had such a significant name change: the <a href="https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2xW82g">Malusaurus</a> became the <a href="https://jurassicoutpost.com/new-early-art-dinosaur-renders-surface-jurassic-world/">Diabolus</a>, which became the <a href="http://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2015/06/8-year-old-reviews-jurassic-world.html"><strike>MURDERSAURUS</strike></a> Indominus we all know and hate. But it's one that's worth exploring.<br />
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Dominion itself is a fairly common word nowadays, but if you look, you can find all sorts of possible allusions. <a href="https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=dominion">Etymologically</a> speaking, the word first appears in the 15th Century. Dominion ultimately derives from Latin - <i>dominium </i>(property, ownership) and <i>dominus </i>(lord, master). As with much in western culture, we must go Biblical. Consider the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_James_Version">King James</a> version of <a href="https://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org/Genesis-1-28/">Genesis 1:28</a>, published in 1611:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And God blessed them, and God said unto them, "Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have <b>dominion </b>over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth."</blockquote>
"Dominion" used to signify humanity's rule and ownership of all other life on earth is repeated throughout the Bible, in multiple iterations and translations, to the point where it became the subject of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dominion_theology">political ideologies</a>. Dominions are also the name given to <a href="https://www.catholic.org/saints/angels/angelchoir.php">a particular form of angel</a> in Christian Angelology, the regulators of angels lower than the terrifying Seraphim, Cherubim, and Thrones. The relevance of angels - beings placed in a cosmic heirarchy who must ultimately bow before humans at the command of their creator - in a story about genetically recreated dinosaurs threatening humanity's self-appointed rule over the earth is rather potent, even if I doubt this is exactly what the filmmakers have in mind!<br />
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Dominion spread beyond the Bible fairly shortly. Most famously, Oliver Cromwell was "<i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Protector#Cromwellian_Commonwealth">Lord Protector</a> of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland and Ireland, and the <b>dominions </b>thereto belonging</i>" in May 1649. Later, during the time of the British Empire, the word (capitalised) was used for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dominion">British colonies</a> with a certain degree of autonomy, most of which - Canada, Australia, South Africa, New Zealand, Ireland, and Newfoundland - are now members of the Commonwealth. Dominions, therefore, were a bit above the likes of the Indian Raj and the American Colonies, though still not on the level of the United Kingdom itself. As such, the word "Dominion" has strong links to colonialism.<br />
<br />
<i>Jurassic World</i>, like <i>Jurassic Park</i> before it, is <a href="https://arcdigital.media/the-lost-world-of-colonialism-509472502cab?gi=2dc8398ed105">steeped</a> in colonial resonance, from the general themes of man's transgressions against the natural order, to the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_hunter">White Hunters</a> in Robert Muldoon and Roland Tembo, down to the very architecture of the Visitor Centre itself (which was <a href="http://www.shadeone.com/jurassicpark/">built</a> at the Valley House <i>Plantation Estate</i>). J.A. Bayona's most famous work, <i>The Orphanage</i>, is as much an exploration of 1970s social anxieties as it is a love letter to contemporaneous horror films; likewise, <i>A Monster Calls</i> is a fairytale of palliative care as much as <i>Pan's Labyrinth</i> is to the Spanish Civil War. As such, while the inevitable childproofing of more daring elements for "international cultural considerations" (i.e. markets) may have affected the film, Bayona still let some of his vision seep through the studio shroud.<br />
<br />
Consider this shot:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_T_cNCSHusb-7Wd06SyGiMdQzuT7bBJHC089_Bbaq8PMGVMfO0OO7Sv5jyGG6NfSoNeFxc4kzG5TwODdWlcWUlTdCZYc9DEt4Qfu2cGlE_f_54KmrlRV4P2-tOl1AVroXNNQJjg30c7BR/s1600/JWFK_Old+World+vs+New+World.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1600" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_T_cNCSHusb-7Wd06SyGiMdQzuT7bBJHC089_Bbaq8PMGVMfO0OO7Sv5jyGG6NfSoNeFxc4kzG5TwODdWlcWUlTdCZYc9DEt4Qfu2cGlE_f_54KmrlRV4P2-tOl1AVroXNNQJjg30c7BR/s400/JWFK_Old+World+vs+New+World.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The composition - the greatly accomplished Óscar Faura worked as cinematographer for the film - is full of visual cues. The beurocrat-turned-dinosaur rights activist Claire Dearing, whose interests are primarily the welfare of the dinosaurs, meets Eli Mills, who we learn (predictably enough in a Jurassic film) is ultimately more interested in profit. The map behind them shows two worlds - the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_World">New World</a>, and the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_World">Old World</a>. Not just any map - it looks very much like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mathew_Carey">Mathew Carey's</a> 1795 <a href="https://www.loc.gov/item/98687102/"><i>Map of the World from the Best Authorities</i></a>, from the <a href="https://www.donaldheald.com/pages/books/29733/mathew-carey/careys-general-atlas">first Atlas</a> published in the United States. That in itself is full of meaning - future versus past, modern considerations versus lasting traditions, not to mention Carey's own <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mathew_Carey#Politics">political activism</a>, indeed his very nature as a Dublin-born <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Mathew-Carey-publisher-patriot-James/dp/B0006YWGAW">American patriot</a>. And of course, one of the themes of colonialism is the old, rich civilisations of the Old World coming to the verdant lands of the New World, with plunder and exploitation on their minds.<br />
<br />
