https://www.defense.gov/News/News-Stories/Article/Article/3553040/us-flowing-military-supplies-to-israel-as-country-battles-hamas-terrorists/

https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-67095846

Both the UK and US governments are supplying military aid to the State of Israel, and both talk of defending civilians against Hamas' violent attack (and Hamas is a militia, and has killed civilians): “We will make sure Israel has what it needs to take care of its citizens, defend itself and respond to this attack” from Biden, and “humanitarian concerns and protection of civilians are very important” from Sunak.

Meanwhile, the State of Israel continues targeting civilians in Gaza, attacking refugee camps:

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/11/1/a-wake-up-call-world-reacts-to-jabalia-camp-attack

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/11/3/israel-kills-at-least-seven-palestinians-in-occupied-west-bank

Reported casualties and damage of critical infrastructure in Gaza is huge in a humanitarian crisis that is ongoing:

https://ochaopt.org/content/hostilities-gaza-strip-and-israel-reported-impact-day-26

Helping Israel to take care of its citizens is, of course, a good thing. However, the UK and US are a bit one-sided in their support of 'protecting civilians' as they aren't helping Palestinian civilians in the same way. While they are supplying military aid to the State of Israel, and the State of Israel is using that aid to continue attacking civilians in Gaza, the UK and US are complicit in aiding the State of Israel to that end.

Part 2:

Two things that are simultaneously true:

1- Hamas is a militia and their attack on Israel, where civilians were killed, and their continued threats and actions that endanger people's lives, is horrific.

2- The State of Israel inciting genocide of Palestinians, imposing an apartheid state, ethnic cleansing, and their continued attacks on civilian people and infrastructure in Gaza, is horrific.

https://www.aljazeera.com/opinions/2023/11/2/a-genocide-is-under-way-in-palestine

https://www.aljazeera.com/features/2023/11/3/unsafe-in-own-home-israeli-settlers-spread-terror-in-south-hebron-hills

https://www.972mag.com/intelligence-ministry-gaza-population-transfer/

https://www.972mag.com/susiya-settler-soldier-militia-displacement/

https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2023/10/un-expert-warns-new-instance-mass-ethnic-cleansing-palestinians-calls

Take the side of people. Call out colonialism, apartheid, and genocide. Acknowledge that oppressed people have a right to respond with violence against their oppressors, while also acknowledging that that violence should be targeted at their oppressors, not innocent civilians. Recognise that oppressors are states and governments and militaries acting independently of the citizens that live in their states and governments and countries. Call out antisemitism, anti-Arab racism, Islamophobia, anti-Palestinian racism, anti-Muslim bigotry, terrorism. Criticise the State of Israel, the Israeli Government, and Hamas, for crimes against humanity. Defend Palestinian civilians, defend Israeli civilians. Acknowledge the right of Palestinians, Israelis, Jews, Arabs, and Muslims, to live free from oppression.

A few years later, we now have instance-level blocklists, and the ability to export and import those lists. A bunch of people have started their own blocklist repositories that function in different ways, like combining the blockists of several 'trusted' instances and then finding the common denominators that appear on a majority of blocklists and creating a new blocklist that only has those majority-blocked instances on it.

Where receipts or reasons are not provided with the collaborative hosted blocklists themselves, the sites providing them tend to link to receipts sources that are hosted elsewhere. This is a deliberate choice that comes from hours and hours (literally, I've been privy to these conversations happening behind the scenes with multiple of the public blocklist hosts) of deciding how to approach this with a focus on minimising harassment of the instances providing reasons and receipts, and of the people hosting the blocklists and receipts, and minimising the risk of people threatening litigation for block reasons they don't like (this happens a lot, and while some instances/people are fine with being threatened and know that not much – if anything – will come of such threats, they can still be scary and understandably some instances want to prevent that from happening).

Popping back momentarily to PlayVicious, when the people who were being harassed provided receipts, they were accused of 'screenshot dunking'. The people who were harassing them sought any reason, however tenuous, to dismiss their receipts or to call into question their credibility or attack and bully them into eventually just not posting receipts. This was deliberate, and it happened extensively, and the result is that many folk on fedi are now understandably reluctant to share receipts because of the abuse and backlash they received for doing it the first time.

Speaking as the admin of a sizeable fedi instance with a pretty big blocklist, I can tell you exactly what happens when both our block list and the reasons are public – we still do it, because I don't give a fuck, but here's what happens:

• If an instance doesn't publish their blocklist, they are chastised for lack of transparency and insinuated in misdeeds against their users who deserve to see who their instance blocks.

• If an instance DOES publish their blocklist but without listing the reasons (which is a very valid thing not to do because of the harassment and legal threats it generates), they are chastised for being untrustworthy.

• If an instance publishes their blocklist AND their reasons, the reasons are debated and discredited, constantly, without fail. The only people who debate and discredit reasons like racism, transphobia, alt-right, free speech, etc. are people who are defending those things, whether they've realised that's what they're doing or not.

If you've spent any time scrolling through the Fediblock hashtag you'll see the same instances pop up time and again, usually mentioned by new instance admins who've had a run in with one of the 'worst of the worst' instances who discovered they weren't blocked by that particular instance and went on a harassment field day. This has, many times, resulted in people being doxxed and harassed to such an extent that they shut down their instances, deleted their online profiles, moved house, even moved country – and that is the main service that public shared blocklists provide; an effort to minimise the harm that those known terrible instances cause when they are not blocked.

And now back to The Bad Space. The currently public version of The Bad Space is meant to function as a receipts repository, but when Ro launched it, the decision to list every entry there even before receipts were available was informed by Ro's personal experience of harassment spanning years on the fediverse, knowing the harm it causes, and knowing that mitigating that harm by identifying its sources was the most important thing, and the missing receipts would come later (and for the people arguing against the existence of The Bad Space, the receipts wouldn't matter anyway – they argue against it because they know it's coming for them and the spaces they inhabit).

The alternative would have been not to release The Bad Space – not to release any of the blocklists or the receipts sources or things that help fedi admins improve moderation and safety on their instances – until they're 100% perfect, and in the time that would take, how many more marginalised people would be harassed off fedi?

Yesterday, an instance ended up on another instance's block list for what came down to unchecked anti-trans sentiment, which led to it getting a listing on The Bad Space (accidentally, explainer to follow). While parts of fedi exploded with outrage over this, talking around the issue but not bringing it up directly with Ro, theorising and and angry-yelling and ultimately decrying the entire existence of The Bad Space and blocklists as a whole and warning entire communities off using them, a few folk quietly approached Ro directly, Ro discovered a bug in The Bad Space that he fixed immediately, the source instance removed the instance from their block list, the problem has been fixed, and The Bad Space functions better because of it.

The damage caused here is not that an instance accidentally ended up on a blocklist – that IS problematic, especially given the provided reason, and it IS unfortunate – but the bigger damage is that now communities doubt the integrity of a tool that functions to make fedi a safer space for marginalised identities and in doing so makes fedi a safer space for everyone who's not a bigot, that can prevent thousands of people from experiencing the kind of harassment that the tool exists to protect against.

If there are sincere concerns brought up to Ro and other blocklist or receipts repo. maintainers in good faith, they will listen and address them. I have seen them do it. They WANT these tools to be the best that they can be to protect marginalised fedi – that's the entire point, minimising harassment and protecting the people who are most often the targets of that harassment. Nobody is more invested in doing this than the people who experienced that harassment first hand and know the damage it causes.

So if you have an idea for how The Bad Space can be improved (but first check the Version 2 edition (https://ubiqueros.com/notes/9jd9d0e46p) that, while not fully public yet, already addresses the concerns I've seen raised these past couple of days), bring it up with Ro. Bring it up directly with Ro, who is the creator and maintainer, and will engage with you in good faith if you approach him similarly.

But please, please, consider the implications of loudly decrying a tool that exists by and for marginalised people. Consider whether you're punching up or punching down, consider who you are serving by telling people they shouldn't trust it, consider which voices you are elevating and which voices you are ostracising, and consider how you can effect positive change and help make these tools more effective to combat harassment.

It also needs to be repeated that these public shared blocklists are not shared without extensive warnings for admins to DO THEIR DUE DILIGENCE and not thoughtlessly import blocks without checking that the blocks align with their own instance's practices. The more absurd thing to me is that someone would thoughtlessly import a blocklist – or look at The Bad Space and see that there are entries there without receipts and thus no clear way of knowing why they're there, and then decide to download the CSV of all entries and import that as a mass blocklist – without doing their due diligence as an admin to check that they agree with all of the blocks.

Nina had moved over from mastodon.social because of the harassment she was getting being on the biggest instance. Oli offered her a safer space on an instance that utilised both individual account-level blocks and instance blocks to maintain safety and assured her that he would do his best to protect her from that kind of harassment/abuse.

He told all of us individually, and expressed to us as a group, that we should moderate the instance as if it were our own, with our full discretion. I asked him myself what kind of moderation style he expects from me and explained that I'm pretty strict on .art, and he said that's exactly what he was looking for. Others asked if we should be moderating the internal users as well as external and he said again that we should moderate it as we moderate our own instances, so yes.

While some of us used our 'known' names (I was on there as WelshPixie) and some of us linked from our profiles there to our 'known' handles, others set up anon identities because they've been targeted in the past and didn't feel comfortable with being fully exposed on an open instance. This becomes relevant later.

Now that that's set the scene, here's what happened, as neutrally as I can:

Nina made a post in which she said 'with dicks' to imply men. We noted the transmisic phrasing (Oli had previously mentioned she's trans, and Nina has posted publicly since then that she is trans). One of the mods (who has given me permission to say she's trans) sent her a very VERY polite, friendly message – not an official warning, just a message – pointing out how this could be interpreted, asked if she'd mind changing the phrasing.

Nina deleted the post (for other reasons) and brought up to Oliphant that she thought she would be protected from this kind of thing on his instance.

You can see the mod DM she was sent here:

https://web.archive.org/web/20230830062801/https://jorts.horse/@AnarchoNinaWrites/110975605323099983

By Nina's own admission in that thread:

“I did however, once again, pull my admin friend, the person who had started the sever aside and say “look I can't go forward like this right? If I'm publishing stuff that might just get deleted, I should go back to my website.” I was assured that nobody had it in for me (see above) and that the old admin themselves would prevent anyone from banning my account without talking to them; because again, at this point I think it's weaponized reporting from randos. I dunno that the co-admin hates me.”

The next day, Nina made a bunch of posts using the phrase 'Pig Empire' – and this next part is important – in the context of globalism and bankers, which is further important in the context of Nina already having a bad reputation with the Jewish community on the fedi after several prior events (her account is banned from multiple Jewish instances), with her website co-opting the word 'pogrom' for non-Jewish use, with loads of posts on her site being tagged 'holocaust' while not being holocaust related – individually small things, perhaps, but there was a larger picture to consider.

