Word of the Day Challenge

Started by Britwitch, December 16, 2018, 10:59:34 AM

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Norwegian One

It had been a fatuous hope, perhaps, a foolish longing to once more run free across the plains. A centaur was many things, but stealthy was not one of them. As much as she tried, it was impossible for her to move silently over the coarse gravel of the temporary camp, a quadruped shadow amidst the tents. She had studied the men and their habits, and she had thought herself capable enough to avoid any sentries, but when a sudden shout of alarm rang out in the dead of night, she knew her ruse was at an end.

She attempted to bolt for freedom, heart hammering almost painfully in her chest, but they hemmed her in and cornered her. She reared, screaming in panic and frustration as the filthy men tried to seize her, but a man threw himself at her from the side and brought her down. Kicking and striking at them in tear-filled rage even as they tied her up, she knew her shot at freedom was lost.
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Peripherie

Perhaps it was his general aversion to conflict or his sympathetic role as the enclave cobbler, but he always shied away from the main square on Tuesdays. He should have gotten a front-row sheet to the day's event - as it would impact his business in a positive way, after all. Who knew that slippers and insoles would be such a smuggler's delight in this new, broken world?

But it was a cruel, lucrative consumer base that he helped with just a tiny margin over cost. Anything else made his feet curl and made him clutch the soles of his shoes at the thought of stepping over any line. It even affected his appetite - as it was often overworn soup spoons that were the instruments of torture. Each week, offenders of all shades of transgressions are lined up and stripped of their footware. Bound and seated on what was once a county fair band stage, the new main performance consists of the drubbing out of sins beneath of chorus of wails and pentative apologies.

It was enough to make his laces curl.
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


drub
verb | DRUB


Definition

1 : to beat severely

2 : to berate critically

3 : to defeat decisively


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

Sportswriters often use drub, but the term's history reveals that it wasn't always a sporting word. When drub was first used in English, it referred to a method of punishment that involved beating the soles of a culprit's feet with a stick or cudgel. The term was apparently brought to England in the 17th century by travelers who reported observing the punitive practice in Asia. The ultimate origin of drub is uncertain, but some etymologists have speculated that it may have evolved from the Arabic word ḍaraba, meaning "to beat."

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

Peripherie

Burned by his own fire. It was an insult to the highest degree. And yet, it didn't even match the level of true shame and guilt that graced the elder dragon's burnt scales. His own flesh was not the only thing that was left singed - his battle breath had begun the destruction of the world.

Found by his enemies soon after, he was left to convalesce and wallow in his consequences. Even though the lies that had covered his sight have been removed, all he could see now was the brittle, ashen truth - it was all his fault. Both the human and dragon populations were decimated. Beyond the communities, the very infrastructure of the modern age was lost as power lines began conduits for his angry - spreading burning death across the globe. And what wasn't destroyed by fire, was destroyed by the power struggle that also started as his ancient feet.

His legacy set before him, a planet undone, was his to watch for the rest of his eternity.

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


gallant
adjective | GAL-unt


Definition

1 : showy in dress or bearing : smart

2 a : splendid, stately

b : spirited, brave

c : nobly chivalrous and often self-sacrificing

3 : courteously and elaborately attentive


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

Gallant exists in modern English primarily as an adjective, but it entered the language first as a noun. In the 14th century, when tales of Camelot populated the mythology of English speakers, a gallant was a young man of fashion—imagine perhaps a young and smartly dressed Arthur or Lancelot. The word had been borrowed in the forms galaunt and gallaunt from Middle French, the ultimate source being Middle French galer, a verb meaning "to squander in pleasures, have a good time, enjoy oneself." Galer also bestowed upon English the adjective gallant, which joined the language in the 15th century. A verb gallant meaning "to pay court to a lady" entered the language in the late 17th century as a derivative of the English adjective, but it is rarely encountered today.

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

Peripherie

In an apocalypse, ever nature is heightened and exaggerated. At least, that was his experience. Those typical office and school yard bullies became marauders and despots. Every sin in the back of the human heart was magnified and allowed to flourish. The opposite was also true, but to a lesser extend. The good men and women that hadn't been destroyed in the fires and the hopelessness became heroes - gallant champions for those that were left. He was one of the latter and it made him brave. But it also made him a threat to those in charge.

