The CBB

lurker wrote: ↑27 Jul 2024 02:52 Here are the stats for Focus and Yih that I calculated last year. None of the other bodies at Focus have any hard math behind them. I've kind of moved away from hard math worldbuilding as I've found it's really easy to paint myself into a corner.

Focus:
Mass (solar) 1.02
radius (solar) 1.01
luminosity (solar) 1.07
lifetime (solar) 0.95
temp (solar) 1.01
HZ inner (AU) 0.99
HZ outer (AU) 1.42
HZ width (AU) 0.43
HZ? 1.04
frost line (AU) 5.02

Yih:
distance from Focus (AU) 1.30
orbital period (earth years) 1.47
mass (earth) 0.90
radius (earth) 1.01
surface gravity (gees) 0.88
density (g/cm^3) 4.81
escape velocity (m/s) 10557.27
Rotations per orbit 528
Earth hours per rotation 24.38973064

Hmmm . . . looks like green plants to me.

Khemehekis wrote: ↑27 Jul 2024 05:46 Hmmm . . . looks like green plants to me.

I'm curious how that works out.

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While I've stated before that a full sign language won't work as an interspecies language thanks to the yinrih being quadrupeds, yinrih paws are similar enough to human hands that using a manual alphabet might work in a pinch if a synth isn't available and one party is monolingual. In order to be used by either species, it can't involve the yinrih's outer thumbs. I think another criterion might be that it can't involve motion, only the shape of the hand.

I believe some sign languages use manual alphabets for loanwords from the spoken language, and this is how I imagine humans and yinrih using a manual alphabet, to refer to untranslatable names or other words in the other species' language that they don't know.

g rFl 'J O H N / S M I T H'.
My name is John Smith.

My name is 's P l q B d s k l'.
g rFl sPlqBdskl.
My name is Wetnose.

We can't always assume everyone will have a synth with them all the time, so this would be a good stop-gap solution.

Plants can really be any color at any distance, barring extreme circumstances. It’s mostly coincidence what color ends up being prevalent.

lurker wrote: ↑29 Jul 2024 03:10 My name is 's P l q B d s k l'.
g rFl sPlqBdskl.
My name is Wetnose.

We can't always assume everyone will have a synth with them all the time, so this would be a good stop-gap solution.

I'd do this as "s pp l q bb d s k l."
Maybe with certain hand signs for commas.

Or better yet, you could use morse code.

So I mentioned to you I had ideas about poetry and scripture. Here are my thoughts:

Firstly, you mentioned canticles a while ago. It isn't actually so strange for corpuses of those to be memorized. The Mishna is essentially just that - a corpus of around 2,000 "canticles" designed for memorization. And many don't rhyme, they just repeat terms, list, and flow in general, like you said about canticles.

Secondly, we need to discuss metric poetry. Commonthroat would be uniquely suited for it, considering that it takes into account length, pitch, and strength (constrictedness?). Theoretically, much like real poetry, it probably would sound very rhythmic, almost musical. I imagine that they are also able to stress syllables in addition to the tones - like they could stress the syllable and make it really high or really constricted.
I can imagine poetry developing into many complicated forms. There are so many examples from around the world. Obviously, look at Greek and Latin poetry. I'd also recommend due to the tonal nature of Commonthroat to look at Thai poetry.

Considering how long the Yinrih tend to live, I wouldn't be surprised if trends regularly change in poetic texts.

Thirdly, I imagine the Great Commandment is very commonly used in decoration. Decorating walls, calligraphied onto carpet pages, printed in books.

Visions1 wrote: ↑31 Jul 2024 12:37 Or better yet, you could use morse code.

An excellent suggestion! Morse only requires the ability to toggle between two states, and to control the timing of when said toggling occurs. That's much less dependent on anatomy.

Visions1 wrote: ↑01 Aug 2024 00:01 Firstly, you mentioned canticles a while ago. It isn't actually so strange for corpuses of those to be memorized. The Mishna is essentially just that - a corpus of around 2,000 "canticles" designed for memorization. And many don't rhyme, they just repeat terms, list, and flow in general, like you said about canticles.