Lockwood Manor is full of nods and hints to palaeontological history as well. Behold the portraits adorning the walls:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05p13wsiwgfVrweOEabY_Yp2GN2v1hLH-NHOHGGC2Kj3SOW0ZsIGohZZxhhf0AwouEBs-kJ4CmtLYavK18yQCa-yYXurwyLwpIBhWAsZZzjscqYuEco9E22fY4ZVdEb_AHWyhm6UVV1hA/s1600/JWFK_Paintings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1600" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05p13wsiwgfVrweOEabY_Yp2GN2v1hLH-NHOHGGC2Kj3SOW0ZsIGohZZxhhf0AwouEBs-kJ4CmtLYavK18yQCa-yYXurwyLwpIBhWAsZZzjscqYuEco9E22fY4ZVdEb_AHWyhm6UVV1hA/s400/JWFK_Paintings.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_d9TJsTQFcUZnGELk5g8PJnCYH8qTL4m59YIEL14iIL2aYCwLSIXiWzN-t4EkItQ-jpGMgFlHhAjF9Nv82XO1Qf3iMtPQChfcEwopWPglzYSS7W_QS8Pl98ovjEe6Lw-WguJSEQJp1uX8/s1600/JWFK_Paintings+Stairway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="1600" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_d9TJsTQFcUZnGELk5g8PJnCYH8qTL4m59YIEL14iIL2aYCwLSIXiWzN-t4EkItQ-jpGMgFlHhAjF9Nv82XO1Qf3iMtPQChfcEwopWPglzYSS7W_QS8Pl98ovjEe6Lw-WguJSEQJp1uX8/s400/JWFK_Paintings+Stairway.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The gentleman in the painting next to John Hammond, cradling what appears to be a theropod skull, is almost certainly <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Buckland">William Buckland</a> - a theologian who also happened to provide one of the very first <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Megalosaurus#Buckland's_research">modern descriptions</a> of a dinosaur. The painting appears to be a mirror image of <a href="https://www.npg.org.uk/collections/search/portrait/mw133429/William-Buckland?LinkID=mp00625&role=sit&rNo=5">Samuel Cousins' 1833 mezzotint</a> (swapping a cave hyena skull with something a bit more "on topic"). The identity of the others is, alas, a mystery to me (the woman bears more than a passing resemblance to Richard Rothwell's portrait of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Shelley">Mary Shelley</a>, while the middle painting on the staircase could be <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Jakob_Scheuchzer">Johannes Scheuchzerus</a>) - though it is the sort of thing that'd keep me awake at night.<br />
<br />
So, luxurious manor, huge antique world map, gold-framed portraits - all very colonialist. With the tourism aspect, one considers another variation - <a href="https://journals.openedition.org/etudescaribeennes/7524?lang=en">neocolonialism</a>.<br />
<br />
Countries like Costa Rica - which happens to be off the coast of <i>Jurassic Park's</i> Isla Nublar - occupy a curious place in American political dynamics. It is economically stable, has excellent education and healthcare, pioneered modern environmental protections, and is completely demilitarised, leading to its preeminent position as <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/may/09/showing-the-way-in-san-jose-how-costa-rica-gets-it-right">centre for conflict resolution</a>. It never even directly fought for its independence - it was declared so <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Costa_Rica#Independence">practically by proxy</a> - until <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ochomogo_War">it had to choose</a> between independence and being part of another empire. Yet it is only across the border from Nicaragua (much poorer & with inferior quality of life) and Panama (which is still recovering from the 1980s) - two countries which charted very different paths with the fate they were given. Costa Rica was probably Hammond's best bet, all things considered.<br />
<br />
But <i>that's</i> all for another post. Back to Dominions. The notion of Man being above other animals is hardly unique to Abrahamic or Western cultures. The Black Hills Native Americans attribute man's relationship with buffalo to the outcome of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Race_(Native_American_legend)">Great Race</a>; Buddism says that while many beings are sentient, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_beings_in_Buddhism">only humans</a> can achieve enlightenment; humans occupy a rung on the Hindu ladder higher than most other animals (<a href="https://religionnews.com/2017/07/18/hinduism-and-its-complicated-history-with-cows/">except cows</a>, because of course they do). It is predicated on the <a href="https://fs.blog/2016/01/why-humans-dominate-earth/">one intangible thing</a> which marks humans as distinct from other animals - the cognitive revolution which gave rise to our languages, our sciences, our stories. Perhaps it isn't that Man rules the earth because Man is inherently superior - perhaps it's because Man is the only animal that <b>thinks </b>it is.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to Robert Burns.<br />
<br />
In his poem "<a href="http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.shtml">To A Mouse - On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough</a>" (September 1785), the author laments accidentally destroying a field mouse's home with his farm equipment. The second verse directly mentions "Man's dominion," clearly meant in a Biblical sense:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion <br />
Has broken Nature’s social union, <br />
An’ justifies that ill opinion,<br />
Which makes thee startle, <br />
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,<br />
An’ fellow-mortal! </blockquote>
<br />
No, I'm not arguing that the filmmakers are quoting a famous old Scottish poem. I am, however, saying that it's a very apt coincidence all the same - especially considering the final paragraphs, which note that while the mouse lives in the moment, man is cursed forever looking back and forward:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, <br />In proving foresight may be vain; <br />The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men <br /> Gang aft agley, <br />An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, <br /> For promis’d joy! </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me; <br />The present only toucheth thee: <br />But och! I backward cast my e’e, <br /> On prospects dreaer! <br />An’ forward, tho’ I canna see, <br /> I guess an’ fear!</blockquote>
The <i>Jurassic </i>world is a perfect combination of both: a yearning for a prehistoric past humanity never witnessed given terrible life by the science of the not-too-distant future. Meta-textually, too, one could consider the nostalgia of the original <i>Jurassic Park</i> and its relationship with future explorations of that world. Alas, the "best-laid schemes" went horrifically wrong, as arrogant humanity crashed their plough into the natural world - with something rather more dangerous and toothy than a field mouse looking back through the field.<br />
<br />
Will Jurassic World see Man's Dominion laid low? After decades - centuries, millennia - of asserting our presumed dominance over the Animal Kingdom rather than acknowledging our place within it, could it be monsters of a time long before would challenge us?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://theblogthattimeforgot.blogspot.com/2018/07/finding-way.html">Guess we'll find out</a> soon enough.<br />
<br />