Here's why 'globalist' and related concepts are a rallying cry for fascists and traumatising for Jews: https://forward.com/community/412627/globalism-anti-semitism/

Here's a deep dive on 'pig' and antisemitism: https://jewishjournal.com/commentary/opinion/346381/jews-romans-and-pigs-an-impossible-history/

Here's an overview of economic antisemitism: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Economic_antisemitism

Individually, those things might not have been concerning. Together, they paint a more problematic picture that could be easily avoided by some re-wording to clarify meaning without playing into antisemitic tropes. We thought, hey, Nina's antifash. She's one of us. Being made aware that you're using words that harm marginalized groups is good, right?

So far, we had just been discussing this internally, but agreed that we should bring it up to Nina. Oli wanted to message Nina himself to talk about this with her in the context of his promise to provide her a harassment-free space on his instance, and the mod team was fine with that (if not disgruntled at someone seemingly getting special treatment that was in direct contradiction to the team being brought on in the first place to help make the instance a safe space), until someone sent in a report with the same concerns about antisemitic dog-whistles. Taking Oli's earlier assurance with us that he did want us to moderate the instance as we'd moderate our own, one of the mods sent a message – again, not a warning, but a DM – just opening a conversation about dog-whistles, and again, polite and friendly in tone. The DM opened with bringing up 'Pig Empire' with the intention of broadening the conversation to include the greater problematic context of globalism and bankers, but Nina stopped responding to the conversation before that could happen, and again, went to Oli.

You can see screenshots of that DM and Nina's response in the same archived link above (https://web.archive.org/web/20230830062801/https://jorts.horse/@AnarchoNinaWrites/110975605323099983).

At this point, Nina made an account on jorts.horse where she had started subtooting about the two moderator DMs and the situation in general, and was doing the same from her account on oliphant.social. I spoke with Oli about what the situation was and whether Nina was migrating fully to another instance or was waiting on hearing from Oli about anything, anxious about wanting to minimise harm and blowback on the mods who were just doing what they'd been brought to the instance to do. Oli conveyed that we could limit her account if we felt it would help, and impressed on me how important Nina's posts are to her and that she wouldn't want to lose any of her content. I passed this to the mod team, who in an effort to minimise damage (and again, to moderate the instance as we'd moderate our own), Nina's account was frozen by the co-admin and the posts with antisemitic dog-whistles were archived, deleted, and the archived posts linked to Nina in the moderation report so that Nina had copies of everything and wouldn't lose them.

Nina used her account on jorts.horse to start ramping up a dogpile of the mod team and the co-admin. Oli had told her himself that 'turns out, the co-admin doesn't like you', which Nina posted a screenshot of ( https://web.archive.org/web/20230830073509/https://jorts.horse/@AnarchoNinaWrites/110975428887021296 ), as well as linking to the oliphant.social /about page which had all of the mods and co-admin accounts listed, and THAT is why it was relevant that some of the mods stayed anonymous. People in Nina's thread have already started up the violent rhetoric, and the co-admin took the oliphant.social instance offline as an emergency response to protect people from getting targeted by Nina (it's back up now, with the mod info on the /about page removed).

TLDR? Two mods tried having polite conversations with Nina about problematic language that we thought she would be happy to be called out on, and Nina has escalated it into a huge tirade about how unfairly she was treated by a bunch of incompetent mods:

“The six weeks, it was just me posting on his server, without a small army of mods who I sincerely believe couldn't run a Church's Chicken, I am not saying that to be mean, these folks are not suitable at all to positions of authority”

(https://web.archive.org/web/20230830075713/https://jorts.horse/@AnarchoNinaWrites/110976520461927600)

Yeah, hi, I'm the mastodon.art admin. The other mods and co-admin you interacted with all run respected safe space instances on fedi. I understand you're upset, but you do not get to turn this around as an attack on the bunch of underprivileged marginalized people who incredibly politely called you out on some bad wording in an effort to protect the marginalized identities of both themselves and the other people on the fediverse who are exposed to your posts. They should not have to suffer a tirade of abuse from you or your rallied followers as a response to them putting in the voluntary work to make fedi safer and more inclusive.

Part 1: Misogyny

To Stux, to Byron, to the privileged white guys who respond to my fediblock posts with threats of litigation, who try to bully and threaten me when I speak up about you, and to everyone who enables you: you're misogynists.

I want you to look at that word, hard, and I want you to feel its weight on you. I know you're probably scoffing, rolling your eyes, maybe tutting about me under your breath. You're already dismissing me. You? Misogynists? Nah.

~

For the readers: I'm going to present a definition of misogyny. It will include a description of behaviours that you're either familiar with from having personal experience, or familiar with from having heard people talking about their personal experiences. I trust that this definition and the provided examples are all things you're familiar with, and that won't be a surprise to you, given how common they come up when discussing misogyny; that is, you'll read the definition, and go 'Ok, yeah, those are clearly misogynistic'.

Hostile misogyny presents as beliefs and behaviours that are openly hostile towards women, viewing women as manipulative, deceitful, and needing to be kept in their place.

Examples can include using sexist language or insults, treating women people as subordinates, and punishing them when they step out of line.

Think of people like Trump and the kind of words and language they use to discredit their female critics; the things they accuse them of, the way they try to paint them as 'less than' and themselves as 'more than'. Things like questioning their mental state, their health, their ability, their credibility. Language that shames the woman and paints the woman as small, feeble, inept, and the man as big, powerful, competent. Words like 'shame', 'disappointed', 'nasty', 'irrational'.

Think about all of that and keep it in mind.

Okay, back to directly addressing my abusers.

~

Whenever I 'step out of line' you shame me, insult me, accuse me of beign manipulative, of lying, and you punish me to keep me in my place.

You're misogynists.

When I block your instance directly citing your behaviour and you respond by DMing or emailing me legal threats, that's you trying to punish me and to keep me in my place.

You're misogynists.

When I call you out on behaviour that I find problematic, you respond by threatening me, calling me names, treating me as your inferior, questioning my ability, calling me a liar, questioning my rationality, questioning my credibility, saying I abuse my power, questioning my health, my 'normality', disgracing me, calling me toxic, blaming me for your actions, claiming I'm manipulative, deceitful, and stepping out of line.

You're misogynists.

Still don't believe me?

Insulting me/calling me names

Stux, 'the nasty posts': https://mstdn.social/@stux/110570790071229972 https://archive.ph/2wS1z

Stux, 'the nasty admin': https://mstdn.social/@stux/110570709034574825 https://archive.ph/554VD

Shaming me / treating me as your inferior 'shame on you mastodon.art', 'it's shameful how they're treating the community' https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110576560037257542

'I am disappointed in mastodon.art' https://archive.ph/pMiRN

Calling me a liar/deceitful/manipulative https://archive.ph/uWgtQ#selection-2151.0-2151.93 In the same thread as 'i'm punished for being open and honest', saying 'and they blocked the entire admin community'

https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110618527857662981

And ending with claiming you're speaking the truth again: 'I can't do anything but clarify my position and speak the truth'

Questioning my rationality https://universeodon.com/@supernovae/110792017979976143, https://web.archive.org/web/20230723005724/https://universeodon.com/@supernovae/110752423959362422, 'I still chose to be a rational person' https://archive.ph/1O2zI

Questioning my credibility 'bad admin', 'defederated me on lies', spread lies' https://archive.ph/1O2zI

Saying I abuse my power https://archive.ph/w34Av

Questioning my health and 'normality' “this beef that mastodon.art wages is not normal. It's not healthy” https://ghostarchive.org/archive/nN92o?wr=false

Disgracing me https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110612692782940469 

Blaming me for your actions Accusing ME of the mstdn.social defed: https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110618244376288511 (the OP is gone but the preview is there) https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110622507795240380

Threatening me/Punishing me for stepping out of line Stux punishing me: https://mstdn.social/@stux/110577241910599246 https://archive.ph/32wnl

Calling me toxic and saying I'm happily inciting violence, holding me responsible for other people sending death threats and threatening to dox: https://mastodon.art/@welshpixie/110624074405406421

Most (all, maybe, considering Byron has deleted everything from his account older than a week or so ago and there aren't archives of much of it) of those posts are all from the first week that .art announced defederating Universeodon, and that behaviour continued from then until this week.

Whenever Byron spoke about .art, it would be with that misogynistic framing, calling for 'rationality' as if I had been irrational to that point, calling for punishment for .art (me). A month of misogyny whenever Byron brought it up, and he brought it up a lot, finding anyone talking about the situation and inserting himself into the discussions to keep driving the point home that he's just a rational, responsible, big smart man and I'm an irrational, irresponsible, small silly woman that needed putting in her place so that he could get back to doing all this Important Man Business without silly little me getting in his way.

Part 2: DARVO, gaslighting, and abuser tactics

The fedi-admin Discord I'm in is a big group of mods and admins from servers whose principles align with .art, and we use the space for discussing blocks, getting feedback on community things, moderation issues, tech issues, keeping an eye on potentially problematic behaviour, and just generally communicating and supporting each other. It's a room full of predominantly marginalised voices, and as such communities go, many of us have faced some form of abuse and/or persecution to varying degrees because of who we are.

Seeing the situation with Stux and Byron unfolding, we moved discussion of it into its own thread, to keep our main channels easier to navigate. Over the past month, that thread pretty literally turned into a support group as many of us started identifying behaviour that made us feel uncomfortable, and triggered, and we'd have to check in with the other people there for validation.

It became clear to us pretty quickly that Byron was displaying abuser tactics in his conversations with people, and a bunch of us watching it were reminded of previous abusive relationships or scenarios we'd been in, recognising patterns of behaviour that were used to manipulate us and control the narrative while turning others against us.

This includes me. I've been stalked, and I've been in (non-physically) abusive relationships. I am unfortunately familiar with these techniques, as I have had them used against me.

DARVO is an acronym for “deny, attack, and reverse victim and offender” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DARVO). It's a common tactic used by abusers, that includes gaslighting (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaslighting , 'an individual's perception of reality is repeatedly undermined or questioned by another person) .

DARVO can take the form of calling into question the other victim's credibility while asserting your own credibility over theirs, accusing the victim of lying while stating that you're telling the truth, denying the things you were accused of while blaming the victim for things, calling the victim the offender while taking on the role of victim, and attacking the victim.

https://archive.ph/uWgtQ

This thread is rife with DARVO and gaslighting;

Accusing me of lying: “I'm disappointed / I'm extremely disappointed”, “used in a [...] intentionally deceitful context”

Lies/abusing power: “Their style of moderation is control”

Lies: “People on .art have 0 agency and it creates an environment of fear”

Playing the victim while gaslighting (.art is the one creating safe spaces while many see Byron's actions as creating unsafe spaces): “What kind of people do that to other admins who are openly trying to make things better and talking with admins in a “Safe space” to do so?”

Accusing .art of perpetuating fear: “and why would artists flock to a site that perpetuates such fear? “

RVO: “Can you not see how shitty their behavior is?”

