give them enough rope

Favour of the Gods

So, I wasn’t going to say anything about my recent experiences here, but then I saw all the utter shite @lady-feral has been getting over the last few days, and well, I think it may actually be worth mentioning.

As background, I’ve been part of my local Heathen moot since its inception. It’s actually a regional one, meandering gently across the NW of the UK, so that all its members can get to one or two. Its purpose is for Heathens to get together, to chat and get to know each other - just generally be able to spend some time around other Heathens, and exchange knowledge if you’re new. We maintain a Facebook group for comms purposes, so we often get people wanting to join who we haven’t met first and have to make a judgement call based on FB profile. etc.

I was recently made a co-mod, because the founder and chief moderator was on holiday. We’re friends, have been for years, and he trusts my judgement. I’m also a cripple - I have Cerebral Palsy, use a wheelchair, and recently had to have half my foot amputated after it ulcerated for Some Reason.

Recently, we had a guy join, and it soon came out that he identified as Folkish.

Now, as a rule, that’s potentially a Red Flag. I say potentially, because sometimes someone doesn’t know it descends from Völkisch and associated movements. Sometimes they are just new, unaware of the toxic stew of racism, nineteenth century Romantic Nationalism, and pseudoscience. Unaware of that word implies, in many quarters. So we have two choices, being as our group requires that:  you respect the right of other group-members to be Heathen, regardless of sexuality, gender, or ethnicity or ‘race’.

1. We can instaban  and potentially alienate, isolate, or drive further into the Folkish Realms, someone who might not know what’s dodgy about such things. 

2. We can enquire about this person’s belief, where they’re coming from, and give them enough rope to hang themselves - and in the process, watch for those who might ‘Like’  or post agreement with the ever-present post courting the very thinnest edge of respectability - or even those over it, posted when the mods are busy.

As a rule, we choose 2, for our FB group. It’s better they reveal their colours online than in person. Others might handle such a thing in another way, and that’s fine too. To cut a long story short, this person eventually launched into a classic anti semitic rant, not to mention mention a whole bunch of pseudoscience.

(That creaking sound you hear is the sound of someone hanging themselves on the provided rope.)
What has this got to do with the crap @lady-feral is getting? Well, I got a message from said arsehole - changing my message nickname to “Fake Heathen” and then informing me he was glad that the gods “[D]id not favour me in this life :D”

I assume he meant this as some sort of You’re not Heathen, because the gods hate you so much they allowed you to be crippled implication? I don’t know - it was confusing, because he’s obviously not read the Havamal, which pretty much suggests it’s better to be crippled, than, y’know, dead.

When you’ve got a combat veteran getting shit for activism from armchair warriors who think War and Warriors are Great, either because she believes in a world where things could be better for minorities and that Fascism and White Supremacy are ridiculous and dangerous and should be resisted, or because she happens to be a woman?

(Multiple sources suggest the Allfather was-as-a-woman on various occasions, just fyi.)

When you’ve got a disabled person being told the gods did not favour them, despite surviving things that kill thousands every year, having a loving family, partner, and just enough to live comfortably, in a place they own?

When that person could have died - and in fact pretty much did, but came the fuck back?

You begin to understand that for some of these folks will always  move the goalposts. You will never ever be right, or a proper/real Heathen unless you’re exactly like them. The things about you they dislike, that they are disgusted by so badly that they want you gone unless you fit their cookie cutter mould?

If you’re OK, if you gain continued life when you should be dead? That threatens the fact that they’re the favoured ones. If you, the supposedly degenerate, the vile  continue to prosper?  To face your wyrd  head on, and grin and smile, despite its bindings?

What would that say about them?

It might suggest that they were not supreme, favoured. That their vaunted, non-existent, genetic purity, is not enough

Because those other-than-them still exist, and despite the attempts to eliminate or cow those folks, we still exist. We remain and that bothers the shit out of them. Because an industrialised war machine couldn’t stop us; it could slaughter thousands, millions of us, even, but still we remain.

Nevertheless, she, and we, persisted. 

And still they beat us, still they try to kill us. Still they surge with the momentary high of destroying the things, the symbols, the people  they hate. “This is our world, our faith, our country.” they proclaim as they kick, they punch, they smash. It makes them to feel good to exert their power, gives them agency, because they feel outnumbered.

But the rush fades, the adrenalin drops. They look and see another target, and another and another. So they take a knife, a gun, a bomb and they kill many, knowing they’ll be caught, caged, or more probably killed. They dream, they beg, for their life to be filled with that agency, for their last moments to be making some sort of change.

They don’t want to be their ordinary selves, because their ordinary selves could be run over by a bus. They could die on the toilet for fucks sake, a stroke, an aneurysm, a heart attack. Cheek pressing tile, watching the dark unfurl amidst the pain, wondering what it was all for. Or, perhaps even worse, they could survive the stroke, become crippled, need a wheelchair, require someone to wipe their arse.