<br />Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-14778724040953144902019-10-31T23:28:00.001+00:002019-10-31T23:28:21.251+00:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #31 - Wild Hairy Haggis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53McEFIM82bn36eEv2iDdGOVjWYC_U1-j5PAKUxsEzr3vlAtAT0tIRg0J8szeWhF182kHEyrTa518rDGoU2Ecv-du8FA3j0SoAedszbuBq5VlEefO6K8ffDMxzgMP1dqTfTWRlEACVjXb/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_31_WildHairyHaggis.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi53McEFIM82bn36eEv2iDdGOVjWYC_U1-j5PAKUxsEzr3vlAtAT0tIRg0J8szeWhF182kHEyrTa518rDGoU2Ecv-du8FA3j0SoAedszbuBq5VlEefO6K8ffDMxzgMP1dqTfTWRlEACVjXb/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_31_WildHairyHaggis.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My heart’s in the Highlands,<br />
twa strings on my bow<br />
To hunt the fierce haggis,<br />
man’s awfu’est foe.<br />
And weel may my bairn<br />
ha’ a tear in his ee.<br />
For I shallna come back<br />
if the haggis hunts me.<br />
- James J. Montague, The New York Tribune, 2nd January 1924</blockquote>
<br />
Ah, that most feared & beloved of Scottish beasties, the <a href="https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/what-is-haggis">Wild Haggis</a>. Elusive yet ubiquitous, they're rare enough to be seldom seen in the wild, yet populous enough to feed 5.4 million Scots every Burns' Night. Some say they are small furry mammals, others that they are little birds with vestigial wings; some say their right (or left) legs are longer than the others to facilitate mountain navigation at the cost of reproductive opportunity, while others suppose that they have only three legs, or even no legs at all; there are those who compare their call with the drone of the bagpipes, and others who equate it with a <a href="http://thehaggiswhistle.com/">whistly twittering</a>.<br />
<br />
There are regional variations, of course. Those Haggis which perambulate around the hills and mountains have <a href="https://www.thehaggis.com/wild-haggis-all-about-haggis/">two known species</a> based on the direction most amenable to their gait: the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunwise">Deisul</a> Haggis (<i>Haggis scottii dexterous</i>, also known as the Sunwise Haggis) & the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Widdershins">Widdershins</a> Haggis (<i>Haggis scottii dexterous</i>, or the <i>Taibhse Tuathal</i> in the Gaelic heartlands), who are forced to travel clockwise and anti-clockwise respectively by their biology. The Golden Haggis of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_Lewis">Lewis</a> (<i>Haggis limnuensis</i>) - an even-legged variety - is prized not just for its meat, but its fur, which was traditionally used to adorn the sporrans of Lewis's menfolk. The near-legendary <a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/246783254558361435/?lp=true">Great Haggis</a> (<i>Haggis magnificens</i>), now thought to be either extinct or hiding with Nessie, was an enormous breed which could feed an entire village from St. Andrew's Day to Burns' Night, as documented in <i>The Capture of the Great Haggis, 1743</i>. All varieties are believed to be derived from the ancient <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hebrides">Hebridean</a> Haggis (<i>Haggis hebudensis</i>), a small and hardy creature especially adapted to the rough lands of the Western Isles in a manner not unlike the famous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shetland_pony">Shetland Pony</a>.<br />
<br />
A pseudoscientific fad in recent years claims that the Wild Haggis are not real, and that it is merely a Scottish culinary staple given some local flavour. Such attacks against science & history are not to be dignified with a response.Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-45804774169416270052019-10-10T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-10T18:00:01.831+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #10 - Bauchan<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-BCU-48OJE1nqHnGOGoDLd75efKjxQSUuDTwuIMQ7MvXHPmscTPs35ow5iuQLa6yzBcsvd-FIP5eybC-nWpartMAJe8ZRyT50pz8-arD_WqO0gE5Tu3-hJ9KY-1u-jXjQf3XcUs1LDXY/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_10_Bauchan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-BCU-48OJE1nqHnGOGoDLd75efKjxQSUuDTwuIMQ7MvXHPmscTPs35ow5iuQLa6yzBcsvd-FIP5eybC-nWpartMAJe8ZRyT50pz8-arD_WqO0gE5Tu3-hJ9KY-1u-jXjQf3XcUs1LDXY/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_10_Bauchan.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I have given these specimens of a particular class of tales which are common enough, as they came to me, because they seem to be fair illustrations of the popular creed as to spirits; and to show that the so-called spirits are generally very near mortal men. My belief is, that <i>bocan</i>, <i>bodach</i>, <i>fuath</i>, and all their tribe, were once savages, dressed in skins, and that <i>gruagach </i>was a half-tamed savage banging about the houses, with his long hair and skin clothing; that these have gradually acquired the attributes of divinities, river gods, or forest nymphs, or that they have been condemned as pagan superstitions, and degraded into demons; and I know that they are now remembered, and still somewhat dreaded, in their last character. The tales told of them partake of the natural and supernatural, and bring fiction nearer to fact than any class of tales current in the Highlands, unless it be the fairy stories of which a few are given under number 28, etc. <br /> - John Campbell, <i>Popular tales of the West Highlands</i></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
As an admirer of the great Arthur Rackham and modern master Brian Froud, I wanted to pay tribute in one of the (slightly) less terrifying beasties of Scottish folklore, the Bauchan.<br />
<br />
Here's a tale of the Bauchan chronicled by John Campbell:<br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In the neighbourhood of Loch Traig, in Lochaber, Callum Mor MacIntosh held a little farm. There were rumours of his having intercourse with a mysterious personage called a bauchan, but of his first acquaintance with him there are no authentic accounts. One thing, however, is certain, that on some occasions he was supernaturally aided by this bauchan, while at others, having in some way excited his displeasure, Callum was opposed in all his schemes, and on several occasions they came the length of fighting hand to hand, Callum never suffering much injury. On one occasion, as Callum was returning from Fort-William market, he met his friend the bauchan within a short distance of his own house, and one of these contests took place, during which Callum lost his pocket-handkerchief, which, having been blessed and presented to him by the priest, was possessed of a peculiar charm. The fight being ended, Callum hurried home; but, to his dismay, found that he had lost his charmed handkerchief, for which he and his wife in vain sought. </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<br />