Accusing me of lying: “not writing some bs blog of half truths they cherry picked to fit their own agenda”

Lying about me: “they blocked the entire admin community”

RVO, gaslighting: “ i felt it was about time to call abuse when i see it”

Lying about me: “They took advantage of the mastodon branding, got listed on joinmastodon during twitter waves – then took offense and mocked everything about mastodon and the developers and have gone on a defederation tirade built on lies “

Putting me in my place: “and not let them get away with their shenanigans “

Saying he's telling the truth: “I can't do anything but clarify my position and speak the truth. I spoke it.”

https://ghostarchive.org/archive/nN92o?wr=false

Attack: “this beef that mastodon.art wages is not normal. It's not healthy and it existed long before universeodon did”

RVO: “It was .art that made a blog and broke the connections of consenting folks for no reasons other than personal attacks against me based on heresy.”

Lies, RVO: “the entire instance is moderated to control what is on local and that means every post you make when you think you're talking to your audience is limited/controlled and has to follow the rules of their iron fist moderation of local.”

RVO: 'People are afraid. I just won’t speak for them. Admins are “afraid” – it’s why i’m speaking up.”

RVO: “I’d never open an account there knowing how untrustworthy and disrespectful they are.”

RVO, putting me in my place: “For too long people let them scream and abuse other admins for fear of rocking the boat – they have been able to frustrate and shame people and mock admins for lies for too long.”

Putting me in my place: “i’m just done beating around the bush and calling bullshit when i see it.”

RVO (also double standards, doesn't apply this to Stux) “what would you do if some asshole admin decided to sever all your relationships?”

“It’s probably why they want to ban me because i see all their bullshit”

Double standard, he's allowed to do this but not me: “I have enough dignity for myself and respect for others that I let people have their own opinions or defend them themselves.”

Superior to me: “I find it all absurd and childish”

https://archive.ph/3VA1z

Credibility: “They have no clue what they're talking about.”

Holding a man to a different standard: “i'm just respecting that we have different views and outlooks and that you can hold yours and i can hold mine and we'll both still be who we are.”

~

This all happened in Byron's first response thread to the .art defed. It continued from there. Byron would insert himself into conversations that didn't tag him, presumably by using Universeodon's full text search feature to find people talking about him, and use it as an opportunity to DARVO and gaslight.

This was still going on weeks later. While expressing sentiments like wishing it would all be over, he'd bring it up again himself, blame me for harassment he was receiving while (despite being asked many times by many people) never showing evidence of his continued harassment. Often, the moment someone asked for receipts so that they could do their due diligence as admins, he would either stop responding to the conversation, or block them.

Many, many admins tried to engage with him from a position of good faith and open-ness to either figure out what he wanted so that he'd back down, or to see receipts so that I could properly be held accountable for any harm I was doing or so that I could moderate any harm coming from the .art community. This was always, without fail, met with Byron skirting the subject, DARVO-ing, gaslighting, more lying, shifting the focus, reframing the questions, and never answering anything directly, eventually either stopping responding, or blocking.

See https://archive.ph/y1446 for a perfect example of this, where he is asked with an abundance of kindness and compassion to please share the receipts, and he constantly tries shifting the subject and changing the focus of the discussion, until he just stops responding at all.

I also recommend reading the footnote #9 at https://privacy.thenexus.today/should-the-fediverse-welcome-surveillance-capitalism/#fn9 which has loads of receipts.

Eventually, one of the white guys in our admin group tried to reason with Byron in DM, meet him on his privilege level. What he wanted (and he had brought this up before) was for .art to remove 'the blog post' (the dotART defederation announcement, that listed a few direct links to Byron's posts and explained that their content made us feel unsafe federating with Universeodon; it was very simple, straightforward, 'we're defederating, here's a list of reasons' post) because it was 'responsible for his continued harassment' and 'all his problems started with that blog post'.

Byron's problems actually started many days before that blog post, when he posted asking for contacts at Meta, then posted about reaching out to Meta, and then posted that he was attending a meeting with Meta (see https://writer.oliphant.social/oliphant/defederating-universeodon, Article 4, Gaslighting).

Asking me to take the blog post down – a blog post that does not, in any way, incite violence and is simply an announcement for our users and for Universeodon users to be aware of our actions – is 'the woman needs to know her place' and is tantamount to abusers holding power.

Conclusion

The fediverse – a network of social media platforms without one big tech company or a board room of white guys in suits or a dickhead egotistical billionaire controlling everything – by its very nature challenges the status quo. White guys who are used to being in control, who are used to waving their privilege dicks around and everyone else getting the fuck out of the way while they indulge in their incessant and continuous mutual ego-stroking, are running into people who don't give a shit about them or their supposed Place In Society, but now instead of having to 'like it or lump it', we're able to do something; we're able to opt out and continue our lives without them in the conversation.

That must sting something fierce. Imagine having gotten your way, having everything laid out for you, having a free pass to coast friction-free along whichever path you chose, for your whole life and suddenly that grinds to a halt and you're told 'No.' by some dinky 5'1 girl from a tiny village nobody's heard of in whatever-the-fuck that little sticky out bit of land next to England is, and she's standing there in front of you with her hands on her hips emanating 'You Shall Not Pass' vibes, and you realise in a moment of abject confusion that you're the Balrog?

This has been a month rife with your shitty misogyny and your shitty gaslighting and your shitty DARVO not just to me but to all the people, my friends, who tried to call you out on it, tried to get you to stop, tried to get you to stop behaving so damned petulantly, to stop victim blaming , to stop sealioning, who put themselves in harms way to try to show you what you were doing, how you were being, how you were abusing, to stop triggering all of us with your gross slimy abuser tactics, and it never happened.

Your narrative, your approach, through all of it, was to stand on your soapbox going 'Look at her! Look at the woman, the nasty woman! Look at how shameful she's being! How irrational! Look at how she manipulates, how she deceives! Woe is me! Woe is me, for she tries to dishonour me with her sinful ways! Do you not see? The nasty woman!'.

While the people who recognised your abuse were trying to call you out and make you stop, far too many of the other white guys in the house were standing up, applauding, jeering at me from the sidelines, buying into and feeding your narrative, coddling your poor hurt cashmere-wrapped feelings instead of growing backbones and calling you out for your blatant misogyny and harassment.

It was a shit time, full of migraines and anxiety, of breaking out in a heart-pounding sweat whenever someone linked me to one of your posts, of being reminded of past things I wanted to forget, of fucking Men being Men being Men being Men wanting to subjugate and dominate and being despicable in their means of dismissing me, of lying, of twisting the narrative like a knife in my ribs at every fucking opportunity, for four long-ass weeks, all because you couldn't deal with a woman telling you, No.

A flat breeze carrying soporofic piano melodies that crackle on occasion with the degrading connection to the mainframe that seeds out thousands and thousands of connections all playing from speaker to microphone to speaker to microphone to -

A silver sedan with faux leather seats takes you from the pick up point into the city. They put you up in a box of a room, deep in a maze of endless grey towers of uniform height and uniform width and uniform spacing that draw on and on to an insipid horizon. Indoors the air still smells of oil. The carpet, cheap and tacky, is printed with dollar signs. The linen is clean but the threadcount is as low as your expectations.

You wake startled some time in the middle of the night when a haunting voice blares YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US, PLEASE RATE YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH OUR SERVICE so loudly that the windows rattle in their steel frames. You finger a gap in the blinds and peer out into the street but the rows and rows of carbon copy windows remain dark. You don't sleep after that, and the voice manifests two more times before the sun begins its weary struggle to pierce the decumbent clouds.

They see you at 9:20am. You are escorted into a room where several men stand laughing stiffly, coffee in identical plain white mugs held at 45 degree angles from their bodies, knuckles white. They turn to you as you enter the corner office with its floor to ceiling windows, laughter stilling in unison, their eyes trying to flatten you with condemnation in the heavy silence.

“Please state your concern.” One of them says, something brittle at the edges of his voice.

“Criticism is valuable and will be addressed.” Another slowly lowers his mug to the desk.

You look at all of them, one after the other, into their seething eyes. You straighten your back.

“You're the ones that called me here.”

“We should talk this through, like adults- “There's no need for hostility- “We can resolve this to the benefit of everyone involved, if you'll just-

“Just what? Do things your way?”

“Our experience in these matters is- “Collectively, we represent- “We only have your best interests-

“Nah. I didn't come here to debate.”

You nod to the window, and in unison, they turn.

A rainbow arcs brilliantly across the sky in the distance, a break in the clouds drowning a small corner of the city in warm, inviting sunshine. The buildings it touches manifest colours, pink, blue, purple. The windows that catch the sunlight glitter in an effusion of brilliance.

The endless piano tune crackles and stops playing for three entire seconds before beginning again, weaker.

A coffee mug falls to the floor. The handle breaks off and spins away to vanish under a filing cabinet.

- Thanks to FrostPoem and SecretSloth for the inspiration and banter :D

In April 2022 a tech personality spun up a Mastodon instance and her followers flocked to it. She used it to amplify herself across the fediverse, the instance grew to close to 50,000 total members in the course of the following months, during which time she said some Bad Things*, was called on those bad things by the fedi community, had long hard conversations about those bad things, promised to do better, every time with Hachyderm being silenced or defederated from by a few other instances, until recently when it happened again and a few more instances went 'okay this doesn't sit right with us so we're going to silence or we're going to defed' – at which point she threw her arms up in the air, had herself a little livestream exit party on Twitch, and ditched.

And then went straight off to BlueSky to tug on Jack Dorsey's sleeve.

(Alt text: jack @jack.bsky.social “All I made happen was get a team focused on the idea. There will be many implementations of the same idea and that's a good thing.” Kris Nóva @krisnova.net “Is there a way I could talk to the group? Both about implementation detail from an open source perspective, as well as content moderation? I just walked away from admin of a Mastodon instance of 50k technologists and am a Principal engineer at GitHub.”)

Let's rephrase all of the above.

In April 2022 a tech personality span up a Mastodon instance, positioned themselves at the helm with the 'admin' badge, and over the next months grew a community of 50k people who chose that instance and put their trust in the administrator (I've been told that she was only 'admin' as in 'sysadmin' and only responsible for server things, and not moderation, but creating an instance and having the 'admin' badge comes with some preconceptions of ownership and responsibility on the fediverse).

During those months she said some bad things, and because she was positioned as being the custodian of that instance and responsible for its reputation on the fediverse, every time she said a bad thing other instances would silence or defederate, as is their right, cutting off that instance's members from a little part of the wider fediverse. Eventually, after One Bad Thing too many, and more instances choosing to distance themselves from hers, she decided she didn't want to be held accountable any more and abandoned all of the people who had chosen her stewardship on the fediverse, choosing instead to go somewhere else and get involved all over again with another social network, bragging about how she had just “walked away from” 50k people.

And THAT is what leaves me bitter about the whole thing. The Mastodon instance was her playground, an experiment, jumping into the cool new social networking site and bringing along the people who knew and trusted her from elsewhere, growing her cult of personality until, yeah, it became one of the more prominent communities here – but then walking away when it got too real.

Because being in charge of people, and of how you represent those people when interacting with the community you've brought them into, is absolutely real. Community management is hard work that demands a lot of emotional toil, of listening to and understanding people and learning and growing and doing better when called to task. It's responsibility and yeah it's really fucking hard and often means you have to eat a shitload of humble pie but that's the gig and nobody should be entering into any kind of community management position if they're not prepared for some really hard work.

