It's not possible for me to get out in the morning before work. After work (in the summer) it's 115+ and I don't want to go out. Is there an artificial light that would do the trick? Is there a good brand that you are aware of, or something I should be looking for in a light? Ty.

Previous Chapter - Read 10 weeks ahead on Patreon - Read the story so far on Royal Road
*
Chapter Thirteen - Bridge Over Swift Water (Part II)
​
The cottage beside the mill was not large, and its low ceilings were packed with all manner of cupboards, shelves, chairs and tables, pressed in against the walls in a maze of well-worn clutter. The result was a rather overcrowded space, and Ren was forced to take more care than usual so as not to bump into anything when they entered, but the hearth was broad, and the smell of cooking filled the air, so it did not take long to settle into a comfortable lull of pleasant talk around the table whilst they waited for their lunch. Ted's wife, a young, slender woman with dark, smiling eyes and shoulder-length fair hair, hurried about the fire busily, stirring and seasoning her pots with a methodical efficiency. A mug arrived for each of them (water for the boys, something stronger for Ted), and they talked for a time of small things, of the weather and the harvest, hoping for a mild winter, idle talk for idle minds. Even Trin seemed to have relaxed in the lazy firelight, though he was more quiet than usual. Ren thought of how scared he had been of the miller as a boy, remembering the fearsome man with his scarred neck and deep voice that had raked their dinner table at the farm with his dark eyes. It was a memory that fit the man beside him about as well as a child’s boot might fit its fathers. He started to feel a little guilty for avoiding him, whenever he visited the farm.
‘Heard you were heading to Overwood, last week.’
Ren blinked, looking up from the fire to find Ted watching him over his mug. He swallowed.
‘Took a cart to the market with grandfather.’
‘How is the old goat?’
Ren hesitated. ‘He’s… he’s well.’
Ted took a swig of his ale, not a little wistfully. ‘Used to live up there, you know. Overwood, I mean. After the soldiering, when the Black Breath took my Da. Coughed up his own lungs, ‘fore it got ‘im. Always was a scrapper. Not easy, losing someone like that.’
Ren swallowed, looking away, and the miller’s eyes softened.
‘Your Ma, too, boy, I know. Damn shame.’ he said apologetically, and Ren decided not to correct him. ‘Long time before I came out here, anyways.’
‘You fought in the war?’ Trin asked tentatively.
‘I fought in the rebellion, boy.’ Ted corrected him. ‘Was only one King, back then.’
Trin swallowed, looking at the floor.
‘But that was a long time ago now. Afore you were born, I reckon. Not a lot of work for soldiers in peacetime. Must have dug half the privies in Overwood before I earned the coin to up sticks.'
‘Earned?’ Werla snorted from beside the fire, cheeks dimpling. ‘Swindled, more like.’
Ren looked over at her. He had always thought her a little young for the old miller. He was well past forty, and with his weathered brow and ugly scar he was hardly an obvious match for a pretty young girl not long from twenty when they had wed a couple of summers back. He wondered, not for the first time, how they had fallen in together to begin with.
‘Now, don't be giving our guests the wrong idea.’ Ted told her, grinning, and the scar on his neck knotted. He turned back to the boys, holding up his hands earnestly. ‘An honest game of chance, I swear it. Northerner, he was, didn't know dice from a pebble.’
Ren and Trin both nodded sagely at his explanation, neither of them knowing one jot about dice, or gambling, or Northerners, for that matter. Werla swept to their rescue, appearing at the miller's shoulder and planting a kiss on his cheek.
‘Swindled.’ she said pointedly.
Ted smiled in spite of himself, shooing her away. She chuckled and turned back to the stew, humming softly to herself.
‘I hear there’s a lot of new folk in town.’ Ted said, turning back to the boys. ‘From up in the Stonelands.’
‘Enough to notice.’ Ren replied, thinking of the unpleasantness on the road. He frowned. ‘Unfriendly types.’
‘Been a while since I made it over that way. Couple of winters back, now.’ He frowned thoughtfully, then smiled in Werla’s direction. ‘A lot can change in two years, though.’
Werla looked up, flashing him a smile, then went back to her stew pot again, humming. The miller paused, scratching at his scar, then gave the boys a curious look. ‘So, then. What brings you out this far?’
Ren lowered his eyes, and Trin shifted uncomfortably beside him. Ted laughed, weathered face creasing into a smile.
‘Come now.’ he told them. ‘Can’t hardly turn you over to your grandfather from here, can I?’
Ren swallowed. ‘We were just out for a ride…’
‘Mister Derin told us never to cross the bridge.’ Trin finished for him, scowling. ‘He said it was too far from the farm. Not safe, he said. So of course that’s exactly where Ren has to go. We’ll be in for it when we get back!’
‘You didn't have to come, Trin.’ Ren told his friend patiently. He thought of his grandfather’s old map, carved with rivers and mountains and cities in dark ink. The Swiftwater wasn’t even big enough to merit a line, and the distance they’d travelled this morning wouldn’t be more than a nails-breadth.
‘Well you didn't tell me where we were going.’ Trin replied, fidgeting nervously. His fingers twisted around a stray tear in his shirt, tugging at it. ‘And besides... Hardly going to let you go running off on your own. Too risky. It's not safe this far from the farm, for you most of all, so they says.’
‘Who’s they?’ Ren asked, scowling.
‘Hector. Your grandfather. And Ma, too! Everyone!’
‘Your Ma doesn’t know everything, Trin.’
‘Still a damn sight more than you!’
‘Easy, boys.’ Ted was smiling, and his scarred neck twisted. ‘I wager the north side of the river is much the same as this one.’
Trin lowered his eyes, and his cheeks reddened. Ren thought of the shadows moving in the trees over the bridge, the way he had fallen when Ted had found him, and started to feel very foolish indeed. His thoughts had been dark, unpredictable, these past few days, since the trip to Overwood. He never had been a good sleeper, but his nights had been more restless than usual, too, his dreams a little thicker with shadows. Shadows with faces, and a hunchback with gold eyes to give them voice. Turning every doorway to the gloom of the fortuneteller’s tent, every flame the silver light of his brazier. He frowned at himself. Just rhymes and empty words. Best not to dwell on it.
‘Food's ready!’ Werla said suddenly from the fire, and a few moments later they had steaming bowls of fragrant brown stew sitting in front of them on the table. Ted carved up some slices of soft, pale bread for them to soak, and they set to eating it all in relative quiet for a time, content with good food and the soft warmth of the fire, and it was not long before all thoughts of the bridge, and the shadows beyond it, had gone entirely from Ren's mind. He found himself staring wearily into his cup, watching idly as the clear water rocked and rolled against the rim, listening to the rumble of the river outside.
‘Won’t turn to ale just by looking at it.’ Ted told him, and he looked up to find the miller looking at him curiously, taking another mouthful of bread. Trin was still quite engaged in his food, and Werla was sipping her mug contentedly, pale hair brushed back behind her ears.
‘What?’
‘Come, now, boy. What’s got you twisted?’ Ted asked, taking sip of his drink.
Ren hesitated. ‘I was thinking about the market.’ He said after a moment, looking up. It was true enough.
‘Ah. Town ain't what it used to be.’ Ted looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then began rubbing his thumb around the rim of his mug, staring at it. His young wife watched him with a slight frown. ‘All these unsavoury types arriving. You hear the talk, even out here. City folk, some of them, and worse. Heard… there’s talk of Brothers abroad, up in the Westmere. Out in the open, again, like.’ He pressed harder against the mug, thumb turning white. Werla reached out and pulled his hand away, folding it in her own and meeting his eye. Ted frowned, squeezing her hand, and the ugly scar on his neck gleamed. Trin had stopped eating.
‘But the Westmere’s a long way from here, and I ain’t one to be complaining. Got a good roof over my head, and a good living. A good woman, too, and might have a son of my own by next winter, Makers willing.’ He grinned at Werla, putting a hand to her belly, and she smiled, pulling it to her mouth and kissing it softly. ‘Reckon I’m a lucky man.’
Ren smiled at them both, lowering his eyes.
‘Say hello to your folks, for me, boy. Tell your old man I better see his arse over here before the snows.’
Some words of thanks, warm, earnest ones, and one or two more for goodbye, then they were homeward bound again, ponies snorting in the afternoon sun, promises of a return visit ringing in their ears. Ren was left with the distinct feeling that he had misjudged the old miller, scar and all. But it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned towards the rumours he had imparted from the Westmere, his white knuckles pressed against his mug. To Hector’s words in the shadow of the farm hill. To the ugly fortuneteller and his tent of oddities and silver fire. Words whispered in the dark. He’d not mentioned the encounter in the tent to anyone. Not even his grandfather. In truth, he’d been doing his best not to think about it at all, without much success. He frowned, hunching over his saddle.
A mask on fire.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. Trin, for his part, was busy trying to subtly feed Pol the stash of small treats he had smuggled away from the cottage, glancing over at Ren occasionally to make sure he hadn’t noticed. He had, of course, but there was little use in pointing it out.
‘Trin.’ Ren said once they had crested the hill, looking back towards the river-bound cottage in the distance. Trin started and stuck his hand quickly back into his pocket, hiding a scrap of bread.
‘What?'’
‘You heard what Ted said?’ Ren asked. ‘About Brothers?’
Trin frowned. ‘Suppose so.’
Ren was still looking back the way they had come. 'What do you make of it?'
‘Reckon he’s right.’ Trin shrugged. ‘Westmere’s a long way away.’
He hesitated, frowning.
‘But Hector’s been saying it for years. Overwood’s not what it used to be. Strange folk coming and going by night. No safe place for good folk that side of the Swiftwater. Brothers or no.’
‘Grandad says there haven’t been Black Hand this far south in years.’ Ren murmured, still looking back towards the river. ‘Not since we were born, at least.’
‘Wouldn’t pay it any mind. Plenty to worry about without them.’ Trin told him, giving him a serious look. ‘You’ve been acting up more, these past few weeks. Ever since the old man came calling.’
‘Have I?’ Ren scowled, shooting his friend a sideways glance.
‘You know what I think about him.’ Trin told him seriously. ‘Can’t be trusted, that one. And you can’t be taking so many risks. Not with your… Well, you know.’
‘Your ma tell you that, too?’
‘Don’t make it wrong.’ Trin grumbled, turning away in his saddle and trotting off south over the crest of the hill. Ren waited a moment longer, frowning to himself, then followed him reluctantly. The sound of the river was long gone behind him, but he caught one final glimpse the gleaming water before he shook the reins and disappeared finally over the brow of the hill, bound for home.