I'm sure you're right, although I don't quite have the ear for poetry. One thing I've played with is a kind of ablaut, where two syllables differ only in phonation type. Alternatively, two syllables that have the same nucleus but different onset and coda. Commonthroat is already pretty alliterative thanks to only having three consonants.

Visions1 wrote: ↑01 Aug 2024 00:01 Thirdly, I imagine the Great Commandment is very commonly used in decoration. Decorating walls, calligraphied onto carpet pages, printed in books.

Yes, absolutely. I imagine it being treated like Quranic verses in Islam, where its written in calligraphy and hung in a prominent place around the home.

I started this drawing only to find out I was out of my depth (literally, depth perception isn't my thing) so here's a random foreleg for ya. The writing claw looks a bit closer to how I picture it in my head. Also yinrih legs are thicker and more ape-like compared to canids.

Tree dwellers are capable of using simple tools. They will get at the meat of hard-shelled fruits by holding the fruit in their rear paws like a vise and cracking the shell with a rock. They've also been seen using sticks to swat at misbehaving pups.

On a somewhat related note, while I've detailed the two members of the genus Vulpithecus, there are likely higher taxa of vulpithicids and vulpithecoids with extant members. They may be more vulpes than pithecus or more pithecus than vulpes.

Just so I remember: Vulpithecus <- vulpithicidae <- vulpithecoidae <- ???? <- exoviviparae <- neoranaeovidae <- ????? <- insert litany
I'd like to know where the flyers/nestsuckers?/usoceasels? fit in.

I was thinking particularly that what would help evolve long life and intelligence in this branch would be something like a desert environ from a climate event: few resources forcing species to breed more infrequently and carefully. Put them in isolation, and you could get long lives. Then reintroduce them to say jungles, with longevity as this "oh hey, forgot you were there" thing.

It should not be surprising that the yinrih attempted spaceflight long before they fully understood what was required to put a person in space and bring them back alive. It wasn't as though Wayfarers didn't conduct experiments and unmanned trials, but they were much more willing to take very big chances, make a lot of mistakes, and get very, very messy.

Unpowered flight was the first step toward the starry firmament. Early vulpithecine attempts at flight used hot air and later hydrogen balloons to reach the upper atmosphere, with many aeronauts dying of exposure. As the Claravian understanding of celestial mechanics improved, balloons gave way to manned projectiles (and no, I don't mean rockets, think giant bullets), with an exponential increase in the number of Wayfarers happily making the ultimate sacrifice to get a little closer to fulfilling the Great Commandment. These brave souls are known in English as the Cannonized Martyrs.

While science progressed at a (literal) breakneck speed thanks to these monkey foxes tossing themselves into the air with reckless abandon, the fact that they had yet to achieve their goal of leaving Yih's atmosphere caused some yinrih to question the wisdom of the Bright Way's actions, and eventually, the Bright Way itself. It is at this point in yinrih history that we see the first Neoshamanists and Atavists emerge in a movement known in Commonthroat as the `rpsKjHGp` (literally an act of shaking dust or water from ones fur). With no shortage of resource rich virgin territory remaining on Yih, these heretics simply struck out on their own rather than remain among their former coreligionists.

After some introspection, the Bright Way concluded that they were perhaps a bit too careless with the lives of Wayfarers, and subsequently to the Shakeoff, research monasteries dedicated more manpower to making sure test subjects walked away with their legs and tails intact, albeit with no shortage of singed fur. While their approach to crew safety would still make any NASA scientist balk, there were a lot fewer maroon splatters on the ground.

Visions1 wrote: ↑04 Aug 2024 13:48 Just so I remember: Vulpithecus <- vulpithicidae <- vulpithecoidae <- ???? <- exoviviparae <- neoranaeovidae <- ????? <- insert litany
I'd like to know where the flyers/nestsuckers?/usoceasels? fit in.