They could become one of us.

We are a reminder of what could be, what wyrd  might deal them. Might bind them tight as a weaver can. They dream of the onrush, perhaps desire Valhalla, or a martyrs heaven. Because it’s the same impulse that drove the Crusaders, the same that drives Daesh - filled with the rush, Us against Them. And truly, they feel alone, lost without it. 

Of course, a byproduct of such things, of any tight knit group is access to shared resources - the Templars grew rich enough to be a bank, PMC’s profit in warzones the world over and Daesh gains funding from drugs, from selling off stolen antiquities   

Money and power, weapons and land and numbers, exclusion and castigation. All ways to demonstrate agency when others have none, to demonstrate the favour of god(s), the apparent superiority of their group, their Way over another.

(Except gods, especially Heathen ones, are notoriously fickle  according to the lore - Odin’s heroes are often deserted mid-battle. One Eye’s spear flies over both sets of combatants, after all. Whatever happens, he wins.)

Both sides, Them, and Us, are defined by the other.

Those who claim superiority are constantly measuring themselves against those they deem inferior. Even if they exterminated, removed, or exiled themselves from the realm of their so-called inferiors? Then they would not be superior - merely all there was, to rise or fall on their own merits, their own ability or lack thereof to navigate whatever structures were in place - they would make their own scapegoats, would find others to blame, even within themselves.

Those they hate, fear, are disgusted by, are well used to the limitations, the way wyrd - that weaving of consequence, of action and reaction - might render the path you’re on crooked. Yet still we prosper - still some of us know the onrush of poetry and song, of word from word giving word from us.

Some of us are bound noose-tight, the limitations of our life allowing us a joy, a surging fury that infuses everything in our life. Perhaps this a god’s favour? To have joy despite being the the thing that so many fear, despite being the horrible reminder of what may be dealt to us, by a universe that is not, nor will it ever be, ours to control.

I know that I cannot control any hate slung my way after this. If and when any comes my way, I’ll shrug. If this gets reblogged, mocked and torn to pieces, so be it. If people choose to do that, if it makes them feel better, so be it. If leaving a reply gives you the rush of a need satisfied, or an urge to troll go for it. 

I really have had worse, and I’m still here. If you want to join the myriad people who’ve pointed and laughed, mocked, thrown stones both literal and metaphorical, be aware that this is nothing clever, that you’re not distinguishing yourself from anyone. You’re literally nothing new.

I remain. I’m here and now, and the fact is, some of you who hate me for what I am? Some of you may become like me. I look forward to the day when you finally bring yourself to look in the mirror and see me there too, waiting.

What I’m working on - 

“I don’t see how throwing you in the volcano would do anything to prevent it from erupting,” Volstagg complained. He could find no way of untying or loosening the ropes. Loki was trussed up too well. Whoever had bound him knew what they were doing. Volstagg grimaced as he brought his axe forth and began sawing carefully at a spot near Loki’s elbow. He hoped if he could at least get one of Loki’s arms free, then the young prince could then lend aid in freeing himself.

“They think a sacrifice will pacify their gods,” Loki said.

“Even so,” Volstagg stopped working at the ropes long enough to give them a good tug. Loki’s whole body jerked toward him, but his bindings held. Loki shot him a nasty glare. Volstagg offered up a look of chagrin as apology before taking the axe blade back to the rope and resumed sawing. “I thought their chieftain said only virgins would suffice?”

“Just untie me!”

holdinglines  asked:

I don't know which would be better: the Detective not figuring out there's something supernatural going on for more than one book, or them giving team bravo enough rope to hang themselves with

I always enjoy those kinds of stories where there’s a BIG secret and a mess ends up happening as things get more and more complicated to keep the secret :D

Though, keeping secrets never tends to end well…

Thank you for your message!

Parent-Teacher Conference

For the wonderful zilleniose!


Delethia Robinson opened the drawer of her desk and looked longingly at the packet of Marlboro’s she had in there. She hadn’t felt the urge to smoke since she was pregnant with her first son, Benjamin. And that had been thirty years ago.

But then she had never had any students like the Pines triplets before. 

With a shudder she shut the drawer and ran her fingers through her rapidly graying afro. Hopefully things would change, one way or the other, after this parent-teacher conference.

Speaking of which…

Mr. and Mrs. Pines entered the room. Mrs. Pines was five foot nothing, had long brown hair pulled back in a head band, and despite easily being in her mid-thirties at least, was wearing light up sneakers, a pink sweater with five cats shooting lasers from their eyes, and earrings of stars with wing like appendages from them. Her wrists jangled with the weight of all the bracelets she had on them, and her nails were painted a different color on each finger.