And it led to him currently being tied up to a post out in the open as a dragon circled high above. Just great! A before-time idiom about came to mind but he changed it a bit.

Nice guys became bait.
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


minatory
adjective | MIN-uh-tor-ee


Definition

: having a menacing quality


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

Knowing that minatory means "threatening," can you take a guess at a related word? If you're familiar with mythology, perhaps you guessed Minotaur, the name of the bull-headed, people-eating monster of Crete. Minotaur is a good guess, but as terrifying as the monster sounds, its name isn't related to minatory. The relative we're searching for is actually menace. Minatory and menace both come from derivatives of the Latin verb minari, which means "to threaten." Minatory was borrowed directly from Late Latin minatorius. Menace came to English via Anglo-French manace, menace, which came from Latin minac-, minax, meaning "threatening."

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

Peripherie

She felt like a sacrifice - huddling in the dark alongside her captor as he slept. At least she was never cold. His body seemed to act as a perpetual furnace - a fevered reminder that he was not human, no matter what form he took. His true nature was always so close, right there under his skin. Why she was being kept alive had become a curious puzzle. He seemed to take an interest in her needs and wellbeing. While his every action was still quite minatory, there was also something innocent and almost sweet.

That dichotomy made her distrust her eyes and instincts and clutch the small wooden spear she had crafted even tighter.

"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

ajtrue

#1933
4/13/21 - MINATORY:

Jor walked almost silently down the deer trail through the tree cover at the bottom of the ravine. Twenty odd feet to his right, tucked away out of sight behind the early summer foliage, the icy cold, startlingly clear, glacier run off burbled on its way to lower altitudes. Ten or more miles, through an impassible break in the mountain peaks, Jor knew it fell nearly a thousand feet to pound against the base of the mountain. From there, it wandered it's way in an easterly direction, joining other streams and rivers to run headlong for the ocean.

It was almost inconceivable. That small, steady, stream had created this place, the ravine with the massive cave at it's far end. Jor felt as thought he'd been slowly and steadily making his way to the cave at the end of this hidden, hanging valley, for what felt like his entire life. He shook off that fanciful thought - he had never been much of a fanciful man - and concentrated on listening for sounds over and above the fast, roiling, bubble of the water.

Last night he'd camped five or more miles to the south. As a matter of course, he hadn't lit a camp fire. It wouldn't do to alert any... anythings that might call this remote stretch of mountain home, to his presence. So it had been hard tack and tepid water from the skin he carried. He'd eaten worse and less. He'd survived that. He would survive this, he mentally promised his daughter hundreds of leagues away to the south. Then he'd gotten a cold, "one eye open and on the look out," night's sleep under the boughs of an accommodating pine. Some time an hour or so before dawn, he'd given up the pretense altogether and rolled together his meager camp supplies.

He just needed a feather. Just a single feather and all this travel and time and energy would be worthwhile. The picture of little Jessalynn's sweet face painted the canvas of his mind's eye. Bright eyes and cherubic cheeks pinkened by an afternoon laughing with her older sister. The sweet giggles dancing on the breeze. Slowly those cheeks reddened and the eyes deadened, taking on the high sheen of fever and wasting sickness. Jor swallowed hard and pushed that picture from his mind. He needed to focus now. It was nearing twilight, if he didn't get this done, it would be another day lost and he was close, so very close to finally attaining his goal. That added resolve to his spine. He only prayed that Jessalynn yet breathed.

Jor paused and looked up at the sun fading away behind the slopes of the nearest mountain top. The closer he got to the Beast's lair, the more minatory and thick the air began to feel. Instinctively, his body seemed to crouch and fold into a smaller and smaller target, his large frame practically hugging the ground under the weight of the oppressive atmosphere. Still, Jor was watchful, his neck swiveling, eyes scanning furiously.

He stumbled and almost went to his knees. Jor took pains to steady himself as quietly as possible, then looked down. There, at his feet, were deep scars carved into the rocky surface at the edge of the tree line. He traced them with his eyes, taking in the length and breadth of them. One, two, three, four.... and there, a bit off to the side and less deep, five. Almost not breathing, he lifted his forearm and held it up for comparison.