Read the story so far on Royal Road - Series Page - Read 10 weeks ahead on Patreon
*
Chapter Thirteen - Bridge Over Swift Water (Part II)
The cottage beside the mill was not large, and its low ceilings were packed with all manner of cupboards, shelves, chairs and tables, pressed in against the walls in a maze of well-worn clutter. The result was a rather overcrowded space, and Ren was forced to take more care than usual so as not to bump into anything when they entered, but the hearth was broad, and the smell of cooking filled the air, so it did not take long to settle into a comfortable lull of pleasant talk around the ta-ble whilst they waited for their lunch. Ted's wife, a young, slender woman with dark, smiling eyes and shoulder-length fair hair, hurried about the fire busily, stirring and seasoning her pots with a methodical efficiency. A mug arrived for each of them (water for the boys, some-thing stronger for Ted), and they talked for a time of small things, of the weather and the harvest, hoping for a mild winter, idle talk for idle minds. Even Trin seemed to have relaxed in the lazy firelight, though he was more quiet than usual. Ren thought of how scared he had been of the miller as a boy, remembering the fearsome man with his scarred neck and deep voice that had raked their dinner table at the farm with his dark eyes. It was a memory that fit the man beside him about as well as a child’s boot might fit its fathers. He started to feel a little guilty for avoiding him, whenever he visited the farm.
‘Heard you were heading to Overwood, last week.’
Ren blinked, looking up from the fire to find Ted watching him over his mug. He swallowed.
‘Took a cart to the market with grandfather.’
‘How is the old goat?’
Ren hesitated. ‘He’s… he’s well.’
Ted took a swig of his ale, not a little wistfully. ‘Used to live up there, you know. Overwood, I mean. After the soldiering, when the Black Breath took my Da. Coughed up his own lungs, ‘fore it got ‘im. Always was a scrapper. Not easy, losing someone like that.’
Ren swallowed, looking away, and the miller’s eyes softened.
‘Your Ma, too, boy, I know. Damn shame.’ he said apologetically, and Ren decided not to correct him. ‘Long time before I came out here, anyways.’
‘You fought in the war?’ Trin asked tentatively.
‘I fought in the rebellion, boy.’ Ted corrected him. ‘Was only one King, back then.’
Trin swallowed, looking at the floor.
‘But that was a long time ago now. Afore you were born, I reckon. Not a lot of work for soldiers in peacetime. Must have dug half the privies in Overwood before I earned the coin to up sticks.'
‘Earned?’ Werla snorted from beside the fire, cheeks dimpling. ‘Swindled, more like.’
Ren looked over at her. He had always thought her a little young for the old miller. He was well past forty, and with his weathered brow and ugly scar he was hardly an obvious match for a pretty young girl not long from twenty when they had wed a couple of summers back. He wondered, not for the first time, how they had fallen in together to begin with.
‘Now, don't be giving our guests the wrong idea.’ Ted told her, grin-ning, and the scar on his neck knotted. He turned back to the boys, holding up his hands earnestly. ‘An honest game of chance, I swear it. Northerner, he was, didn't know dice from a pebble.’
Ren and Trin both nodded sagely at his explanation, neither of them knowing one jot about dice, or gambling, or Northerners, for that mat-ter. Werla swept to their rescue, appearing at the miller's shoulder and planting a kiss on his cheek.
‘Swindled.’ she said pointedly.
Ted smiled in spite of himself, shooing her away. She chuckled and turned back to the stew, humming softly to herself.
‘I hear there’s a lot of new folk in town.’ Ted said, turning back to the boys. ‘From up in the Stonelands.’
‘Enough to notice.’ Ren replied, thinking of the unpleasantness on the road. He frowned. ‘Unfriendly types.’
‘Been a while since I made it over that way. Couple of winters back, now.’ He frowned thoughtfully, then smiled in Werla’s direction. ‘A lot can change in two years, though.’
Werla looked up, flashing him a smile, then went back to her stew pot again, humming. The miller paused, scratching at his scar, then gave the boys a curious look. ‘So, then. What brings you out this far?’
Ren lowered his eyes, and Trin shifted uncomfortably beside him. Ted laughed, weathered face creasing into a smile.
‘Come now.’ he told them. ‘Can’t hardly turn you over to your grandfather from here, can I?’
Ren swallowed. ‘We were just out for a ride…’
‘Mister Derin told us never to cross the bridge.’ Trin finished for him, scowling. ‘He said it was too far from the farm. Not safe, he said. So of course that’s exactly where Ren has to go. We’ll be in for it when we get back!’
‘You didn't have to come, Trin.’ Ren told his friend patiently. He thought of his grandfather’s old map, carved with rivers and mountains and cities in dark ink. The Swiftwater wasn’t even big enough to merit a line, and the distance they’d travelled this morning wouldn’t be more than a nails-breadth.
‘Well you didn't tell me where we were going.’ Trin replied, fidget-ing nervously. His fingers twisted around a stray tear in his shirt, tug-ging at it. ‘And besides... Hardly going to let you go running off on your own. Too risky. It's not safe this far from the farm, for you most of all, so they says.’
‘Who’s they?’ Ren asked, scowling.
‘Hector. Your grandfather. And Ma, too! Everyone!’
‘Your Ma doesn’t know everything, Trin.’
‘Still a damn sight more than you!’
‘Easy, boys.’ Ted was smiling, and his scarred neck twisted. ‘I wa-ger the north side of the river is much the same as this one.’
Trin lowered his eyes, and his cheeks reddened. Ren thought of the shadows moving in the trees over the bridge, the way he had fallen when Ted had found him, and started to feel very foolish indeed. His thoughts had been dark, unpredictable, these past few days, since the trip to Overwood. He never had been a good sleeper, but his nights had been more restless than usual, too, his dreams a little thicker with shad-ows. Shadows with faces, and a hunchback with gold eyes to give them voice. Turning every doorway to the gloom of the fortuneteller’s tent, every flame the silver light of his brazier. He frowned at himself. Just rhymes and empty words. Best not to dwell on it.
‘Food's ready!’ Werla said suddenly from the fire, and a few mo-ments later they had steaming bowls of fragrant brown stew sitting in front of them on the table. Ted carved up some slices of soft, pale bread for them to soak, and they set to eating it all in relative quiet for a time, content with good food and the soft warmth of the fire, and it was not long before all thoughts of the bridge, and the shadows beyond it, had gone entirely from Ren's mind. He found himself staring wearily into his cup, watching idly as the clear water rocked and rolled against the rim, listening to the rumble of the river outside.
‘Won’t turn to ale just by looking at it.’ Ted told him, and he looked up to find the miller looking at him curiously, taking another mouthful of bread. Trin was still quite engaged in his food, and Werla was sip-ping her mug contentedly, pale hair brushed back behind her ears.
‘What?’
‘Come, now, boy. What’s got you twisted?’ Ted asked, taking sip of his drink.
Ren hesitated. ‘I was thinking about the market.’ He said after a moment, looking up. It was true enough.
‘Ah. Town ain't what it used to be.’ Ted looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then began rubbing his thumb around the rim of his mug, staring at it. His young wife watched him with a slight frown. ‘All these unsavoury types arriving. You hear the talk, even out here. City folk, some of them, and worse. Heard… there’s talk of Brothers abroad, up in the Westmere. Out in the open, again, like.’ He pressed harder against the mug, thumb turning white. Werla reached out and pulled his hand away, folding it in her own and meeting his eye. Ted frowned, squeezing her hand, and the ugly scar on his neck gleamed. Trin had stopped eating.
‘But the Westmere’s a long way from here, and I ain’t one to be complaining. Got a good roof over my head, and a good living. A good woman, too, and might have a son of my own by next winter, Makers willing.’ He grinned at Werla, putting a hand to her belly, and she smiled, pulling it to her mouth and kissing it softly. ‘Reckon I’m a lucky man.’
Ren smiled at them both, lowering his eyes.
‘Say hello to your folks, for me, boy. Tell your old man I better see his arse over here before the snows.’
Some words of thanks, warm, earnest ones, and one or two more for goodbye, then they were homeward bound again, ponies snorting in the afternoon sun, promises of a return visit ringing in their ears. Ren was left with the distinct feeling that he had misjudged the old miller, scar and all. But it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned towards the ru-mours he had imparted from the Westmere, his white knuckles pressed against his mug. To Hector’s words in the shadow of the farm hill. To the ugly fortuneteller and his tent of oddities and silver fire. Words whispered in the dark. He’d not mentioned the encounter in the tent to anyone. Not even his grandfather. In truth, he’d been doing his best not to think about it at all, without much success. He frowned, hunching over his saddle.
A mask on fire.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. Trin, for his part, was busy trying to subtly feed Pol the stash of small treats he had smuggled away from the cottage, glancing over at Ren occasionally to make sure he hadn’t noticed. He had, of course, but there was little use in pointing it out.
‘Trin.’ Ren said once they had crested the hill, looking back towards the river-bound cottage in the distance. Trin started and stuck his hand quickly back into his pocket, hiding a scrap of bread.
‘What?'’
‘You heard what Ted said?’ Ren asked. ‘About Brothers?’
Trin frowned. ‘Suppose so.’
Ren was still looking back the way they had come. 'What do you make of it?'
‘Reckon he’s right.’ Trin shrugged. ‘Westmere’s a long way away.’
He hesitated, frowning.
‘But Hector’s been saying it for years. Overwood’s not what it used to be. Strange folk coming and going by night. No safe place for good folk that side of the Swiftwater. Brothers or no.’
‘Grandad says there haven’t been Black Hand this far south in years.’ Ren murmured, still looking back towards the river. ‘Not since we were born, at least.’
‘Wouldn’t pay it any mind. Plenty to worry about without them.’ Trin told him, giving him a serious look. ‘You’ve been acting up more, these past few weeks. Ever since the old man came calling.’
‘Have I?’ Ren scowled, shooting his friend a sideways glance.
‘You know what I think about him.’ Trin told him seriously. ‘Can’t be trusted, that one. And you can’t be taking so many risks. Not with your… Well, you know.’
‘Your ma tell you that, too?’
‘Don’t make it wrong.’ Trin grumbled, turning away in his saddle and trotting off south over the crest of the hill. Ren waited a moment longer, frowning to himself, then followed him reluctantly. The sound of the river was long gone behind him, but he caught one final glimpse the gleaming water before he shook the reins and disappeared finally over the brow of the hill, bound for home.