I was thinking particularly that what would help evolve long life and intelligence in this branch would be something like a desert environ from a climate event: few resources forcing species to breed more infrequently and carefully. Put them in isolation, and you could get long lives. Then reintroduce them to say jungles, with longevity as this "oh hey, forgot you were there" thing.

I'm going by the pattern for the apes. Homo > Hominid (great apes) > Hominoid (apes including great apes and gibbons). I'm still cagey about detailing Yih's ecology, although I have a few ideas, like the FUCA or LUCA being a multicellular organism that's identifiable in the fossil record. That would imply that unicellular organisms re-evolved later after some mass extinction event sterilized the entire planet. Although now that I'm writing this out it doesn't sound very plausible. In any case, I like the idea that seeking a/the universal common ancestor would be a sort of Claravian quest for the Holy Grail.

I'm also thinking of a few mass extinction events, one of which forming Yih's ring. These would be recounted in the longer version of the Litany of Creation, each being followed by a moment of silent prostration (lying on the belly) to mourn the life that fell so the yinrih may rise.

Here's a possible solution for how the ears would be protected with a healer's cloak. Draping cloth directly on the ears would be irritating, so a cardboard or plastic band is sown into the cloak with ear guards that are supported by the band, keeping the cloth from rubbing the ears. The only drawback is that it keeps the ears from swiveling, but that's also true of the ear guards on powered armor.

lurker wrote: ↑11 May 2024 02:59 In any case, the next time we see non Claravian groups claiming to be descended from the original shamans is a few centuries prior to the dawn of the space age, a gap of several yinrih lifetimes, and they appear geographically far removed from Newman's Dale.

So about this time. When did they reach the Space Age?
And what is the Space Age called in Commonthroat?

Visions1 wrote: ↑06 Aug 2024 03:36 When did they reach the Space Age?

About 5000 years after the dawn of sapience.

Visions1 wrote: ↑06 Aug 2024 03:36 And what is the Space Age called in Commonthroat?

Not sure. I have a word for "age" as in how old something is, but I need to come up with one for era or period of time.

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I'm having fun imagining yinrih and the Bright Way in the sort of steampunk or diesel punk setting one would expect to precede the space age. None of those projectiles worked, but they eventually figure out rocketry.

Okay, I need to see this. It just fits. You have to do something with this.

Also, assuming the fact that it took us 30000 years to actually get into space, this would imply that the Yinrih rate of advancement was 6 times the rate of humans. Assuming they developed the same stages as we did (which doesn't really make sense, as most humans today are probably rather uncomfortable with the rate tech is progressing as it is, and the systemic suffering of say industrial-era Liver), this would mean the steampunk period (we'll just call it feudalism + Victorian Era) lasted one Yinrih lifetime, assuming one lifetime is 400 years in this era.
Which kind of makes sense? The industrial revolution as we view it in steampunk lasted from ~1760-1940 (this is of course a nonsense number, considering how different places went through industrial dystopia at different times - for example, China currently is if you think about it, though it's more complicated than that).

It does beg the question of population growth. Assuming Yinrih reproduce at age 100, but one quarter of them do not, and they live 400 years, and those who do reproduce have 1.5 of their own moot, starting from a population of say 50k produces: ...a total population of 617,641 Yinrih.
That's pretty small compared to humans, and would make populations somewhat precarious. In particular, war could have very severe consequences if it ever broke out.

Edit: This would have some more implications.
Firstly, that 1/4 not breeding thing is pretty tight. At 1/3, the population will be exactly at replacement level - in other words, not growing. I imagine this will make Yinrih culture pretty natalistic.
Therefore, it will probably be rather common for Yinrih to enter higher positions only after they have had children. This will probably have the effect of making gerontocracy more common.
This would also be a pretty great way to introduce Atavist movements - disgruntled youth make for new movements.

