Euglena

Currently on a Silmarillion obsession. I put there whatever I find funny, interesting or would like to share with somebody. Adult

[mylordshesacactus]

For all that the 1800s etiquette guides are--obviously--derangedly sexist from a modern perspective? They're also mindblowing in how casually they will assert things that MODERN DAY CONSERVATIVES would scream and cry and shit their pants about.

"People back then always married young it's natural!!!" Every single 1800s guide I've ever met casually mentions that, of course, you really shouldn't get married before you're at least 20, and waiting until 25 is usually better.

Or, like. Okay here's a long segment:

Just firmly going "it is crazy sexist to blame The Wife for overspending when thirty seconds of asking questions will immediately establish that her husband was outright lying to her about how much money they had. Talk to your wife like a normal person."

Or--okay, here. A section on being honest and not writing love letters in secret, because that's usually a good sign that there's something untoward going on....

....except that he then immediately acknowledges that sometimes, the reason you're hiding this from your parents is that your parents suck. That there are parents who frankly have not earned the right to approve or disapprove of your partner.

(I realize the phrasing there sounds a lot less strong than my summary, but--trust me on this. When you're familiar with the narrative voice of these kinds of books, this passage is downright radical. The mere acknowledgement that if you treat your kids badly, it's your own damn fault when they don't talk to you? I've genuinely never seen that before in this genre. Don't freak out over "properly trained", either. It's just a linguistic shift--at the time, "training" was used the way we would say "raising" a child today. )

[mylordshesacactus]

"Delete all the nudes and sexts after a breakup or you're a piece of shit" has been the standard expectation since EIGHT. TEEN. EIGHTY. FIVE.

[mylordshesacactus]

"Men and women being friends with each other is literally normal. Don't be a controlling freak."

Anyway I was wrong the publishing date is actually 1882 so like.

[mylordshesacactus]

"If you have to abuse a child to keep order in your classroom then you're a bad teacher."

So like @ the modern Republican party, are the "traditional family values" in the fucking room with us right now--

[tsunflowers]

reading a historical romance novel and reflecting on the way these stories often present woke nobility for the contemporary reader. a big thing is servants. you can’t not have servants in those times but many modern readers think “but I would never have servants. it would be so weird to have servants” and in order to make the protagonists of the story more relatable they are actually friends with the servants. but flip your perspective and think of it from the side of the servants. wouldn’t it be so awful if your boss was always trying to be friends with you. a really common thing you’ll see is the woke baronet having tea in the kitchen with the servants bc he’s not like other baronets. but what if your boss wanted to hang out and talk during your lunch break every day. not so charming when you think about it that way

[ariaste]

#okay but now what is the optimal way to be a good boss in this situation i genuinely wanna know#its easy to guess what makes a bad boss or a mid boss. but what is a good boss#specifically in such a highly structured hierarchal situation (via @rainbowroach)

HELLO you are asking questions that literature and poetry THROUGHOUT the middle ages has asked, and it is from this questioning that we derive things like the Codes of Chivalry (which is not "how to treat a noble lady really nice" but is actually "how to be an ethical person when you're rich and you own a horse" and includes such things as "don't run people over with your horse")

In fact I daresay you already know instinctively just from cultural osmosis what a good boss -- a good liege lord -- is and does based on the tropes that have survived to the current day and the kinds of things that get Hugely Praised in things like legends of King Arthur.

A good boss (liege lord) is:

Merciful. He is not having his peasants killed for things like poaching rabbits during a famine. In fact, he is working to mitigate famine. During times of individual hardship, he might negotiate with a peasant for a payment plan on their annual rent.

Patient. He is not impulsive, he does not lose his temper.

Prudent. He makes choices that are thoughtful, considered, conservative (in the sense of not needlessly risky--he's not investing his entire fortune in having everyone plant an unproven crop). He is making sure local infrastructure like roads and public buildings are maintained and kept in good nick.

Gentle. He doesn't haul off and slap a servant or a tenant for breaking a dish or making a mistake. He doesn't abuse animals, his wife or children, or his employees. He doesn't rape the servants.