Note: My life is not in immedieate danger. I am still far from taking action.
TL;DR - 19M anxiety disorder, depression for a very long time, no change for the better despite my psychologist telling me i'm on the right path to getting better.
Everyday, i go to a job i don't see a point working. Up until lately i'd laugh when someone told me "Money doesn't buy happiness" and now i regret everytime i said that's not true. Everyone else my age seems to be doing well, all my older brothers and my twin sister have lovers, developed careers or education plans while i failed school, had to go to work early and now i'll have to work and study.
Thing is, i'm becoming increasingly more distressed over time. No matter what i do. One step forward, two steps back. Love life? Non existent, no matter how much i try. A purpose? None. There are things i want to do. Ever since i remember all i've ever wanted was to have a companion, someone who would love me and who i would love. It just never works out, and honsestly i can't see much point to keep on living because of that.
My psychologist told me that i'm on a good path to recovery. I had invasive thoughts whenever i saw couples, i felt worthless and now i'm choked by the fear of being left alone. My brothers all moved out. My baby twin sister finished school with amazing marks, and now goes to college, after that she's going to find a job, leave me, my parents are going to die and i'll be lone as a finger. I don't want to be alone.
There's barely anything that makes me get up in the morning to come back home, and there's less of that every day. I don't know what to do anymore. Working out doesn't work. Taking care of myself helps temporaily. Am i just weak genetically? Should i just get a darwin award?