Jor felt the blood drain from his face at the sight of the Griffin's claw marks. The great beast had marked his territory. It was both a warning and a threat. It took him several long moments before his breath began again, moving in and out of his chest rapidly. Sure determination and desperation prevented him from turning on his heel and running for the safety of the land outside the ravine. He supposed terror also played a part in locking his muscles down on his bones so tightly he could not move as well.

Silently, Jor mouthed the words "For Jessalynn," and crouched down to wait for the mythical creature to fly its haunt in search of it's evening meal. One feather. A single feather and he could escape this place.
   

Norwegian One

Tears fell gently upon the moss, watering the soft, herbaceous foliage with salty droplets. Upon the fallen trunk of a tree sat a young man, tall and lanky in a way that suggested that the wiry frame had just finished growing. The soft sobbing, meanwhile, made it clear that for all his physical growth, there was still the heart and sensibilities of a child within the adolescent boy. He sat alone in the woods, face buried in his hands. His father had drubbed him something awful, and like a child the boy had fled into the forest, away from his father's ire. Now, he sat, fearful of going back and facing the older man once more, yet knowing in his heart that every passing hour likely only made his situation worse. Thus, faced with only bad choices, he elected to make no choice at all, his inaction preferable.

Wiping his wet cheeks at last, the boy gazed out onto the small lake that stretched out before him, the water dark and still. His mother had often warned him against approaching the water on his own, fearful that her only child would be lost. Now, however, as he sat here, the sight of the mirror surface brought him some semblance of peace. He stared at it, seeing how it reflected the blue-grey of the evening sky, and the first twinkling of stars. It was then he noticed something floating on the water. It was a small crown of pale hair, and from beneath the snow-coloured tresses, a pair of luminescent eyes stared up at him...
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Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


discomfit
verb | diss-KUM-fit


Definition

1 : to put into a state of perplexity and embarrassment : disconcert

2 a : to frustrate the plans of : thwart

b archaic : to defeat in battle


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

Disconcerted by discomfit and discomfort? While the two look similar and share some semantic territory, they're etymologically unrelated. Unlike discomfort, discomfit has no connection to comfort, which comes ultimately from Latin com- plus fortis, meaning "strong." Instead, discomfit was borrowed from Anglo-French in the 13th century with the meaning "to defeat in battle." Within a couple centuries, discomfit had expanded beyond the battlefield to mean "to frustrate the plans of; to thwart," a meaning that eventually softened into the "to disconcert or confuse" use we find most often today—one quite close to the uneasiness and annoyance communicated by discomfort. For a time, usage commentators were keen to keep a greater distance between discomfit and discomfort; they recommended that discomfit be limited to "to completely defeat; to rout," but they've largely given up now, and the "disconcert or confuse" meaning is fully established. There is one major difference between discomfit and discomfort, though: discomfit is used almost exclusively as a verb, while discomfort is much more commonly used as a noun than a verb.

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

PhoenixSong135


The icy winds rattled the windows of the run down shack that stood at the waters edge. The rain pelted the shabby tiles of the roof and the thunder boomed overhead.

A raging storm had blown in from the east and was making the world look grey and dull. *crack* *flash* *boom*
The elements were tuning up for the symphony performance.
*whistle* *fizzle* *buzz*

Inside the shack, a young girl of about 7 sat huddled in the corner of her bed holding her only possession; a brown tatty rabbit toy with an eye missing.

The storm filled her stomach with dread and made her feel a way she had heard her brother talk about.
He spoke about it when he was caught with his pants down with the neighbour’s daughter.

The girl blinked.
She tried to remember what the word was.
Her face screwed up in concentration as her tongue played with the inside of her cheek.

As the sky was filled with another flash of lightning and another crack of thunder, the girl remembered the word as she moved from the bed and saw the wet patch left behind.
Discomfit filled her stomach as she got out of her wet clothes and tried to find something dry to wear.

‘I knew I should have stayed at home.’ The girl thought to herself.
🎶 I spent all my money drinking on my own 🎶

Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


obstreperous
adjective | ub-STREP-uh-rus


Definition

1 : marked by unruly or aggressive noisiness : clamorous

2 : stubbornly resistant to control : unruly


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

The handy Latin prefix ob-, meaning "in the way," "against," or "toward," occurs in many Latin and English words. Obstreperous comes from ob- plus strepere, a verb meaning "to make a noise," so someone who is obstreperous can be thought of as literally making noise to rebel against something, much like a protesting crowd or an unruly child. The word has been used in English since around the beginning of the 17th century. Strepere has had a limited impact on the English lexicon; in addition to obstreperous it seems only to have contributed strepitous and its synonym strepitant, which mean "characterized or accompanied by much noise"—that is, "noisy." Ob- words, on the other hand, abound, and include such terms as obnoxious, occasion, offend, omit, oppress, and oust.