Generous (both in money and in spirit). He is not extorting the peasants for an amount of rent that is beyond their means, he is not raising taxes every year to cover his own lavish lifestyle. He is paying his servants a living wage (or, if wages are low, he's giving them room/board/clothing to make up the difference). If someone in a tenant's family dies, the lord is sending a gift of condolence, or helping to pay for the funeral, or possibly even ATTENDING the funeral and speaking a few kind words about the deceased, ESPECIALLY if they were a really upstanding and important member of the community. If one of his tenants is gravely sick, the lord is sending a basket of food or paying for a doctor. He is giving charitably (generally this will be, like, a bequest to the church so that they can run a hospital or an orphanage or a school for the local village children).

Pious. This classically means "goes to church, submits with humility to God" but to me this quality is subtextually standing in for "maintaining an ongoing sense of Perspective that HE'S not god, that there are higher powers he is Accountable to, that he too can be Judged, etc, so that he doesn't end up going on a weird fucked up power trip"

Humble. One of the most admiring things you hear about a lord doing in literature and epic poetry is, "He ate off of wooden plates while his followers ate off of gold and silver." Humility isn't about being meek, it's just about not thinking so much of yourself that you turn your nose up and sneer at what "lesser" people do. In other words: Don't be a fucking diva. If your carriage gets stuck in the mud, climb out and help everybody else push, you're not gonna die from getting mud on your shoes.

Condescending. This word has changed wildly in meaning/tone over the last couple centuries -- it's now a rude thing to do (because we've done away with legal social hierarchies, so someone acting like they're lowering themselves to your level IS insulting), but in older times, a high-ranking person "condescending" to a servant was worthy of praise and admiration: it means they were setting aside rank and privilege to speak to them with the easygoing, friendly respect and compassion they'd give a peer. This is things like... Treats those beneath him with courtesy and respect (ie: listens soberly and attentively when one of his servants or tenants comes to complain about a problem). Having a sense of humor and kindness about it when the lord and a servant both come around a corner at the same time and run into each other and the servant gets knocked to the ground and starts babbling apologies--the condescending (positive) lord helps them to their feet with his own hands and cracks a joke to show them that it's ok (as opposed to just walking off without a word or insulting/scolding them). This is also things like trusting a farmer, woodcutter, or artisan to speak with expertise about their own livelihood and taking their advice into consideration if they tell the lord that one of his ideas won't work.

Good boundaries. The ethical liege lord knows that it's normal for the staff to probably be softly bitching about him in private (even with a really good boss, we all grumble from time to time). He's not eavesdropping on them, he's not going into the staff areas where they should reasonably expect to have a degree of privacy, etc.

Righteous and protective of "the weak". The "weak" here doesn't necessarily mean physically weak, this is often used in the sense of someone politically or socially weak, aka The Marginalized -- the poor, the disabled, women, children, the elderly, etc. If a lord sees someone like this being mistreated or abused, he's supposed to step in and put a stop to that.

Committed to reciprocity. In a highly hierarchical system like feudalism, every person (from the lowest peasant all the way up to the crown prince) legally OWES their liege lord certain things (taxes, labor, service, loyalty, etc). A good liege remembers and takes very seriously the idea that this should be a balanced and reciprocal relationship -- in other words, he owes something BACK. Feudalism is modeled very strongly on the family system: If children owe their parents obedience and service, then parents owe their children care and protection. This still applies when the "child" is a farmer and the "parent" is a local baron. Or when the "child" is a duke and the "parent" is the king.

Basically, we get so caught up in the aesthetics of nobility that we forget that it literally is a managerial position that comes with responsibilities that were... very similar back in the day to the same ones we have now. Humans have not changed all that much. At the end of the day, a really good boss in the 1400s versus in one from the 2020s displays most of the same qualities of personality, even if the details of execution are different.