I'd like to start by letting everyone know that the genre is Fantasy Epic, and that this is a long prologue at 6,414 words. This prologue serves a purpose as it takes care of a lot of my setting and plot setup. It also gives the reader a fair bit of worldbuilding without making it too much of an info dump (talking to you Robert Jordan ;P).
I've had several people beta read this for me and gotten a lot of positive feedback. The prolbem for me is that these were all people I know very well on a personal level. Several have made comparisons to Chronicles of Narnia or Lord of the Rings as far as how well the full book is written. The problem is, friends and family can often have a bias and make things seem better than they really are. So, now I want to do a test run in the real world and see what people who don't know me think. Is it as engaging and compelling as they have made me hope that it is?
I'm basically wanting to take a page from a couple authors I admire and follow the ABC rule for critiquing. Please let me know of any point where you thought it was Awesome, Boring or Confusing. I know prologues aren't everyone's favorite thing, but this has basically been written like a novella for the main story as it foreshadows a lot of things leading all the way into book four.
————————————————————————————
PROLOGUE
ARCHIVE INFINITUM
October 14, 844 (Alt-Future)
"Welcome back to the Archive, Master Jonathan."
"Thank you, Charles. It's good to be back. Have you noticed anything interesting in the Physical Realm?"
"I have not, sir. Do you require any assistance today?"
"Thank you, but no. I'm only here to revisit a passage within the history of the Order. Shortly after, I'll depart for the reunion at the Tower."
"Excellent, sir. I'll leave you to it."
Jonathan emerged from the ether and walked through the Archive doors. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the familiar scents of dusty cleanliness that can only truly be found in a place of learning. The lights reflected off the floor's white marble surface, casting a glow that evenly lit every corner of the large chamber. Even so, the room still felt cavernous to him, as if he were a galleon amidst the vastness of the ocean.
Jonathan appeared to be in his early to mid forties. Though, with the way he carried himself and the spring in his step, he seemed closer to his late twenties. His hair was shoulder length and dark gray. He wore bifocals though he hadn't needed them since his ascension, and dressed with a refined sense of style.
His gray eyes were by far his most interesting feature, though. They were the only hint of how old he truly was and the many adventures and travesties he'd witnessed. Regardless, how old he was didn't matter as age had long since lost its meaning for him. After all, being an immortal tended to give a man new priorities in life.
As he strolled across the room, a lift descended from the tower's heights. The square platform had waist high rails around its perimeter. It floated through the air showing no sign of a suspension system to raise or lower it. This was accomplished by a magical enchantment that allowed it to levitate and dart about the room at mind numbing speeds. As he stepped up onto the platform's dais, it landed on the floor in front of him. He took a position at its center, then, after folding his arms behind his back, mentally willed it to take him to floor eight hundred forty four.
It rose off the ground, gradually gaining speed until it was a hundred or so feet in the air. At that point, the platform took off like a rocket. The thought of what these speeds would do to him if this were outside the Realm of Intellect crossed his mind, making him chuckle nervously. He knew he had to be moving close to six hundred miles per hour.
Now, let me tell you a bit about Jonathan's pet project, The Archive Infinitum. The Archive is a magical structure he'd designed shortly after the cataclysm that nearly wiped out the human race. An event most of you now refer to as the Night of Burning Skies. That same event is also what gave us the powers we now refer to as magic.
Shortly after obtaining his ascension, he learned that science's multiverse theories were close to how reality really worked. There are an infinite number of parallel universes, or branching timelines, that coexist simultaneously. What was different is that each universe shared a common six realm structure. The Physical Realm, the Realm of Intellect, the Dominion of Shadows, the Plane of Enlightenment, the Land of the Forgotten, and the Ether.
He built the Archive within the Realm of Intellect so it wouldn't be bound by the laws of physics or time as we know them. Once the structure was anchored in place, he could set most of those parameters himself. What he didn't realize was that making it here would have an unintended, though not unwelcome, side effect. The structure's size, shape, and architectural style could change by anyone who entered it.
When someone enters the Archive, it ascertains their strength of mind and will. Suppose the individual's mental fortitude is deemed stronger than that of the other occupants. In that case, the appearance will adjust to one that best serves and appeals to that individual. This could become unsettling for the occupants already inside the first few times it happened. That being said, it has no effect on the contents atop the shelves or where you're located within the structure. For Jonathan, it shared an uncanny resemblance to the George Peabody Library, though on a much grander scale.
The lift stopped after a brief ride, and Jonathan stepped off. He resumed his stride, passing row after row of the cherry wood bookcases. There were hundreds of rows and thousands of tomes and scrolls in each. As a scholar, he'd spent most of his existence here. But, even so, he knew there would always be something more to be gleaned from their pages.
Today was a day of remembrance. Of celebration. Of mourning. It was the anniversary of the end of a war that had lasted ten thousand years. With the death of one individual, a light of hope was given to many. For others, it was a bittersweet victory that left a void in their hearts. He'd come here today to revisit a passage that would return him to that fateful day. Reliving the event which granted them this peace, and once again, paying his respects to a dear friend.
"Ah, yes, yes, yes. Here we go."
The plaque on the side of the bookcase read, Row DD, Column 15. Now that he'd found the right one, he began scanning the shelves. It wasn't long before his hand landed on the tome he sought.
"Here it is." He pulled it down from the shelf. "My word. Has it truly been fifteen hundred years since I glanced through these pages?"
Looking at the cover, he chuckled. The combined magic of the Archive and the Realm had created a thin layer of dust. Giving it the feeling of something ancient and lost to time. Raising it to his lips, he blew the dust away, causing the magic to dissipate as it fell to the floor. He pulled open the cover and rifled through the pages. The section he stopped at contained the account of Rexinon the Prophet's final words.
Summoning his divine magics, he channeled a spell into the tome. The words that once filled the passages began to fade away, leaving only the blank pages, which now bled a blueish gray smoke. The soft glow of the lights against the floor diminished as the smoke spread. As the darkness grew more substantial, luminescent spheres and arcs of brilliant blues and crimson could be seen dancing about its surface like lightning.
The ground trembled beneath his feet, and the smokey haze took on a more stormlike appearance. All around him, the air started to feel heavy, and the taste of dust and sea salt filled his mouth. A gentle rain began to fall, and the room's remaining lights winked out. If not for the increasing flashes of lightning, he would've been left in total darkness. But even this was not a comfort, as those flashes cast shadows against the storm's ever swirling walls. Many of which appeared to be dark things that should never be seen in the light.
The storm's intensity grew, bringing disorienting cracks of thunder and wind whipping around him. It assaulted his senses and seemed to have an almost vengeful purpose. That meant he had to constantly focus on the spell, bracing himself against the onslaught. If he failed, it would kill him without question.
Some of the shadows began to take on a physical form with details beyond what the walls could offer them. He watched as an hourglass tumbled end over end, circling him before it returned to the storm. A moment later, a blazing fireplace and mantle emerged but produced neither light nor heat. Finally, a door engraved with the crest of the Order appeared. These images were ones he'd expected to see for this particular passage, and so came as no surprise. However, when a fourth image appeared, he was caught off guard.
Although it was normal for three images to accompany this spell, an occasional fourth spoke of prophecy. He focused intently on this final image. It showed twelve people standing in a circle; one of them was coated in blood. Two others were bound by chains. One a man, the other a woman.
He looked closer at the man and realized it was Godric. His eyes opened wide as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the image. Only a few moments passed while he speculated, but it was a few moments too many. Disaster struck, and too late, he realized his mistake. He'd lost focus, and now the storm would surely take him.
Hurricane force winds and debris tore at his clothes, quickly turning them into rags. One powerful gust slammed into his side as if he'd been struck by a car, knocking him off his feet. The storm swelled with even greater ferocity. It threatened to consume him this time, and he wondered if it would finally cost him.
Rain and hail pelted his face and body, while dust and sand stung his eyes. As he wiped away the grit, a bolt of lightning struck before him, temporarily blinding him. He got to his hands and knees, gasping for breath as the storm continued to beat him relentlessly.
Steeling himself against the pain, he rose to his feet. As fast as he could manage, he began casting mental defenses and barriers to protect his mind from the horrific assault. He bellowed in defiance of the storm, "I will not let it end this way! I refuse!" One defense after another was laid upon his person, until finally, he succeeded. The winds died to a breeze as the rain became little more than a summer misting.
He heard the sound of a quill scratching against paper over the storm's remnants, and the air behind his back grew hot as a crackling fire joined the room's ambiance. The sickly sweet smell of incense filled his nostrils, reminding him of days spent in his master's study. Another fond memory.
The storm wall vanished as the tremors subsided, making the room visible through a misty haze. The light of the fireplace cast his shadow across the now rough cut gray stone floor. Half a dozen tapestries hung around the room, and a liquor cabinet stood at the room's far corner. The main entry door remained closed to his left, and the doorway to the study's balcony lay to his right. At the room's center sat Rexinon at his desk, writing furiously on a piece of parchment.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he breathed a sigh of relief. Although he'd done this countless times, the journey into the pages of history was always filled with peril. But, blessedly, the most intense part of the spell was complete. And while he could now relax in that fact, that fourth image still concerned him.
He stood in the familiar square room, clothing restored to its original state. The evening's air flowed through the open windows, making the ambient temperature quite cozy. Crossing the room, he paused at the desk and listened as Rexinon started muttering. "What I wouldn't give for a typewriter, much less a computer. Would make this so much faster."
Jonathan couldn't help but crack a smile. "Oh, but how many times have I thought the same thing, old friend?" He remarked, though he knew Rexinon couldn't hear him.
He stepped up to the desk and leaned over it. Looking down at the paper Rexinon was writing on, he frowned. Like so many times before, it appeared as little more than black scribbles on a page. Those words had to be important, but there was no way to know.
This was one of the spell's critical weaknesses. The details within the vision were only as precise as what was written in the tome. Most of the books in the Archive were magically transcribed. The benefits of this were completed histories free of victor and writer biases. Although, it wasn't flawless.
Throughout history, there have been individuals or events that the spell couldn't see. The most well known examples of these blips in time were the United States presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt from 1933 to 1945 and the United Kingdom's Prime Minister, Michael Durham, from 2063 to 2065. All that is known about them was their lives before office and the accounts written by those around them. These gaps in history were generally the result of one of two things. In these two cases, a place or individual with a strong connection to the Dominion of Shadows.
Sighing, he pushed off the desk and crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. He opened the glass doors, pulling several bottles and a glass from the shelves. He made a drink consisting of three parts Red Adders Bite and one part Dry Amorian Blood Wine, then added a lime wedge to the rim of the glass. The others wouldn't arrive for another half hour, leaving him time to kill.
He walked around the room with his drink in hand and studied the various tapestries, several of which he'd been a part of. Each one depicted an accomplishment or tragedy facilitated by the Order. All save one, which showed a scene from the event that started it all.
The one to the left of the cabinet showed the Order's founding. In the background stood a grand tower of black and white marble. Its four sides were engraved with the Mark of Hellyrr, which glowed with a magical light. In front of it stood a man facing a gathered crowd, his arms swept wide in triumph. They looked up at him and the structure with reverence and awe.
He continued to move in a counterclockwise manner around the room. Above the main entry door hung another tapestry. One he was even depicted in. It showed the aftermath of a massacre. Six figures stood amidst the bodies of hundreds. The earth around them was scorched by flame, and the blood of the fallen had stained it red. The cloud covered sky glowed a deep crimson with gold outlines from the fires below. It had come to be known as the Cleansing of Elysian, in which the entirety of the planet's second continent had been annihilated to preserve the world.
"I wish it had never come to this. Why can't we all just get along? Instead of thriving in the prosperity of our two lands, they plotted and began planning to bring war to our own people. To rape, pillage, and enslave them. Even with all my vast knowledge and wisdom, I can't understand why they felt the need to dominate and control the world." He looked back up at the tapestry. "Even now, most of the land is still uninhabitable."
He turned around and looked at the tapestry above the balcony door. This one would appear out of place with the others to all but a few handfuls of people. Even for those who learned the truth behind it, it looked like little more than an artist's vision of what a beautiful landscape at sunset should look like. The sky is dotted with hundreds of stars as shades of red, orange, and yellow dance across the land's horizon. The artist's point of view appears to be looking down from a hillside. Down the hill's slope, you can see a pond teaming with wildlife along its edge. The remaining landscape is filled with miles of forest stretching toward the horizon.
For the few who survived this event and still remained, they knew it depicted the final moments of their world before all of humanity was nearly lost.
Jonathan fixated on this tapestry more than he had on the others. The longer he stared, the more distant his expression grew. Over time, his breathing quickened, and his grip on the glass slipped. It shattered as it hit the floor, causing the rug to stain from the liquid. The sound jerked him out of the trance like state, making him feel ill.
He could still recall the memory of that long ago day like it were yesterday. The thought of how close humanity had come to extinction made his legs weak, and he stumbled back against the wall behind him. He slid down the stones' cool surface and noticed his hands were now trembling. Through shuddering breaths, he uttered the words of a broken man. "So much death. So many lives were lost that day. So many. Oh, Sonia. Even after all this time, I still miss you."
The main entry door slammed open, crashing against the wall with a loud bang. Jonathan jerked as one of them collided mere inches from where he sat. The startling sound had been enough to pull him from his stupor, but it still took a moment for him to gather himself. A man in the doorway lowered his foot from where he'd obviously kicked the unlocked door in.
"Knock, knock, Rex. Seems you've done it now."
"Seth. I'll never understand the animosity you held for Rexinon," Jonathan said wearily as he got to his feet.
Seth stood just shy of five foot eight inches and had slick black hair that he kept combed back. He wore black jeans and a beige dress shirt with mother of pearl buttons, which had seen far too much polish in recent days. A malevolent grin displayed his perfect teeth and careless eyes. He strode into the room, dragging a chair behind him, and placed it on the rug by the fireplace.
"Was kicking the door in really necessary, Seth?"
A second man stepped into the room, obviously annoyed by the unnecessary use of force. He wore a navy blue business suit and towered over everyone else in the room, and that was saying something considering Jonathan was six foot. As he still held to the standards of a marine, he kept his hair high and tight and his face clean shaven. He stood at the rug's edge out of respect for the Order so as not to mar the embroidered Mark of Hellyrr. A respect Seth clearly lacked.
"Godric Gibbs. This day changed you. Hell, it changed all of us, but few as much as you," Jonathan said. He looked back at the door as the third and final man entered. "Assassin."