Callum felt certain he had to thank the bauchan for this mishap, and hurried back to the scene of action. The first object that met his view was the bauchan, busily engaged in rubbing a flat stone with the identical handkerchief. On seeing Callum, he called out, "Ah you are back; it is well for you, for if I had rubbed a hole into this before your return you were a dead man. No doctor on earth or power could save you; but you shall never have this handkerchief till you have won it in a fair fight." "Done," said Callum, and at it they went again, and Callum recovered his handkerchief. Peats were almost unknown at that time, and Callum, when the weather grew cold, took his axe, and felled a large birch tree in the neighbouring forest, the branches supplied wood for the fire for several days, and Callum did not trouble himself to lay in a store nearer hand-when, lo! a snow storm came on, and blocked up the country, so that he was cut off from his supply. There was no means of access to the tree; and careful as Callum's wife was, the last branch was almost consumed, and the fire burnt low.<br />
<br />
Up started Callum with an exclamation, "Oh! wife, would that we had the tree I felled in the forest! it would keep us warm this night." Hardly had he spoken when the house was shaken and the door rattled; a heavy weight had fallen near the door. Callum rushed to see what the cause was, and there was the wished-for tree, with the Bauchan grinning at him - "<i>S ma am Bauchan fathast, ged a sgain an Sagart</i>" - ("the Bauchan is still kind, though the Priest should burst") - said the wife. On another occasion it happened that Callum left the farm he was in and went to one adjoining which he had taken carrying with him his wife and all his furniture. In the nighttime Callum turned to his wife and said, "Well, it is well we have all with us; only one thing have we forgotten, the hogshead in which the hides are being barked; that we have forgotten" "No matter for that," said the wife; "there is no one to occupy the place yet a while, and we have time to get it home safe enough;" and so the matter rested; but on going round the end of the house next morning, what did Callum see but his own identical hogshead, hides and all. It had been transported the distance of five miles of most rugged, rocky district. None but a goat could have crossed the place, and in the time it would have bothered one to do it, but the Bauchan managed it, and saved Callum a most troublesome journey. If you will go and take a look at it--the spot is there yet--and I would like to see how soon you would manage it, let alone the hogshead. <br /><br />Poor Callum, however, was obliged, with many of his neighhours, to leave Lochaber; indeed, he was amongst the first embarking at Arisaig for New York. The passage was a tedious one, but it ended at last, and without any particular adventures but on arriving they had to perform a quarantine of many days. On getting pratique, Callum was in the first boat which landed, and happened to have stowed himself in the bows of the boat, and when she grounded, was the first man to jump on shore. Directly his feet touched the ground, who should meet him in the shape of a goat but the Bauchan, "Ha, ha Callum, <i>ha mi sho air thoseach orst</i>" - ("Ha, Malcolm, I am here before thee"). Here ends our story; but rumour says that Callum was the better of the Bauchan's help in clearing the lands of his new settlement, and that, till he was fairly in the way of prosperity, the Bauchan abstained from teasing and provoking poor Callum.</blockquote>
Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-67346901231282742802019-10-09T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-10T01:36:27.543+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #9 - The Blue Men of the Minch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglQtAVPLMKybA5l3VByfJELOoTtkEV29N_Ja_aZJhPgtL0pKI6B5u2vHCB8fYIkyep40Vk5cZ8tRKjiX04bmvnhlDHFIGP0tlsmdpoHUZQ9luHL2xLUVQscyjB_xJ56OUVG_zN9htrzPL/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_09_BlueMenOfTheMinch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglQtAVPLMKybA5l3VByfJELOoTtkEV29N_Ja_aZJhPgtL0pKI6B5u2vHCB8fYIkyep40Vk5cZ8tRKjiX04bmvnhlDHFIGP0tlsmdpoHUZQ9luHL2xLUVQscyjB_xJ56OUVG_zN9htrzPL/s320/BeastieScotInktoberFest_09_BlueMenOfTheMinch.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The Blue Men are found only in the Minch, and
chiefly in the strait which lies between the Island
of Lewis and the Shant Isles (the charmed islands),
and is called the " Sea-stream of the Blue Men".
They are not giants, like the Nimble Men, but of
human size, and they have great strength. By
day and by night they swim round and between
the Shant Isles, and the sea there is never at rest.
The Blue Men wear blue caps and have grey
faces which appear above the waves that they
raise with their long restless arms. In summer
weather they skim lightly below the surface, but
when the wind is high they revel in the storm
and swim with heads erect, splashing the waters
with mad delight. Sometimes they are seen
floating from the waist out of the sea, and sometimes turning round like porpoises as they dive. <br />
- Donald Alexander Mackenzie, Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth & Legend </blockquote>
<br />
Now for something <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETC6NSxpFFE">really</a> scary... While many nations have their equivalents to Kelpies, sea serpents, and bogles, the Blue Men are peculiar to Scotland alone. It's probably just as well, as the idea of long-armed, creepy humanoids floating out on the open sea from the waist up is quite a frightening image. This aspect was rather cleverly <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=zXa84-TWX0AC&redir_esc=y">theorised</a> by Sophia Kingshill as a folk memory of woad-painted Pictish Warriors travelling with low kayak-like canoes, which might indeed somewhat resemble people eerily floating from the waist up. An alternative explanation is that the "Blue Men" were in fact black - <a href="https://www.quora.com/Why-were-black-people-referred-to-as-daoine-gorm-blue-people-in-Irish-Gaelic-and-how-where-did-it-originate"><i>daoine gorm</i></a>, rendered in English, literally means "blue people," but is used to refer to people with dark skin - and is a folk memory of Viking or Roman slaves, who would understandably be very unusual to people on the very edge of the world.<br />
<br />
Mackenzie relates one tale of the Blue Men, where their love of poetry and messing with ships at sea is highlighted:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In days of old the " Blue Men's Stream " was
sometimes called " The Current of Destruction ",
because so many ships were swamped in it. The
people blamed the Blue Men, who dwelt in caves,
Nimble Men, Blue Men, &c. Si
they said, at the bottom of the sea. Their
sentinels were always on the look-out, and when
a vessel came in siofht, word was sent to the men
o
in the caves to come up. Sailors were afraid of
them, and many sailed round the Shant Islands
instead of taking the short cut between these
and the big Island of Lewis.
