One thing I’d love now- if he were too walk round that corner now, in his baggy ol’ trousers and his hush puppys, sleeves rolled up, he’d say: “Suns over the yard arm, mate, come on! Lets have a little tincher.” - I’d love that to happen… I’d give my right arm to have that happen.
—  Frazer Hines (MythMakers interview about Patrick Troughton.)

There are many reasons why she is drawn to Rolf. The way he radiates peace, a still pool of calm in the middle of the wild storm the world makes as it goes by. The way he tilts his head just so and smiles, lopsided and with crows feet forming at the corners of his eyes. The way he simply smiles when she wears her homemade charms to ward off the nargles, does not sneer - does not even think to sneer. His pure, childlike naivete as he watches the world.

It is his love for the stories, however, which truly draw her to him. Stories the rest of the wizarding world harshly dismisses, shutting their ears and calling these storytellers animalscreaturesinhuman.

It is the stories no one else wants to tell, says her father as he bends over his printing presses, making sure the spells laying the typesets in place are working without any glitches, that we must tell.

And there are so many stories, she knows, that the wizarding world will never tell. Stories which she has spent her life listening to as she drifted through school, lonely and estranged from her fellow classmates. Stories a house elf named Dobby tells her. Stories a centaur named Firenze tells her - and later, other centaurs will learn to trust the fae-like young wand-waver who dares enter their forests, for she is unlike other wand-wavers for she listens. 

There are stories that have nearly killed her - the time she nearly drowned, staying underwater without breathing charms, absorbed in the tales a friendly mermaid had to tell, for example, or the time Grawp (yes, she knew about him) nearly attacked her. Stories that she has reluctantly charmed out of recalcitrant tellers - goblins at Gringotts grumbling at this curious witch yet always eager for a chance to tell their story, fae-folk hidden away in their woods long relegated to the pages of myth and legend wondering if this dreamy young child is secretly one of their own.

These are stories they have longed to tell, longed to be heard. Stories of injustices and miseries. Stories of persecution and war and genocide. Stories which tell of the past, present and future in their own words. 

She collects them all, precious gems, each with stories behind them. Stories upon stories upon stories. One day, when she and Rolf are ready, when the magical people behind these stories are ready, they will tell these stories to the wizarding world.

But it seems, Luna thinks, that the time for waiting is over; the time to tell these stories has come.

(Pics: 1, 2, 3, 4. For imgonnashoottothrill.)

I am not
the sum total of my genetic make-up combined with the reality of my experience
I am
the stories I tell about myself, changing, ever so slightly; growing, becoming a little more epic, each time they are told

You are
likely to find nothing but frustration should you play doctor
and attempt
to lance my secrets
Endeavor to separate
the story from the soul and you are likely to slaughter them both

I would
hazard a guess that were you to examine your motives closely
you would find
that mine is not the only myth you have chosen to believe


Max Mundan, Mythmaking

© David Rutter 2014

Follow me on twitter @dmr226

  • Mythmaker
  • North Folk
  • King Moonracer Demo

As I climb the ladder and tell everyone I “matter” because I go to college, and “I got out” in time. Because I’ve finally come to terms with how much I know versus how much I don’t versus how much I know I can bullshit. And I’m so tired of expecting in me, saying what I think because I fucking think it’ll save my skin. That’s the way it’s always been- a fire waiting to happen. 


and here we see dc’s myth making in action, retroactively slandering robin #2 and changing everything about jason’s personality and death:

1. last time i checked jason didn’t go back to save his mom because he was ‘angry’. anger had ?? literally nothing to do with him running in to rescue what he believed was an innocent woman about to meet the joker??????

2. jason didn’t “get him(self) killed” he was a child who was MURDERED by batman’s greatest foe

3. 'jason was always aggressive’ lol what the fuck

4. 'he was determined to one day be better than all of us, especially batman’ lmfAO oh my god im gonna laugh this is so??? completely pulled out of the writer’s asshole????? wha?????????? shut up geoff johns go to your room

– teen titans v3 29


or, that Machiavellian!Aragorn post :)

This was originally a reblog to another post and buried in my tag, but since some people have been interested, I thought I’d make it its own post. Bizarre though it may sound, this is my legit serious interpretation of Aragorn in LOTR, as a person and a political figure.