Of course anyone should be able to walk away when it gets too much; of course anyone should absolutely be able to take a step back, or hand over, or bow out, for their mental and emotional well-being when the stress and anxiety is overwhelming; but nobody should choose community management in the first place, especially of a community with open growth that surges over the course of those short months to numbers that put it up there with the bigger communities on the fediverse, if they aren't prepared for putting in the hard work – especially when they are themselves the very reason people chose that community in the first place.

It's an abuse of power and trust and popularity, and the people on Hachyderm were pawns in a game of 'how big of a fedi personality can I become, how much collateral defederation damage am I willing to inflict upon my community members, before I get tired of being held accountable and bail'.

And now there's a community of 50,000 people and a moderation team left behind trying to undo that damage and re-establish connections and rebuild trust and pick up the pieces, because one person wanted to be fedi famous and damn the consequences.

* “Bad Things” in the context of this post refers to racist and classist remarks and actions, receipts of which can be found here

What is this world, with its golden skies Where everything wants to kill me? Who are these people who never die, Who am I?!

Look at these sheep, why do they roll? Is my mount a horse, or a goat? I don't know! Why do pots walk on legs With long arms but no heads I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!

BLAIDD, sitting on a rock under the moonlight, brooding

I am not mongrel nor a mutt, I am a wolf (he is a wolf)

I am part man, but most of all, I am a wolf (he is a wolf)

When the moon is full I'll howl, And you can hear it in my growl I am forlorn But most of all I am a wolf (he is a wolf)

RANNI, in doll form, sitting on a stone throne

Come find me, oh Tarnished, I'll tell you a tale Why the dead did not die, why our skin is so pale For The Lands Between suffer and I am to blame I'm the witch, I'm the witch who stole death

Will you help me, fair Tarnished, to set the world right? With my brother the blacksmith and brother the knight? I will will gift you a bell and a wolf from a spell I'm the witch, I'm the witch who stole death

What Kaiss brought back with him was far more worthwhile. A handful of villagers; a ragtag bunch of gormless halfwits who, the Bishop suspected, had left to find purpose with the Missionary because they had no purpose back at home. How pathetic; not even being able to turn their hands to a simple peasant’s life. Oh well – they’d assign them some menial tasks and pay them a fraction of what the clergy earned and they’d still be happy with it.

“Join me for a quiet supper?” Bishop Voris asked the Deacon when the new recruits had been sent to their new quarters.

“As you wish, My Lord,” the Deacon bowed courteously. It wasn’t the full floor-hugging prostration that his rank demanded, but even so Deacon Kaiss managed to satisfy the Bishop’s demand for respect much more than Deacon Ghas with his scrambling, sweating, infinitely irritating supine abomination.

They walked together to the periphery of the camp, where Bishop Voris’s grandiose canvas quarters were situated – intentionally away from the main bustle of the compound, on the quiet edges where quiet conversations could be carried out with more privacy. Food had already been ordered, and awaited them on a fully laid table at the centre of the main room. If there were any waiting staff present, they were being discreet, the Bishop noted approvingly.

“So,” the Bishop began as he watched Kaiss arrange his napkin across his lap in a fashion much similar to his own. “Do you think we will find many recruits at Nyis?”

“I believe our rewards from the village will be bountiful,” Deacon Kaiss purred. “The village is untouched by Off-Worlder presence save for vague rumours from the outlying towns. We are the first to make direct contact. The villagers lead simple lives and are easily distracted by even the smallest demonstrations of our advanced capabilities. I do not foresee any problem with acquiring a sizable amount of their population as Missionary Initiates.”

He had always liked Kaiss. The man was direct, forward and concise. Far more appealing than blathering blubberous Deacon Ghas. It was a shame that he could not request a transfer of his own personal Deacon and take Kaiss in his stead, but even a Bishop had to play by the rules. Especially Bishop Voris, one of the few granted command over a terran mission to bring the Missionary’s good word to the Old Earthers so that they, too, may be blessed by the truth and light.

“The village elder was not opposed to some of his flock fleeing the nest?”

“On the contrary,” Deacon Kaiss delicately sliced his seared calf flank into neat, bite-sized pieces as he responded; “He was most unfazed. Apparently the growth of the surrounding towns has left people short of work, and the clay pit at Nyis can handle far more than currently attend the quarry. Those who leave will be fast replaced.”

“I see. How fortuitous. I assume you are amenable to continuing operations at the village?”

The Deacon finished chewing his morsel, swallowed quietly, and dabbed at his thin, pursed lips with the napkin before replying in time; “Perfectly amenable, My Lord. I await your further instruction.”

Voris’s lips curled a satisfied smile. “Rest here a two-day; let’s not overwhelm the provincials. Return with two or three more Deacons of your choosing and five burro laden with food. Let them feast at our expense. I trust you to follow procedure from there.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Deacon Kaiss replied, his voice quietly eager.

They finished their meal in contemplative silence.

*

“I’m going to join the Missionaries,” Ranal said, and immediately winced.

They were sitting on a rock at the lakeshore with their toes swinging in the cool water, enjoying the sharp breeze brought by the setting of Noss and the cooling of the earth. It had been a long, hot day; for Oleipha, in the classroom, with a score of noisy, over-enthusiastic children to marshal beneath her wing; for Ranal, slogging heavy clay-laden baskets up the long, winding slope from the quarry to the pottery at the edge of the village. Spending sunset at the lake was a time-honoured tradition of friendship between them, and if they weren’t paddling or swimming in the summer they were hunched side by side under blankets in the winter.

Oleipha stared at him, her swinging legs stopped still by the surprise of this revelation.

“Ranal…” She began, but struggled for what to say.

“ ‘They’re untrustworthy. They’re devious. They’re up to something. They’re no good.’ I’ve heard all of your excuses, Oleipha, and I don’t care. I’ve made up my mind.”

“This decision does not have to be one set in stone, black or white, Ranal. Your mind is yours to change from now to when you arrive at the camp to when you’ve been there a month or a year. You do not have to commit, and you do not have to think of it in such stark terms.”

Ranal cast his friend a sidelong glance. She was being far too cool about this; he had expected a torrent of ostracism.

“So… you’re alright with it?”

“Of course I’m not alright with it.” She sighed and kicked up some water in irritation. “You’re my friend and I care about your wellbeing. It worries me no end that you might place yourself in a position where you are surrounded by those… Those people.”

“They’re not our enemies, Leiph. I can’t understand why you think they are. I mean, they traded with us – we don’t trade with our enemies. And then the feast. What kind of enemy sends his foes a huge feast?”

“They wiley kind.” Oleipha gritted her teeth. “You have to remember that they’ve been gone from Tassis for longer than we can remember, Ran. Time enough to forget our customs and forge their own. Our ways are not their ways. They may think nothing of breaking bread with us if it means they can sit at our table and learn our weakness. They ply us with gifts to make us friendly and invite them in. What better position for our enemies to be in than welcomed with the open arms of friendship?”

“Mmm.” Ranal grumbled. “I suppose. But why do you insist that they are our enemies in the first place?”

“I can’t tell you, for certain,” she said with a frustrated sigh. “I wish I could, that I had evidence that I could show to you. But I don’t. I have a feeling and a distrust of the things I hear that they are doing. It was inevitable that the Off-Worlders would return eventually; curiosity or obligation or just a desire to set foot on their home planet again – whatever the reason. I hear stories from the other towns that the Missionaries have visited and recruited people, taken them away as initiates. Absorbed them into their order.”

“I’m sure they went voluntarily,” Ranal pointed out.

“Of course. But why do they need to recruit people in the first place? Their numbers are many. More than ours, I wouldn’t doubt. Why not just find an empty spot of land and settle there, as we have?”

There was silence between them for a long moment, punctuated only by the soft lapping of the water’s waves against the rocks; a quiet rising ‘shloch’ and a gentle ebbing ‘hiss’ with the tide.

“I don’t know,” Ranal eventually offered.

“Me either,” Oleipha resumed a half-hearted swinging of her legs, her splayed toes combing the crests of the waves. “And I would like to know, I genuinely would, but Deacon Kaiss either outright ignored my questions or answered them in such a round-about way that they weren’t really answers at all. I don’t trust him. Eyes like a Banit python, and more besides.”

“I just can’t see how they could be bad,” Ranal shrugged.

“They are outsiders, they have been gone so long. We may have shared a planet once and been a united people, but now, they are strangers. And they are going about reuniting with us in all the wrong ways. Do you remember that travelling caravan that came through from Athl once with all kinds of rare curiosities from the wasteland settlers? They were so entertaining, and had such beautiful wares with them. The Elder welcomed them warmly and it never crossed their minds why they were so liberal with sharing their liquor.”

“And in the morning they were gone, with our wares and their wares with them. I remember. You didn’t come to the feast; said the caravan leader made your skin crawl.”

“Right. Well, Deacon Kaiss makes my skin crawl. Every time I hear of the Missionaries, my skin crawls. I hate not having a solid, quantifiable reason – to give to you, to put my own mind at rest – but there it is.”

Ranal draped his arm around Oleipha’s shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze. “I know you’re just looking out for us, Leiph. You always do. Everyone in the village is so absorbed in just getting through the day, but you, somehow you’re always looking out for us. It’s little wonder Elder Iteldu goes easy on you. You’re worth your weight and more.”

Oleipha smiled and leaned into Ranal. They had been sharing more and more of these close moments; teasing punches had turned into gentle nudges, pats on the back had turned into brief hugs. Ranal smelled of the earth; not overpoweringly so like the workers who pulled the clay from the ground, and not mixed with the particular tangy smell of the heated clay at the pottery – just nice, comforting earth.

*

“We have confirmed Missionary activity in Denmor.” The young man before her spoke quietly. His hands clenched and unclenched behind his back; she could see the telltale movement of the muscles in his upper arms. “We don’t know the size of their contingent but we know they have been recruiting from at least two of the towns in the east of the province, and possibly one village.”

Arbiter Saight clenched her jaw and stifled a sigh. “Dammit. If only the Chancellor had listened.”

“If I may, Arbiter – it seems prudent to remind you that what the Commensurate lacks in gung-ho tactics, we make up for with good sense. The Missionaries may have gotten there first, but it’s not a race.”

If it were any other Keeper she’d have sent them running with their tail between their legs for spouting their opinion so brazenly, but not Kalam – and not because he was her sister’s child. Kalam had always been able to see more than others. If this conflict with the Missionaries was a storm, he would grow to be the calm that ran through it.

“Thank you, Keeper. I know. It’s just... Frustrating.” She ran a gloved hand through her hair as her other clenched around the railing, the leather fabric creaking with the tension. Their ship was hovering over the southern plains; they stretched out for miles, a solid, drab yellow peppered with the claws of dead trees and the dust-encrusted tear-tracks of parched rivers.

“There’s really nothing out here, is there?” Keeper Kalam offered into the hot, dry afternoon air.

“Nope. There used to be. I’ve seen it in the records. And there could be again.”