When the chief of the Blue Men had all his
men gathered about him, ready to attack a ship,
he rose high in the water and shouted to the
skipper two lines of poetry, and if the skipper did
not reply at once by adding two lines to complete
the verse, the Blue Men seized the ship and upset
it. Many a ship was lost in days of old because
the skipper had no skill at verse.
True is the Gaelic saying, however: "There
comes with time what comes not with weather."<br />
<br />
One day, when the wind was high and the
billows rough and angry, the Blue Men saw a
stately ship coming towards their sea-stream under
white sails. Royally she cleft her way through
the waves. The sentinels called to the blue
fellows who were on the sea floor, and as they
rose they wondered to see the keel pass over-
head so swiftly. Some seized it and shook it as
if to try their strength, and were astonished to
find it so steady and heavy. It carried on straight
as a spear in flight.
The chief of the Blue Men bobbed up in front
of the ship, and, when waist-high among the
tumbling waves, shouted to the skipper:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Man of the black cap, what do you say<br />
As your proud ship cleaves the brine?"</blockquote>
<br />
No sooner were the words spoken than the
skipper answered:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"My speedy ship takes the shortest way,<br />
And I'll follow you line by line!"</blockquote>
<br />
This was at once an answer and a challenge,
and the chief of the Blue Men cried angrily:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"My men are eager, my men are ready<br />
To drag you below the waves!"</blockquote>
<br />
The skipper answered defiantly in a loud voice:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"My ship is speedy, my ship is steady,<br />
If it sank it would wreck your caves!"</blockquote>
<br />
The chief of the Blue Men was worsted. Never
before had a seaman answered him so promptly
and so well. He had no power to injure the ship,
because the skipper was as good a bard as he was
himself, and he knew that if he went on shouting
half-verses until the storm spent itself the skipper
would always complete them. He signaled to
his followers to dive; and down below the wave
ridges they all vanished, like birds that dive for
fish. The big ship went on proudly and safely
under snow-white, wind-tight sails while the sea-wind through the cordage sang
With high and wintry merriment. </blockquote>
<br />
Also included is this haunting song of the Blue Men, attributed to Scottish boatmen:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When the tide is at the turning and the wind is fast asleep,<br />
And not a wave is curling on the wide, blue deep,<br />
Oh, the waters will be churning in the stream that never smiles,<br />
Where the Blue Men are splashing round the charmed isles.<br />
<br />
As the summer wind goes droning o'er the sun-bright seas,<br />
And the Minch is all a-dazzle to the Hebrides,<br />
They will skim along like salmon, you can see their shoulders
gleam,<br />
And the flashing of their fingers in the Blue Men's Stream.<br />
<br />
But when the blast is raving and the wild tide races,<br />
The Blue Men are breast-high with foam-grey faces;<br />
They'll plunge along with fury while they sweep the spray
behind,<br />
Oh, they'll bellow o'er the billows and wail upon the wind.<br />
<br />
And if my boat be storm-toss'd and beating for the bay,<br />
They'll be howling and be growling as they drench it with the
spray<br />
For they 'd like to heel it over to their laughter when it lists,<br />
Or crack the keel between them, or stave it with their fists.<br />
<br />
Oh, weary on the Blue Men, their anger and their wiles!<br />
The whole day long, the whole night long, they 're splashing
round the isles;<br />
They'll follow every fisher ah! they'll haunt the fisher's
dream-<br />
When billows toss, Oh, who would cross the Blue Men's Stream!<br />
<br />
- Boatman's Song, Wonder Tales of Scottish Myth & Legend </blockquote>
Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-24470668252085634592019-10-08T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-09T18:17:31.540+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #8 - Burach-Bhadi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGyuC3WpYAXgKE8LErrUAe0bH9UuqCZCraxWn6RO8P9dO3IW83cj166P2X46gz4r_jWhvh4E1aPF_8erPYPvSX6LjwPXm2tzd0eEJ-h3ISppu4p8t22ZN3t4Ks4RwbI9JyRIhTK_wixwG/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_08_Burach-Bhadi.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGyuC3WpYAXgKE8LErrUAe0bH9UuqCZCraxWn6RO8P9dO3IW83cj166P2X46gz4r_jWhvh4E1aPF_8erPYPvSX6LjwPXm2tzd0eEJ-h3ISppu4p8t22ZN3t4Ks4RwbI9JyRIhTK_wixwG/s320/BeastieScotInktoberFest_08_Burach-Bhadi.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The <i>Burach Bhadi</i>, also known as the Wizard's Shackle, lives in the Western isles of Scotland. It is an eel or leech with nine squinting eyes and a horrible habit of entwining itself around a horse's legs, pulling the animal down to die.<br /> - Joyce Hargreaves, <i>Hargreaves New Illustrated Bestiary</i></blockquote>
<br />
This is another creature that is difficult to track down. The notion of a particularly large species of eel or leech dwelling in the Western Isles is not the most unusual one, though the nine eyes adds a bit of flavour. <i>Burach</i> is a weel-kent Gaelic word which made its way into Scots vernacular, usually a synonym for "mess; muddle; shambles", sometimes compared with "digging a hole" - all things that make sense for eel/leech/worm-like creatures. Bhadi, on the other hand, is a bit more of a mystery , as is the origin of the "Wizard's Shackle" nickname (more research needed).<br />
<br />
Of course, leeches <a href="https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/00222936008650892?journalCode=tnah19">are known</a> to dwell in Scotland's waterways, notably the infamous <span class="st"><em>Hirudo medicinalis</em></span>, which was used to treat all sorts of ailments in Medieval society. It's easy to see people imagining a particularly large relative of the Medicine Leech inhabiting the lonely lochs and burns. The treacherous marshes, bogs, and quagmires would be a trial for any horse to navigate - suggesting that the <i>Burach-Bhadi</i> was a warning against careless equestrians.<br />
<br />
