#&& savagery in the streets ⟪ event ⟫

[fatehbaz]

[A]bout two third of the Swiss population visited the “Village noir” in Geneva. How is it possible that [...] the exhibition of 200 African people that two million people visited has fallen into oblivion? [...] Today, Geneva is considered one of the capitals of [so-called] [”]human rights[”]. Back in 1896, during the Swiss Second National Exhibition, it hosted a human zoo. There are very few visible references to it, except for one street called after its corresponding “white” exhibition, the “Village Suisse”. However, several researchers’ archival work helped unearth the history of the first Swiss “Village noir”. Inhabited by more than 200 individuals from Senegal, the village was situated a few streets from the city’s central square, the Plaine de Plainpalais. For six months, paying visitors observed these “actors” living their lives. Their religious ceremonies were advertised as public events. Tourists could take pictures with the African troupe and walk around their dwellings. [...]

Far from being a Swiss peculiarity, human zoos were spread around the West. Human exhibitions were a form of entertainment [...] [popularized] in the early 19th century in Great Britain. [...] [O]ne of the most famous shows was Sara Baartman, the “Hottenton Venus”. [...] [S]he was brought to Europe from South Africa to participate in an exhibition. Such “freak shows” spread around Europe and North America [...]. [I]n the late 19th century [...] shows became part of national and colonial exhibitions. The first ethnic exhibition of Nubians occurred in 1877 in Paris [...]. For the ticket-buying public, the experience was comparable to a visit to a regular zoo; it was about observing “exotic animals”. 

As it often happens with animals, organisers re-created the subjects’ “natural habitat” [...]. The setting was constructed to perform authenticity. On the one hand, the civilisational discourse justifying colonial expansion and domination exaggerated the living representation and exhibition of the “savage” in need of enlightenment. On the other hand, the alleged brutality of the “native” was displayed through the mise-en-scène of their “primitive life”. These exhibitions did not present savagery; they invented a specific kind, which prepared the ground and fuelled further expansions and the ruling of “barbarian” and “uncivilised” societies. [...] All activities were meant to nourish Westerners’ enthusiasm for the exotic [...].

The turn of the century was among the highest points of scientific racism. 

This was when the pseudo-scientific attempts to create a superior race thrived within Western anthropology and biology academic departments. For eugenicists, human zoos provided ‘samples’ for racist theories. During the Geneva National Exposition of 1896, Emile Yung gave a conference where he presented 15 people from the “Village noir”. He compared their skin colour and skull size to those of a Genevan. This process aimed to demonstrate how the size of the skull affected the level of civilisation and mental capacities. These ideas were spread among schoolteachers and helped crystallise and expand racist stereotypes. [...] Visitors were presented with an invented representation of Africa [...].

Moreover, as Patricia Purtschert of the University of Bern suggests, evolutionism and racist human-development theories at the core of the exhibitions had clear educational goals. 

Thus, scientific racism developed within academia went hand in hand with popular racism: human zoos were places where these two faces of the same coin met. [...] 

Indeed, Swiss scientists were active in shaping colonial mentalities. [...] Unlike other countries, Switzerland did not stop its human exhibitions during the interwar period. Until the 1960s, the national circus Knie presented the “Völkerschauen”. It included the display of [”]Eskimos[”], Catholic Indians, “mysterious Egyptians” or people with albinism. [...]

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All text above by: Letizia Gaja Pinoja. “Dehumanisation, animalisation: Inside the terrible world of Swiss human zoos.” The Conversation. 23 June 2023. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[xaeethebaee]

Shuji x Shortcake Chapter Six

Minors DNI. 18+ ONLY!

Chapter Warnings: Profanity and masochism.

Disclaimer: All characters are over the age of 20.

A/n: So you finally meet the Kanto Manji Gang and things get really interesting. Also, this chapter is a very dialogue-heavy chapter, and to be perfectly honest I'm not the best when it comes to dialogue if you haven't noticed. I certainly tried my best with this.

Word Count: 4.4k (Longest chapter so far.)

Staring into the bathroom mirror, you cannot help but reflect on tonight’s events. It all started when you arrived at the Haitani house with your work friend, and despite the brewing anxiety, you eventually found yourself having a good time. That is until your drink was spiked and thus you ended up in Shuji Hanma’s bedroom.