“How are negotiations going?”

Saight shrugged. “Pretty standard. We’ve made friends with all of the nearby settlements – if you can call hundreds of miles away ‘near’. It’s all just formality. They don’t come this far out any more so they don’t really care what we do.”

“At least the Commensurate are showing that formality. More than those Missionary snakes show.”

She had to admire his enthusiasm. It ran in the family, after all – her sister had been full of it, the same foolhardy zeal that had landed Saight in the position of being not just Kalam’s aunty but his sole custodian. She took a quick breath and turned away.

“Let’s go back inside,” She said, swiping her wrist over the reader and pausing briefly as the doors slid open.

“Heat getting a little too much for you, Arbiter?” Kalam quipped with the corner of his mouth half cocked.

“Hotter than a Nyshondan bull in season,” She mumbled and he laughed lightly as he followed her back inside, but she could tell by the concerned look in his eyes that he knew what she’d been thinking about.

“So,” He picked up the conversation as soon as the doors had slid closed and they were once more ensconced between the vessel’s temperature-controlled walls. “What of Denmor?”

Arbiter Saight slid into her easy-chair and pulled off her gloves, fingertip by calculated fingertip. “Do we know what their strategy has been there?”

The Keeper drew a dining chair from the table and swung it around to face him, staggering the seat and crossing his arms on the backrest. Still so young, she thought, but growing quickly. He had long outgrown his classmates when he had left his studies last year and now, with his schedule having shifted to involve less sitting and listening and more standing and doing, his muscles were defining themselves. He had a wave of brown-black hair that stood at awkward angles from his head as if he’d just shocked himself on an open panel; an unruly mane that came from her father’s side. Fortunately, it seemed that only the men in her family were afflicted. While on her father it had looked awkward, however, Kalam was growing into it. She wanted to say he’d be a charmer – didn’t want to admit that he probably already had a flock of suitors on his heels.

“The usual. Trading trinkets and flashing their technology. When the locals are suitably wooed by their advanced ways, they invite them into their flock and then use their converts as infiltrators.”

Saight wrapped her knuckles on the polished metal armrest of her chair, and then stood up with an exasperated sigh and began pacing. “It’s just so unreliable. I mean, can’t they see what they’re playing with?”

“This is the Missionary,” Kalam reminded her. “They probably know full well but you’ll never get them to admit it.”

“You don’t just – just – blaze into these small, tight pockets of established cultural civilization and throw this great power at them! There are – ways! Ways, and consequences!” She gestured wildly with her arms through this almost-yelling.

“I know,” He assured her. They had this conversation every week or so; every time he brought her an update on Missionary movements. “I know. And we’ll do the same thing we always do. Go in after them, clean up their mess, pick up the pieces and send them running with their tails between their legs.”

Arbiter Saight perched on the edge of the dining table and clenched her fists around the table’s edge so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “It’s just so damn infuriating. They know what’s going to happen. Sometimes I wonder whether they’re just doing it to waste our time.”

“You know, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Alright,” She spoke more quietly. “Alright. Let’s see. Do you have a map of the province?”

“As any good Keeper would,” Kalam stood, slipped a chip from his pocket and slid it into a nearby reader. “Pull it up. The file’s called Denmor. ”

“Lyen; display Denmor at our location.” Lyen was what she’d called her room A.I. Kalam didn’t know this, but it was the name her sister had wanted if she’d ever had the daughter they’d been trying for after Kalam had grown.

One of the large panels of the dining room wall blanked its muted pattern and was replaced by an overhead map of Denmor. Kalam strode over to it.

“There’s only one place you could really call a city, but it’s not much bigger than the towns of the province.” He pointed at a large dot on the western side of the map. “Here; Sayen. The towns are here; Asmor, Fyan, Tyst, Sayton. The only village we know about is the one the Missionaries have possibly made contact with. We know it’s called Nyis and that it’s near the eastern border, but we don’t know where exactly.”

“Four towns? Just four?”

“Just four. The neighbouring country is a wasteland; there’s a crevice there.”

“Mined?”

“Not this one. The land is pretty harsh – I doubt any of the Old Earthers have anywhere near sufficient equipment or technology to survive there, let alone set up a mine. The country’s called -”

“Athl. I know of it. Just border settlements.”

“That’s it.”

“What’s that big body of water covering the eastern half of Denmor?”

“That’s Lake Siashim. The forest here, all the way around the north-eastern corner around the lake, is Ochae Forest. That’s all we know.”

“Where are our nearest allies?”

“Athl, actually. There’s a monastery around here, up on the mountain. One of our trade ships has been doing liquor runs to the place.”

“Liquor runs?” The Arbiter laughed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you couldn’t make this stuff up. We had a scouter come down in Athl. Ship was a wreck but the monks saved the pilot. Verroda? Don’t know if you know him, he’s not on our Vessel. Anyway, Verroda stayed with them for a while until he recovered and was able to reach us and let us know he was safe. While he was there, he got a taste of their Cershy. They grow the berries up there on the mountains, do the fermentation themselves, and apparently make a damned fine profit in trade through all the neighbouring provinces.”

“Did Verroda interfere?”

“Not beyond protocol. He had a look at their set-up, suggested some base modifications to their fermentation tanks and piping system. Just enough to pave the way. They were very grateful.”

“Right. Good. We’ll start there, then. I’ll contact whatever Vessel is closest and have them send a small team down.”

“Keeper Isen’s over that way, I believe.”

“Becan Isen? Graduated with you?”

“The very same.”

“Didn’t she get in trouble once for stealing a cruiser and landing on the surface to go swimming in a river?” Saight tapped her chin thoughtfully.

Kalam smiled. “Yes, she did. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Lyen; display off. Think she’d be up for some field work?” The map faded from the wall panel and was replaced with the same pattern that covered the rest of the room. Saight watched her nephew walk across to the reader and eject the chip, sliding it back into his pocket.

“Oh I think so, Arbiter Saight,” He said, straightening with a grin. “And at a liquor-producing monastery, to boot. Sounds right up her alley.”

“Very well, then. I’ll give her name to the Dignitary in command of whichever of our Vessels is nearest. They can scout the – what was it, Ochae Forest? Find this little village. Hopefully, if the Missionaries have been there at all, their oily influence won’t have spread too thickly. We’ll attempt to rectify any damage they’ve done and then move on to the larger towns further west.”

“As per usual,” Keeper Kalam offered Saight a sympathetic smile.

“As per usual. Thank you for your report, Keeper.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Arbiter Saight?” Kalam asked, standing again with his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The tension from previously had evaporated after his telling of the news, replaced with his usual easy confidence.

“As a matter of fact, there is. When are you off duty?”

“In two hours, Arbiter.”

“Good. Dinner, The Nebula, deck ten. Three hours.” She curled a little smile. “I don’t see you nearly enough, Kalam. Not out of hours, anyway. We should talk more.”

“We should,” Kalam agreed. “I thought graduating would give me more time, not less.”

She laughed. “You have no idea. Have you heard about your next assignment?”

“Mmm. I’ll be assisting Marshal Garisay with mediations.”

“Oh? That’s a rewarding position. Are you happy with it?”

“Absolutely,” Kalam beamed. “The opportunity to undo whatever brainwashing the Missionary is responsible for, and then work further towards ensuring a peaceful cohabitation between our people? It’ll be a learning experience for all of us. I’m sure the people who’ve lived here since the Shattering will be able to teach us as much as we can teach them. They managed to survive, after all.”

Arbiter Saight only barely managed to keep her grin in check. Her sister would have been so proud. She had been a strident voice against all things Missionary and in favour of a healthy, symbiotic relationship between the Off-Worlders – the Commensurate, at least – and the Old Earthers. Kalam, of his own free will, was growing up to do exactly what she’d have been most proud of him doing.

“Dinner later, then?” Kalam offered her a curious look.

“Er, yes,” Arbiter Saight pulled herself from her reverie. “Dinner later. You are relieved, Keeper Kalam.”

Oleipha curled her toes into the damp sand and felt its sodden grains cool and smooth against her skin. She had risen early, long before the second sun had crested the horizon and bathed the land in its golden glow, and stood alone on the bank of the Siashim soaking in the solitude. Later her village would be a bustle of activity; the men would head to the quarry and begin the daily stream of clay-filled baskets back to the village, the women would gather around the lakeshore and gossip over laundry, the children would see to their chores, and when done, they would play and their laughter would touch everything.

She took a deep breath of cool air and felt the hairs along her arms prickle. She had not worn her shawl, had left it at home intentionally so that the chill morning would touch her skin unfettered. This is how she connected to Tassis, her beloved broken planet. When she felt the crisp wind nipping at her flesh and the icy waters of Siashim licking about her ankles, she knew that there was life in Tassis still, that a heart still pumped beneath her broken crust.

With a soft sigh Oleipha turned away from the lake and padded on bare feet back to the village. Nyis, nestled on the verge of a dense forest between Lake Siashim and the craggy hills that marked the border of Athl, was the easternmost village in the Denmor province and one that arguably provided the largest contingent of pottery to the bigger towns further west. As for Athl, that once bustling country had been rendered a wasteland by the Shattering. Aside from some fringe settlements, Athl had been barren and empty for years.

The village torches cast pinpricks of flickering light on the forest verge ahead of her and she gathered up her skirts, stepping from the beach onto the dirt path that skirted this side of the lake. A brief overnight rainfall had left the ground spongy and soft. With her thoughts on clouds now she turned her face skyward, but the vast blue blanket was still unmarred. A distant glow caught her attention as she turned her gaze back to the pathway. Beyond Nyis, somewhere in the Ochae forest, something was producing enough light to penetrate the canopy.

Oleipha’s dark eyes narrowed and she quickened her pace. The Commensurate weren’t in the area – once a week, when the traders arrived from Tyst and Sayton, Oleipha would quiz them intently on the whereabouts of Commensurate activity. They had not been in this part of Denmor for years, not since before her Coming of Age, and she was itching to have the opportunity to speak with them again now that her opinions would be considered those of a young woman and not of a fanciful child.

It was more difficult to track the movements of the Missionaries, though. Despite preaching salvation through honesty, theirs was a devious path. They kept their movements quiet and their intentions moreso. Oleipha had heard rumours that a contingent had been dispatched to the north, but the glow in the forest was too near. Perhaps they had wandered from their original site? Or perhaps they had never intended being that far north to begin with.

The snap of a twig to her right made her jump. She stood still and picked apart the blue-grey dawnlight until she saw his shape there, crouching in the undergrowth.

“Ranal, you scared me.”

He stood on his long, slim legs and came towards her.

“You weren’t scared, just startled. How be?”

“It be good. It’s a still day; it will be hot later. How be?”

“Bored. Woke up early and followed your trail.”

Oleipha resumed her walk to the village and Ranal kept pace at her side, occasionally dancing circles around her shorter form in energetic protest of her slower gait.

“Have you heard of any visitors?” Oleipha glanced up at him. Time ago they used to be the same height, she remembered, and then some months before his Coming of Age he surpassed her and had yet to stop. He was a full two heads taller than her now and her neck hurt to look at him sometimes if he stood too close.