I pulled the curtain aside and stuck my head through the doorway. A washing pool sat to the left of the entrance under a flickering light. Wading amid the water laving her paws was a healer. My face reddened. Before I could make a discrete exit, she turned and noticed me.

«Ah!» she chuffed cheerfully. «Light shine upon you, friend!» She hopped out of the water and trotted up to me, leaving a trail of wet paw prints in her wake. «You must be my human volunteer. My name’s Doctor Shortclaw.» She extended a dripping wet paw to initiate a human handshake.

I hesitated. This wasn’t the response I expected to a man bursting into the women’s bathroom.

She extended her paw further. «This is the right way to do it, yes? Right forepaw, digits extended, palm facing to the side?»

“Yes, ma’am—er doctor,” I said in English before hastily grabbing my synth and repeating my confirmation in Commonthroat. I reluctantly accepted her waterlogged handshake. «I’m so sorry,» I said, hastily drying my hand on the curtain, «I must have the wrong bathroom.»

She tilted her head in confusion. «Wrong bathroom? This is the only one on this floor.» I slipped back into the hallway. The sign over the door, overlooked in my earlier haste, simply said «WASHROOM», with no qualifiers. Was this a private bathroom? She didn’t seem to object to my presence. Whatever the case, I needed to get her out of there before the chocolate factory had a meltdown.

I brought the rest of my body through the doorway. We were standing in a vestibule, the washing pool was off to the left in an alcove. The wall to the right was adorned with the sort of nick-nacks one would expect to see in a Terran bathroom: pictures, a shelf with what I took to be an air freshener. The floor was flagged with tiles of various shapes and textures, designed more to be pleasant to the touch of a yinrih’s bare paws than with an eye to visual congruity. A shallow lip separated the vestibule from the rest of the bathroom, which was currently unlit. The flickering light over the washing pool failed to illuminate the area where the toilet was.

I looked down at the little alien medical professional. She was furless save for her whiskers, as expected of a healer, with gray-black skin on her snout and paws giving way to ruddy flesh over the rest of her body. I caught a flash of saturated blue as she slid a pair of bandpass membranes over her eyes, scrutinizing my form under light my feeble human eyes couldn’t hope to see.

Another rumbling burble emanated from my gut, causing doctor Shortclaw’s large hearthsider ears to perk up. «Fascinating,» she yipped, pulling a notepad from a band around her foreleg.

«Look, I really have to use the restroom,» I explained.


«Even better!» she barked. She flicked her writing claw a few times and began jotting down some notes. «Do you mind if I observe? I was fascinated by the human digestive system while studying your medical cadavers. I’m anxious to see how it operates live.»

“Yes I mind!” I burst out in English, causing her to flinch. «Sorry,» I synthesized, «If you want samples, I’ll give you samples, but I didn’t sign up to be stared at while I poop.»

«I see,» she mused. «That might be a problem.» She crossed the threshold separating the sink area from the rest of the bathroom. Motion-activated lights came on, banishing the darkness. For the first time I beheld a yinrih toilet, and I did not like what I saw.

For starters, I was very wrong about it being a private bathroom. Four stalls lined the left wall, though calling them “stalls” was exceedingly generous. They were mere partitions extending up from the floor, not even tall enough to obscure a yinrih’s head. None of them had doors, either. The toilets themselves were simple holes in the floor. What might have been toilet paper dispensers hung above each latrine, positioned to be manipulated by the tail. Most of the floor was lined with more of that mismatched tile, but the area immediately surrounding the latrine itself was coated in a uniform rough texture to tell the user backing into the stall not to plant a rear paw in the hole. There was a noticeable grade to the floor of each stall sloping backward into the toilet, which I assumed was to guide any errant excreta to its proper destination. Sitting in the far corner of the room was a standard yinrih perch, positioned so the user faced the stalls.

«Our bathrooms probably aren’t what you’re used to on Earth,» she said apologetically. «We’re inclined to be chatty while doing our business. We feel vulnerable while eliminating waste, and feel more comfortable when there are other group members watching out for us.