Even though your childhood best friend gave you the reassurance that nothing has happened to you while you were unconscious, it does not stop you from feeling violated. It is especially apparent as you examine the black hoodie you are wearing since your short dress has been stripped off you. Hanma’s natural scent and the smell of cigarettes still linger on the article of clothing which brings you an odd sense of comfort that somewhat overshadows your already present uneasiness.

Your eyes then avert back at the mirror before you, and your gaze lands on your lips which have become chapped. Subconsciously, your fingers graze over them thinking back to when Shuji gently kissed them. It felt like your body was set ablaze feeling his lips against yours and all the emotions you’ve felt for your childhood friend was spilling out into one action. Admittedly, reuniting with Hanma has been the best thing that has happened to you in spite of tonight’s events, but why is there still a bit of doubt?

For the past few weeks, you were constantly bombarded with unnerving news reports of a series of gang attacks throughout the streets of Tokyo. The violence seems to get worse day by day and in no time, murders started to be reported. Law enforcement seems powerless against the sudden uproar of savagery that even the police chief is considering implementing a city-wide curfew. All of this is linked to the Kanto Manji Gang - one of Tokyo’s most dangerous organizations. So dangerous that many civilians believe just uttering the name brings misfortune to them.

Recently, you have not been able to get away from their presence. It all started the other night when you were face-to-face with the infamous group, serving their meals. Now, you ended up at the Haitani Brothers’ mansion. Although the brothers are known socialites and playboys around Japan, the rumors of their suspected involvement with the gang still persist. Said rumors have all been confirmed for you since regaining your consciousness. It was courtesy of Shuji Hanma who briefly gave an explanation about tonight's events.

“I took care of the assholes who were gonna hurt you then afterward, I took you to my room so no one will bother you. I then went to go see Ran and tell him about the mess in his downstairs bathroom. That was when I got shot.”

Hanma explains with a shit-eating grin on his face. In the reflection of the mirror, you see the tall man sitting on the edge of the bathtub as he finishes wrapping his injured arm with a cloth.

You take the time to continue looking over his body, admiring how much he has grown over the years. Without realizing it, you lick your lips thinking about your kiss previously and wondering how it would feel to press them against his collarbones. You then examine the muscles present on his arms and his abs that subtly poke through the white t-shirt that he is wearing. Sin and Punishment then grace your eyesight along with his long fingers which inadvertently made your imagination go off the rails momentarily.

“Did you finish washing your face?” Hanma asks, despite not looking directly at you, he can still feel your gaze on him.

Using the moist washcloth, you go over your face again, washing off any remaining makeup, tear stains, and dirt as well as figuratively washing away your dirty thoughts about someone who is supposed to be your childhood friend.

“Yea. I’m finished now.” You answer, fixing your hair so that it is presentable.

“Good. We need to get down there.”

Hanma says, standing up and walking towards you. Almost immediately he towers over you as he reaches for his hairbrush. You can feel his body heat radiating off him as he stands close behind you. While brushing his hair, he places his Sin hand over yours before squeezing it softly.

“Did you put on those slippers?” He asks.

“I did but they are too big.”

Shuji chuckles and then adds:

“You gotta put them on. The Haitanis hate it when people are barefoot in their house. This isn’t America.”

He says with a chuckle, making you roll your eyes.

“Where are my heels then?”

“They are still downstairs. You don’t need them anyways.”

Immediately, you reply with a stern tone:

“I’m not putting on those slippers, Shu. They are too big for my feet.”

“Well, they are too small for mine and those are the closest I have to your size.”

His response made you pout slightly, though you aren’t surprised by it.

“You have long feet, so it’s uncomfortable wearing those slippers. Plus, it’s easy to trip in them.”

Hanma listens to your tiny rant as he places his hairbrush back down on the sink once he finished fixing his hair. After that, he wraps his arms around you leaning closely and nearly engulfing you with his large body.

“It won’t be for that long. We just need to convince Mikey that you aren’t anything to worry about then after, I take you home.”

His words come out soft, unlike the usual amused tone he uses. You’re somewhat relaxed by them as well as the warmth exuding from his body. Even though it is not the first time you two are in an embrace, you always feel a sense of security in his arms.

“Besides, having long feet means that I have a lo--”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

You hastily cut him off with an assertive voice, causing the tall man to heave out a series of chuckles. You, on the other hand, just scrunch your face slightly reminding yourself that Hanma almost never takes anything seriously. Though, you still have a fuzzy feeling once you realize that he has barely changed throughout all these years, and that is even after being involved with the Kanto Manji Gang for so long.