“The traders don’t arrive for a twoday,” he skipped backwards ahead of her.

“I know. Not the traders.”

“Then who?”

She pointed behind him, but Noss – Tassis’ second sun – was swift approaching the horizon and against the lighter sky the glow from the forest was barely visible.

“Something in the woods is creating light. It’s far out. I saw it moments ago.”

“I’ll tell Iteldu. He might arrange a hunting party! I’m sure as the bringer of news, I’ll get to go.”

“I’m sure.” Oleipha clucked and looked past him, boredom feigned in her expression.

Ranal was curious. Ranal was energetic, restless, impetuous. Ranal was reckless. Iteldu would not choose him for the Hunt because Ranal’s heart and his head were not in balance. Instead, Ranal had been given the task of Loadbearer shortly after his Coming of Age; his duty was to carry the wicker baskets laden with heavy clay from the quarry to the potters just outside the village. Ranal had interpreted this as an insult to his obviously capable, tall, lean body – Oleipha saw it for the challenge it was. The work would build his muscle, teach him patience, tame the fire in his spirit. It would prepare him for being a Hunter. But for Ranal, it was only a waste of time.

“You don’t think so?” Ranal tripped his backwards skipping, caught his balance, and settled to walk at her side with his thumbs shoved into his britches.

“I think Iteldu will thank you for this information and see you back to your Loadbearing duties while he prepares a team to take into Ochae himself. You will work doubly hard to clear your quota so that you can follow them when they leave. Iteldu will catch you – which you expect him to – but he will not, as you also expect, let you join the party since you are there anyway. He will send you home and double your quota for tomorrow in order to teach you respect and consequence.”

“How do you know my plans? Begone from my head!”

Oleipha cracked a weary smile at his chiding, and shrugged at her friend.

“Is it not true?”

“Perhaps,” Ranal replied. “So what if it is? I am only following my dream.”

“Dream of clay baskets,” Oleipha suggested as they approached the village boundary. “It will serve you better, for now.”

“You’re such a stick in the mud, Leiph. At least you’re doing what your heart sings for you to do. Anyway, be well – I am off to catch Iteldu as he leaves his hut this morning.”

“Be well, Ranal. And be respectful, for goodness’ sake!”

Ranal had already run ahead and she doubted that he caught her last remark – or had chosen not to hear it. He was right, though; she was following her heart. The Highers had granted her the task of education, and every day she took groups of the village children and taught them about the world – about Tassis, about the Shattering, about ecology and the Off-Worlders and Old Earthers and everything their young, inquisitive minds would soak up and more besides.

*

“Elder Iteldu,” Ranal dropped to one knee and bowed his head respectfully as the aged man stepped from his hut into the fresh morning air.

“Ranal. If you are here to ask me to change your task again, I shall triple your quota for a fourday.”

Ranal stood and walked at Iteldu’s side towards the large thatched yurt at the centre of the village. He may have been two heads taller than Oleipha but this wizened old man was taller than even Ranal, despite his age.

“No, Elder,” Ranal dipped into a quick bow. “I come with news of lights in the forest.”

“Lights? What kind of lights? Travellers with torches no doubt.”

“A glowing light, Elder. I did not see it myself; Oleipha saw it this morning while it was still dark. She said that something in the woods was creating light.”

Elder Iteldu paused a moment, looking out across the village to where Ranal pointed, at the boundary of the forest. He chewed his cheek, and Ranal’s heart thumped in his chest, positive that the Elder would ask him to show the way.

“Oleipha is taking the school all morning, is she not?”

“She is, Elder.”

“Mmm.” He paused again, and Ranal watched the old man’s sharp blue eyes flick across the treetops as the first warmth of Noss dipped that high, leafed world in molten gold.

“Very well. I will not disturb Oleipha; her work is more important. I will take a small group into the forest and find the source. Thank you, Ranal, for bringing this to my attention. I shall send your mother an extra loaf this evening.”

Ranal stood slack-jawed for a long moment before remembering his manners. He snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw instead, fighting back the urge to protest. Oleipha had been right – it would do him no good. Still, the anger was quick to rise like bile in his stomach.

“I see that look, Ranal, and I advise you to curb your enthusiasm. One day, perhaps, you will make a fine hunter. Before then, however, you have much to learn – of patience and humility, to begin with.”

“Yes, Elder,” Ranal all but growled through his teeth.

He dropped to one knee again and waited for Elder Iteldu to leave before standing and stalking off towards the quarry with his head full of thoughts.

The only people with the ability to manufacture light without fire were the Off-Worlders, and so it stood to reason that the glow in the forest was created either by a party of Missionaries or the Commensurate. Or, he reasoned briefly, some fool group had been brazen enough to steal some of their light-emitters, but that was highly unlikely, especially considering that there were some Missionaries out to the north if what Leiph had heard was true. Nobody would be fool enough to risk doing something like that and then to use the stolen technology within easy sight of its owners.

So the Off-Worlders were getting closer. A tingle shivered its sweet anticipation along Ranal’s spine and he found himself smiling, despite his lingering anger at Elder Iteldu’s easy dismissal of his skills. Everyone in the village had known, since the first sighting of those massive ships in skies that had been empty for long enough for people to forget where they had come from, that the Off-Worlders would find their village eventually. It was only a matter of time before either, or both, of the factions made first contact. Stories from the travelling traders were coming in more frequently with every visit; he’d even heard last cycle that a band of Missionaries had installed some water-drilling contraption in Sayton in exchange for only some hand-woven tapestries that the town, with its well-stocked grazing pastures, was known for producing. The mere thought of what magic the Off-Worlders would share with Nyis in exchange for their own Nyisian pottery made Ranal grin wide.

Oleipha didn’t like to see him get excited about contact with the Off-Worlders, but then Leiph didn’t get excited about much if it wasn’t the wind or some bug or showing the kids how to catch the small freshwater crabs from the lake as long as they put them back again. For someone as knowledgeable and wise despite her young years, he’d never understand why she couldn’t see the sense in opening relations with the more technologically affluent Off-Worlders. After all, everything they owned came from Tassis before the Shattering when the people were unified, so technically, it belonged in part to the Old Earthers too, didn’t it? But no. Oleipha had bristled when their village had heard news that the Off-Worlders were approaching their province, and she had bristled since with every mention of them.

*

Bishop Voris drew the long gown over his head and stroked the material into place, using the full-length mirror before him as an aide. The scarlet cloth hung exquisitely over his fine figure, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong chest. On the ship with its glossy polished walls he’d often follow his own reflection from the corner of his eye. He enjoyed how the light fabric danced gracefully around his heels with every step of his sweeping stride, how the hem flourished imposingly as he rounded corners. Down on Tassis he had no such opportunities at vanity. Their accommodations while in the field were uncomfortably bare, but Bishop Voris had insisted on bringing his mirror at the very least. It was important – he had urged the clergy – for a man of his position to appear clean-cut and respectable at all times. It would help their cause, he assured them, if the Missionaries were presented with utmost dignity.

Voris slipped the heavy golden chain around his neck and adjusted the medallion until it hung precisely over his lower sternum. He lingered a moment longer in front of the mirror, noting as he did every day how the gold of the adornment really complimented the amber hue of his eyes and how the sanguine robes matched so well his sun-kissed skin and black, black hair. Even out of uniform, Voris was an imposing sight. His Bishop’s draperies were such a fine fit.

“My Lord?” A voice at the tent’s doorway dragged Voris from his self-appreciation.

“You may enter.”

A squat man with puffed cheeks and a nose that suggested copious consumption of the local liquor ducked through the canvas flaps and into the Bishop’s temporary abode, and dropped to the floor in reverence before him.

“Deacon Ghas. You may rise. What news?”

The Deacon dragged himself to his feet with much puffing and took a moment to compose himself before addressing the Bishop.

“There is a small village to our south, on the eastern shore of Lake Siashim.”

Bishop Voris strode to the exit of his tent and bade the Deacon follow him. The transition from the dull interior of the tent to the bright sunlight of morning was stark and Voris drew an arm up to shield his eyes. After several months on the surface he still hadn’t acclimatised to the brightness of real sunlight. His eyes stung.

“Name?”

“Nyis, my Lord,” Deacon Ghas skipped to keep up with the Bishop as the taller man walked briskly through the camp.

“Nyis.... Nyis. Pottery?”

They had been mapping the settlements of eastern Denmor, keeping mostly to the periphery where the smaller habitations lay. The Missionary scouts had found a few towns and small villages nearby and their recruits from one of the towns in particular had been very helpful in filling in the holes in their knowledge of the region. Voris spent time every evening familiarising himself with the details of the province. Knowing his charge intimately was absolutely necessary for the task at hand.

“Is it suitable? I was under the impression that the village had frequent trade dealings with the larger towns.”

“They do, but they remain uninfluenced. Their village has barely grown in decades; we believe they are just far enough from the larger occupations to remain, er, culturally untouched.”

Culturally untouched. That was their adopted Ethically Sound phrase for ‘stuck in the dark ages’.

“I see. Population?”

“We estimate approximately one hundred and fifty, spread between some thirty families.”

“Nice.”

The smaller the settlement, the easier the Missionary’s influence was accepted. If Nyis had only distant relations with the nearby larger towns to remain mostly cloistered, and if its population was only enough to hold tenuous grasp to the title Village, then it would be very well suited for their purposes.

“How do you wish to proceed, My Lord?” Deacon Ghas looked up at him expectantly.

They had reached the large ghazebo that had been erected as a mess, and the smells of breakfast cooking from the shaded canopy were making Voris’ stomach growl with morning hunger.

“Do we have anyone here from uh... Where was it... Sayton?”

“I believe so. I can find out.”

The Bishop took a seat at the edge of the arrangement of tables and arranged the provided napkin neatly across his lap.

“Then do so. Find one man. Bring him to me.”

“As it pleases you, My Lord,” Ghas dipped into a low bow and then backed away from the table. When he had put a respectable distance between himself and the Bishop, he turned and scurried off towards the barracks tent.

A pot of hot taich and a glass of juice squeezed from some local citrus appeared before him. He didn’t pay the waiting staff any heed as they adorned his chosen table with cutlery and a slim vase of flowers, looking past them to the treeline as he sipped the steaming taich with more dignity than his need for the black stimulant was comfortable allowing.

From a hundred and fifty untouched residents he could, he approximated, comfortably persuade perhaps eighty percent to the Missionary’s cause, and of those eighty, maybe a quarter would be willing to leave with their contingent in order to spread the good word. Nyiss was the pottery village, he had heard of it – one quarry large enough to produce a steady stream of clay, worked by one village alone. It must be a hard life; it wouldn’t be difficult tempting those naive Old Earthers away. A flash of technology here, a taste of Off-Worlder life there – they’d be putty in his hands, and the Commensurate be damned.