«This is a learning experience for both of us. My partners and I want to make this a human-friendly clinic, you see, and any input you can give will help us make this place comfortable for both species. It sounds like humans need privacy when using the washroom, is that right?»

«Yes, doctor,» I said, nodding vigorously for emphasis.

«I see, I see,» she whined softly to herself, writing down more notes. «We’re planning to make major renovations to accommodate your height.» She craned her neck upward to look at my head tilted forward to avoid hitting the ceiling. «I’m sure we can install species-appropriate facilities as well.»

I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, which Shortclaw noticed immediately. «But I suppose that’s not going to help you right now, is it? How’s this, I’ll stand outside the door and make sure nobody else comes in. Take as long as you need. Oh, and no need to worry about any samples.»

«Could you?» I answered. «Thank you very much.»

She turned and walked through the door, brushing the curtain aside with her snout. I waited for her long sinewy tail to slither out of sight, then turned to face my destiny.

I took a deep breath. Credit where credit is due, the place was immaculate. Everything from the grout between the tiles to the walls to the floors inside the stalls looked clean enough to eat from, and this room smelled by far the least canine. “OK, you can do this,” I told myself. “You were in the Boy Scouts, you know how to use a latrine, and you don’t even have to bury it this time.”

I entered the furthest stall from the doorway, undid my belt, squatted down, and prepared to restock the pond with corn-speckled brown trout. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. My colon had gone from Mt. St. Hellen to a space station airlock. “No big deal,” I thought. “I just need to relax.”

I let my mind wander as I surveyed my surroundings. There was an icon hanging near the entrance to the toilets, positioned to be visible from the stalls. Not an unusual sight here on Hearthside. There was an icon of the clinic’s namesake hanging in the waiting room, too. The saint himself was all white save for a dark red stain on his abdomen. He was reared up on his hind feet, an upturned drinking bowl under his right rear paw, reaching with his foreleg to pull a pup out of what looked like a pond of green sludge. Behind the saint’s head was the gilded arch which served as the Claravian answer to the halo.

I heard Dr. Shortclaw politely ward away one of her conspecifics. «Sorry, our human volunteer is in there.»

«Are you sure he’s OK in there by himself?» asked the interloper.

«He’s got Saint Clearwater looking after him,» she answered.

«Fair enough,» said the other. The click-clack of his claws had just faded away only to be replaced by the sound of four more paws skittering toward the bathroom from the other end of the hall.

«OUT OF MY WAY!» barked an unfamiliar voice. To my horror, the curtain was thrust aside and a scrawny sandy-furred male burst into the bathroom. His momentum was checked only briefly as the good doctor’s paw grasped futilely at the tip of his tail, relieving it of a few hairs.

«STOP! There’s a--» barked the healer, but the intruder had already vaulted over the threshold between the sink and the toilets in a stunning display of agility.

«MY TEETH ARE SWIMMING!» he shot back. He took up residence in the stall next to mine, laid his tail across his back, and started putting out a fire. After heaving a contented huff, he turned and became aware of my presence.

«Oh, a human! My name’s Coolsand,» he said. «I’m a junior administrator here at the clinic. I think you saw my boss back in the waiting room.»

I suddenly became very interested in that icon hanging on the wall.

«Ah, that’s old Saint Clearwater. They say he watches out for folks who have to use the bathroom alone,» said Coolsand. «Well, that’s what my sires told me growing up, anyway.»

I moved my gaze to the perch in the corner, staring at it as though it held the secrets of the universe, desperately willing my colon to finish the job. Coolsand did not interpret my silence the way I had hoped, and launched into a monologue.

«It’s kind of funny, how Saint Clearwater got associated with bathrooms. We don’t know much about his puppyhood, though I’d wager it wasn’t a happy one, given that the first records we have that mention him are police reports involving bar brawls and public drunkenness. He was an alcoholic, you see, that’s what the drinking bowl in the picture symbolizes.»