Mr. Pines, who had to duck to come in the room, dwarfed his wife, having to be at least six and a half feet. Like his children, he had both red curly hair and thick rimmed glasses. He was dressed far more conservatively than his wife, in slacks, a plaid collared button up, and a sweater vest. Though Mrs. Robinson had never seen a sweater vest that had obviously been crocheted at home before.

“Sorry we’re late! We stopped by the playground on the way in to make sure the kids were okay!” Mrs. Pines exclaimed. Mrs. Robinson had a feeling that that was the way that the triplets’ mother talked all the time.

“That is okay Mrs-”

“Oh please, call me Mabel! Mrs. Pines is my mom!” (And was it her or was there a shadow that passed over Mrs. P-Mabel’s face as she said that?)

“I’m Henry,” Mr. Pines followed, smiling gently, as Mrs. Robinson shook both of their hands.

They sat down, and after a minute of Henry trying to fit his frame in a desk that usually contained third graders, Mrs. Robinson began. 

“First of all, may I please assure you that your children are doing fine, and are not in trouble,” Mrs. Robinson began. She didn’t miss the relieved looks that passed between Mabel and Henry.

However,” she went on, “there are some things they have done the last few weeks that gives me great cause for concern.”

Mabel reached for Henry’s hand, and he clasped it in his own. “Like what?” Mabel asked, her effervescence now muted slightly. 

“I have reason to believe that your children are…are involved in demon summoning.”

Mr. and Mrs. Pines looked nowhere near as upset as she thought they would be (should be) but Mrs. Robinson continued on.

“There’s a sweater that Acacia constantly wears that has a summoning circle of some type on it….a circle I fear is for one of the greater demons.”

Not only was there a lack of response, but she could have sworn that Mrs. Pines was trying her best not to smile. 

“I’ve seen Hank and Willow floating in midair a few times after school lets out for the day, Hank refers to trading food at lunch as ‘making deals’, and then this morning I found this.

With distaste, she pulled out the paper with a rough circle on it that had made Mrs. Robinson almost throw up when she saw it earlier that day and recognized what it was.

She placed it on the desk between her and the Pines so they could see the eight symbols, the roughly drawn eight pointed star, the sigil which looked discomfortingly familiar to Mrs. Pines’ earrings in the middle.

“This…” and she couldn’t help the slight shake in her voice. “is for summoning Alcor, the Dreambender. Third graders. I don’t wish to make any accusations against you two or how you choose to parent, but this gives me great cause for concern.”

She looked up from the offending piece of paper to see that there was no concern at all on Mr. and Mrs. Pines’ faces.

Oh they were feigning it really well, and Mr. Pines almost had it nailed down, but Mrs. Robinson had been wrangling third graders for twenty five years, and she knew a bullshit job when she saw one.

Finally, Mr. Pines said, “This is cause for concern indeed, and we will of course bring it up with the kids, and see where they got this from.” But he looked far too relaxed, and Mrs. Pines still had that maddening almost smile on her face, looked like she was on the brink of laughter.

Mrs. Robinson waited, silently. She had found when dealing with both students and their parents it was best to give them enough rope to hang themselves with.

“I really don’t know where they could have gotten that from,” Mrs. Pines managed to get out, and in any other situation, Mrs. Robinson would have grudgingly been impressed with the way Mabel kept a snerk, giggle, or snort from her voice.

Mrs. Pines went to take the piece of paper from the desk, getting out of her chair as she did. “Well, we’ll make sure the kids realize how, how serious this is, thanks for letting us know and-“

Sit down Mabel Pines.”

Mabel Pines may have been in her mid-thirties, owner of a successful business, married and with three children, but some voices went straight to the spine and hind brain and demanded to be listened to.

Mr. Pines straightened out of his slump to loom a little taller.

Mrs. Robinson was not so easily intimidated. “I have been teaching at this school for thirty years,” she started, disgust dripping from her voice. “And I have had to call CPS six times in my career on parents who abused and neglected their children. But I have never, ever seen such callous disregard in my life like I see in you two now. This isn’t just the physical safety of your children at risk but their souls. Does that not even bother you? Do you two even care?

Two spots of red had appeared on Mabel’s cheekbones, and Henry’s hands were shaking slightly, but Mrs. Robinson went on.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call Child Protective Services or the police right now.”

Mrs. Pines opened her mouth, probably to begin to shout, but Mr. Pines gently took her hand in his.

“Mabel….we should tell her.”

She looked in her husband’s eyes, completely ignoring Mrs. Robinson.

“I don’t want to make things worse,” she said quietly.

Mr. Pines raised an eyebrow. “Don’t think they can get any worse-“

Mrs. Robinson snapped her fingers between the two of them and they both turned to stare at her.