The next question is, of course, "well, but this theoretical liege lord is HIGHLY idealized -- how often did that actually HAPPEN? Wasn't it more likely that everyone was exploited all the time?" and to that I say: Well, maybe. But again, I don't think humans have changed all that much. Just like the bosses of today, there's a SPECTRUM: A really really good boss is rare and precious and one that you tell stories about for years after you've left that job, but a truly, genuinely, homicidally nightmarish boss is also pretty rare. Most bosses are sort of meh -- they have their good moments, they have their shitty moments, but they're tolerable and you can get along with them well enough to do your job, and then you roll your eyes at them behind their back. Generally, humans don't take outright exploitation lying down. Being a bad boss in the historical period is how you get peasant uprisings and revolts, and you know that to be true because your parents raised you with that knowledge, so unless you are very stupid or inbred or an egomaniac, there is literal personal incentive to at minimum be a Tolerable liege lord. And that means hitting at least SOME of the above bullet points.

TL;DR: In the words of Honore de Balzac, "Everything I have just told you can be summarized by an old word: noblesse oblige!"

(for more discussions of the ethics of fealty and what it means to be a good boss when you are an exquisitely beautiful twink of a prince with a hot beefy bodyguard.... [fingerguns] read A Taste of Gold and Iron)

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if Ciri struggles with doing basic things, when Geralt first finds her. After all, she’s a princess, a noble—why would she have ever had to know how to wash or style her hair, mend her clothes, barter for items at the market?

It takes Geralt an embarrassingly long time to realize that she’s struggling with these things, and he probably never would have, if not for Jaskier’s help. Jaskier, who he stumbled upon in his travels and begged to come with him. Jaskier, who is already so much better with Ciri, showing her how to braid her hair and fix holes in her pants. Jaskier, who just always seemed to know these things, and Geralt’s never questioned it before, but now…

It’s as Jaskier and Geralt are sitting across from each other around the embers of their campfire, Ciri already fast asleep, that Geralt finally asks Jaskier who taught him all this stuff. Why he, as a viscount, wasn’t just as lost as Ciri was when Geralt met him.

And when Jaskier speaks, it is after enough time passing that Geralt has begun to wonder if the bard had fallen asleep sitting up with his eyes open. And it would be humorous, truly, but Geralt knows when Jaskier is conscious and silent, he ought to be concerned.

It was a lesson he learned painfully early on.

Jaskier eventually speaks though, which is good, but Geralt gets the distinct feeling the bard wishes he wasn’t telling this story. That he would have been happier, if Geralt had continued to be ignorant about this aspect of the bard’s life.

And it hits Geralt, suddenly, that if even after over two decades together, Jaskier has not told him this story, it must be for a reason. Likely a good one.

But Geralt was never taught how to re-bury unearthed pains, not in any way that truly works, so he forces himself instead to listen as Jaskier speaks of a caravan of travelers and forbidden friendships. Of a boy with eyes like the earth who visited each winter and left in the spring, bags laden with whatever sweet treats Jaskier was able to nab from the kitchen.

He hears more than sees Jaskier’s smile as he speaks of playing hide and seek in the woods, building bedrolls from stolen linens, and naming constellations without a care for the way their vapored breaths blocked their views.

And they were happy. That mattered, it did, even if it wasn’t a grand happiness. They were children, they had no need for anything but that small happiness.

But then the one winter the boy came back empty. Taller and stronger and eyes a brilliant yellow-green. But gone, in all the ways that mattered.

(And it did. Matter, that is. Even if it was only to one other little boy, it mattered. It wasn’t enough to change anything, to make a difference, but it still—he, the boy they’d taken, he still—)

The next winter was worse, because the boy came back with a broken arm. And even though he wasn’t the boy Jaskier once knew, when he snuck this new boy into his own bath, made attempt after attempt to braid his hair, and played his lute for him, his smile was still there. Not as strong, not as bright, but it was—Jaskier had seen it, it had been there, and it mattered.

Mattered when the boy left in the spring, a small upturn of his lips just for Jaskier.

Mattered when the caravan came back the next year, and the boy was gone.

Gone in a way Jaskier couldn’t bring back this time.