Speaking of, you’re still dreading the fact that you are going to meet them in just a few minutes.

“Let’s get down there now. We can finish catching up later.”

He says, letting go of you, though Punishment grabs one of your hands before interlocking fingers with it. Taking a deep breath, you peer up at Hanma who returns the look. He just gives a soft smile and then says:

“It’ll be fine.”

After those comforting words, you set aside the dreadful anxiety.

It takes a few minutes as you and Shuji traverse through the massive Haitani mansion. Unlike previously when much of the house was dark save for the multicolored strobe lights, now it is lit with regular lights. You’re in awe of the sheer amount of decorations throughout the rooms, and even though there is some trash and discarded wine glasses lying about, you can still see the beauty in which this home has to offer.

Though, the brightness and beauty soon end once the entrance to the basement is in sight. You immediately see the contrast, and thus your anxiety and fear resurface, which did not go unnoticed by Hanma. The tall man gently squeezes your hand with his in an attempt to comfort you. The action did little to set your mind at ease once you two begin descending the wooden steps into the dark abyss.

After watching so many horror movies growing up, there is one thing you have learned. That is to avoid basements at all costs and here you are, willingly going down one to be face-to-face with the gang that has caused so much anarchy in what was supposed to be one of the safest cities in the world.

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, you expected the basement to be nothing but a concrete wall and concrete floors, various torture devices conveniently placed on a nearby metal table, and the stench of decomposing bodies invading your nostrils. Instead, it is nothing more than an ornate high-end boardroom with a stocked bar off to the side. Walls are decorated with paintings and neon signs, the centerpiece of the room is a large leather couch that wraps around a rectangular mahogany table, and there is a sweet smell of lavender floating in the air.

The beauty of the rest of the home also extends to the basement. Although you’d like to be relieved that it was not the typical torment dungeon like in the movies, the presence of several men sitting on the couch sends shivers down your spine. Almost as if you were an art exhibit, Hanma presents you in front of the guys who all stare blankly, unamused.

Quickly, you recognize Shion who somehow looks even scarier as he leans back in his spot, legs manspreading like he is an authority figure. Across from Shion are both of the Haitani brothers. Rindou leaning forward with his face resting in the palm of his hands as if he is about to sleep and Ran pouting angrily as he holds what appears to be an ice pack over his crotch. Lastly, you notice the droopy-eyed bartender from earlier who still has that look of boredom on his face. After taking note of him, you quickly make the connection as these are the same men that you saw the other night looking as intimidating as ever.

“It’s about damn time you two got down here.” Shion Madarame says with a smirk present on his face.

Hanma just chuckles. He never drops his grin as he lets go of your hand in favor of putting his arm over your shoulders.

“She’s the so-called ‘Person of Interest’. Ask her whatever questions you need, so I can take her home.”

The tall man remarks; however, he is quickly shot down by a pink-haired man.

“Last time I checked, Mikey is the one who calls the shots around here. You just sit and wait for his orders like the attack dog you are.”

“Shut up, Sanzu. I’m not surprised if you knew what Mikey’s ass tastes like considering how often you kiss it.” Hanma responds.

Quickly, Sanzu stands up while twitching his left eye. You feel a lump forming in your throat upon noticing him picking up a diamond-encrusted dagger that rested on the table.

“I should fuckin’ kill you right here.”

“You can try, drug boy,” Hanma says mockingly, prompting Sanzu to begin walking forward but a voice stops him.

“That’s enough. Sit down Hanma and Sanzu so we can get this questioning over with.”

The man next to Sanzu demands with a bored tone. The man is blonde with dark eyes as he leans forward with his elbow resting on his thigh and head on the palm of his hand. He has a dull expression as he looks you up and down trying to read your body language and be slightly intrigued by the hoodie that is way too big for your body. He notices the way you’re slightly fidgeting as you softly run the fingers on your left hand and over your right arm in a self-soothing manner. 

Reluctantly, Hanma splits from you to obey his leader. He sits down in the spot closest to you, though you still feel alone as you stand in front of the Kanto Manji Gang.

“That’s definitely her.” The bartender says with a dry tone.

Rindou looks up and you two make eye contact. He just nods his head before uttering:

“Yeah, she came here with that teething bitch.”

Suspicious, the leader named Mikey just peers at Hanma.