This man was of a height with Jonathan and wore all black from head to toe. His outfit looked like something out of a TV show. Almost like a cross between Gi Joe's Snake Eyes, and CW Arrow's League of Assassins. After ten thousand years, all they knew about him was his previous occupation as a contract killer. It wasn't long before they'd taken to calling him Assassin, as they had no other name to go by. Any time he was asked a question regarding his past, he either remained silent or dodged it outright. He took a position to Godric's left and, like Godric, took care of where he stood on the rug.
The three men stood in silence and watched as Rexinon continued to write. Godric and Assassin seemed content to wait until he addressed them. On the other hand, Seth seemed to grow more agitated as the minutes passed. Jonathan chuckled in spite of himself.
About twenty minutes later, Rexinon spoke, "Reverend Seth Jones, Colonel Godric Gibbs, and Assassin. To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone plainly indicated that he already knew.
Seth spoke first. "Oh, cut the crap, Rex. You already know why we're here. This cult thing of yours has gone on long enough."
"Well, there's the pot calling the kettle black," Jonathan muttered sarcastically.
Godric rolled his eyes. Everyone in the room knew about Seth's past as a cult leader. They also knew his anger was more at being forced to wait in silence than anything to do with Rexinon or the Order.
"Calm yourself, Seth. There's no need for such hostilities." Godric looked at Rexinon apologetically. "I'm sorry to have to do this, old friend, but my hands are tied. Rexinon the Prophet, Headmaster of the Hellyrrian Order, you've been charged with conspiracy to overthrow the governments of Aurelia and seize control for the Order.
"As we speak, the leaders of the Hellyrrian Order are being gathered for execution. Furthermore, your towers and all their artifacts will be destroyed, and any remnants of the Order's existence is to be wiped from the face of history. As of 0813 this morning, you have been sentenced to death. How do you plead?"
Rexinon continued to write at an incredible rate. He knew why they'd come. He'd known this was coming for months. After all, his gift was the gift of prophecy. The evidence for the charges against him was both substantial and ethereal, depending on what light was shown on it.
Two centuries ago, the Order had tracked the activities of an unknown number of individuals who'd been subtly manipulating several of the Aurelian governing bodies. They'd spread like a poison, corrupting them and turning once prosperous kingdoms which knew few hardships, into lands where the people had to fight just to survive. The problem was that whoever that force had been, always seemed to be just one step ahead of them. Now, not only was it check, but checkmate. The Order had lost.
"I believe the Righteous Twelve to be ill advised. I believe you've been manipulated by the same corrupted governing body which we've spent so long trying to purify—." Seth grunted. "—But," he said at length, "I accept all charges against me, save one. Neither myself nor anyone else of the Order has ever sought to rule Aurelia, as the charges would imply. The Cleansing of Elysian should've been proof enough to show that to be true."
Rexinon penned the final words of his letter and placed the pen back in its stand. Pulling the top off a jar, he dusted the page with a thin layer of sand to soak up any excess ink. After dumping the sand back into another jar to be cleaned, he pushed away from his desk and stood to look at his guests for the first time. After nudging his stool back under, he addressed Godric directly.
"Will you join me on the balcony one last time?"
Godric nodded his head and gestured towards the balcony doorway. As they stepped outside, Jonathan followed.
Rexinon leaned against the railing and looked out over the city, his gaze fixed on the setting sun. Godric joined him and looked down to the tower's base, some five hundred feet below. Although he was not afraid of heights, it gave him respect for the sturdily mounted railing at the balcony's edge.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Rexinon said. Godric looked at him, confused. "The way the world has turned out since that day? Ten thousand years of watching as civilization was rebuilt and destroyed time and time again by a senseless war. Watching them evolve into something more as they learned how to use these gifts we were given. In some ways, we're greater than we ever were. In other ways, we're inferior. If I have any regrets, it's that I couldn't do more to leave the people better prepared for this new age."
"Well spoken. If it's any consolation, I believe this is wrong. I even spoke out against the council for a different outcome. For my efforts, though, I was threatened with execution if I didn't cease my objections."
Rexinon's tone grew heated after hearing of the council's reaction. "You should know better than anyone why I fought so hard against them, then. I'm not against governance. I'm against corrupt governance. We had far too many corrupt politicians and warlords in our own time for me to ever want to allow it again."
Godric nodded his head. "Yes. The problem is you played too heavy a hand too quickly. Instead of accepting that they'd been beaten, they cheated by playing with an ace they had hidden up their collective sleeves."
Rexinon sighed, knowing his words were true. "Indeed. I've accepted my fate. I won't run. Won't even make it difficult for y'all. I have no need to. I would like to make one final request to ease your conscience, though."
Rexinon leaned toward Godric conspiratorially. As he did this, the world around them began to shimmer and distort. Almost like the motion blurring you'd see on a TV. Likewise, their conversation was masked by the sound of white noise and the sound of hushed incoherent whispers.
This was the second hurdle the scrying spells had to deal with. Individuals with divine magic could conceal their conversations or even the events they were a part of. Rexinon had concealed this conversation, and to this day, Godric has never spoken of what was said.
Jonathan returned to the study with a resigned sigh. There was nothing more he could learn from their conversation. Assassin stood in the same spot he'd been when he first entered the room and looked as if he hadn't so much as twitched. Seth, however, was rummaging through the desk's drawers. He'd tried to figure out what he was looking for in the past, but nothing seemed obvious.
The shards of glass from when he'd dropped his cup earlier had vanished, along with the stain on the rug from the liquor. As expected, the glass had returned to the cabinet, and the bottles had refilled to where they were before he'd arrived. This was yet another reminder that this was a magically induced vision of an event that had long since passed. It could be too easy to forget that this wasn't real and that if he spent too much time here, it would have consequences in the real world for him.
He knew they'd be out there a while. In previous visits, he'd occasionally spent this time combing through the room, similar to what Seth was doing. Having cataloged everything centuries ago, there was nothing left to do but wait. So, he walked around the desk and sat squarely within the Mark of Hellyrr embroidered on the rug. There, for the next hour or so, he would remain, arms folded, legs crossed, and eyes shut. Freeing his mind of all unnecessary thoughts and emotions. At least, that was the plan.
About forty minutes in, Seth started to grumble and complain, forcing Jonathan to give up on his meditation. "… I know he's one of the humblest among our kind, but lord, does he have to be so dull? I can't find anything interesting anywhere. Even his liquor cabinet is dull." Seth walked from behind the desk to the liquor cabinet, pulled a few bottles out at random, and read the labels aloud. "Red Adders Bite, Amorian Blood Wine. Christ, he's even got Athester's Sweet Malt. This crap might as well be water." He pulled another bottle down and said, "At least he's got the taste to have at least one bottle of Nordic Berserker."
"Some of us prefer the simpler things in life. You might find life more enjoyable when you aren't always looking for the rare and exotic," Assassin said with a disinterested, almost dismissive tone.
Seth clicked his tongue. "Hell, even this letter he was so focused on when we arrived makes no sense." Seth thrust the letter towards Assassin, who took it nonchalantly. "Look at this."
Jonathan studied Assassin intently, hoping for any sign that would reveal the letter's contents. It was no use, though; for all the emotion he showed, Jonathan would've thought it no more important than a grocery list. But, if that were the case, why obscure it from the eyes of the scrying spell? The frustration caused by such a simple sheet of paper was baffling.
Jonathan got to his feet as Rexinon and Godric returned. As Rexinon walked to stand at the center of the rug, Jonathan moved behind the desk. Godric walked toward Assassin and conversed with him for a few minutes. Once again, the sound of white noise shrouded what was said. This time, it was Godric who masked his words from the spell. When Assassin nodded, Godric moved beside him and faced Rexinon.
Rexinon looked at each tapestry and seemed to relive each as he did so. They all knew those accomplishments and tragedies would stand the test of time. Any efforts to change that would fall flat. The Order had played too significant a role in shaping this new world. Finally, he turned to Godric, kneeling as he met his regret filled eyes.
Assassin pulled an infamous rod from his side, dubbed the Executioner's Handle. Forged in the Dominion of Shadow by Assassin some three thousand years ago. It was one and a half feet long of shadow infused steel and bound with his own divine essence. Ominous black tendrils crawled along Assassin's hand like something alive and flowed into the handle. The shaft elongated, and an axe head formed at its end.
Though he had accepted his fate, seeing that axe form made Rexinon's heart stop momentarily. He looked at Godric questioningly. Godric knew what that look meant and nodded his head in assent. Agreeing to this had allowed them both to right several wrongs this night by asking one simple question. "Do you have any final words or requests?"
"I have two, if you'll grant them. The first, allow me to disband the Order formally as my final act as headmaster."
Seth started to protest, but Assassin lowered the axehead in his direction as a silent threat. Seth glared at Assassin with seething hatred. Godric nodded to Rexinon. "Proceed."
As the headmaster of the Hellyrrian Order, he had a mental connection with every member. Without hesitation, Rexinon's eyes began to glow with a brilliant purple hue. This would be Rexinon's final order, and Godric knew it would save thousands.
"My brothers and sisters, hear me now and heed my words. Abandon the Order and save yourselves. Flee to the hills and never look back to what we once were. With my dying breath, the Hellyrrian Order is no more. The governments of Aurelia have played a hand we can't stand against. Anyone who disregards this command will be hunted down and executed without mercy. To the leaders and guild masters of the Order, I charge you with dismantling everything relating to the Order and turning over every artifact and document you can to Godric the Just, Jonathan the Wise, or Assassin the Watcher. I also ask that you help calm those who feel outraged and betrayed by this night. Do not blame the Twelve, as they were little more than pawns in this corrupt game of politics. Farewell, my friends. My family. May the peace we have fought for be found in the coming days."
The glow faded, and he slumped forward onto his hands, his breathing labored. A few moments passed, and he managed to catch his breath but still looked towards the ground.
"The second request I have is that anyone who would heed that warning be spared. The ruling factions wanted me. As long as no one else causes trouble, we know they won't cause too much fuss over it."
His voice took on a much sharper edge as he looked back up. "You call us a cult, though you know we are nothing of the sort. On the contrary, our Order has stood for nearly five thousand years for the betterment of the entire world. How they treated you should tell you that what I said and what we were doing was justified."
"Shut your mouth, Rex!" Seth spat venomously.
Godric glared at Seth. His own anger with this situation was at the point of breaking free. "Be silent! I don't know what kind of grudge you have, but I, for one, don't give a damn what the council said. Rexinon doesn't deserve death for the crimes he's being accused of. Unfortunately, the ruling factions in almost every nation are corrupted and working towards being as corrupt as they were back in our day." Godric sighed. "Regrettably, my hands are tied, though. The law is the law, and I have been overruled on this matter. Regardless of what my conscience thinks, I will abide by the rules of the land."
Rexinon nodded, understanding Godric's situation perfectly. Godric had become the divine embodiment of law and justice at his ascension. While those two things work hand in hand, they are far from the same, and one must often walk a fine line to serve them both. In this case, the choices were clear. In the end, it didn't matter what he chose; he would inevitably betray one virtue or the other. Unfortunately, there was no good way for him to handle this, and Rexinon could see how this was affecting him.
"The majority of the Order will heed my warning. As for the leaders, if any are still alive, they will follow that command to the letter. They'll even aid you in handling any hotheads who resist," Rexinon said.
"The good news is that no one has yet been executed this evening. I'll personally see to it that those who abide by that order are given a chance to live long, productive lives within society. If all goes well, you will be the only casualty of this idiocy."
Rexinon gave the faintest sign of a smile with a halfhearted chuckle as he said, "Godric, one thing I'll not allow is any of the Order's work ending up in the hands of one of those tyrants. Therefore, I demand that Jonathan be given every document, scroll, and tome held within our strongholds for safekeeping." Rexinon felt exhausted. The spell to warn his Order took more out of him than anticipated.
"You're in no position to be making demands of us," Seth said. Godric finally snapped and struck him so hard that he slammed back into the wall beside the fireplace, cracking it. He got back to his feet a moment later, fixed his shirt, and looked down at the blood he'd wiped from his lip. Godric looked back at Rexinon.
"As you were saying."
"Assassin, I'd ask that you secure all our relics and artifacts, regardless of their magical significance. I don't need to tell you what all we have housed around Aurelia."
"No, you don't. The nukes of our time were nothing compared to some of those items," Assassin replied.
"We'll see to it that it's done. There are things within these walls that were never meant for untrained mortal hands," Godric added.
"Thank you."
"As for the texts, Jonathan will have a field day going through everything. There is far too much the council doesn't understand within these walls that we can't afford to lose."
"Godric was right, Rex. I still have everything. Much of which has been quite useful over the centuries,"
Godric turned his head away, no longer able to look Rexinon in the eye. "I no longer deserve the right to call you a friend, but is there anything else you would ask of me?"
Rexinon looked at Godric for a long time and couldn't help but smile. Not at his pain or suffering in following the orders given to him, but knowing that if anyone here had ever been a friend to him, Godric certainly was. With his final words, he left Godric with a warning.
"No, but I'll leave you with this. Be wary of those among you, for one will betray you all. My friend."
Godric nodded, accepting these as Rexinon's final words as a tear ran down his cheek. Rexinon lowered his head, and Assassin enveloped his axe's blade in a purple aura.
"Woah, Assassin, what's with the new color? Never seen that before," Seth asked.
Ignoring the question, Assassin swung the axe, severing Rexinon's head cleanly.
That night, the cries of the Order were heard in every city across Aurelia. All mourning the death of the Order's first, and last, headmaster.
Jonathan fought back tears of his own as he watched the axe's head vanish. Assassin secured the handle on his belt as he walked towards the desk. Godric looked as though he was going to be sick.
"Did you do as I asked?" Godric asked shakily.
"Of course. I may be a trained killer, but even I know this was bullshit, mate."
Seth walked over and picked up Rexinon's severed head by the hair. He held it up before him, a mischievous grin on his face. Then he whispered something into Rexinon's ear.
Assassin's eyes locked on Seth. As he let go of the head, he used one of his abilities, known as shadow step, to cross the distance to where Seth stood. Before Rexinon's head hit the ground, Assassin snatched it out of the air and punched Seth so hard that it sent him flying into the same section of the wall he'd hit earlier. He bounced off it, but the force of the impact sent several of the stones flying into the next room. Seth crumpled to the floor, where he lay unmoving for several seconds. After a while, his head snapped upright, and he began to laugh. He stood up as if nothing had happened and headed out the door. Godric, now seething with anger, watched as Assassin started to go after him. "Leave him. He's not worth your time."
Jonathan paced around the room, waiting for the spell to wear off. His heart ached, and his own anger toward Seth at that moment made him wish he could destroy the man. But that was Seth's way, and they'd all learned to let it go in time. The world began to blur and vanish, reverting to the Archive once again.
He closed the cover, placing the tome back on the shelf with a heavy sigh. His fingers lingered on the binding as he read the inscription, A Complete History of the Hellyrrian Order, Volume 666. Finally, Jonathan let his hand fall to the side as he walked away with his shoulders slumped.
As if speaking to an old friend, he lamented, "Damn you, Rex. Why couldn't you have just left well enough alone?"
As Jonathan walked away, he shed a tear at the loss of one of his closest friends.