Keep reading

“This planet doesn’t need more ‘successful’ people but is in desperate need of more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers and lovers of every shape and form. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these needs have very little to do with success - the way our culture has defined it.”
David Orr 
#liveyourtruth #mythmakers #storytellers #lovers #peace #betterworld #peacemonger #mystics #jacobnordby


I am not
The sum total
Of my genetic make up
With the reality
Of my experience
I am the stories
I tell
About myself
Ever so slightly
Becoming a little more
Each time
They are told

You are likely to find
But frustration
Should you play doctor
And attempt
To lance my secrets
Endeavor to separate
The story
From the soul
You are likely
To slaughter
Them both

I would hazard a guess
If you examined
Your motives
You would find
That mine
Is not
The only myth
You have chosen
To believe

© David Rutter 2013

Watch on

Vikings centers on the world of the Dark Age raiders, traders and explorers – not from an outsider’s view but through the eyes of the Viking society. The drama follows the adventures of Ragnar Lothbrok (Fimmel), a curious, compelling man always looking to break through barriers and discover new worlds to conquer who is deeply frustrated by the unadventurous policies of local chieftain Earl Haraldson (Byrne). (x)

Harry leafs through the letters he’s holding in his hands. Seven. Seven different people, all looking to upset their finely balanced system. And there’s at least three books on his table weighing on his mind in the same way that albatrosses weigh on the minds of sailors.

The world’s not in your books and maps. It’s out there.

But that isn’t true is it? If it was, why would those three books matter so much? Why would they be sitting here, on the eve of what promises to be the biggest riot Magical Britain has seen in centuries?

It isn’t fair, he starts to whine, then stops himself. This isn’t what they’d fought for either. Not for stability. Not so that Brutus Flint could continue on in the Goblin Liaison Office, blocking every reform with his hems and haws and his favourite line: “give them a knut and they’ll take you for every galleon you’ve got.” Not so that Narcissa Malfoy could send threatening letters to The Daily Prophet for speculating that Draco Malfoy had perhaps a bit more influence than anyone with those horrid marks on their left arms deserved.

Certainly not so that he stayed up at night worrying about whether or not his next move would be met by at least three Howlers from an irate Draco Malfoy.

He looks through his letters again. One from Rolf Scamander, politely refusing to call his monograph back from the publishers - it isn’t fair to Luna or myself to demand we put aside years of hard work so that the Ministry can continue to thrive in stability. One from Theodore Nott - Dear Harry, I understand that you feel that publishing my father’s papers could cause public unrest but someone has to tell the truth at some point or the other. One from Zacharias Smith - how could you Harry? One from the elusive John Hope - this isn’t what you fought for.

“It’s a mid-life crisis,” says Hermione decisively, “Of course it would be.”

“No,” says Ron, “I mean. Don’t you feel it too?”

She raises her eyebrows at him.

“I mean. SPEW. You don’t talk about it anymore.”

Hermione crumples. A little. “It’s not like I’ve had the time.”

“I don’t think it’s about the time,” Harry says, finally, placing the letters on his desk, “It’s just. I feel dirty. Uncomfortable. We’ve just become part of it. When we weren’t watching.”

"I thought we could change it from inside,” Hermione says eventually, “That’s how they always do it.”

“In the books. And stories.”

Hermione doesn’t need to say it. They all think it. But it felt like we were living in a book.

But no, that’s not true either. That’s what the history books have told him. That’s what years of muddied memories have done to them.

“So what happens now?” Ron asks them, idly flipping through the manuscript Luna has sent Harry to read through.

“We tell Kingsley,” says Harry, “We’re not here for this.”

Ron drops the manuscript and eyes him incredulously, “You’re the Head auror,” he says accusatorily.

“I know,” Harry snaps, “And I sent an innocent man to Azkaban because I couldn’t arrest the real murderer,” he waves ineffectually at his desk, “Couldn’t it be simple for once?”

Hermione pats his head fondly and Ron, ever straightforward says, “Nah.”

“I mean,” says Harry, “We came here for this, right?” He punches Hermione lightly on the shoulder, “We could reinvent SPEW. Rope in Rolf and Luna and the rest of the lot.”