“Why was she in your room?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have all day.” Mikey quickly follows up.

For a moment, Shuji looks at you and you can vaguely make out a subtle look of sadness on his face. Nevertheless, he explains the events from tonight.

“She was drugged, so I took her to my room where she’ll be safe.”

The man next to Shuji just heaves out a chuckle. You quickly take note of his large stature and rattail mohawk. Menacingly, he looks directly at you.

“And here I thought you were just another one of Hanma’s whores.”

“Excuse me, what?” 

Those words slip out of your mouth before you could thoroughly process what the man has said. Offended, you just breathe a sigh, trying to calm your nerves. While you’re doing that, Hanma rolls his eyes and his smirk is quickly wiped away by a look of annoyance.

“Hey, ugly bitch. Be careful with who you’re talking to.” Came a threatening tone from Hanma.

The man just faces him, smiling as if he came to a realization. He just continues to laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting pissed, Shuji Hanma.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful. She’s someone that I’ve known for a long time.” Shuji responds.

The man just laughs more, completely amused by Hanma’s eagerness to defend you.

“Long time, eh? About how long we’re talkin’?”

“Mind your fuckin’ business, Mocchi.”

Shuji’s reply came out sharp, showing Mocchi as well as everyone else that his demeanor has changed. This sudden conversion causes an alarming aura to ooze from the black and blonde-haired man. You can only watch as he just cracks his knuckles while glaring intently at the man next to him.

“Damn, did I hit a nerve? All I did was tell her that I thought she was one of your whores.” Mocchi remarks with an amused grin.

This time, a man who has a scar over his face was the one who speaks up.

“Well, now you know that she is not. Let’s get back on topic.”

The guy then looks directly at you and despite his outwardly scary appearance, he presents a soft expression on his face as he asks you a question.

“So you were drugged, correct?”

Hesitantly, you reply with a nod. 

“Someone spiked her drink,” Hanma answers while still glaring at Mocchi.

“Thanks but I think she can speak for herself.”

The scar-faced male follows up and then he looks at you again. Although you feel very uncomfortable, you explain:

“I got a drink from the bar then I followed my friend to the dance floor. That was when I started to feel………weird.”

Your explanation prompts everyone to veer at the bartender who is removing a lollipop from his mouth. Just leans forward as his droopy eyes become more focused.

“Wakasa, you were at the bar all night.” Scarface points out.

“I know I was,” Wakasa replies.

The room momentarily goes quiet for a few seconds before Wakasa adds:

“I stayed vigilant, and nobody fucked with her drink.”

After his response, everyone then looks back at you and then Shion speaks with an aggressive tone.

“So you lied to us, woman?”

You open your mouth to deny the accusation; however, Wakasa cuts you off before you could utter a single word.

“Nobody fucked with her drink while she was at my bar. Who’s to say her drink didn’t get spiked when she stepped out of my sight?”

“Did anyone happen to see that shit?” Shion asks.

“If any of us did, then the person responsible would’ve been dealt with.”

This time, another large man who is sitting next to Wakasa answers. 

“If you knew she was drugged then why didn’t you do anything about the person who did it?” Shion asks Hanma.

“I never said I didn’t do anything to them.”

An unhinged grin surface on Hanma’s face as he thinks back to his actions earlier that night.

“They were properly dealt with. Speaking of, Ran and Rindou, you two might wanna call the clean-up guys again. This time in your downstairs guest bathroom. You can use my card for the payment.”

Both of the Haitani brothers look directly at Hanma with disgusted faces.

“What the hell did you do?” Rindou asks.

“I’ll tell you two all about it but not while Shortcake is here,” Hanma answers with his usual shit-eating grin.

“Damn you. Is that why you came to my room earlier?!”

Ran angrily shouts, gripping his ice pack tightly.

“I don’t even want to know about what went on down there actually.”

The younger Haitani brother just groans while running his fingers through his hair.

“Knowing Hanma, it’s a fuckin’ mess,” Sanzu adds.

“Who the hell is Shortcake?”

Mikey utters in a soft tone, gathering everyone’s attention. It did not take long for the other men to catch on to the pet name that Hanma revealed. Quickly, they piece it together and Mocchi is the first to point it out.

“I’ve heard you mention that name once before when we were Tenjiku. THIS is that American friend you were telling Kisaki about?”

“Yea.” The black and blonde-haired man proudly admits.