I grew up in NJ and probably had Dunkin every month. Sure once in a while we would get something stale, too sweet, cold, but for the most part they were always tasty: I really liked that they were super soft and airy, that slight crunch of the glaze, filling flavors.
I went to FL for college, work, and then moved to VA and thus have been exposed to Krispy Kreme for about 9 yrs now and I hate them! I cannot understand the hype of these donuts at all. They are smaller, denser, more expensive, the glaze is sickly sweet, and when hot, drippy and sticky. And yet they are in the grocery stores and regularly have much higher google ratings than the Dunkins and even local bakeries. So many people bring them to group get togethers and such. I have always had a sweet tooth but also a very wide palate and I honestly don’t understand how I’m the only person who seems to think these donuts are way too sweet.
So today I decided to give it one more chance because I had never tried any non glazed ones since that’s the favorite that everyone brings. I got the strawberry sprinkled, which I’ve had many of from dunkin, and it was not good. The icing was one thick circle strip and extra sweetness and denseness on top of the existing glazed I don’t like. So today was my last chance lol unless one of you can prove me wrong.
Disclaimer that I am quite aware that local, small, and international bakeries and fast casual chains are varied and delicious and usually superior and I do patronize these as well.
That is all, thank you for your friday morning time.

Good morning everyone!
I am not sure which sub to post this in, so please direct me elsewhere if necessary.
There is a large tree (or bush of some sort?) at the front of my partners house that suddenly developed these orange fuzzy patches on almost every single leaf this spring. The tree seems healthy otherwise but we are not sure what they are and how to manage them properly. If anyone knows what it is and if we should cut the tree down as to not infect the rest of the trees on their property please let me know!
I created a lovely garden in the front and side of the house last year, and a lot of the leaves fall off and are scattered throughout, and we are quite worried that all of the flowers and plants in the garden will die.
Thank you so much in advance :)

Good morning! I am hoping someone can help me with the below results. According to the doc- these are normal, but we do have a follow up to discuss on 6/22. Background 44 years old & the below blood sample was taken towards the end of my cycle (meaning my period is due any minute)
Follicle Stimulating Hormone – 9.7 Estradiol Level – 167.0 Luteinizing Hormone – 18.6
Thanks in advance for any info you can provide.

Hi everyone, I posted here a few days ago looking to spread some good vibes and am hoping someone somewhere would be willing to send some in return.
Background: I had a sacroiliac joint fusion scheduled for today for 2 months after two years of advocating for myself as a 32-year-old female in agony. Already have had another spinal fusion in my neck.
I received a call yesterday from the surgical coordinator at my surgeons office that my insurance (Cigna) had not received PSYCHIATRIC EVAL CLEARANCE from my PCP that a psychological condition was not causing the perception of pain. My primary submitted everything but it was still "pending" as of this morning, so the surgery was cancelled as we were 15 minutes away from the hospital, which is over an hour drive for us.
Apparently Cigna is one of a handful of insurance companies that require this type of evidence for SI fusions only. I am devastated. I have a reschedule date of July 14th and am promised all will be set then. But it FUCKING SUCKS. My husband had to put in for the day off a month ago, my kids have been a wreck and now I have to postpone the inevitable and prolong their apprehension, I have been the primary caretaker for my mother who is bedridden from similarly extensive joint degeneration and recently had to admit her and discharge her within 72 hours of a nursing home comparable to hell on earth all because of this surgery. We have a new caretaker hired, had enrolled my daughter in early morning school care for the remainder of her school days. I am just so frustrated by the entire scenario.
I have anxiety managed through medication and had become an alcoholic due to the pain from this condition but am stabally managed on naltrexone (7 months sober!)
But you're right, Cigna. Perhaps the unrelenting pain I have every form of documentation for diagnostically may be wrong and it is all a fabrication due to my mental health. Fuck. Off.
Sorry everyone, but I knew I could post here because I'm sure others have had to deal with similar insurance issues, especially if they're in the US. If this isn't allowed here I apologize and feel free to remove it, I feel better getting these thoughts out. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman of childbearing age or the fact that I have documented mental disorders, but this all feels very discriminatory and quite honestly, patriarchal.
Love to all you lovely witches and wishing everyone a safe and happy pride✌️ 🌈 🏳️‍🌈 💙 🤍 💕

Yesterday, I went out with someone I met on the Hinge app. We went to watch a movie together and ate afterwards. We are around the same age (I’m 22 and he’s 21) and we’re both college students entering our senior year.
The day of the movie he messaged good morning to me and we talked for a little bit. When I got to theatre I saw him and we both greeted each other. We made our way to the seats and he wanted to buy me something but I kept saying I was alright because the lines were super long and if we both went, no one would watch our stuff/potentially take our seats. So while sitting down, he asked me about my job and I explained. He said I was a sweetheart and also said I smelled good as well. I think we just watched the movie after this.
After the movie, he was super stunned (he really enjoyed it) and we talked about it for a bit as well as what I enjoyed about the movie. So I think atp, we were heading to a food court at a mall nearby.
Once we got to the food court, he saw something he wanted and I agreed to get it as well. He paid for the food we ordered and found a seat. Now, at this point there was some silence between us. I jokingly asked if it was still the movie and he nodded yes. After we sat down, I started eating but he didn’t like the food he ate. I felt bad and there wasn’t anything else around he wanted either. There was still a lot of silence even though I talked a little about where I go to school (which he asked me about) and the journey to where I am now. He said I was smart smart and then asked if I had any questions for him. The only question I asked was about his job and I said I was really impressed by him. Other questions didn’t come to my mind even though I was trying to think of some. We also talked about music tastes for a bit, which I blanked a little on, and then anime. He then wanted to go home and I agreed. He wanted to drop me at my bus stop I got lost a little so we just hugged goodbye.
After I got home, he texted me saying that he enjoyed our movie date and thanks with a thumbs up emoji. I responded by saying that I also enjoyed it and if he was still interested in going out with me and where this goes to let me know. He reacted with a thumbs up emoji.
Honestly, I feel like he’s not that interested in me because there was a lot of silence and his message after I got home. I can’t really pinpoint it but I felt like he was way more interested in the movie than talking to me. But then also feel like I could be reading him wrong.
What I can say is, whichever girl he really likes and wants to be serious with is very lucky.