Geralt watches as the bard lays down, fingers rubbing the bedroll underneath him as he looks up at the stars.

The witcher wonders if Jaskier approached him that day in Posada, thinking of the boy. If the reason Geralt is still alive is because the witcher-to-be taught a viscount’s son something as useless for him as how to use a needle and thread. If he owes his life to a fellow witcher’s death, one he never even got the chance to meet.

But Geralt doesn’t have the words for that, will never have the words for that.

He points up at the sky and whispers, voice low, that Orion’s Belt looks bright tonight.

The bard humms, a small upturn of his lips as he wordlessly agrees.

(It might not be the words of comfort Geralt wants to say, the hug he can’t bring himself to offer. But it’s what Geralt is able to give, and give freely.

And that…

That matters, too.)

[fickleartdump]

never not thinking about finrod celebrimbor parallells i fear.

[yashmel]

A short comic about Sauron's motivation for a character ask. I guess this is more of an AU thing, though it doesn't directly contradict the canon, as far as I know.

Also, I finally emerged from the depths of burnout! The sketch for this comic was made back in December, but for half a year I had literally no energy to finish it. I'm really glad I finally managed to!

[daryatbakerst]

i bet you've missed my watson whump scenarios because here's another one:

holmes has been particularly cross with watson lately. the latest few cases have all gone unsolved, or have rather failed completely, and what do they have in common? a task that holmes has given watson to complete to advance the investigation.

holmes trust in his biographer begins to dwindle, and watson can feel it. when the next case comes along, holmes, naturally, asks watson to accompany him because he just doesn't do cases without watson by his side anymore, but watson declines due to the recent misfortunes. holmes completely blows up, and the two of them get into a serious fight in which holmes makes some rather cruel deductions and quite openly calls watson rather useless.

they make up after that, and all seems back to normal, more or less. more or less, because while watson doesn't hold grudges, he won't forget those words as quickly. and so, whenever there's a new investigation, watson does everything in his power, lifts every rock, and holds open every door, just to prove himself. the little cold he caught a day before? pah! what holmes doesn't know (and is too busy to deduce) can't hurt him.

will watson faint like a swooning maiden because his body has decided to force a shutdown? will holmes get his shit together and stop watson before he works himself into two weeks of bed rest? will watson contribute to the case before being too weak to get up one morning? you decide! the only condition is that both of them apologize - holmes for his words, watson for his recklessness - and cuddle. thats all.

john h "i need to prove myself useful and be useful 24/7 for holmes to need me" watson they can never make me hate you

[blue-to-blue]

lord of eregion, land of holly

[outofangband]

The existence of Ancalagon is horrifying in every way. To anything and everything he encounters and for himself.

Ancalagon is an anomaly. Far too large to live in any meaningful way. He was born to die in the War of Wrath and to take as much of the world with him as he could.

He is created from thousands of parts. He is erratic, fragmented. He is constantly in agony.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds died in his development. Elven thralls who were forced to aid in and die for the creation of a weapon meant to destroy their homes and people. Those some of his parts came from. Those who simply got too close.

Bones fracture when his wings expand, acrid blood falls from the sky, staining the rocks of Thangorodrim, long before Eärendil lands a single wound to him

His flesh and bones poison the earth, the sky, the water.

His entire existence is cruel and sad and painful and destructive.

[fanficideasupforgrabs]

Imagine if there was an innkeeper/tavern owner named Dawidek. Dawidek likes what he does for a living, likes watching the people in his small town gather at his tavern at night to sing and drink. He likes the occasional traveler that makes their way to his establishment, the stories and news they have.

What he does not like, however, is the bard that is currently singing the most morose songs known to man.

Well.

Let him clarify.

He does not like that it is this bard, Jaskier, singing such depressing lyrics when in the two decades he’s known the man, he’s never seen him be anything but cheery. It’s almost unnatural, really, how happy he always was, practically bouncing around that witcher he liked to follow.

And Jaskier was so much better for business when he sang songs of his witcher, enticing townsfolk with tales of adventure and danger.