“I thought she was just an imaginary friend.” Shion remarks.

“The more you know,” Sanzu says.

Mikey then looks at you.

“You’re the shortcake?”

You hesitantly nod while being moderately embarrassed by Hanma’s slip-up.

“Why do we keep going off-topic? We still have to finish questioning the lady.”

The scar-faced man says clearly getting impatient. Upon hearing those words, everyone’s attention is then averted back to you.

“So about the drugging thing-” He begins but he’s quickly cut off by Shion.

“We know what happened after that, Kakucho. Let’s ask the important question like, do you have any affiliation with Brahman?”

Once again, you’re confused as you’ve never heard of that name before. Just like before when he already asked you about it earlier, you remain to have the same response. Shaking your head, you softly deny affiliation, but that does little to ease his suspicion.

“I don’t believe you. You came here with that bitch who was clearly planning something.”

Once again, you are reminded of your work friend.

“Where is she?” You ask.

“I’ll tell you once you tell us why the fuck were you two here in the first place.”

Shion’s extremely aggressive questioning earns an annoyed look from Wakasa, the man next to him, and Kakucho while Hanma’s smirk once again drops and is replaced by a demented glare.

Momentarily, you pause trying to process the mixture of emotions that are inside of you. Fear and uncertainty course through your veins from meeting the members of Tokyo’s most terrifying gang. Concern overflows your mind upon fully reminding yourself of your work friend’s unknown fate and annoyance due to Mocchi’s initial offputting comment as well as Shion’s antagonistic behavior. All of these emotions together have you scrambling to find the words.

“Well?!” The light-haired man says, clearly showing that his patience is running thin.

“She asked me to come with her to the party, and I did. Our plan was just to let off some steam and then go home.”

“Yeah well, she almost bit off Ran’s dick.”

“Hey! She didn’t need to know that!” The elder Haitani brother yells, obviously embarrassed.

The reveal catches you off guard slightly and you feel a little bit of amusement bubbling up inside of you. Nevertheless, you continue to display a look of confusion.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Prove to us that you’re not one of them.” Shion demands.

“Be realistic. How can expect anyone to do that.” Shuji says giving him a full-on glare as if he has killing intentions.

Shion goes silent for a moment which gives Mikey enough time to take over the interrogation.

“Brahman is a rival gang and your friend is part of it. How did you not know anything about it?”

Shrugging, you reply:

“We just work together. Tonight was actually the first time we actually saw each other outside of our job.”

“So you don’t know anything about what they could be planning?”

“No.” You shake your head.

A loud groan is heard and it came straight from Shion. The light-haired man just stands up before approaching you menacingly.

“Hey, what are you--?”

Hanma stands up as well, getting ready to take Shion’s incoming attack however the black and blonde-haired man is hastily yanked back onto the couch by Mocchi. Much to his dismay, the bigger man then holds him down.

You now display a look of absolute fear in your eyes once Shion is within arms reach of you. The man did not hesitate with grabbing your arm roughly, making you squeal.

“You expect us to believe the shit that came out of your mouth, girl?”

He asks, smiling as he is clearly entertained by the fearful look on your face.

“Take it easy. We have no reason not to believe her.”

Wakasa speaks up in your defense as he starts standing up followed by the larger man who was sitting next to him.

“So you’re just gonna take her word for it?!”

“Why not? She was drugged out in Hanma’s room while her friend tried to kill Ran. That should be proof enough.” The other man replied.

You look past Shion to peer at both of the men, who are clearly the oldest members. Shion quickly forces you to look directly back at him. He does think over the words that were spoken; however, there seems to be a small spark in his eye.

“Yeah, I guess that could be the case, Benkei.”

He says. Although it appears that he is contemplating, Shion still remains to have a tight grip on your arm. The grip is so tight that it feels like he is stopping the blood from flowing. At this point, fear and irritation boil over causing you to subtly grind your teeth.

“You are actually really cute. No wonder Hanma kept you around for so long.”

“Oh God, he’s being a fuckin’ creep now.” Wakasa slyly remarks as he rolls his eyes.

“This is exactly why he doesn’t get girls.” The man named Benkei adds with a smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

You scrunch your face in slight disgust but more-so frustration. Despite that, you try breaking free from his grip but it is to no avail. Hanma can see the change in your expression, and this time, it is he who feels an unhinged aura from you. The man stops writhing under Mocchi as a result, suspecting what is about to happen next.