Hermione looks at Ron and Ron shrugs.

“Well,” says Hermione, “We’ve got the Goblins and Centaurs Act to clear; I’ve got a draft copy in my desk, we could probably force it through this week if we badger Kingsley enough or if you make enough noise about quitting - we could ask Luna and Rolf to talk to the Goblin and Centaur representatives, the Goblins aren’t fond of you, Harry; and then there’s the House Elf Liberation Front Act that I’ve been working on for months now, which should legalize all house elf led liberation movements and ought to improve the rights of working house elves. We could lead a campaign for the reform of diplomatic immunity rights too -”

Harry and Ron exchange glances and Ron smirks.

“Easy there, Hermione,” he drawls, “First things first.”

She looks at him and then Harry, “Oh. You mean the papers. I thought everyone knew about them.”

Ron rolls his eyes, “Not everyone reads all the way to page 33 of The Prophet, Hermione.”

Harry shrugs, “We’ll just make sure they know this time.”

And by the way her face lights up and the way Ron looks that much happier, Harry knows this is the right decision, even if it’s going to be hell for -

Well he doesn’t know. Weeks. Months. Years. But it’s time to rewrite their books. Correctly.

I’m a writer and this is what I do no matter what name we put to it. Year by year, the world is turning into a darker and stranger place than any of us could want. This is the only thing I do that has potential to shine a little further than my immediate surroundings. For me, each story is a little candle held up to the dark of night, trying to illuminate the hope for a better world where we all respect and care for each other.

On the origins of magic (1/?)

Of the breaking of the world and the coming of magic into the world - a myth of the Romans and Greeks with some Celtic influences. From Myths of Magical Europe ed. Quaxo Coricopat, Author Unknown, Year Unknown.

In the beginning, before time began, the First Man and the Sorceress lived together in a cave at the heart of the world. A homely cave it was, warm and welcoming, not too large and not too small. A fire always burnt in the centre of the cave, day and night, warning any who might look upon them with unfriendly thoughts that those who came seeking to harm and destroy would suffer and burn. Welcoming those who sought shelter from the harshness of the world.

In those days, the world was smaller and volatile and the friendly wild creatures of the world would come crawling to the cave, seeking refuge from the winds and storms which would rise up from nowhere and tear through the world. In those days, the Sorceress wove magic around these wild creatures who came to her and bid them stay and tamed them and put them to work. The Horse, the Dog, the Cow - all of these she tamed while the First Man slept and hunted; but that is another story which is better told elsewhere by others more skilled at telling these tales.

For while the First Man hunted with the Horse and Dog and kept house with the Sorceress, all was well. Together they bore a child, a son and he grew swiftly to be a strong, strapping lad. Strong of limb and fleet of foot as his father was.

In those days, Man was ageless and death could not touch him or his son. None knows how many ages passed between the coming of the First Man and the coming of death, war and treachery into the world. Suffice it to say, in the time that passed many new creatures of strange and curious shapes came into the world - strange and wonderful they were, some large, some small, some half and half, some whole. Some the Sorceress tamed and kept for her own, some she let run wild, naming them and keeping them - for one day her son might have need of them and she would have to weave the magic to summon them to her son’s side.

One day, the First Man brought home with him a new creature - like the Sorceress in form and beauty, but with no magic she could weave, like the First Man. The First Woman, he named her and bid her stay with them, share their food and share their cave with them. The Sorceress bowed her head and quietly accepted, for why she should deny a home and sustenance to one of the friendly creatures of the world?

Ah, but if only the tale ended there, the world should have been a very different place. For with the passing of time the First Woman bore the First Man a son. And one son too might have been of no consequence, but then there was a daughter, then another, and then one son after another. One after the other they came, until the Sorceress wondered if she should close the First Woman’s womb - else one of them would be forced into the wild world.

Then came the Great Cold and the First Man bid the First Woman and the Sorceress come to him.

“One of you must leave,” he said, “for we must shut the doors of this cave to keep the cold out and I cannot do so while so many live here.”

Oh but the First Woman was cunning. She fell to her knees and wept and begged. Her children were still unweaned, she sobbed, how could she leave them and take her three eldest with her? Who would feed them in her stead? Did not a child need its mother?