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

Norwegian One

Truly, he cuts a remarkable figure.

I watch him from my place in the shadows. He's taken off his helmet, revealing fair, noble features. Blonde hair, coming down in curls around his brow. Striking, blue eyes, that scan his decrepit surroundings. His silver plate, reflecting the empty halls and abandoned rooms as he edges his way through them, sword clenched tight in armoured fingers, shield raised in readiness. No doubt he has heard the tales from those before him who fled, or the songs of mourning for those who died in flame. All in self-defence, I might add.

He's attractive, I give him that. Gallant and handsome, the suit of armour lending him a martial air that I can't help but appreciate. Hopefully I can scare him off. It would be a shame to kill him. If only there was a way that this could end more... amiably. But it is a fantasy, a day dream. He would never love me.

After all, who would love a lady with scales?
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Peripherie

Tonight was the night.

He was risking everything to stop his master's plan. He had done a great many unspeakable horrors to remain loyal to his blood and to his cause. But destroying the modern world was a fire's breath too far.

It had to be swift and cunning action to discomfit the machinations that had surely already been put in place. One that he couldn't sit on or ponder too long lest he was to be found out or given to his cowardly base instincts.

Creeping into his master's chambers, he carried a cup of laced tea that would hopefully be strong enough to end one life at the value of millions more. A dagger in the back of his waistband was the second trap in case the dark drink failed. The sharp instrument was also his downfall as he felt a hand steady his steps and then slip the very same blade across his throat. The quick motion stole his breath and his lifeblood.

He gurgled an apology - to both his sire and the world. As darkness crept in, he was glad to no longer risk being a disgraced dragon in a world dominated by his own kind.
"Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher
storm, but to add color to my sunset sky." - Rabindranath Tagore

Chasing Dreams

How had everything she planned gotten so discomfited? The hours of research and looking into the places to show the potential client that her company was trying to woo had been for nothing. She was pulled from her thoughts as she winced from the pain that she knew had been coming from the accident she had been in that morning. When she showed up from work, she was frustrated because she had worked so hard and now she couldn’t show the client everything she planned. The client and her boss stopped her before she could get to her office and told her to go home. Feeling frustrated, she turned on her heels and headed home in defeat and could only hope that she’d get another chance in a few days.
Selectively Available for NEW stories.
Status ⋮ Around here somewhere.
Posts owed ⋮ 4 out of 11 
Posting Order (Click to see.)

Thank you Amaris for the beautiful signature!


Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


lodestone
noun | LOHD-stohn


Definition

1 : magnetite possessing polarity

2 : something that strongly attracts


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

Lodestone is made up of distinctly English components, ones that have been part of our language since before the 12th century. Lode comes from the Old English lād, which means "way, journey, course." The word stone derives from the Old English stān, which had the same meaning as the modern term stone. When the two ancient words were combined to form lodestone in the early 16th century, the new term referred to magnetite, a magnetic iron ore. Just as a new business district might be a magnet for entrepreneurs, or a poor soul a magnet for bad luck, lodestone sees similar figurative use describing things with a seeming power to attract.

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

Britwitch

Today's Word of the Day is....


purloin
verb | per-LOYN


Definition

: to appropriate wrongfully and often by a breach of trust


Weekly Theme

Folk Tales


Did You Know?

The word purloin features in the title of a famous Edgar Allan Poe story in its past tense form: "The Purloined Letter" was included in Poe's 1845 Tales, and involves the search for a letter that a cabinet minister has stolen and is now using to blackmail the rightful owner, an unnamed woman of royalty. When Poe opted for ­purloin for his story, he was employing a term in use since the 15th century with the meaning "to put away; to inappropriately take or make use of." The word had earlier use, now obsolete, with the meaning "to set aside; to render inoperative or ineffectual," a meaning that links more clearly to the word's Anglo-French origin: purluigner means "to prolong, postpone, set aside," and comes from pur-, meaning "forward," and luin, loing, meaning "at a distance." Its ultimate root is Latin longus, long, meaning "long."