“Shion, let her go.”

Kakucho demands but he’s ignored. Shion just laughs, feeling you shake in his grasp as the rest of the Kanto Manji Gang executives stand up, getting ready to charge at Shion.

“He said let go of me.”

You muster out though it did not take too much longer before your body reacts to the terrifying encounter before your brain can fully process what is happening. Your free hand rises up and in no time, it makes a harsh impact on Shion's cheek causing him to stumble backward while simultaneously letting go of you. All of the guys - including Mikey - stand in complete shock by your sudden action.

As soon as you calm down slightly, you realize what you have done as Shion regains his composure. Noticing a red handprint on his cheek, you just slightly step back.

“You fuckin’ slapped me!” He shouts.

“As she should’ve. You had no reason to escalate this.” Rindou remarks.

It seems the slap also brought some sense back into Shion as the usually belligerent and loud man just stands quietly. You’re just as surprised as everyone else, and Hanma starts laughing loudly at the turn of events.

“That’s my girl! Fuck, tonight has been nothing but full of surprises!”

He cheers. His demeanor catches Mocchi off guard long enough for him to be forced off Hanma by Kakucho. Almost immediately, Hanma goes to you before gently grabbing your arm and inspecting it.

“You better hope you didn’t break it.” He says.

“Of course, I didn’t,” Shion responds, rubbing his stinging face.

“Yeah ‘cause you might get slapped again,” Benkei says with a series of chuckles.

The Haitani brothers step forward while looking at you. Mikey and Sanzu are the last two to gather around you. The former softly gazes at you and despite his dark eyes and perpetual dark aura, you can see small hints of his childish personality.

“So what’s the verdict, Mikey? Is she safe of what?” Hanma asks the much smaller male.

Everyone in the gang - including you - looks at Mikey waiting for his response. The room is silent as the blonde man just tucks his hands in his black pants before simply stating in a blank tone:

“I highly doubt she’s involved with Brahman based on what we know, so that means you can take her home. Just make sure she does not come back here. Meeting adjourned.”

After stating that, Mikey starts walking towards the stairs followed by Sanzu. Relieved, Hanma puts his arm around you.

“See? I told you that everything will be fine.”

“My friend. Where is she?” You suddenly ask, catching him off guard.

“Relax, she just needs to be questioned a little more.” Rindou answers.

You’re a bit unsatisfied with the answer, but you stop yourself from questioning further knowing that you’ve just barely put everyone’s suspicions at ease. At this point, you’ve learned that despite the Kanto Manji Gang’s awful reputation, the members are nothing how you imagined. Instead of these scary and ruthless gangsters you see on tv, you meet a bunch of guys who you chalk up to being a bunch of weirdos just like Hanma.

“I wouldn’t worry about her much. After all, she did not bother to check for you once at all. She still hasn’t asked about you.” Ran says.

“What?” You ask though you’re slightly relieved at the confirmation that she’s still alive. At the same time, you’re conflicted as you also put the pieces together in regard to your friend’s behavior tonight.

“See, Shortcake? I told you that you have terrible taste in friends.” Hanma remarks.

“And what does that say about you?” Wakasa asks while raising an eyebrow.

The tall man just chuckles again.

“I never said I was a good friend but I’m a helluva lot better than most people.”

The remaining men just listen to Shuji’s response before averting their eyes to see your reaction to it. You just present a half-smile while simultaneously feeling conflicting emotions.

“Whatever the case may be, get her home safely,” Benkei tells Hanma.

“Yes, Benkai. I know what to do.”

Shuji smiles more and then he grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers with his before escorting you to the wooden steps. You two ascend up the stairs and back into the main part of the house, leaving the rest of the executives.

“I can’t believe he let a pint-sized woman shoot him,” Wakasa adds referencing your work friend’s previous actions.

“I can’t believe he has a woman,” Mocchi adds.

The younger Haitani brother then points out Hanma’s behavior.

“He’s so fuckin’ in love with her that it kinda annoys me.”

“I should’ve fucked her instead,” Ran interjects while sighing.

“Yea, she does seem better than the usual women we have here.” Kakucho follows up though he slightly scoffs at Ran’s statement.

Lastly, Shion speaks up while rubbing his still-red cheek. The sparkle in his eyes becomes apparent as a lovesick smile adorns his face.