Bishop Voris had almost finished his breakfast of smoked meats, bread, and cheese when Deacon Ghas returned with one of the locals in tow. Ghas looked hungrily at the Bishop’s near-empty plate – the Deacons weren’t afforded meat with their meals, not while on duty on Tassis at least. With a wry smile, Voris intentionally left a whole slice of pressed yormtongue untouched as he pushed his plate away and one of the kitchen staff carried it off. He took pleasure from the expression on Ghas’s face as he watched the plate leave with a weary sigh.

“Are you going to introduce us, Deacon Ghas, or are you more concerned with the scraps of my breakfast?”

“Er -” The Deacon fumbled, cleared his throat and turned his attention to the Bishop with a quick bow of apology. “This is Nofis Lovs, a merchant from Sayton who has made frequent trade runs between Sayton and the outlying villages. He claims to know Nyis very well.”

Voris wiped his hands clean on his napkin and gestured for the man to sit across the table.

“Thank you, Deacon. You may leave us.”

The Deacon floundered for a moment – clearly he had expected to be a part of this conversation between Voris and the townsman. One of the many things Bishop Voris had learned on his ascent through the Missionary ranks, however, was that keeping the number of people involved in a project to a minimum lessened the potential for deviation from the One True Plan. Ghas would bring nothing to the conversation. He was simply not needed.

When the Deacon had bowed and walked sulkily away, Voris turned his attention to the townsman and poured him a cup of taich, still kept hot from the heat-sealing properties of the jug it had arrived in. He watched the man take a sip, his eyes widening in surprise at the hotness of the liquid that was nowhere near an open flame.

“Still much to discover, hm? Nofis, was it?” Bishop Voris noted the local custom of addressing people, regardless of the level of acquaintance, by their first names.

“Nofis, yes. And yes, much to discover. I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to the magics the Missionary have to show me.”

Voris chuckled. “Not magic- technology. Work hard here, and perhaps you will learn enough to understand.”

“Oh, I doubt it. I’m a trader; I deal with people. Never had a head for fancy machines.”

Bishop Voris resisted the urge to sneer. These people were pathetic. They had completely devolved since The Shattering – not that they’d had much choice, being left on a planet that had been completely stripped of manufactured energy, forced to return to the old ways; stone tools, mud huts, manual labour. So tedious. But calling a simple thermal jug a fancy machine, a thing of magic? It bordered on disgustingly pathetic.

“Yes, well. We’ll see about that. How are you settling in?”

“I’m still finding my feet, but your people have been more than kind.”

“Our people,” Bishop Voris corrected him with a practised warm smile. “You are one of us now, Nofis, and we will treat you as such.”

“I’m very grateful,” Nofis met the Bishop’s dark eyes briefly and then glanced away. “There are many fine things here. A man could get used to this kind of life. A warm bed despite the cold nights, fresh water, good food without lifting a hand for it.”

“Mmm,” Voris smiled. It would always astound him how easily these people were swayed. In comparison to the luxuries the Off Worlders could offer, the Old Earthers had a veritable ocean of nothing. Hard labour, cold winters, scalding summers. Never a moment’s rest. A peasant’s life.

“Deacon Ghas said you wanted to ask me about Nyis?” Nofis asked.

“Yes. You are familiar with the village? How often have you been there?”

“Plenty. Sayton trades regularly with their pottery. Their quarry puts out the most clay in the whole province and the way they work it is particular to the village. It’s very sought after.”

“I see. And they trade openly?”

“Sure. They’re a bit cut off, out on the rim. There’s not much to their north and south and nothing at all to their east. They’re eager to trade; for a variety in food, wares, gifts – anything.”

“Good. We’d like to introduce ourselves to the villagers there, but the Missionary are of course always very aware of the potential to disrupt established cultures, which we absolutely would want to avoid.” Voris had run this spiel so many times the empty sentiments slid from his tongue like a fountain of fine silk. “We have many things to trade, however. One of the tactics we use to open communications with the local people is to approach on terms the natives are familiar with. Would you be willing to run a trade visit to Nyis with some of our wares?”

Nofis straightened his back and shuffled a little on the bench. He was eager; Voris had played his cards well.

“Yes, I’d be willing. It’d give me something to do. I mean I could walk around this place for days staring slack-jawed at all the things here but that wouldn’t make me very useful.”

Voris forced a smile. “Very well. I will prepare a small wagon of goods and arrange an escort. Unless you think the presence of a Missionary in your company would make the villagers uncomfortable?”

“I think it’ll be fine,” Nofis shrugged. “They know me well at Nyis; the Elder and I have shared many a glass of Orm’skel Cershy if I’ve delivered a good batch.”

“Orm’skel Cershy? Is that a local variety?” Voris considered himself somewhat of a connoisseur of liquors but had never heard of this particular variety of Cershy.

“There’s a monastery on the Athl-Denmor border that makes it. They grow the grapes on the eastern side, on the Athl mountains. Don’t know how they get them to grow in that dry soil, but they do. Very difficult to come by. I’ll bring you some, if I can find it. Delicious, but more than a few glasses and you’ll wake wishing you were dead.”

“Please do. Orm’skel isn’t a variety of Cershy we have listed on our ships; it must have come into production after the Shattering.”

Nofis shrugged. “No time like the present to get sloshed, then, and Orm’skel Cershy will certainly do it.”

*

Oleipha had just closed and fastened the door to the classroom when she saw Nofis emerging from the woods at the east, trailing a piled hand-wagon and accompanied by a man in flowing purple robes. She knew Nofis from his frequent trade-stops at her village, but always he arrived from the south or the west. She checked the binding on the door and then walked out to meet them.

“How be?” Oleipha greeted the two men when she was but a few paces away.

“Well; how you be?” Nofis dug into his pocket and then reached across to the young woman with a small wrapped parcel.

“Also well. What is this?”

“A gift, to open trade. Is Elder Iteldu about?” Nofis’s eyes wandered over Oleipha’s shoulder to the village proper.

“He has taken a hunting party into the woods to the north,” She watched Nofis and his companion closely as she chose her words. The man with him showed no reaction, but a hint of concern flickered briefly over the merchant’s eyes. “I am surprised you did not cross paths. What brings you to Nyiss from this direction, Nofis, and will you introduce your companion?”

The man in the purple robes stepped forward and executed a swift, dipping bow before Oleipha. Bringing his gaze up to meet hers, he awarded her a smile that set her skin to crawling.

“Deacon Kaiss. I am honoured to be in your presence...?”

“Oleipha,” She replied curtly. Deacon – so this man was a Missionary. Little wonder he made her uncomfortable. Oleipha forced a smile in return so as not to appear rude. “You come from the Missionary camp to the north, then?” Leiph returned her attention to Nofis. The Deacon, shunned, returned to the back of the wagon and followed with his head low as Oleipha walked with them into the village.

Her question surprised him. Bishop Voris had given him the impression that no contact had been made with Nyis, and so by rights nobody in the village should have known of the contingents’ presence yet. That was, of course, the very reason he had been sent.

“That is so – how did you know?”

“I saw the light in the wood before dawn. There were only two probable explanations, of course – the presence of the Deacon with you clarified which.”

Oleipha unwrapped her gift as she spoke. The thin papyrus wrapping uncovered a small woven-lidded box and within sat a chain and a pendant of metal woven into a curious knotting shape. It was pretty, and Leiph for a moment felt that tingling buzz of happiness when one is given something worth coveting – but she quickly chided herself, for the Deacon wore the very same knotted metal upon the breast of his robes. It was a symbol of the Missionary, and she would have no affiliation with it.

“It is beautiful,” She chose her words carefully. “I shall present it to Elder Iteldu’s first wife; she has a particular fondness for the worked metal of the Off-Worlders, and it will paint the Missionary favourably upon her canvas.”

“Ever were you wise,” Nofis smiled fondly at Oleipha for her clever suggestion, but she had seen Deacon Kaiss lift his hooded visage and narrow his gaze upon her.

So that was their relationship. The Nyis-familiar Nofis Lovs sent to innocently broker trade with Missionary goods; Deacon Kaiss at his side as pragmatist.

Oleipha returned Nofis’s smile. “Shall I see you to the yurt to await Elder Iteldu’s return? He left as the sun passed its zenith; I doubt he will be gone much longer.”

“That would be most kind,” Nofis nodded. “I shall begin arrangement of the goods in preparation for trade.”

A little hasty, Oleipha thought – but then checked that as her own personal reaction. Of course Elder Iteldu would approve the trade. It was in the village’s best interests to procure the blessings of the more powerful Off-Worlders. The thought brought a bitter taste to Leiph’s throat. Though she could see the merits of establishing relations with both Off-Worlder factions, the Missionaries just hadn’t ever sat right with her in all her hearings of them. Deacon Kaiss, a thin, gangling man with hooded eyes and a nose too pointed for its own good, did nothing but strengthen her notion that the Missionaries were not savoury folk.

She saw the two gentlemen and their hand-wagon into the Elder’s yurt to await Elder Iteldu’s return and then hurried off to the pottery to find Ranal. His shift would have ended not long back and if he had followed her advice and not snuck off after the hunting party, she would find him there gossipping with the potters as he did every evening to delay returning home to his mothers’ smothering embrace for as long as possible. Leiph smiled thinking about it. The tale was tragic, no doubt; Ranal’s young sister had died of bark fever not long after birth, years ago when Ranal was still a toddler. Ranal had not had time to form a bond with his sibling and barely even remembered her, but the death had touched his mother deeply and ever since, she showered her only son with attention at every opportunity.

“Ranal,” She found him talking shop with Achet, one of the younger potters who was already showing promise with his artistic flair. If Ranal did not get to be a hunter for any reason, potter was his second most coveted life path. Oleipha did not see it; his fingers were clumsy and his imagination flowed with as much force as a dead creek mid-summer.

“Leiph,” Ranal sprang up and towards her, only turning back to excuse himself from Achet’s company as an afterthought.

“I see you took my advice.”

“Or came to the same conclusion,” He chided, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Elder Iteldu warned me against trying anything rash.”

“He knows you so.” Leiph pressed her hand to Ranal’s shoulder in comfort.

“How were the kids?”

“Loud, eager, wonderful.” Oleipha smiled. She passed her knowledge to the village young with such unbridled enthusiasm that they couldn’t help but be caught up in her excitement. “Nofis is here.”

“The Sayton merchant?”

“The same. He arrived from the north.” She glanced at Ranal as she said this, and saw too that his brow furrowed in brief confusion.

“From the north? Did he change his route for the coming summer? No – he’s never done that before. Why from the north?”

Oleipha smiled smugly. “He has come from a Missionary camp, with a hand-cart of Missionary goods to trade and a Deacon instigator on his tail.”

“He has a Deacon with him? How do you know it’s a Deacon? What did he look like? What was he wearing?” Ranal hopped from foot to foot, eager for any and all tidbits she could provide him about the stranger.

Leiph rolled her eyes at her friend’s enthusiasm, though she felt satisfaction at knowing something he did not. Usually Ranal was the first to bring all gossip to her ears; he had a reputation for poking his nose where it did not belong.

“Thin, but not tall. He wears a purple robe with a metal charm pinned to his breast. Dark hair, groomed short; an ugly pointed nose and eyes like a Banit Python.”