I uttered a half-interested grunt.

«Anyway, he was a raging alcoholic, like I said, and eventually found himself in front of a judge. He was ordered to attend a recovery program hosted at a nearby lighthouse. By all accounts he put his whole gut into it, and seemed to be making progress, but eventually relapsed.

«This cycle would continue, where he’d try to get sober, fail, wander off, then show up at the lighthouse a few decades later seeking absolution. Since he wasn’t getting any better, the hearthkeeper eventually kicked him out altogether, assuming he wasn’t putting in the effort.

«He ended up homeless living in a local park, begging for food and getting his fix from the wild wind fruit bushes that grew in the area. This park became notorious, not just for hosting a perpetually liquored up bum, but also for stinking of raw sewage. Turns out that a sewer main had burst, filling an underground pond with, well--» he slapped the textured edge of the latrine with a rear paw.

«Anyway, one day, a bunch of pups were playing in this park. Some stories say they were a litter, others say it was a school on a field trip, and others say the pups were just local kids. Out of nowhere, this sinkhole opens up, and all the pups just fall into this massive lake of--» he slapped the latrine again.

«Now there were a ton of grownups around. These pups’ childermoot, their teachers, or whoever, but every account says that a bunch of bystanders saw this happen and just stared. They usually get painted as the villains, but you know, I’m not sure what I’d do if I were in their paws. They always tell you not to dive in after a drowning person, especially when you’re not trained for it, since they’ll pull you down with them and two people will end up dead instead of just one. And, besides--» for a third time the claws of his rear paw clicked against the side of the latrine.

«Anyway, out of nowhere, Clearwater, who’s stinking drunk mind you, runs up and starts pulling the pups out of the hole. He manages to get most of them, but there are still two struggling toward the middle. He dives in after them. Well, the pups are still panicking, so they push him under while trying to climb out. The kids are able to get out, but Clearwater ends up drowning.

«So this naturally makes the news, and Clearwater is hailed as a local hero. The hearthkeeper that kicked him out of the rehab program realizes that he genuinely tried to sober up, but just couldn’t do it. He did keep coming back, after all, and he did seem to try his best, but--»

«He kept falling off the wagon,» I interjected, now invested in the conversation.

Coolsand executed a quizzical head tilt.

«Sorry, it’s a Terran expression.» I repeated the phrase in English and then again in Commonthroat.

«Well,» Coolsand continued, «That hearthkeeper has a change of heart and starts advocating for his canonization. And not just regular canonization, but she wants him declared a martyr. That’s what that blood stain on his belly means.

«So even though it’s a bit controversial calling him a martyr, since he didn’t die while trying to fulfill the Great Commandment, he gets the title anyway. He’s got quite the portfolio, as you can imagine. I suppose it’s pretty obvious, his connection with restrooms, if a little morbid. But you also see little statues of him in bars, as he’s said to help drunk people get sober.»

Coolsand’s hagiography finished, I quickly cleaned myself up and redid my belt, but he insisted on continuing the conversation.

«I’m really into human stuff, and so is Calmwind. We both know English. He’s the one who made that poster in the waiting room. If I knew you’d be here I’d have brought my synth so I could practice. I really want to visit Earth some time.»

I walked out of the stall and made a move toward the washing pool. Coolsand quickly finished up and followed. A few seconds after we had vacated the stalls, there was a whirring noise, then a cascade of water smelling mildly of bleach rushed out of a grate spanning the entrance to the previously occupied stalls and rushed down the slope and into the latrine, simultaneously flushing it and sanitizing the floor.

“Well,” I said in English as I squatted in front of the washing pool scrubbing my hands, “Nice meeting you, Coolsand. But let me give you some pointers on men’s room etiquette whenever you visit Earth. Not sure how you’ll negotiate our toilets; I’m sure you’ll figure it out. But whatever you do, remember these words: shut up and stare straight ahead.”