“This is not the time for fun or games, I want an explanation in the next thirty seconds or I call CPS in Bend.”

Mabel silently plucked the piece of paper from the desk. As she did so, Mrs. Robinson noticed for the first time that her hands were covered in calluses, scars, and scabs.

What kind of people were these parents?

She, oh god she was picking a scab on her thumb and placing it onto the paper-

Before Mrs. Robinson had a chance to react, Mrs. Pines simply said, “Bro-bro, can you come here for a second?”

There was no smoke, no roars, no smell of sulphur, no flash of fangs and claws.

Simply a desk that one minute was unoccupied and the next was filled with a man who looked remarkably similar to Mabel.

Though Mabel and the man had diametrically opposite senses of fashion.

And Mabel didn’t have bat wings springing from her back.

Or black sclera and gold irises.

“Mabes?” the man-no, the demon, asked. “Um, what’s going on? Also, I’m pretty sure I left the oven on so I may need to get back soon…”

Mabel looked at Mrs. Robinson.

“May I introduce you to my brother, Dipper Pines?”

The demon sheepishly waved. Mabel took a deep breath.

“Also known as Alcor the Dreambender.”

Mrs. Robinson had seen everything the world could possibly throw at her over thirty years of teaching elementary school, and that included the Great Gerbil Eating Incident of 2002.

But this….this….

Mrs. Robinson fainted for the first and last time in her life.

sabimacm  asked:

Does iQIYI not realize that if they keep sprouting this bullshit that whenever the case between Kris n SM does come to an end that Kris could turn around and use then to for defamation of character? Like they can not be this dumb like for real. Just like that old saying goes 'if you give them enough rope they'll eventually hang themselves' I'm glad Kris is staying silent.


And I want to inform all of my followers that, it’s just a beginning. Haters and some social media are still trying to make up rumors to defame Kris.

In the next days, there will be a lot of rumors slandering Kris by all means. No matter what you hear, what you see, think it over please.

What type of person he is, I believe as his fans deep down we clearly know. So please do not easily believe in any rumors about him.

And don’t forget, as a fans of Yifan, you are NOT alone.

lemondropporfavor  asked:

If my last q came through before I finished it, and I think it did, here is the end of it. The TPs know exactly who buys their bullshit. It is the idiots that believe absolutely everything they read. Therefore they cater to that. We are a tight group on here who believe what we believe. We don't contact TPs. We are not sources. We don't live on opposiing blogs ramming our beliefs down their throats. We are a minority, therefore they don't pander to us. The TPs pray we are wrong.

I only got this my dear…but it’s awesome!

You speak the truth.  The only ppl really reading and believing the TP’s crapola are everyday schmoes that don’t really pay attention to anyone particular celebrity or actor.  But in regards to Rob and Kristen the only ppl that pay attention that are actually part of the fandom are the ssesbians.  

The ppl that either want Rob or Kristen for themselves and they are happy to feast on whatever flavor of manure the TPs happen to be serving that day if it gives them the peace of mind that Rob and Kristen are not with EACH OTHER.

There are also those special brand of ppl that are neither fans of either but somehow and for whatever reason only a mental professional could ever uncover, pay perhaps more attention to them than those of us that claim actual fan/supporter status.

I think this fandom has know since the beginning that as long as Rob and Kristen were together no one from the outside stood a shot at either of them.  The pull between the two was palpable and strong and could not be missed.

But you are also right that those of us STILL beating the RK drum are a relatively small tight knit minority in the fandom.  Even some of the ones that are just fans have given up on RK even if in their heart of hearts they would love to see them still together. 

It is unfortunate that ppl felt this somehow is an affront to their sensibilities.  But of course this says way more about the pathetic nature of these ppl’s lives that rather than root for a young couple in love they would do whatever is in their power to root against it.

But then there’s the faction that actively berate us for “telling tales” of RK’s happiness, marriage and babies while selling stories to the TPs along with doctored photos.

Why these ppl do this I will never understand.  What they hope to gain is a mystery.  But I’ve never had a desire or want to sell my postings to a TP.  Nor have I ever felt the need to doctor a pic of RK together in order to mislead my followers.

You are either here with me because you saw the same things back prior to 2013 that I saw and you also saw the same things since that I have seen.  Add to that your own common sense has led you to the same conclusions I’ve espoused over and over day after day here.  

I may have been able to get a smidgen more information that I have shared as much as I feel comfortable sharing while also straddling some amorphous line between what I think we as fans can know but still allowing Rob and Kristen some semblance of privacy.  Not to mention knowing that the TPs are ever present and not willing  to give them enough rope to put two and two together in order to find what I was able to uncover knowing full well that they have no such moral compass and would not hesitate one second to reveal EVERYTHING.