“She fuckin’ slapped me and I loved it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Safe to say, the KMG are a bunch of simps but at least you're safe......for now]

[So about that Reader x Draken fic I mentioned a while back. Well, it turned into a threesome with Hanma. If you still want to be on the tag list for that, let me know.]

Taglist: @510hz @reiners-milkbiddies @sleeplessreader

[lboogie1906]

The Negro Silent Protest Parade, commonly known as the Silent Parade, was a silent march of about 10,000 African Americans along Fifth Avenue starting at 57th Street in New York City on July 28, 1917. The event was organized by the NAACP, church, and community leaders to protest violence directed toward African Americans, such as recent lynchings in Waco and Memphis. The parade was precipitated by the East St. Louis riots in May and July 1917 where at least 40 African American people were killed by white mobs, in part touched off by a labor dispute where African Americans were used for strike breaking.

The brutality of the attacks by mobs of white people and the refusal by the authorities to protect innocent lives contributed to the responsive measures taken by some African Americans in St. Louis and the nation. Marcus Garvey declared in a speech that the riot was “one of the bloodiest outrages against mankind” and a “wholesale massacre of our people”, insisting that “This is no time for fine words, but a time to lift one’s voice against the savagery of a people who claim to be the dispensers of democracy.” After the riots, many African Americans felt that there was little “possibility of the US ever permitting African Americans to enjoy full citizenship, equal rights, and dignity.”

Protesters carried signs that highlighted their discontent. Some signs and banners appealed directly to President Woodrow Wilson. A mounted police escort led the parade. Women and children were next, dressed in white. They were followed by the men, dressed in black. People of all races looked on from both sides of Fifth Avenue. The New York Age estimated that “fully fifteen thousand Negroes, who should have taken an active part, looked on.” Black Boy Scouts handed out fliers describing why they were marching. During the parade, white people stopped to listen to African American people explain the reasons for the march and other white bystanders expressed support and sympathy. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Metta World Peace

Published: Oct 30, 2023

Lately, a lot of people have been asking me, “How do you feel about this situation with Israel and Gaza? I’m sure you know people on both sides.”

And I tell them, “I know Israeli Jews, and I know American Jews. And both have relatives, friends and loved ones who were raped, tortured and killed Oct. 7.”

Hamas has inflicted terror on innocent Israelis — more than 1,400 of whom were murdered in a single day of savagery not seen since ISIS’s horrific attacks in the 2010s.

Yet every day, new painful details of rape, mutilation and torture continue to emerge. 

Hamas’ terrorist attack on the Tribe of Nova music festival was heartbreaking.

It was something straight out of a movie and would have been America’s worst mass-shooting event of all time had it happened on US soil.

At least 260 young people were butchered (60 were killed in the worst such shooting in American history, at a 2016 Las Vegas festival).

Having grown up in Queens’ Queensbridge projects, I’ve lived through many traumatic events, but I’ve never seen anything like this: 80% of bodies were tortured, including electrocuted, burned alive, limbs cut off, eyes gouged out and, again and again, the targeted rape of women and girls.

Captors referred to very young girls they kidnapped as “concubines.”

Hamas took at least 222 hostages from many nations, including America, into Gaza, where evidence has already emerged of continuing sexual abuse.

As someone who has dedicated my post-NBA career to ensuring people get the mental-health support they need, I cannot fathom the mental-health crisis this terrorist attack has inflicted on Israelis.

What’s happened in Israel isn’t war; it is inhumanity.

There were mass rapes so brutal they broke their victim’s pelvises — women, grandmothers, children.

A baby was cut out of a pregnant woman and beheaded; then the mother was beheaded.

This must be unequivocally condemned. 

Let’s now talk about what’s happening on the other side of the border, where I also know people who are living in fear after Hamas decided to put its own brutal agenda ahead of the interest of the Palestinian people. Gazans too are being terrorized by Hamas’ barbaric actions.

I know Palestinians who live in fear of those same terrorists, and we must have empathy for the children in Palestine who have been hurt.

We are all human, and empathy is an essential value of the human experience. 

We must also recognize there is no moral equivalence between terrorist killers and the innocents they destroy so brutally.

Everyone must have the courage to say this when mobs of antisemites are marching through America’s college campuses and the streets of cities around the world, chanting “gas the Jews” and tearing down pictures of kidnapped Israeli children.

As an activist myself, I know firsthand there is a better path: a path toward peace and love that does not start with justifying terrorizing innocent civilians.