Current status : Selectively seeking new stories

ajtrue

4/16/2021 – LODESTONE
     * Magnetite possessing polarity OR Something that strong attracts

     
Slàine Brodie paused to looked up into the turbulent, grey-green, Eanáir sky. Her hands were cold and chapped so she rubbed them together and lifted them to her lips to blow warmth into the rapidly numbing digits. Immediately the pins and needles pain of offended nerve endings howled.

Slàine barely noticed. Instead, she contemplatively watched the smoke from the currently energetic peat fire inside the small hut she now inhabited with her new husband and his family. In the watery morning light, the freshly stirred and stoked blaze sent robust, paler grey-white, tendrils drifting up to mingle with the threatening storm clouds. The constantly evolving and dispersing wisps bisected her view of Na Staighrí Dubha in the distance.

One hip braced lightly against the battered and aged cauldron used to perform the weekly task of washing clothing, Slàine traced the peaks and depressions of the mountains with her eyes as they thrust proudly into the sky and thought on the changes the last year of her life had wrought.

No longer the over looked, useless, middle daughter of a struggling fisherman, Slàine was now married to Gearalt, the third son of a prosperous aoire in the foothills of the mighty Na Staighrí Dubha mountain range. While she no longer had to go to sleep hungry or smelling of the rotting fish near the quay, she did have only a slim palette, shared with her husband who felt a virtual strange, to call her own.

There were plans to build a new hut for the newlyweds come spring, but at the moment, and for the last six weeks, the first six weeks of her marriage, she was once again crowded in with the mass of humanity that was Gearalt’s large family. All sixteen members, save Gearalt’s second oldest brother, who lived with his bride of a year and their two-month-old infant son in a hut a half league from the main family dwelling, bumped along together in the dim interior of the hut.

Slàine was not unhappy or ungrateful for her change in status. She was just feeling… claustrophobic. She’d somehow thought living away from the hustle bustle of the docks in the large fishing village she’d been born to, away from her own, prodigiously large at 21 souls and counting, family, would feel somehow less overwhelming and cramped. She’d been wrong.

“Slàine!” Her new mother-in-law, Muirin, called out from the door of the hut. “Whatter ye ‘bout lassie? Light th' fires then com'in fer the warshin.' We’ll needa soak ‘em 'n ash afore ye ken warsh ‘em.”

She suppressed the sigh that wanted to pass her lips and gave the woman a dutiful nod of acquiescence. The small frame and generous curves of her mother-in-law ducked and disappeared back into the murky, close, sometimes airless, confines of the hut. Slàine looked back to the mountain tops and drew in a deep breath of the cold, crisp, air. It seared her lungs coming in but the burn was the best kind. It tasted of freedom and wide-open spaces.

Na Staighrí Dubha, even more than her new husband, had become her lodestone. The single point that anchored her in the sea of faces and voices in these new environs. She felt its pull in her chest each time she saw it and wondered if, when Gearalt next took a herd to the high grazing fields, she might entice him to bring her with him.

She let her eyes linger a moment longer, then exhaled and bent down to light the fires and begin the arduous task of wash day.


Norwegian One

It was a minatory sight. She crawled herself from the lake, like a primordial beast, all clawed hands dragging herself along the sand as the waves lapped around her prostrate form. Her emerald scales glittered wetly in the sunlight, both alluring and mesmerising, though I knew that the beauty of her marine half belied the danger she possessed to anyone she did not care for. Again, I considered myself lucky to be in that rare category, so that I could witness this sight without having to fear that she would drag me to a wet grave. She smiled, happily, sharp teeth in an otherwise beautiful face, and I returned her smile with one of my own. I never thought I would ever befriend a mermaid, but when you are all alone on an island, you learn not to be picky.
Ons and Offs - Picture plots - Cravings - Activity and general chat - Bookmark for activity log and updates on my posting speed
Currently not available for new RPs, random PMs still encouraged! Also, feel free to check out my threads. Feedback is always welcome! - Current response time:  Within 1 week.

ajtrue

4/17/2021 – PURLOIN
     * to appropriate wrongfully and often by a breach of trust

     
A small, almost imperceptive, scrabbling alerted Slàine first. She let the first noise pass her by, busy rolling and kneading the dough on the scarred wooden planks of the table. But when there was another, longer scritching noise, Slàine couldn’t help but pause in the rhythmic, rolling motions of her upper body as she worked at her task. Using one flour sprinkled back of a wrist, she nudged the few tendrils of hair that had escaped the neat knot she wore. They'd been tickling at her forehead for the last few minutes anyway. So she swept them up and back, hopefully not leaving behind a liberal dose of their precious flour. As she did so, Slàine turned at the waist.