“What kind of charm? Was it magical?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Oleipha scowled at Ranal. “Of course not. Here, like this one.” She showed him the contents of the box she had been carrying. He reached out to touch the twisted metal pendant, but stopped with his fingers a hair’s breadth from the surface and then pulled away. Oleipha tutted. “It’s not magical, there’s no such thing as magic. Nofis gave it to me as a gift for the opening of trade; I told him I’ll present it to Elder Iteldu’s wife.”

“What? You don’t want it?” Ranal gawked at her. “It’s beautiful, and probably worth a fortune in trade! Are you mad, Leiph? Why not keep it?”

She closed the box lid with a snap and stuffed it back into the folds of her tunic. “Because it’s from Them. Because it’s tantamount to accepting bribery. Because Wife Riskel would actually wear it, whereas I’d probably bury it someplace easy to forget.”

“Gah!” Ranal sighed in exasperation. “Still, passing it to Riskel is a clever move; you can be rid of it without guilt and it will still favour the trade offer.”

In their tattle-slowed meandering they had walked all the way back to the yurt. The gathering outside suggested that people were catching wind of a new trade, and the Nyis crest flapping high atop the pole indicated that Elder Iteldu had returned.

“Oh!” Leiph pulled the gift from her tunic. “I have to take this inside at once; the trade cannot be brokered without Wife Riskel receiving the gift!” She hurried toward the entrance but Ranal grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Can I come too?”

“Of course not! You know who’s allowed into the yurt during a negotiation.”

“But you’re carrying the gift; can’t you take me in as an escort or something?”

She scowled at him. “Let me go, Ranal, you’re wasting time. I promise I’ll tell you everything when I return!”

Oleipha twisted herself from his fingers and hurried to the yurt’s entrance. It was nice that Ranal was inquisitive, but his impatience and sheer fervidity clouded his judgement too often. She heard him complain and kick up dust from the dirt behind her and clicked her tongue; she’d have to placate him with every nuance of her meeting between the Elder and Nofis later or he’d hold that grudge for days.

She wriggled her slight frame through the small crowd at the doorway and pushed through the canvas flaps into the yurt.

“Ah, Oleipha! We were about to send someone to look for you.” Elder Iteldu welcomed her into their presence.

She dropped to one knee in obeisance, and waited until the Elder had cupped his dye-painted hands over her head before rising again.

“I am sorry, Elder Iteldu; I left Nofis and Deacon Kass here but I should have waited with them for your return.”

“No harm.” The Elder smiled warmly at her. She had never understood why Elder Iteldu treated her with such affection – she’d had brief admonishments for stunts others had received beatings for, and some small misdeeds he entirely overlooked. “Do you have the gift, Oleipha? Nofis tells me you wish to pass it on to my first wife, Riskel. She will be most pleased, not in the least at such a kind gesture. She should be here any moment now, I have sent for her – ah!” The Elder looked past her to the entrance.

“My husband.” Wife Riskel entered the yurt and sashayed to the Elder’s side. She was half Elder Iteldu’s age but was old enough that her skin wrinkled with the creeping of the years upon her. She had always been beautiful, though, and age had only refined her allure. Her dark hair cradled her head in a halo of ebon curls and her skin, rich like the forest dirt after a rainfall, was a smooth brown. Her eyes, though – even Oleipha could stare into those emeralds and be lost.

The Elder gently took up his wife’s wrist and kissed the back of her hand before turning to Oleipha expectantly.

“Wife Riskel.” Oleipha bowed in courtesy as she held the small parcel out to the woman. “I give you this gift, passed from Nofis Loft, Merchant of Sayton, trading on behalf of the Missionaries, as an offer to broker peaceful trade.”

Riskel took the gift from Oleipha and unwrapped it with her dainty fingers. Nofis Loft and his lackey Deacon watched from one side, where they had unpacked their wares from the hand-wagon and arranged them on the provided wooden tables.

“Oh my.” Wife Riskel purred huskily as she lifted the pendant from its box and handed it to her husband for him to drape the chain ceremonially about her neck. “It is beautiful.” Riskel said in turn first to Oleipha as the mediator, and then to Nofis and the Deacon as the givers.

“The gift is accepted!” Elder Iteldu clapped his hands before him. “Trade is open!”

And with that, the canvas flaps of the yurt doorway were pinned open and the villagers streamed inside, their arms loaded with ware to trade for whatever fancies Nofis had brought from the Missionary camp.

Oleipha bustled her way outside, where Ranal eagerly awaited her.

“So?” He asked impatiently.

“So she accepted the gift and trade is open.”

“That’s it?” He looked disappointed.

Leiph shrugged. “That’s it.”

Ranal sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Oh. Oh well. What now?”

“Now, I -” Oleipha began, but paused as she caught sight of Deacon Kaiss slipping furtively from the yurt and smoothing down his ruffled robes before heading off into the village. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him go.

“Leiph,” Ranal cautioned his friend. “Don’t.”

“What?” She looked up at him innocently, but he knew her – the game was up before it had begun.

“Let it be me who advises you for a change. You have no business interfering with this. None of us do. But I know how you dislike the Missionaries and I know your gut is almost always right, so let me go instead.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. “Really? What will you say?”

“I’ll say I want to talk with him about the Missionary,” Ranal said; “that I’m interested in joining.” And though he would not let Oleipha know, not until it had been decided and put in motion, he actually was rather interested.

Alwyn’s eyes flickered open and focused on the mossy ceiling. Droplets of water trickled down white-yellow stalactites and dripped in staccato rhythm to the rough stone floor.

His head hurt, his skin was clammy. His heart thudded hard in his chest.

“I know, I know. Not quite the lavish standard of Darkshear’s tavern lodgings, is it?”

His neck hurt too, and he winced as he turned in the direction of the voice. A dark figure leaned against the back wall, one leg cocked up, hands tucked loosely into his waistband.

Alwyn closed his eyes again and swallowed dryly. “Where am I?”

“Why, Darkshear’s finest gaol, of course. It’s no surprise you were having nightmares, grim as our current lodgings are.”

“What?” Alwyn sat up, alert, and more fully absorbed his surroundings. He was indeed in a cell that contained nothing but the rough straw bed beneath him and a bucket in the corner. Dim yellow light illuminated an empty corridor beyond the bars. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it seems you were cracked pretty hard upside the head.” The figure stepped away from the wall and sauntered over to the bars. He seemed awfully casual for someone who was also locked up. “Which is consistent with their mode of operation. Whenever someone turns up into their dismal little town who looks like they might poke their nose in where it isn’t wanted, they’re sent to the tavern and then—well, you know the rest.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Alwyn’s eyes focused through the pain and studied the man’s features, highlighted now by lantern-light. He had a strong jaw and chiseled cheekbones. He was leaner than Alwyn, and possibly younger—or he’d had an easier life. His pale skin was smooth and unblemished, his long red hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Alwyn looked down at his own hands hanging in his lap, his skin dark and weathered. He curled his fingers into fists and looked away again.

“Me? Heavens no. I’m here to break you out.”

Alwyn looked back up at him. “Who are you, exactly?”

The man grinned, a sparkle in his green eyes as he leaned over and offered Alwyn his hand. “Dain Freemantle, Ranger of the Wilds, charmed to meet you and obediently at your service.”

Alwyn gave Dain’s hand a curt shake. Ranger of the Wilds—he’d heard of a group that called themselves that. They’d formed after the Great War, a rag-tag group of discharged Rangers—special-unit soldiers fighting for the King—who’d organised themselves into some kind of covert unit that kept an eye on things, mostly out at the far borders. The group had grown substantially in the years since the war, it was feasible they’d have caught wind of the same rumours that Alwyn had been sent here to investigate.

Still, he’d been a Ranger in the war, as Alwyn had. How much did this Freemantle know of what happened back then? Where was he stationed, when it had ended?

“I’m guessing you know who I am and why I’m here, if you’re really here to break me out.” Alwyn took a breath and then pulled himself to his feet. His head throbbed violently but he grit his teeth through it. It would pass; he’d suffered worse, though it had been a while.

“Indeed.” The briefest look of concern passed through Dain’s eyes as he watched Alwyn stand, and then his carefree grin was back. “Alwyn Jove, Imperial Warden, King’s business.”

No mention of his own past as a Ranger.

“And as for why I’m here?” Alwyn pressed.

“Trouble in the mines,” Dain said with a playfully ominous lilt. “I’ll explain, but not in this gods-awful place. Let’s get somewhere a bit more comfortable, shall we? I’ve got a ride waiting for us nearby, and our gear’s in a chest conveniently at the end of this lovely hallway.”

“Conveniently? I assume you have a plan to get us from this cell to our belongings, and then out of here entirely?”

“Of course, my dear man.” Dain smirked. “Be a sweetie and punch me, would you? Not in the face, obviously—must stay pretty for the lasses.” He winked. “Stomach’s fine.”

“You want me to hit you?” Alwyn arched his brow.

“Now you’re getting it! Yes—throw me a right hook, give me your best uppercut—just hit me. Come on, don’t be shy!”

“Fine,” Alwyn curled a fist, “if you insist.”

Ignoring the pain in the back of his head, Alwyn drew back and threw a punch from the shoulder right into Dain’s gut. The man doubled over, wind escaping in a rush through clenched teeth. He dropped to his knees.

“Guard!” He wheezed, and then paused for air. “Guard! This madman is attacking me! Guard! A little assistance, if you please!”

Alwyn rolled his eyes. Surely this wouldn’t work, surely the guards would be wise to this old trick. And yet, the silence outside the cell was broken by a distant muttering and heavy footfalls echoing down the passage.

Alwyn raised his fists. “Get up, you coward! Get up and fight me!”

“No, please!” Dain scrambled to his feet and backed into the corner behind the cell door. Alwyn took the cue and rotated to face the door, stepping to the back of the room.

“What’s goin’ on ’ere?” The guard appeared; a chubby older man whose armour fitted him poorly over a massive beer-gut.

“Fight me, you pig!” Alwyn growled and then turned to spit at the guard. “If you come in here you’ll have some too! Come on, come at me! I’ll take you both down!”

With a sigh, the guard fished a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the cell. “Don’t get paid enough,” he muttered. “I’ll have your head on a pike, you keep this up, son.” The door clicked open and he barrelled into the cell with his pole-arm pointing at Alwyn.

Dain leaped onto the guard’s back and wrapped his arms around his thick neck, muscles flexing as he clung to hold on.

“Now!” He yelled at Alwyn, who dryly noted the complete absence of any further instruction or planning on exactly what it was that Dain expected.

Nothing for it but to improvise. The guard swung his pole-arm wildly; it wasn’t difficult for Alwyn to grab a hold of the staff of the weapon as the blade hissed through the air. He twisted it out of the guard’s grip, spun it carefully around in the tight space, and then jabbed the butt up under the guard’s chin.

The guard fell limp and Dain let him go to slouch unceremoniously to the damp ground.

“Lords, you’re good with a long pole, aren’t you?” Dain wiped his hands down on his trousers.

Alwyn smirked. “You have no idea.”