But that man was gone now, just a shadow of who he once was. If Dawidek was a betting man, he’d put his coin on that having something to do with the loss of the bard’s golden-eyed shadow. Dawidek didn’t know what had happened, and was a little worried the bard would simply burst into tears if he asked, fragile as the man currently was, but he had to do something! Surely he wasn’t the only one to have noticed this problem and have the desire to fix it. He couldn’t be the only tavern owner suffering from the bard’s misery, so—

Oh. Hmm.

Dawidek called for his son, already grinning at the perfect solution for this issue.

The bard simply needed a new muse, a new witcher.

And they could definitely do something about that.

~•~

It didn’t take Jaskier long to figure out what was going on. Longer than it should have, perhaps, but he’d blame that on the fact he spent more time drunk than sober in the past few months. But still, he was a master of the seven liberal arts, he knew a pattern when he saw one.

One inn only having a single room left for the night was not that uncommon. For the room to have two beds, and Jaskier being required to share with a complete stranger? A bit unusual, but still not the weirdest thing Jaskier’s dealt with in his travels. For it to be a witcher he’s sharing the room with? Okay, still, never happened before, but he understands he has a reputation, and that others may not feel as at ease with witchers as he does. And, it has been a rather rainy spring…

But then it happens again. And again. And again.

And Jaskier isn’t stupid. He knows what’s happening, sees it clear as day when every innkeeper looks behind him when he leaves his room each morning, looking so disappointed. Honestly, Jaskier would be offended otherwise, if he didn’t know they were just trying to help.

However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t very quickly reaching his limit with being foisted from witcher to witcher, like he was a child in need of a babysitter. He was fortunate enough that the ones he’d met so far had at least heard of him, and while most didn’t seem very enthused about sharing their room, they weren’t outright hostile.

That being said, after the last night he’d spent with a particularly onerous viper, he’d come to the mental decision that whichever witcher he met next would be the last. Surely he could convince whoever he ended up with that the benefits of a personal barker far outweighed the cons, if only for the coin he brought in as a rather well-known bard.

So as he made his way upstairs, to share a room with another witcher for the 11th—no, 12th—time, he hoped this one would be, at the very least, a better conversationalist than his first muse. Maybe even—

Jaskier froze, thinking at first it was the one witcher he’d been avoiding for so long, before he realized that no, this was not the White Wolf. He had white hair though, and as he turned, Jaskier couldn’t help but take note of the familiar medallion.

“I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn.”

Jaskier blinked at the gruff voice.

“What?”

The witcher raised an eyebrow.

“Come, boy, you’d have to be a fool not to see what the innkeepers have been doing.”

Jaskier blinked again, opening and closing his mouth for a second.

“I did, notice that is. But how did you…?”

The man shrugged, “witchers talk. At least when a matter arises that concerns enough of them.”

Jaskier could feel himself blushing, realizing just how this must look. He, a bard, a fraction of the age of these mighty warriors, being tossed around like an unwanted runt from witcher to witcher. This was so much worse than when he’d felt embarrassed at the innkeeper’s concern, by people he was friendly if not quite friends with.

To know that complete strangers were aware of what was happening and being forced to play along was completely mortifying.

“Right. I, uh, it’s a rather beautiful night out, so I think I’ll just—”

“Nonsense, bard. If I didn’t want you here, I would have put up a bigger fuss when the owner put me in a room with two beds.”

Jaskier froze mid-turn, trying to parse out that statement, because it almost sounded like—well, like this witcher had wanted to find him. And that—well, Jaskier had truly never considered that possibility before now.

“I am at your service then, mighty witcher! I am the illustrious bard Jaskier, singer of heroics across the continent. If you would do me the honor of bestowing upon me your name…”

Jaskier grinned brightly at the wry smile his theatrics produced.

“Vesemir.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vesemir! I—”

The witcher held up his hand.

“I actually wanted you to meet someone else, thought I’d recommend him if you were actually interested in finding another witcher to tail.”

Jaskier tilted his head, intrigued.

“And this witcher—they’d be amenable? To such an…arrangement?”