Behind her, frozen like two startled fawns, stood the twins. Identical, cherubic, four-year-old faces looked up at her innocently. Rhianon’s eyes flickered to Caradoc at her side, then back to Slàine. The older woman suppressed the smile that wanted to pull at her lips and continued to look at the two small figures, made almost indistinguishable by the unformed characteristics of youth, with obvious question.

All save she and Muirin were supposed to be about their day’s chores outside the hut. That meant, for the twins, digging rocks out of the vegetable beds. While the plots were large and well-tended, rocks continually worked their way to the surface. The harsh landscape at time offered only meager fruits despite much labor. It was important the beds were properly maintained. The task was a tedious one. Generally relegated to the youngest members of the family as they could perform it with minimal supervision or destruction of earlier work.

The twins smiled in unison, as though there had been some signal Slàine had somehow missed. She quirked a brow at them in further silent question. With their lush, shiny, coppery red, curls and the slight spattering of freckles across their noses and cheeks, the infant artillery they carried was powerful and effective. Stronger men and women than Slàine Brodie had succumbed to those charms. She wasn’t ready to give in just yet thought.

“Rhianon? Caradoc?” She stated their names as a question. Caradoc’s little shoulder twitched as he shifted his hand a fraction of an inch further behind his back. She might have missed the move but from his small frame being silhouette against the brighter, grey light beyond the hut’s doorway. Rhianon caught the shift in attention and quickly pulled Slàine’s gaze from her brother’s small movement by rocking forward on her toes and settling back on her heels as she asked “Were’s Mum?”

Both of Slàine’s eyebrows winged north at that. This time in mock surprise.

“She isn’t with you?” Slàine asked the two. Caradoc looked at Rhianon. Rhianon looked at Caradoc. Then in a move so smooth it could have been choreographed, their curly topped, angelic little faces turned back to Slàine and they answered in the negative “MmMmm.”

Slàine waited a moment, as if she were considering their answer and the import of that fact. Then she gave a careless shrug.

“Well she went out after she pulled that last batch of buns from the fire to check on your day’s progress.” Slàine answered them, half turning back to continue her work with the dough. She didn’t want to leave off for too long or the resultant bread would be unpleasantly hard and chewy.

“WE”LL FIND HER!” excitedly shouted Rhianon like she’d just thought up an Earth shattering paradigm.

“Aye!” Caradoc seconded as they quickly shuffled backedward, toward the door. The two took off at a run as soon as they cleared the portal.

"I think I see her!" Rhianon called in an effected voice.

"Aye," Caradoc added his line as though it had been fed to him from a stage hand. "There she is!"

Slàine just returned her attention to the table smiling and gave her head a short, humorous, shake at the antics of her sister and brother-in-law.

Five minutes later, Muirin bustled back into the warm, dim, interior of the main family hut with several batches of dried herbs from her sister-in-law’s dwelling.

“Did aye see th’ wee ones jus’ no’?” Muirin asked, settling the fragrant, twine tied, bundles of rosemary, sage, thyme and chervil on the far side of the tabletop.

“Aye, came in for a visit and to purloin a wee treat,” Slàine replied laughingly as she sectioned the thoroughly kneaded dough into the gobbets that would become an herb braid for their evening meal.

Muirin gave a little huff of unsurprised, quiet, laughter and looked beyond Slàine’s shoulders to where several rows of baked goods, the efforts of their weekly baking day, cooled.

“The’ only took one a’piece.” Slàine commented, easily reading the question inherent in her mothers-in-law's gesture. Sure enough, when Muirin peeked, there were two, small, empty, spaces near the edge of the long, slim, table they had placed near the door for cooling.

“It’ll not ruin them. But they’ll be fair disappointed they did’t wait for this next batch once they smell the chervil.”