Alternatively, many large eels have turned up on Scottish shores over the centuries: the <a href="https://britishseafishing.co.uk/king-of-herrings/">Giant Oarfish</a>, the "King of Herrings," can occasionally be sighted around Scottish waters, and will be discussed further on other Beastie posts.Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-63219855949428175752019-10-07T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-07T20:55:57.702+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #7 - Sianach<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1ygC5iuFqSatZiboChGDO_2IkvIvmZNijVnOxO_SS-cMcBOjMhrKd0D12ibPy1_2Hkr_ze7GYOhGy_XtLhnPT0TUnzlkD__1u2TDQTs0EXk8_47nMiRqp6EK25OetAvnnLRE5P4ve26Z/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_07_Sianach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1ygC5iuFqSatZiboChGDO_2IkvIvmZNijVnOxO_SS-cMcBOjMhrKd0D12ibPy1_2Hkr_ze7GYOhGy_XtLhnPT0TUnzlkD__1u2TDQTs0EXk8_47nMiRqp6EK25OetAvnnLRE5P4ve26Z/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_07_Sianach.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(With profuse apologies to <a href="https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/159116/monarch-glen">Edwin Landseer</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In Gaelic Scotland, where deer were and continue to be prevalent, there are indications of deer worship in the Lochaber region. The <i>sianach</i> is a deer-monster in Scottish Gaelic oral tradition.<br /> - James MacKillop, <i>Myths and Legends of the Celts</i></blockquote>
<br />
Much more mysterious than the established creatures so far, the <i>Sianach</i> ("monster") is a huge, carnivorous deer alluded to in Highland Gaelic oral tradition. It is difficult to pin down the earliest documentation of this being: most of the sources I can find specifically mentioning sianach as a deer-monster are fairly recent. Other descriptions include has sharp, jagged teeth, and glowing hooves and eyes. Given the presence of supernatural horses, cattle, cats, and dogs, it seems at least plausible that dangerous supernatural deer be a feature of Scottish folklore.<br />
<br />
Yet the concept of toothy, flesh-eating deer is far from outlandish. There are cases of modern deer consuming <a href="https://www.outdoorlife.com/articles/hunting/2009/10/carnivorous-deer/">eggs</a>, <a href="https://slate.com/technology/2012/11/deer-eat-meat-herbivores-and-carnivores-are-not-so-clearly-divided.html">cattle</a>, and even <a href="https://www.nationalgeographic.com/news/2017/05/deer-eating-human-forensics-decomposition/">human remains</a>. The Musk Deer of Southern Asia are distinctive for their <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musk_deer">enormous fangs</a> more suited to a vampire than Bambi. Scotland itself was once home to the great <i>Megaloceros</i>, with fossils found in <a href="https://www.scottishgeology.com/geo/scotlands-fossils/the-irish-elk-megaloceros/">Ayrshire</a>, <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/3554844?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents">Galloway</a>, and <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=9bW8BQAAQBAJ&pg=PT36&lpg=PT36&dq=megaloceros+found+in+scotland&source=bl&ots=8vzPsgo43K&sig=ACfU3U2m-2W4iBRZpMt_V61mIxg0_8QL9Q&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiqxvaB84rlAhXeVBUIHYq7Azo4ChDoATAHegQICRAB#v=onepage&q=megaloceros%20found%20in%20scotland&f=false">other corners of the land</a>:<br />
<br />
Perhaps this legend can be traced back to the Ice Age: the earliest humans in Scotland, already embattled by the climate, had to deal with all sorts of creatures. But they came to expect big cats and canines to try and eat them: what would they make of a gigantic deer, driven to desperation by starvation, chewing on one of their fallen clansmen? Deer are dangerous prey as it is.Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-29186020872156583642019-10-06T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-07T20:55:53.477+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #6 - Tarbh Uisge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQC0MN6U0HGL6VBVYzwEv_arvD4je9aftXk3vs2-u5E_I_5BdBs_1ZkM9ZcXoVufSRa75X8wRrnoveW9jVtPsXJTTJQ0qSmLQDsoXVOogl9nOzZSCk8KLfyYtKgP6F5ZJKeAq_-NZZ-yiL/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_06_TarbhUisge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQC0MN6U0HGL6VBVYzwEv_arvD4je9aftXk3vs2-u5E_I_5BdBs_1ZkM9ZcXoVufSRa75X8wRrnoveW9jVtPsXJTTJQ0qSmLQDsoXVOogl9nOzZSCk8KLfyYtKgP6F5ZJKeAq_-NZZ-yiL/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_06_TarbhUisge.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Clanronald told us, as an instance of Highland credulity, that a set of his kinsmen - Borradale and others - believing that the fabulous `water-cow' inhabited a small lake near his house, resolved to drag the monster into day. With this view they bivouacked by the side of the lake in which they placed, by way of night-bait, two small anchors such as belong to boats, each baited with the carcase of a dog slain for the purpose. They expected the `water-cow' would gorge on this bait, and were prepared to drag her ashore the next morning, when, to their confusion of face, the baits were found untouched. It is something too late in the day for setting baits for water-cows.<br /> - Walter Scott, <a href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=eVljDwAAQBAJ&pg=PT486&lpg=PT486&dq=Clanronald+told+us,+as+an+instance+of+Highland+credulity,+that+a+set+of+his+kinsmen%E2%80%94Borradale+and+others%E2%80%94believing+that+the+fabulous+%60water-cow%27+inhabited+a+small+lake+near+his+house,+resolved+to+drag+the+monster+into+day.+With+this+view+they+bivouacked+by+the+side+of+the+lake+in+which+they+placed,+by+way+of+night-bait,+two+small+anchors+such+as+belong+to+boats,+each+baited+with+the+carcase+of+a+dog+slain+for+the+purpose.+They+expected+the+%60water-cow%27+would+gorge+on+this+bait,+and+were+prepared+to+drag+her+ashore+the+next+morning,+when,+to+their+confusion+of+face,+the+baits+were+found+untouched.+It+is+something+too+late+in+the+day+for+setting+baits+for+water-cows.&source=bl&ots=FA17nakleP&sig=ACfU3U0fCASXb1gWam3-jnLspKwurAE2Ug&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi8wdnm6IrlAhVdQhUIHS9_BKYQ6AEwAXoECAcQAQ#v=onepage&q=Clanronald%20told%20us%2C%20as%20an%20instance%20of%20Highland%20credulity%2C%20that%20a%20set%20of%20his%20kinsmen%E2%80%94Borradale%20and%20others%E2%80%94believing%20that%20the%20fabulous%20%60water-cow'%20inhabited%20a%20small%20lake%20near%20his%20house%2C%20resolved%20to%20drag%20the%20monster%20into%20day.%20With%20this%20view%20they%20bivouacked%20by%20the%20side%20of%20the%20lake%20in%20which%20they%20placed%2C%20by%20way%20of%20night-bait%2C%20two%20small%20anchors%20such%20as%20belong%20to%20boats%2C%20each%20baited%20with%20the%20carcase%20of%20a%20dog%20slain%20for%20the%20purpose.%20They%20expected%20the%20%60water-cow'%20would%20gorge%20on%20this%20bait%2C%20and%20were%20prepared%20to%20drag%20her%20ashore%20the%20next%20morning%2C%20when%2C%20to%20their%20confusion%20of%20face%2C%20the%20baits%20were%20found%20untouched.%20It%20is%20something%20too%20late%20in%20the%20day%20for%20setting%20baits%20for%20water-cows.&f=false"><i>Sir Walter Scott: Diary, Letters & Articles</i></a></blockquote>