First: https://redd.it/11e34ce
Previous: https://redd.it/142fe2y
Chapter 32
As Mae had previewed, the weeks that passed since the incident in the Logistics Bay were fraught with speculation and feeding the rumor mill. Quin felt he couldn’t walk ten paces on Nemo before meeting some askance gaze of a crewmember or hearing the murmurings of a conversation that abruptly stopped when he would round a corner. Mae was right though that, after a while, the incident became old news and the ruckus died down a bit. Certainly, there was always an inappropriate joke to be had during dinner or dark looks from certain members of the crew, but as the time passed, people turned once again to daily happenings onboard, when the next stopover would take place, and the perennial favorite: who happened to be sleeping with whom.
This last item tended to occupy people to no end, and Quin felt a bit unfortunate that this news also pertained him. Mae and Liza’s breakup and the apparent spat that he and Pepper had ran through the corridors just as fast as the news about Nova. Quin was honestly unsure which conversation he dreaded being brought up more. It seemed that individuals he had never or barely even met knew more about his world than he himself was aware. It was during one of these conversations with two people from the Engineering section that Quin accidently lost it and stormed off, an act he regretted immediately for furthering the gossip chain.
“So is it true that you had to hold Mae back so she wouldn’t punch Liza?” the guy had asked.
”What? NO. What the hell?” Quin responded, flabbergasted.
“Well, I heard from someone in the officer’s corridor that there was yelling and someone got hit. Do you know who got punched?” The other person was practically on their toes with anticipation.
“NO ONE GOT PUNCHED!” Quin shouted, ready to leave the conversation as soon as possible.
“Jeez, why are you yelling?” as the first person, blind to Quin’s growing frustration.
“Don’t you know, Liza’s friend broke up with him the next day because of the fight?” The second person remarked to the first, now completely cutting Quin out of the conversation.
“WE WEREN’T EVEN DATING! WHAT THE HELL?!” Quin screamed, turned on his heels and stormed off to nowhere in particular.
Thankfully, this was probably the worst interaction he had had as a result of those unfortunate few days, aside from the actual conversations themselves that he experienced with Pepper and Nova themselves. He would have appreciated any interaction with either of them at all, if he was honest. The silent treatment from the both of them was practically unbearable. Mae’s words of encouragement, “Time, give it time,” only helped so much when he would pass by Pepper in the corridors or when he had to work directly with Nova during his long shifts in the lab. Nova had limited their conversations to something like a comment box, dropping in parcels of a conversation to the syslog, to be taken up at her leisure and delivered at inconvenient times in the middle of the night. But at the very least, Nova was responding, albeit specifically for work and solely related to their responsibilities together. Pepper, on the other hand, was completely mute. Painfully so, Quin noted as she passed by him going into the cafeteria and didn’t even afford him a glance.
The level of complete non-interaction with Pepper and the invasion into his life by everyone else was beginning to wear on him, and he felt more cut off from the rest of the crew than ever before. He had stopped visiting Bostwick’s chamber for fear of the look of pity that the Commander often wore when passing by him. At least Mae had somewhat of a ‘tough love’ approach to cheering him up. Bostwick’s uncompromising warmth and sympathetic looks made Quin feel guilty rather than comforted, and shameful rather than encouraged. In fact, in the two and a half weeks that passed since Nemo had left the Rhea stopover and Quin passed the night under the watch of the Commander, Quin had only exchanged glances with Bostwick.
Then there was the insomnia. At first, Quin felt nothing but lethargy as he felt the different components of his life crumble around him. The inability to communicate with Tess, the intolerable pity of Mae and Bostwick, the unbearable silence from Pepper and Nova, the frustration expressed by the command staff, and the whispers and side-eyes from the rest of the crew all contributed to the complete physical and mental shutdown he experienced after leaving Rhea. He would steal away to his chamber during break periods to nap, and he would skip meals in order to stay in his room, profiting from the odd bits of food Mae snuck out of the cafeteria. However, after several days of feeling an inability to motivate himself to be out of bed, he started to find that he would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, or glancing at the clock and fretting that it was already 4:00 in the morning.
It was on one of these early mornings that Quin saw the numbers 3:22 at the top of his tablet, and he felt as if it would be impossible for him to find any sleep that night. He had laid down in bed at 22:05 with every intention of forcing a good night’s sleep, but with five hours passing by and no respite coming, he sat up on the edge of his bed and rubbed his eyes a bit. He figured that the coffee station in the kitchen would probably have some hot water with which to make tea, and that could possibly help him. He threw his jumpsuit and boots on and strolled out of the room.
The ship was deserted and peaceful, the type of quiet that Quin relished. It was almost trance-inducing, the soft hum of the ship that Quin felt coming through the very walls themselves. He felt the sound reverberate through him and it was soothing. He set off toward the kitchen. The sleet grey walls of Nemo’s interior usually made for a serious backdrop, but at this hour, it had the effect of dimming the corridors and adding to the sleepy atmosphere of the ship. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and followed the sleek lines of the hallways with his eyes as he passed. He came upon the cafeteria doors and walked by them to skirt the main room. He was heading for the back area, the sparkling room with gleaming metal and white tile and a peaceful getaway. Upon swiping his arm against the pad, though, he found that the space was already occupied. A voice greeted him before he had an opportunity to look up.
“Hey Quin, can’t sleep? Is it another bad dream?” Bostwick was sitting on a stool with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and his illuminated tablet resting on one of the food prep work tables. The man had a weary look around his eyes but Quin could still discern the warmth that emanated from the wrinkles near his temples and the large smile he wore. Quin froze, unsure whether to step into the room and submit himself to another round of pity or try to find some excuse for leaving and head back to his room. In his uncertainty, he ended up standing in the doorway, causing the automatic doors to try to swish shut but freezing and retracting, over and over again.
“Well? Are you just going to stand there, mouth agape, or are you going to come get something to drink like you had planned?” Bostwick said with an eyebrow raised, his mouth now reflecting a knowing smirk. Slowly, Quin trudged into the room, his hands clenched in his pockets as he tried to suppress the nerves that were boiling in his stomach. He gingerly walked over to the coffee station and put a tea bag in a cup and pressed the release valve to allow boiling water to fall over it. Then he set the cup down to steep. He kept his eyes fixed on the surface of the brewing tea, though he felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand as he guarded himself for Bostwick’s eventual conversation starter. But after a minute, it didn’t come. Quin stood there watching the deep brown tea diffuse throughout the water but did not hear a word come from Bostwick. Hesitantly, Quin looked around and saw Bostwick tapping on his tablet, seemingly composing a message.
Quin shuffled his feet a bit before clearing his throat lightly. Without even looking up, Bostwick said, “I’m able to read signs, Quin. If you don’t want to talk to me, I’m more than happy to oblige your intention to be left alone.”
Quin’s eyes shot up to look at Bostwick, who kept on typing as if he hadn’t spoken. Quin was left a bit taken aback. Oh hell, he thought, is it that obvious or can he read my mind? He shuffled again and then picked up his tea cup. Quick, say something, you idiot, his mind was screaming at him as he struggled to put together his words.
“Look, uh, Commander, I—“ Quin started, but was immediately cut off.
“Louis, but please continue,” Bostwick said, looking up at him and smiling.
Whatever momentum Quin had built up in trying to speak, he lost it with Bostwick’s interruption. He started to second-guess even his need to speak if Bostwick was going to be able to anticipate the conversation. His mentor apparently picked up on his nervousness, because he relieved Quin’s tension by taking up what was going through Quin’s head.
“Quin, listen, I understand that you feel like you want to be left alone,” Bostwick said, his tone soft and unassailing. “And I’m sensing that you feel a bit embarrassed about being vulnerable in front of me. That’s a totally normal human feeling. I hope you aren’t feeling, though, that I overstepped any boundaries by not waking you up immediately when you fell asleep in my room?”
“No, uh, Louis, it’s not that,” Quin said abashedly.
“Good, I’m glad. So if you are feeling ashamed about the way I show that I care about you, please just tell me, and we can talk about how I can change that.”
Again, Quin was at a loss for words. It’s not that I don’t want him to care about me, he thought, it’s that I want him to be mad. Why wasn’t he angry at all? That I could deal with. But he’s so kind that I feel like I want to scream. Quin lifted his eyes and finally met Bostwick’s own piercing gaze. Bostwick seemed to interpret the silence and took up the conversation again.
“Unless…perhaps you are feeling ashamed about your own reaction?” Bostwick posited. “Quin, it’s almost the twenty-third century, well actually, for everyone not aboard this ship, it already is. We are long past the cultural stereotype of men not being able to cry. I’d say that your expression of deep emotion is quite masculine, and I for one would—“
Quin interrupted him, “No, Louis, it’s not that either.”
Bostwick fell silent for a moment, then continued gently, “Okay, again, if you wouldn’t like to discuss it right now, you can simply have your tea and we can sip our respective beverages in silence. Though I will note that a 3am excursion raises all sorts of eyebrows that a lesser XO would rush to conclusions. Thankfully for you, I’m not a lesser XO.” He ended with a smirk, returning to his tablet with a very self-satisfied look on his face.
Quin let the silence fill the room again as he turned his cup in his hands, the warmth slowly radiating through his cold fingertips and seemingly giving him a bit of courage. After a moment, he slowly walked over to the work table and set his cup down. Again, without looking up, Bostwick pulled a stool out from underneath the table and pushed it toward Quin. Quin couldn’t help but smile a bit at Bostwick’s level of tact in assuming. He took the proffered stool and plopped himself down, elbows on the work table and eyes fixed on the tea cup. Hesitantly, he glanced at Bostwick, who was humming a tune and slowly shaking his head back and forth in rhythm as he completed his message and hit the send button.
Quin cleared his throat and made his attempt, “Commander, uh sorry, Louis, it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything. I really do. I just…I was just wishing you would be less…I don’t know…understanding? A little more mad?”
“I have no intention of being mad at you Quin. That would be counterproductive and a waste of energy. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, I um, what do you mean?” Quin shook his head as his eyes fell.
“I’d imagine that your self-imposed reclusion and the restrictions imposed by Captain Fuentes would be a sufficient punishment, and you are probably looking for a friendly face, especially after things with Ensign Jefferson, erm, Pepper, have recently soured. That would leave you with Mae to seek some company and I daresay that Lieutenant Rohlwing has her own mission responsibilities and personal tumult to deal with, no?”
Quin was staring with his mouth open at Bostwick, who yet again was wearing a rather pleased smirk on his face. How in the hell did he know all of that? Quin thought, unable to keep an astounded look off his face.
Bostwick chuckled, then seemingly replied to Quin’s thought, “You people think the command staff are a bunch of old farts out of touch with the inner workings of the social network among you youths, but I too hear things. I have my spies on board.”
Quin laughed, causing Bostwick to perk up a bit, “Oh alright,” he rejoiced, arms up in the air. “Ten points to Bostwick for making the moody one laugh.”
Quin laughed more heartily and took a sip of his tea. When he looked back up he saw Bostwick was staring at him with an encouraging look on his face, as if to say May I keep asking questions? Quin sipped his tea again and nodded softly, almost to himself as he continued to chuckle.
“So, I take it you and Ms. Jefferson have not spoken much since we set off from Rhea?” Bostwick asked, eyebrow raised.
“No, that would require her wanting to speak to me,” Quin said dryly.
“How do you know she doesn’t want to speak to you?” Bostwick asked.
“Well, she seems to avoid or ignore me, so I’m trying to take the hint,” Quin said, trying to be nonchalant in his tone.
“Do you still like her?” Bostwick continued.
“Yeah, a lot. I thought we were doing well, really well on Rhea, but I said some stupid things in defending Mae to her, and I know I need to apologize, but she basically called me a coward, she said I needed to ‘grow a spine.’” Quin quickly gave Bostwick the back and forth of what constituted Pepper and his last conversation.
“I don’t think you are a coward. You do have a tendency to take your relationships with everyone very seriously, which is for the most part endearing, but I can see how she would find that stubbornness a bit frustrating when she is trying to argue with it.”
“So now you are on her side?” Quin said sharply.
“I wouldn’t dare try to take her side, but you don’t need to bite my head off for trying to give you some advice. I can see it’s not welcome though,” Bostwick said flatly, falling silent.
“No…wait, I’m sorry,” Quin said, changing his tone immediately. “Please, Louis, help me. What should I do?”
“An honest apology to start, you would be surprised how far being honest and sincere gets you. People seem to forget that. Then I would try to start seeing Ms. Jefferson outside of your interactions with Mae and Liza. Give yourselves something to talk about other than your common friends. That way you don’t revert into difficult territory immediately.”
“Like what?” Quin asked. “Watch a movie with her or something?”
“That being your strong, go-to approach, sure you could start there,” Bostwick said. “As an extra hint, I hear that the kitchen has some late-night snacks stashed away back here, and if you know someone, you can get good movie food. You could even, you know, call it a date or something. Don’t be afraid to ask her to do something at the next stopover too. Again, call it a date. If she sees you taking her seriously like you do everything else, she’ll probably appreciate you being intentional about it. That’s my guess. Anyway, Cronus is supposed to be a little bit more of an open schedule, so you can be more creative.”
Bostwick was making all sorts of sense. His was the type of advice that Quin had been looking for all along. Quin found himself shaking his head, as he processed everything. Bostwick seemed to misinterpret it.
“What? You’re thinking a different approach?” he said, a bit surprised.
“NO! No, sorry, it’s just…I’ve been such an idiot. That’s really good advice, I’ve just been stupid not talking to you. I don’t know why,” Quin finished, again shaking his head.
“Because you are young, and you guys don’t like getting romantic advice from someone your parents’ age,” Bostwick said, smiling.
“You aren’t that old,” Quin said, “I know we joke about it, but you can’t be more than…”
Bostwick laughed. “Be careful how you finish that sentence, Mr. Hammond.”
“Well, anyway, you aren’t that old. You just…I don’t know, you have this way about you, it made me want to avoid you. I felt ashamed that you were being all sympathetic, and it made me blind to the fact that I really needed to talk to you. What I mean is, you are a good listener, and I forgot that when I was unable to think straight. I felt all of these things happening around me, and you were there when that stuff happened with Nova. I know you were just trying to be nice. I’m sorry I was such an ass.”
“Well, if you were looking for honest and sincere apologies, Quin, you just found yourself one,” Bostwick said, putting his hand on Quin’s shoulder. “Change it up a little to be specific for her, and I’m sure you will have a good result. Don’t forgot to take care of yourself when you are trying to fix everything else, you know? It’s not possible to be perfect, so don’t make yourself sick in trying to be.”
“Yeah, right,” Quin said softly. “I wish I could fix everything, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“That would be nice, but unfortunately, we aren’t computers, and life isn’t all math problems. Sometimes life just needs time and a bit of decent humanity.” The two of them were silent for a little while as Quin stewed in his thoughts. Despite the hour, he was wide awake and appreciative of his little night excursion. After the pause had continued much longer than Quin expected, he looked up and saw Bostwick studying him. The man opened his mouth and then hesitated, before beginning tenderly, “Speaking of, how are things going with Nova?”
Quin sighed a bit, collecting his thoughts. Then he decided it was for the best and recounted to Bostwick the last conversation that Nova and he had face to face. The two of them had really not spoken since that evening some weeks ago. As Quin was narrating the story to Bostwick, the Commander was slightly chuckling and shaking his head. Astounded, Quin finished his story and confronted Bostwick.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded. “You’ve been laughing the entire time.”
“She’s quite brilliant, you know,” Bostwick said, scratching his forehead, eyes wide. “She presents these neat little ethical quandaries as if they were nothing and yet, scientists and philosophers have been asking the same types of questions about artificial intelligence for maybe two hundred years. It’s only now that we have got a being that is the walking and talking example of that.”
“Yeah, well, she’s another one that’s not talking to me,” Quin said.
“Well, Quin, I’m afraid I must give you the same advice. You should apologize. In her view, and I think objectively, you were somewhat of, if I may borrow your words, ‘an ass.’”
“This time I think you are definitely taking her side,” Quin said, sourly.
“Indeed. You created her. She takes her direction from you. You are kind of like her father, her brother, her friend, and her crewmate all rolled into one. The obligations of any one of those roles would be enough to say you needed to be there for her, and unfortunately you found yourself too busy being in your own head. Perhaps this is the root of your problem with both Ms. Jefferson and Nova. You are so busy letting everything weigh on you, being worried all the time, that you are unable to focus externally and be present for other people.” Quin’s eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped. Well, if this is his form of a closing pick-me-up, I don’t think it’s working, Quin thought, sighing deeply.
“Fortunately,” Bostwick continued suddenly, “I think the solution is relatively simple and similar. You need to apologize to Nova, sincerely this time, and you need to spend some time with her, outside of work, so that you can normalize being around her. If your point was that you sometimes forget that she is only part human, then you need to do more human things with her in order to sensitize yourself to how she acts. She shouldn’t have to change for you, it should be the other way around. She can’t just be a mantelpiece in your career, Quin. She thinks.”
Quin sighed aloud, saying, “Yet again, another piece of sound advice from the ever-so-sage Commander Bostwick. And yet again, the solution is that I was wrong.”
Bostwick laughed. “Well, welcome to being an adult, my friend. Everything is complicated and you are usually wrong.” He patted Quin on the back. “Sarcasm aside, it’s okay to be wrong, just own up to it.”
Quin nodded slightly, acknowledging Bostwick’s counsel. The room was silent for a bit longer. The Commander downed his cup of coffee and looked into it, as if inspecting the bottom.
“You know what,” he said, looking up. “I think I’m going to have some tea too, but I’ve been keen to try some of the apple honey they brought me, you want some?” Quin nodded slowly, lost in his thought. Honey, he said to himself, honey, something about…honey.
“Can you believe they make all of this on Rhea?” Bostwick said over his shoulder. “I honestly can’t understand how their entire ecosystem, let alone their economy, operates off apples. It’s nuts.” Bostwick chuckled to himself. “Sorry for the pun.” Apples and honey, Quin’s brain was churning, but at this hour it was too fuzzy. …and honey.
He set two new cups down in front of them, still steaming and with the tea infusers bobbing around on the surface. He pulled a jar down from one of the kitchen cabinets and ladled a small bit of honey into each cup. After stirring a bit, Bostwick took a sip and smacked his lips, grinning satisfactorily at Quin.
“Oh my, that’s so good,” Bostwick said, relishing the taste as he took another draw. “You should drink it while it’s hot.”
Quin brought the cup to his lips mechanically, though he could have sworn that he was missing something. He felt himself distracted by Louis enjoying his cup of tea, the early hour, and the lack of a good night’s sleep for several days. I could have sworn that I just remembered something, he thought, growing frustrated at the lack of ability of his brain to recall what it was that was escaping him. Resigning himself, he took a long swig, his eyes closing automatically when the taste of the sweet and sour apple-tinged honey hit his lips. Instantly, he was transported back onto Rhea, where he savored several fleeting moments of being away and being happy. Unfortunately, his happiness was suddenly ripped away from the call from Nemo. What I wouldn’t give to be back there to have some more time with Pepper and Mae, he thought while recollecting the honey tasting in the orchard. He remembered the smile on Pepper’s face, how infectious it was, and Mae’s giggling at him.
“Hmm,” Bostwick said into the silence, “it’s just about time that the command deck wakes up. Some of the buzzing should start soon.”
“Buzzing?” Quin asked distantly, almost half-consciously.
“Sorry, yeah, buzzing. Message traffic. Unfortunately, a lot of the lingo revolves around bees.”
“Bees?” Quin asked, his brain slowly coming to.
“Yeah, bees,” Bostwick said, studying Quin curiously. “You know, Captain Fuentes being the Queen, the Deck being the hive, that sort of thing.”
“Bees!” Quin exclaimed.
“What?” Bostwick demanded, flabbergasted.
“Louis! BEES!” Quin shouted, shooting off his stool and slamming his cup down.
“Quin, I don’t-“ Bostwick began, but Quin wasn’t listening. The young man half-sprinted out of the room.
“BEES!” Quin shouted again, his face mixed with a smile and intense concentration.
“Okay, Mr. Cage,” Bostwick said, chuckling and shaking his head, his eyes and mouth reflecting a knowing smile as he watched Quin run out of the room.