The two women shared a smile of comradery and went back to their tasks in comfortable silence.


Daeva

#1946
Today's Word of the Day is....


forfend
verb |for-FEND


Definition

1 a archaic : forbid

b : to ward off : prevent

2 : protect, preserve


Weekly Theme

Romance


Did You Know?

When forfend was first used in the 14th century, it meant "to forbid." The term is still used with this meaning in phrases like "heaven forfend" or "God forfend," but it bears an antiquated patina communicated in our dictionary with an "archaic" label. Other uses of the word are current, though somewhat uncommon. Forfend comes from Middle English forfenden, from for- (meaning "so as to involve prohibition, exclusion, omission, failure, neglect, or refusal") and fenden, a variant of defenden, meaning "to defend."

Absences Updated 6/15/22 Selectively Accepting New Stories
Ons and Offs & Current Story List | Desired RP's

Daeva

Today's Word of the Day is....


chlamys
noun |KLAM-us


Definition

: a short oblong mantle worn by young men of ancient Greece


Weekly Theme

Romance


Did You Know?

If you had been a man of ancient Greece, you'd likely have worn a chlamys from time to time. This cloak was a short, oblong mantle, typically made of dark wool, and worn draped over the left shoulder and fastened with a fibula at the right shoulder, leaving the right arm uncovered. The chlamys was popular especially among soldiers and messengers. Modern encounters with the chlamys are most likely to occur at museums where a statue of the messenger god Hermes or the Greco-Roman god Apollo might be seen garbed in such. As deities frequently on the move, these two would have appreciated the fact that the garment provided both protection from the elements and freedom of movement.

Absences Updated 6/15/22 Selectively Accepting New Stories
Ons and Offs & Current Story List | Desired RP's

ajtrue

4/18/21 – FORFEND
     * Forbid, ward off or prevent OR Protect, Preserve

Dyonisia stood at the center of the Governor’s courtyard next to her mother, the Governor’s wife and her three daughters. It was a formal call so there was none of the usual chatter and giggling going on between the young ladies as might have otherwise occurred. Instead, she made sure to keep her head tipped slightly down and her eyes demurely fixed on the brilliantly colored fabric of the Matron of the house’s peplos.

Well. Mostly fixed. Dyonisia could admit, if to no one but herself in silence, that her gaze may have strayed to the walkways lining the courtyard where busy servants, members of the family and other important officials and visitors moved with determined purpose.

Dyonisia was hoping to catch a glimpse of Antilies.

The Governor’s second son and already a Lokhagos at the age of six and twenty. She’d heard her father make mention to her mother just two days ago that his rank would soon become Tagmatarkhis. The images that had provoked had run through her mind for hours that night as she lay abed… Even now, the mere thought of Antilies riding to battle at the head of his charging Lokhos, his face carved with determination, death stalking in his eyes. A delicious shiver tingled along Dyonisia’s nerve endings and she sway ever so slightly on her feet.

Antilies was tall and darkly handsome with patrician features made ruddy by his time training with his men in the sun and the olive undertones of his skin. She remembered how she’d watched him - surreptitiously of course, Aphrodite forfend someone had caught her looking! – at a recent symposia. His nature was a naturally quite, watchful one. Antilies seemed a brooding and handsome hero to her eighteen-year-old mind. He had a strong and muscular physic many of the young ladies of her acquaintance quite admired. And many of the matrons quietly chattered about in low tones with heated looks on their faces when the aforementioned young ladies could not hear them.

It was her dearest hope that she, the youngest daughter of a trusted Stratigos in the Governor’s army, would catch Antilies’ eye.
   

ajtrue

4/19/21 – CHLAMYS
     *a short oblong mantle worn by young men of ancient Greece

Several days later when Dyonisia again returned to the Governor’s palace with her father, her fingers were shaking in anticipation. Because this time she knew – she knew – she would be seeing Antilies. There was to be a great Military Spectacle that day. Hundreds of Cretan  soldiers - both those assigned to stay behind and patrol Phaistros, and those who'd come home from fighting in foreign locals, ruthlessly conquering any who dared think themselves the better of her Crete's glorious and highly skilled military, had assembled to display their cunning and prowess. Games of archery, horsemanship, strategy and all manner of other military maneuvers would be presented to a crowd of thousands in the wide open plain behind the Governor's seat of power. It was to be a day of veneration and celebration to all of the accomplishments under the current Governor's prosperous reign.