But the Sorceress was proud and said nothing, though she saw with second sight and the world was darkened in her eyes. She warned the First Woman that the price for her staying behind would be very high.

“There is naught you can take from me,” she replied with the arrogance of one who believes the battle won.

For two days and one night the Sorceress sat in a dark corner of the cave and thought to herself. It was time.

On the second night she wove a new magic - the first of a new kind, for it did not give life or refuge, but deceived and endangered - and summoned the strange and new creatures of the world to her.

“Will you serve my son?” she asked them.

“We will serve him if he does not hunt us, if he protects us from the First Man when he comes after us with the weapons which sting and the weapons which bite,” they answered together.

“He will not,” she said, “You have my word,” and she finished weaving her new spell and when she was finished, the creatures which had come to her could now comprehend the tongues of men, forever binding them to the the Sorceress and her son. Light magic she bestowed upon them, such that would protect them against the biting weapons and the stinging weapons of the First Man and would give them the strength to help her son.

Next she summoned her son to her and bid him sit by her.

“It is time,” she said, “for the second weaving of the new magic.”

A second magic she wove, a brewing magic, and in that she brewed the future storms of the world, setting war and conquest and revenge into it, pouring half her power into it and when it was finished, she offered it to her son in a golden cup.

“Drink it and you will have power to stand against the cold. Drink it and you will never be weak again. Drink it and all these creatures before you will serve you. Drink it and you will be like me, a weaver of magic and ruler of the world.”

Her son did not fumble or pause, but raised the cup to his lips and drank silently from it.

Then she arose from her corner and approached the First Man and First Woman, seated by the fire.

“Are you still so resolved?” she asked the First Woman.

“Take your price then,” said the First Woman, “I have naught to give.”

Then the Sorceress drew herself up to her full height, great and terrible was she to all who beheld her in that hour, dark and fearsome and powerful and the First Man and his First Woman cowered where they were seated. This was the third weaving of the new magic.

“Foolish woman,” she said and then spoke three curses, “Life, you will have - but it will be bitter and tinged with grief, for once the cold is passed death will come to you and your kind. Warmth, will you have, and weakness too, you who seek to be untouched by the cold of this world. A safe refuge and haven you will have, but be warned, for my son will never forget it was you who cast him out into the cold. Know this, foolish woman! With your selfishness you have saved your children for war, treachery and death. So it is said, so it shall be done.”

When she had finished speaking, the earth shook and a chill wind that seeped into their bones and froze their marrow swept through the cave extinguishing the fire which had always burnt in the heart of the cave. Cold it crept through their veins, slowly draining the warm life that coursed through them. But the Sorceress’ son stood tall and proud, for the warmth of life that had been so drained from the First Man and First Woman and their children still ran strong in him.

And in that hour he rose his hand and spoke and commanded that fire be brought forth, for his heart was darkened when he saw that the fire he had known and loved had gone out, and it came about that there was fire because he spoke. Pity stirred his heart as he looked upon his father and his brothers and sisters and the fire he gave to the First Man, his father, and the First Woman, his not-mother to keep, to warm them through the Great Cold.

“In better times I will not be as merciful,” he warned them and with that he and his mother departed from the cave at the heart of the world, into the Great Cold.

So it was and so it ever shall be that the children of the First Woman fear the sons and daughters of the Sorceress; that the children of the Sorceress despise those who cannot work magic with their words; that each should fight each other; that the strange and wonderful creatures of this world should be bound to the children of the Sorceress.

So it was that the world was broken and death, trickery and magic entered the world.

Addendum: Reproduced from the private papers (1966) of deceased Ministry employee, Unspeakable Caius Marcus Rookwood. All known copies of the book Myths of Magical Europe were confiscated and locked up in the classified area of the Department of Mysteries in 1964. No copies are available to the public on the grounds that it contains highly incitatory material. - A.R.

[Pics: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]

Myths on Magic: The Wars of Firemyths of the last of the free elves from Myths of the magical creatures of the world by L. Lovegood & R. Scamander, 2014.