I'm married for about 9 years now. Overall we have a pretty good relationship. My wife is preg now, so she's feeling down and not her usual self, so she's not as talkative as usual. I pick up my wife from work every day. Lately, it's just become awkward. I start off with "how was your day", and her response ranges from good to not so good, depending how she felt that day. But then the rest of the ride is just awkward silence. There's like nothing i can think of to make conversation. I basically know everything about her day and workmates, its like the same boring schedule every day, so there's nothing really anything to discuss. Sometimes, if something major happened that day she'll share, but most of the time its not like nothing worth sharing so we'll just sit and stare at each other, or look at my phone, and I hate it.
I used to not have this problem because when she's talkative and chirpy then conversation flows well, and I usually reciprocate. But when she's feeling down and nauseous (and this is going on for months now), and she's not in the mood of offering information, I find that its extremely hard to start a conversation. When she starts the converation its somewhat easier for me to take it further, but when she doesn't do that, its very hard for me, I was never very good at chit chat, so the ride just sucks.
It's not only the work commute, this can happen with Saturday and Sunday when were both home. If I do my own thing, reading, watching, then I'm good. But as soon as we sit down for a meal, she'll usually repeat a cute comment that our kid said, we'll laugh, sometimes she'll complain how hard the kids were that day, but there's not much else to say. I feel like we ran out of topics of conversation.
I probably come across as the most boring person on earth, but it's really not like that. I'm very opinionated and I don't have this problem with my intellectual friends sharing my opinions, and having philosophical discussions. My wife is just not into that, so our relationship dynamics is very different, we always had very different interests and hobbies, so we usually discuss kids, money, or anything about her life and friends (I dont have much of a social life). I can sometimes have very deep and meaningful discussions with her too, don't get me wrong, but this is not the norm. But recently I find myself running out of converstaion too often, and I'm not sure how to solve it.
Does anyone else here experience something similar? Any idea how to solve it, and how to bring new fresh topics to the table?

Hello WilmingtonDE
Many have asked if WilmingtonDE will take part in the Reddit blackout June 12 - 14. Since this sub acts as a virtual town square we''ll do this democratically via a vote. Below are notes that you may have seen in many other subs detailing why the blackout will happen.
As this starts on Monday, the voting will be open for 48 hours ending Sunday Morning approximately 10:05 AM ET.

What's going on?

A recent Reddit policy change threatens to kill many beloved third-party mobile apps, making a great many quality-of-life features not seen in the official mobile app permanently inaccessible to users.
On May 31, 2023, Reddit announced they were raising the price to make calls to their API from being free to a level that will kill every third party app on Reddit, from Apollo to Reddit is Fun to Narwhal to BaconReader.
Even if you're not a mobile user and don't use any of those apps, this is a step toward killing other ways of customizing Reddit, such as Reddit Enhancement Suite or the use of the old.reddit.com desktop interface .
This isn't only a problem on the user level: many subreddit moderators depend on tools only available outside the official app to keep their communities on-topic and spam-free.

What's the plan?

On June 12th, many subreddits will be going dark to protest this policy. Some will return after 48 hours: others will go away permanently unless the issue is adequately addressed, since many moderators aren't able to put in the work they do with the poor tools available through the official app. This isn't something any of us do lightly: we do what we do because we love Reddit, and we truly believe this change will make it impossible to keep doing what we love.
The two-day blackout isn't the goal, and it isn't the end. Should things reach the 14th with no sign of Reddit choosing to fix what they've broken, we'll use the community and buzz we've built between then and now as a tool for further action.

What can you do?

1. Complain. Message the mods of reddit.com, who are the admins of the site: message reddit: submit a support request: comment in relevant threads on reddit, such as this one, leave a negative review on their official iOS or Android app- and sign your username in support to this post.
2. Spread the word. Rabble-rouse on related subreddits. Meme it up, make it spicy. Bitch about it to your cat. Suggest anyone you know who moderates a subreddit join us at our sister sub at ModCoord - but please don't pester mods you don't know by simply spamming their modmail.
3. Boycott and spread the word...to Reddit's competition! Stay off Reddit entirely on June 12th through the 13th- instead, take to your favorite non-Reddit platform of choice and make some noise in support!
4. Don't be a jerk. As upsetting this may be, threats, profanity and vandalism will be worse than useless in getting people on our side. Please make every effort to be as restrained, polite, reasonable and law-abiding as possible. This includes not harassing moderators of subreddits who have chosen not to take part: no one likes a missionary, a used-car salesman, or a flame warrior.

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The thing is, most of us are incapable of admitting that he ends up being a jerk... He absolutely didn't treat Aelita well in episode 73. Why I say it? I'll tell the case here: he played a game at night. Next morning he didn't knew getting up therefore. He asked Aelita that she say that he can't be at the gym. She agreed. In the gym, Aelita sayed that Odd's in the infirm, but the teacher (Jim) pulled his waist. The students sayed that he go to the infirm. He went to this, but he didn't saw Odd. Later the director called over Odd and Aelita because he want that them say the truth. After this they argued for this case.
Or there's the "Cold Sweat". Remember, in this episode he showed a not very favourable picture of Yumi. He asked Ulrich to lie to Yumi about it, just so he wouldn't be angry with her. He achieved his goal, but he also made Yumi hate Ulrich again for one episode.
Or there's the "Kadic bombshell". OK, in this one he fell in love with Brynja Heringsdötir. But not going to help his friends just because of his' a bit much... Well, Ulrich did the same in "Marabounta", but that's another story. He took her to the factory, where Brynja had disrupted the programme. True, he tried to stop her, but he was too late... And there was a consequence: he was kicked off the team for a while!
Maybe I could also say the "Dog day afternoon": true that he was curious in this episode, but virtualizing a dog hasn't even been tested (although it almost broke done in the prequel). Especially if you hide it under your blouse so no one can see it. Well, as with everything, this had its consequences: the DNA of Odd and Kiwi merged. OMG! Thinking, Odd! Or do you want to spend your life as a dog in a human body?
OK, that's all I wanted to write so that you can read another annoying blablablabla while your mother cooks the most delicious dinner in the world for you in a restaurant, where you are sat next to a member of the opposite sex who doesn't understand your language and doesn't want to know your language. Now let's turn this into something serious: I wanted to point out that YES, he has his flaws, because HE IS AN ACTOR (yet. And maybe he won't be tomorrow).
I was Mobile_Manager6445, good bye, I have to leave now!