And Antilies - his son - would be there. Directing his men and wearing his military regalia complete with decorated chlamys. There was no doubt he would cut a dashing and romantic figure. She’d been so nervous that morning she could barely eat. As a venerated Stratigos, their family had been invited to view the day’s festivities from the Governor’s own platform. A great honor and one not to be discounted in her pursuit of the worthy Antilies.

Dyonisia nursed the small flame of hope that, when not busy with his own displays of daring and skill, Antilies would join his family, resting comfortably in the shade that had been erected over the platform for maximum comfort and ease. She was both elated and terrified at the prospect. Even now, her fingers felt at once numb with cold and stinging with the heat from the tingling that she seemed to have become afflicted with.

Silently she followed behind her father as he traversed the walkway skirting the expansive, main, courtyard with familiar ease on his way to their destination. A set of personal chambers where they were to meet with the Governor, his wife and other offspring. Her own mother and siblings would be joining them just as soon as they finished up devotions at the various temples. But most specifically, Apollo's temple. Her oldest brother was up for promotion and her mother and her younger offspring were offering up praise, prayers, and gifts to the mighty Apollo. She begged him to shine down his favor on her eldest son, that he might win approval in the eyes of the Governor and his leaders of men and war.

Dyonisia had been excused from the task her other siblings undertook with their mother that morning so as to represent the feminine contingent of the great Stratigos family. It would not do for the Stratigos to arrive alone after so generous an offer as to invite his family to partake of the festivities from the Governor's box. Her mother, almost as revered in the household for her martial skills as her father, had planned and strategized better than many a foreign King. Then she'd divided up her children and laid out their plans for supplication. There was hope that all would arrive back at the family home before they needed to leave, but not certainty. Best not to risk offense and disrespect by having no other members of the family in attendance when her father left for the   

Because her wily mother knew that theirs would not be the only offerings and supplications laid at the Gods' feet this day. Zeus' temple, as the patron God of Crete and the Allfather, would be visited heavily by Phaistros' citizenry. Her family would offer tribute too. Dyonisia's beautiful older sisters had been tasked with making their family offerings there. An exquisitely carved Eagle made from the branch of a might Oak.  It was well known that Zeus appreciated a fine female form and the six inch totem they would leave behind could only be looked upon favorably.

Many families would be also be making a stop at Athena's temple - as Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare, she held an important position in many military family homes. Her mother, fearful of offering slight or disrespect, had sent two of her fine, strong, son's to bend a knee at her feet, leaving behind the choicest olives from their personal's courtyard's olive trees.

Finally, her mother and the rest of Dyonisia's siblings would be worshiping in the temple of Apollo. Despite the great number of citizens attending the Spectacle, there would still be a large showing at Apollo's temple as well. He was the God who blessed a bow's strength and guided arrows to fly true. As a former archer, Dyonisia's father raised his family to revere and pay tribute to the great sun God above all others. His son, following in his father's footsteps, and picked up the bow at a young age and now served the Governor amongst his most skilled archers. It would be an important stop. And the most important of their tributes would be left behind. The first bow made by her son's own hand and blessed in the temple of Athena by her priestesses.


An important errand indeed, Dyonisia thought as she followed along quietly in her father's wake. While they walked, she tried to distract herself with what she imagined Antilies would look like at her Father’s age. Would he stand tall and strong? Would there be silvery grey strands of hair peppering the darker waves of his mahogany hair as they did her Father’s sheeves of blond? It made her father look distinguished. Imposing. Dyonisia clasped her hands in front of her waist in an attempt to disguise the butterflies winging around there. Perhaps her love would still be in the military when he reached her father's age. Possibly even as a   Stratigos or exhausted Governor?

Such a one would need a strong yet, compliant, woman who could stand at his side and support his ambitions without chaining him down. She, the daughter of a lifetime military man, had learned these skills from infancy. She’d grown up in that life and knew the sacrifices and joys such a life could bring. Plus, Dyonisia thought with a becoming flush coloring her cheeks, where he was dark and sensual, she was bright and golden. His perfect foil in every way, Dyonisia silently concluded as her Father slowed at the entrance to their destination, a set of rooms off the far corner of the courtyard, and called out a greeting.