There is considerable debate over whether the Wars of Fire belong among the various anthologies of myths of the magical world or in the annals of history. Leclère-Tantomile (1960) speaks for most magianthropologists when he asserts that the tales that commonly pass for history among magical creatures are no more historical fact than the so-called lineages that pureblood families trace all the way back to popular European deities. The general consensus, further expressed in T. Frazer’s speech at the founding of the Herodotus Woad Society in 1964, is that the oral nature of the histories of the magical creatures has led to the inclusion of extraneous matter that makes the veracity of these histories hard to determine - their reliance on symbolic representations of real acts making the original acts difficult to determine. 

There has been very little critique of this stance. Patil (1989) comes close to critiquing this stance by asserting that these concerns with veracity (with regards to the mythologies of South Asian wix), couched in terms of determining a “true” and “empirical” history, have long been used to conceal violence perpetrated by one group - more often than not, European wix - against others. However, Patil does not extend this stance to the oral histories of magical creatures, falling back on the assertion that magical creatures formulate and understand their histories very differently from the wixen folk (personal communication, 2010).

It is the assertion of the authors of this text that the oral histories of marginalized sentient magical creatures are as real as the written histories of the wixen folk. To assert that the acts represented in their oral histories are merely symbolic representations of actual acts and in fact, that these mentioned acts never occurred, is to dodge many of the key issues and assertions in these tales and furthermore, to fail to acknowledge the role of wix in violence perpetrated against these communities.

Let us not mince words. Genocide. As a race, we have been guilty of this. The Wars Of Fire are testament to this fact - one of the few genocides to have been documented and that too, not by wixen historians, but by folk tales told by centaurs and free elves. 

Dryads have been documented and listed among the few species of magical creatures to have gone extinct (Linnaeus, 1971). Magizoologists writing on the extinction of this species have remarked that “there is no known cause for their extinction, though some have speculated that a disease specific only to magical plants and genetically similar beings were responsible for the decimation of their population and some, rather outlandishly, have asserted that a cosmic event was responsible for their extinction." 

However, over the course of our research, the authors stumbled across several texts from the now public archives of the Mulciber family, dating back to 800 A.D., indicating the sale of several fire-creation spells and potions, and at least one letter from Apollyonus Mulciber to Vulcanus Mulciber (c. 891 A.D.) indicating a systematic war waged by wixen folk against the dryads. We reproduce a particularly telling paragraph here, for skeptics and those who prefer written records to orally reproduced texts:

… In truth, our father is of the opinion that death by fire is the most humane end we can offer such base and uncomprehending creatures as these. I was so unfortunate as to have glimpsed one of these creatures naught but three days ago. A most horrendous creature, full-clad in mud and with hands as the branches of the trees from whence it came. I hope that thou, my brother, will recover speedily from thine injury and thus come join us in our worthy cause.

We find it unnecessary to stress the veracity of this text by supplementing it with other texts, cited as it has been by Ignatius Incendius in his seminal work on pyromancy (1939) - a text which is still used today in the instruction of novice pyromancers.

As the section above indicates, there is evidence to indicate that the Dryads of Europe were systematically killed by the wixen population. The oral histories of the free elves (dubbed ‘myth’ by popular magianthropologist writers) argue that this systematic genocide occurred for no other purpose but to ensure the easy enslavement and conversion of the elves into house elves as we know them today.

Originally forest-dwelling creatures, the elves fell under the protection of Dryads - the natural magical rulers of the forests. The elves, the history goes, befriended the first of the men who found their way into the deeper magical forests of Europe. In time, their weaker stature and their warmth of disposition made them more susceptible to capture and enforced slavery among the wix armies that marched across Europe at the time. As protectors of all the creatures of the forests, the Dryads began raiding the baggage trains that followed wix armies, freeing any elves that were entrapped there. 

No negotiations, no hearings. The wixen armies retaliated by banding together and waging a ten year long war, known as the First War of Fire, during which many of the magical forests of Europe were burnt to the ground, thousands of Dryads were slaughtered and hunted for sport and nearly the entire race of elves were enslaved by wixen folk for their comfort and pleasure.

There is little doubt in the minds of the authors that calling these violent acts simply "symbolic” serve no purpose but to obscure the wizarding world’s history of violence against sentient magical creatures: a history we have long failed to face up to and moreover, failed to make amends for. These are not myths: these are histories.

(Pics: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)