<br />
The <i>Tarbh Uisge</i>, "Water Bull," has many of the hallmarks of its more notorious & malevolent kindred spirite, the <i>Each Uisge</i> ("Water Horse," the Kelpie's dangerous cousin). It, too, is a resident of the waters of Scotland; it usually manifests in its male form, as evidenced by its Gaelic name; and is known for its shapeshifting qualities. A curious aspect to their physiognomy is their ears: unlike the familiar ears of normal cows, the Water Bull lacks external ears entirely - possibly an adaptation to its underwater domain, as seen in pinnipeds and cetaceans. <br />
<br />
Where water horses tend to menace female humans, it's the cattle which are at greatest threat to water bulls. The offspring of a union between water bull and land cow are marked by their stunted ears: these unfortunate calves are named <i>Corc-Chluassask</i> (Split Ears) or <i>Carechluasach </i>(knife or short ears):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
But while the waters of the south can only boast of their kelpy, those of the north are the habitation not only of the <i>uirisg</i>, but of the water-horse and water-bull (<i>An t'Each Uisge</i>, <i>'san Tarbh Uisge</i>) as well. These last are painted on that tablet of the popular mind consecrated to super- stition, as, upon the whole, upon the whole, of the same shape and
form as the more kindly quadrupeds after whom they have been named, but
larger, fiercer, and with an amount of `devilment' and cunning about
them, of which the latter, fortunately, manifest no trace. They are
always fat and sleek, and so full of strength and spirit and life that
the neighing of the one and the bellowing of the other frequently awake
the mountain echoes to their inmost recesses for miles and miles
around... </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Calves and
foals are the result of occasional intercourse between these animals and
their more civilised domestic congeners, such calves bearing
unmistakable proofs of their mixed descent in the unusual size and
pendulousness of their ears and the wide aquatic spread of their jet
black hoofs; the foals, in their clean limbs, large flashing eyes, red
distended nostrils, and fiery spirit. The initiated still pretend to
point out cattle with more or less of this questionable blood in them,
in almost every drove of pure Highland cows and heifers you like to
bring under their notice.<br /> - Alexander Stewart, <i>Twixt Ben Nevis and Glencoe: The Natural History, Legends and Folklore of the West Highlands</i> (1885)</blockquote>
From a more mundane perspective, one could suppose that it was <a href="http://www.highlandcattle-jiggel.de/publikationen/crop-ear_2014_engl.htm">an explanation</a> for crop ear among cattle:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Like
many mythologies Celtic mythology embraces the existence of a
mysterious creature called a water-bull ( ref. Maier ). The survival of
legends through the oral tradition in Scottish Gaelic folklore makes it
impossible to date the arrival of water-bulls, or the Tarbh Uisge, which
for centuries appeared unpredictably in and around the sea and lochs of
the Hebridean Islands and West Highlands of Scotland. However, the
folklore has preserve comment on both behaviour and appearance of the
Tarbh Uisge. Seemingly the Tarbh Uisge itself is rarely seen, it emerges
from the water at night and covers ashore cows, and the resulting
progeny are very easily identified as those sired by a water-bull. Such a
mythical bull is called Tarroo-Ushtey in the Isle of Man, and there are
also water-bull myths in Germany, but the Hebridean Tarbh Uisge is
distinct in that it is given specific attributes: Tarbh-Uisge is a large
black bull with velvety fur, he has no ears and his calves have slotted
ears. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When the
explorer Martin Martin, on his journey to the Hebrides in 1695 visited
the Isle of Skye he documented this legend writing " There are several
calves that have a slit at the top of their ears; and these the natives
fancy to be the issue of a wild bull that comes from the sea or fresh
lakes; and this calf is by them called corky-fyre "(Martin ). In the
extensive collection of “Popular Tales from the West Highlands”
(Campbell) an island resident reported in 1862 that he had "often seen
bulls feeding about the lake sides with the cattle, and the cows often
had calves. They are `corcach´, short-eared, a cross between the
water-bull and a land-cow ". And A. Carmichael, who collected Gaelic
songs, rhymes and legends in late 19th century, wrote “These notch-eared
cattle - ` Torc Chluasach ' - are frequent in the Western Isles and are
spoken of as `Slioc a Chroidh Mhara', the descendants of the fabled sea
cattle."</blockquote>
Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-62236713113162371532019-10-05T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-05T19:34:32.412+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #5 - Kelpie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EW9vUuCAfvjt574zl7Q6nit973w_YqtE2CX6Dulnj9KBHDZcUh4W30TkfKe7K1Wug20D9tQ02zgCa50eXCUIOR9KTYP2G1GOr9r5AygexiyGV-FPNwpNwydkwLBW6aG1BXXNSXLzqS8r/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_05_Kelpie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EW9vUuCAfvjt574zl7Q6nit973w_YqtE2CX6Dulnj9KBHDZcUh4W30TkfKe7K1Wug20D9tQ02zgCa50eXCUIOR9KTYP2G1GOr9r5AygexiyGV-FPNwpNwydkwLBW6aG1BXXNSXLzqS8r/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_05_Kelpie.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord<br />