Vesemir hummed.

Jaskier stared intently at the other man, lips pursed. This hadn’t exactly what he’d been planning when he’d walked up the stairs, but it seemed a far cry better than what he was expecting. And at this point, almost anything was better than getting thrown at another witcher and hoping he “stuck”, for lack of a better word.

“What makes you think he’d want a bard? I can’t say all witchers are very eager to be, as you put it, tailed.”

Vesemir, seemingly understanding his hesitancy, merely smiled wider.

“I’ve heard him humming your songs for the past ten winters, for one. Doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it. And for two…”

Vesemir squinted at Jaskier, and the bard tried not to squirm, feeling as though he were fifteen again and being judged for his garish outfit by his father.

“I think he could use a traveling companion even more than you could.”

And that was…well.

Jaskier thought that was very promising indeed.

~•~

When the fight with Voleth Meir was over, and Geralt had finished settling his Child Surprise in a room to rest, he made his way to the great hall to find something for them both to eat. Ciri would be exhausted when she woke up, and—

Geralt froze when he took in the small mob of witchers surrounding—it couldn’t be—

“Jaskier?”

The bard—for it was the bard, somehow—turned at the sound of his name. His smile became more brittle, and Geralt pretended like it didn’t hurt, that it didn’t—

“Yes, Geralt? Did you need something?”

Geralt swallowed, trying not to show how much the words hurt him, the implication that Geralt would only want to talk to the bard because of necessity.

“I didn’t—I just—how are you here?

“He came with me.”

Geralt blinked, not having noticed that the witcher standing right next to Jaskier, closer than the others, was Eskel. His brother. Who had just looped his arm over the bard’s shoulder like they were old friends, what in Melitele’s name—

Jaskier frowned, and Geralt only just realized his face must be showing the twisting in his stomach at the friendly gesture. It didn’t bother him that Eskel had apparently replaced him. That his brother so freely welcomed the physical touch Geralt still was unable to initiate with the bard despite twenty years of friendship.

The bard wasn’t a dog to be owned. And Eskel deserved to be treated nicely, if anyone ought to have the bard traveling with them it was his kind, shy brother.

Geralt blinked, realizing he’d missed what Jaskier had said.

“Hmmm?”

“I said—” Jaskier rolled his eyes—“we’ll get back to cleaning after we finish catching up, don’t worry.”

And that was—

Geralt stared.

“‘Catching up’?”

Jaskier, for some reason, blushed. He looked…flustered, for lack of a better word, a very rare expression on the bard that Geralt had only seen maybe a handful of times.

But it wasn’t the bard who snorted, tilting his head back with a cackle.

Geralt’s eyes flew to his other brother, suppressing the urge to growl at being so blatantly mocked.

“You mean you didn’t hear? How did you miss it?”

Geralt bristled, noticing in the corner of his vision how Jaskier groaned, looking horribly embarrassed.

“Lambert—”

“Oh come on, bard, it’s a great story! You should turn it into one of your little songs, I bet it would be great at certain establishments—”

“Lambert—” Jaskier hissed again, face now beat-red.

Geralt growled, not liking how upset his brother was making his—the, bard.

“Spit it out, Lambert.”

“Well, with you out of the picture, your little bard needed a new muse.”

Jaskier shook his head, trying to interrupt, but Lambert merely spoke over him—

“Of course, he had to sleep with a dozen of us to find the right fit, but all’s well that ends well, right?”

Geralt stared, unable to even move as Jaskier tore after his brother out of the room, screaming his name.

That was…there was no way…

Geralt barely noticed as Vesemir came into the room, barking orders at the other witchers to get back to work.

Vesemir glanced around the hall, before turning to Eskel.

“Where’s the bard?”

“Chasing Lambert.”

And Vesemir—Vesemir chuckled, and said—

“At least the exercise will warm him up. He was shivering through the night at the inn when we met, despite the weather being so—”

He probably said more.

Geralt would never know.

His body and mind simultaneously decided it would be the perfect time for a nap, and he was out before his body even hit the floor.