«Wait, humans don’t chat in the restroom?» I could almost feel him blushing behind his khaki fur. «Did I offend you? I’m sorry if I did, It’s just--»

“No, no we do not,” I said curtly.

«So that’s why the old bald-back was guarding the door.»

“Yes… Look, it was nice meeting you, really, don’t sweat it—uh pant it—I mean don’t worry about it. I think these little psychological quirks that we don’t share stick out only because we have so much else in common.”

«I guess that’s what the Great Commandment means by ‘bone not of our bone and flesh not of our flesh’.»

“Just look out for that doctor next time. By the way, my name’s Greg.” I attempted the yinrih’s traditional greeting, patting myself on the abdomen twice with the left palm, then turned to leave.

Dr. Shortclaw was still standing outside. She looked up at me sheepishly.

«Sorry about that,» she said. «Like I said, we’re talkative in there. That’s why that perch is in the corner.»

«I hope you’re a better doctor than a bouncer,» I said as we walked down the hall to the exam room.

Everybody poops, everybody poops
Corn and rice and sausages
And casseroles and soups
All species and all people
All ethnic groups
Love to poop

They've got to go, and so
Everybody, everybody poops

Poop is really hard to clean, it's
Cleaned with toilet paper rolls
There are constipated folks
And some leave chili bowls

There are people who poop peanuts
There are people who poop maize
Mjce leave pellets

Birds go guano
We can poop in oh so many ways

Everybody poops, everybody poops
There are folks who make gritty grains
And newborns make green goop
A dog does it in the open
That's what its master scoops
Lots of poop

It's got to go, and so
Everybody, everybody poops
Everybody, everybody poops

That was well-written. I noticed a lot of the Commonthroat quirks (whole guts, holy rings, and swimming teeth), and the story was well integrated. The hagiography was a bit long, but that very well adds to the effect of the story.

You know, I find it interesting how common the use of saint tutelaries is in human cultures (as opposed to say gods), particularly in the ways they manifest in major religions and the internal logic that follows.
In (non-Reformed?) Christianity, they are intercessors who specialize in whatever. Plus there's Mary. (Listen, going to someone's mom so they'll convince them to help you is the oldest trick in the book!)
In Mahayana Buddhism, they are particular Bodhisattvas or passed monks that may or may not exist that you can ask for help from (the point is to realize what a buddha is to begin with, but the karma helps, if not the being themself).
In Judaism, saints have an intercessor thing (it's much less specific than in say Catholicism), though it's also relying on the merits they accrued. Praying at gravesites is quite common. There's this one rabbi - R' Shaya'leh of Kerestir - whose picture is just everywhere in New York because more superstitious Jews believe his picture keeps mice away, though apparently many also consider it highly disrespectful to use/reduce him to that.
In Islam, intercession is a complicated issue. It used to be more common (in fact, intercession of Muhammad and at times other prophets is basically Aqida - a tenet of the faith), but nowadays considered very contentious, especially as regards Wali (saints), prophets, and Muhammad's family. Shiites permit it more than Sunnis, in part due to a general focus on the prophet's household. Intercession is one reason reason why Maqamat (as in shrines to Biblical/Quranic/Muslim figures) are a thing.
In Taoist beliefs, the more someone gets worshiped, the more power they have, hence explaining a lot of devotional practices. I'd write more about it but it honestly confuses me.
This is to say nothing of more regular forms of ancestor veneration in all of these cases.

I wouldn't mind knowing how the Yinrih approach their concept of sainthood. And afterlife in general, while we're on the topic.

Visions1 wrote: ↑11 Aug 2024 08:41 In Judaism, saints have an intercessor thing, though it's also relying on the merits they accrued. Praying at gravesites is quite common. There's this one rabbi - R' Shaya'leh of Kerestir - whose picture is just everywhere in New York because more superstitious Jews believe his picture keeps mice away, though apparently many also consider it highly disrespectful to use/reduce him to that.

As a Jew (albeit a nonpracticing Jew), I found this fact fascinating!