An' float the jinglin icy boord<br />
Then, water-kelpies haunt the foord<br />
By your direction<br />
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd<br />
To their destruction.<br />
- "Address to the Devil," Robert Burns, 1786</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The legends of the doings of the water kelpie all point to some river
god reduced to a fuath or bogle. The bay or grey horse grazes at the
lakeside, and when he is mounted, rushes into the loch and devours his
rider. His back lengthens to suit any number; men’s hands stick to his
skin; he is harnessed to a plough, and drags the team and plough into
the loch, and tears horses to bits; he falls in love with a lady, and
when he appears as a man, and lays his head on her knee to be dressed,
the frightened lady finds him out by the sand amongst his hair. “<i>Tha
gainmheach ann</i>,” “There is sand in it,” she says, and when he sleeps he
makes her escape. He appears as an old woman and is put to bed by a bevy
of damsels in a mountain sheiling and he sucks the blood of all, save
one, who escapes over a burn, which, water horse he is, he dare not
cross. In short, these tales and beliefs have led me to think that the
old Celts must have had a destroying water god, to whom the horse was
sacred, or who took the form of a horse.<br /> - Popular Tales of the West Highlands, J.F. Campbell</blockquote>
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Kelpies are among the most well-known & well-documented of Scottish mythological terrors, featuring in literature, art, sculpture, and beyond. Campbell's supposition that it is the folk memory of a great, dangerous water deity is pretty compelling considering the importance of horses in old Celtic folklore.<br />
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Most modern cultural depictions of Kelpies tend to eschew the more supernatural elements like the human transformation: they tend to be either weird <a href="https://berserk.fandom.com/wiki/Kelpie">aquatic equines</a>, seaweed-strewn <a href="https://monster.fandom.com/wiki/Kelpie">Hippocampi</a>, or <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kelpie_(Dungeons_%26_Dragons)">plant monsters</a>. For my part, if we're going that route, I quite like the idea of some ancient prehistoric relative that developed <a href="https://thehorseaholic.com/the-forgotten-story-of-meat-eating-horses/">a taste for meat</a>: as Andrewsarchus is essentially a sheep in wolf's clothing, perhaps there's some hitherto undiscovered species of carnivorous horse.<br />
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Nonetheless, the human form aspect is one of the most important parts of the Kelpie myth, as surely as it is for werewolves and Selkies. As such, I figured I'd reflect that in the picture (ho ho).Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7177193073415704349.post-80123668043630734582019-10-04T18:00:00.000+01:002019-10-04T23:02:56.319+01:00BeastieScotInktoberFest: #4 - Beithir<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikl9OdkEXvDq-eB3IyTYmP8vB-wQ4Z1zWOHkfYVC0-YcW_-D5KFj0lMoN-Wsuu-oAmnRHjE3zvvGae8WmHszpFhn4-Uhk-JtNHRcRuSTULFqYxihFzRuvUr4wLpL8d0zklkir9wuKawsM0/s1600/BeastieScotInktoberFest_04_Beithir.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikl9OdkEXvDq-eB3IyTYmP8vB-wQ4Z1zWOHkfYVC0-YcW_-D5KFj0lMoN-Wsuu-oAmnRHjE3zvvGae8WmHszpFhn4-Uhk-JtNHRcRuSTULFqYxihFzRuvUr4wLpL8d0zklkir9wuKawsM0/s400/BeastieScotInktoberFest_04_Beithir.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A serpent, whenever encountered, ought to be killed. Otherwise, the encounter will prove an omen of evil. The head should be completely smashed (<i>air a spleatradh</i>) and removed to a distance from the rest of the body. Unless this is done, the serpent will again come alive. The tail, unless deprived of animation, will join the body, and the head becomes a <i>beithir</i>, the largest and most deadly kind of serpent.<br />
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The big beast of Scanlastle in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islay">Islay</a> was one of this kind. It devoured seven horses on its way to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loch_Indaal">Loch-in-daal</a>. A ship was lying at anchor in the loch at the time, and a line of barrels filled with deadly spikes, and with pieces of flesh laid upon them, was placed from the shore to the ship. Tempted by the flesh, the "loathly worm" made its way out on the barrels and was killed by the spikes and cannon.<br />
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- <i>Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland</i>, John Gregorson Campbell, 1900 </blockquote>
The <i><a href="https://nicovleeuwen.blogspot.com/2019/06/gaelic-folklore-9-beithir.html">Beithir</a> </i>is one of many serpentine creatures one can find in the folklore of Scotland - all the more unusual, since the moors & glens aren't exactly the ideal habitat for reptiles. The fact that one beast devoured seven horses (which I hinted towards in the illustration) suggests it was a mite larger than Scotland's modern reptiles, like the <a href="https://www.nature.scot/plants-animals-and-fungi/amphibians-and-reptiles/adder">adder</a> or the <a href="https://www.nature.scot/plants-animals-and-fungi/amphibians-and-reptiles/slow-worm">slow worm</a>.<br />
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Being a fan of <i>The First Fossil Hunters</i>, I also look towards prehistoric inspiration: could the <i>Beithir</i> be some long-embedded memory of the great ophidians which terrorised humanity's ancestors? The <i>Titanoboa </i>of Columbia has a lot of press nowadays, but before its discovery, the 30ft+ <i>Gigantophis</i> slithered through what is now Egypt some 40 million years ago. Scottish mythological enthusiasts will know the importance of Egypt in Scotland's cultural memory.<br />
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The <i>Beithir</i> might also be known to Dungeons & Dragons fans as a possible inspiration for the <i>Monster Manual II's</i> <a href="https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Behir">Behir</a>, another serpentine beastie ready to gobble up any unwary adventurers.Taranaichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02176999342965850175noreply@blogger.com0