[anattmar]

Fingolfin

[icantbotherwithusernames]

me when i grieve my homie's allo-fication

[icantbotherwithusernames]

#aroace nation

[outofangband]

Thinking about elves and color.

Elves being able to see spectrums of color that humans cannot. Shapes in the dark, the colors of movement, of water, of different forms of light.

Elves who can primarily see at night or in the depths of a forest, who experience disorientation in bright or open spaces.

Elven languages canonically have many roots related to green. I imagine some languages with hundreds of words for green, the green of light through trees in the morning, of frail ferns unfurling in the dawn of spring, of the metallic greens of raven’s or starling’s feathers, of a sickly pallor or dusty lichens.

Forms of color blindness that don’t exist among humans or are more common among elves; inability to name or distinguish colors, only seeing shades of grey, temporary color blindness arising from extreme stress or sensory deprivation.

Synesthesia in general is more common among elves and many forms involve color; smells or tastes as color, sound as color, the music of the world, in the water, felt as color. Pain or grief as color. Communicating color through ósanwë.

I just really enjoy playing with elven senses and I think there’s so many possibilities here

[anattmar]

Maedhros

[mmilhoja]

⚠️ venezuela was struck by two devastating 7.5 and 7.2 magnitude earthquakes. there are currently over 50.000+ and counting people missing and the country is severely underprepared for natural disasters.

- https://caritasvenezuela.org/donaciones/

- https://dividendovoluntario.org

- https://dona.yummyrides.com

IF YOU WANT TO HELP VENEZUELANS DURING THE CURRENT TRAGEDY, DONATE TO THE LINKS ABOVE. 🇻🇪 do not donate to the corrupt venezuelan red cross.

[pleasedontlickthewoodpolish]

I love Celebrimbor the material scientist, the research engineer, the quantum physicist. I love the idea of him teaching his apprentices with equations on blackboards and thumbnails on scrap paper before work begins in the forge. I love him running his forge like a research lab with unlimited funding and so much time. I love Celebrimbor and Narvi’s collaboration depicted as academic co-authorship. I love Eregion the university town, where scholars hold conferences and students hold informal debates in little bars. I love Eregion as a sea of curiosity and willingness to learn, with strong undercurrents of academic drama (iykyk). I love Eregion as the city of progress, but the right kind of progress, that exists in sync with the natural world, and yet elevates life beyond what nature alone can offer.

[raccoonmilf]

The most evil thing about “pet foxes” is that even if they were bred outside of a fur farm setting, are they are still genetically ranch foxes, which means people who care about them are forced to watch them die horrible deaths over and over again because the foxes were never meant to live long term

[m1ssal0t]

I know you are a very busy person, but could you go a little more into this? This is the first time I've ever heard anything about this in regards to foxes. How is it worse than how cats and dogs die?

[raccoonmilf]

To explain it as simply as possible, ranch foxes, which are the kind sold for pets and for fur, are horrifically inbred. That is how they got all those cool colors so quickly. This inbreeding, at a baseline, makes these foxes’ bodies incredibly fragile.

Next, genetic abnormalities are often attached to many color gene expressions. Think double merle dogs being deaf/blind. In foxes, this can impact things like sight, cognitive processing, blood clotting, gum growth, organ function, immune system function, their ability to be out in the sun, etc etc etc.

Scientists don’t know all of the ways specific color expressions hurt foxes, because it doesn’t matter enough to the people breeding them. They’re going to die anyway.

Furthermore, foxes are still wild animals. It is their instinct to look and act healthy until they are quite literally on death’s door. There’s no way to tell in most cases that they are sick until it is too late. And we have no idea how much pain they are in except in the case of very few color morphs like sapphire.

The number of times I’ve seen ranch foxes just drop dead of liver failure with no cause identified in the necropsy is painful.

I don’t like working with foxes. 1) because they smell bad and 2) because it is painful to have an animal squealing with joy at the thought of spending time with you one day, and then dropping dead the next. Or having to hold your friends’ hands when their foxes die in your car.