Pro-Hamas rallies have taken place in my hometown of New York under the guise of promoting peace.

These rallies, unfortunately, have done nothing to promote peace; instead, they justify terror against innocent civilians.

The participants displayed a concerning lack of condemnation for Hamas.

While freedom of expression is crucial, it’s essential to distinguish between advocating for peace and supporting groups that refuse to condemn atrocities against innocent civilians.

Responsible activism should unequivocally denounce all forms of terrorism.

These rallies failed to live up to this basic standard.

If you can’t condemn harming innocents amidst horrific images of Jewish babies in cages, then you need to check yourself.

If you want to help Palestinians, the best way to support them is by first supporting tangible steps toward peace by freeing Gaza from Hamas and letting the Palestinian people decide their own future without being controlled by a repressive terrorist organization.

Free Gaza from Hamas and its injustice once and for all.

Only then will we have a chance at peace.

Metta World Peace, born Ronald William Artest Jr., is a former NBA player who played for 19 seasons and won an NBA championship with the Los Angeles Lakers. He is a staunch advocate for mental health, even auctioning his championship ring to benefit mental-health charities.

--

Reminder that concubines are sex-slaves, referred to euphemistically as "those whom your right hand possess."

https://quranx.com/Hadith/Muslim/USC-MSA/Book-8/Hadith-3432/

Abu Sa'id al-Khudri (Allah her pleased with him) reported that at the Battle of Hanain Allah's Messenger (ﷺ) sent an army to Autas and encountered the enemy and fought with them. Having overcome them and taken them captives, the Companions of Allah's Messenger (may peace te upon him) seemed to refrain from having intercourse with captive women because of their husbands being polytheists. Then Allah, Most High, sent down regarding that: " And women already married, except those whom your right hands possess (iv. 24)" (i. e. they were lawful for them when their 'Idda period came to an end).

https://quranx.com/4.24

And [also prohibited to you are all] married women except those your right hands possess. [This is] the decree of Allah upon you. And lawful to you are [all others] beyond these, [provided] that you seek them [in marriage] with [gifts from] your property, desiring chastity, not unlawful sexual intercourse. So for whatever you enjoy [of marriage] from them, give them their due compensation as an obligation. And there is no blame upon you for what you mutually agree to beyond the obligation. Indeed, Allah is ever Knowing and Wise.

https://askimam.org/public/question_detail/17032

One question that still remains is whether slavery still legally prevails anywhere in the Islamic world and whether it can be successfully implemented in this age… Firstly, the prisoners have to be captured in 'Jihaad' in the true sense of the word… According to Islamic Law, captive female prisoners are also part and parcel of the booty. One fifth of the booty has to be first distributed to the needy, orphans, etc. The remaining four-fifths should then be distributed among the soldiers who participated in the war. The distribution can only take effect after the booty is brought into Islamic territory. The Ameerul-Mu'mineen (Head of the Islamic State) remains the guardian of the female prisoners until he allocates them to the soldiers. Only after a soldier has been allotted a slave girl, and made the owner of her, will she become his lawful possession. After she spends a period called 'Istibraa', which is the elapse of one menstrual period, it becomes permissible for her owner to have relations with her.

Islamically, they're fair game by the terrorists.

--

I'm not surprised by Hamas brutality. But I was surprised by the scale of their attack. Not to this degree. Wiping out entire communities, messing with nuclear power, the most powerful country in the region, a country with a trauma, great trauma from the past, with a memory of the Holocaust and all the Nazis did in the past century.

They opened the gates of hell on the Palestinian people. This is how irresponsible this group of people are. They are willing to actually sacrifice many Palestinian children, the entire Palestinian people and use them as fuel to just achieve their ideological agendas, their religious agendas. They are careless. They don't care for the human life.

We have to separate between what so-called Palestinian cause and Hamas cause. Hamas cause is a sick one. It's coming from the pit of hell. And they need to be removed from power.

This is my message. As an ex-Hamas member, as a son of one of Hamas founders, that enough of this. If we don't stop them now, the next war is going to be deadlier. And only god knows what will happen next if Hamas is not finished as soon as possible.

[windriverdelta]

POV characters for a prequel about the Dance of the Dragons

A thought experiment: Who would make good POV characters for such a story?

To begin, who does not become a POV character. Kings, first of all; the ASOIAFverse isn't about the Great Men of history. Rather, POVs are women, upjumped criminals, physically impaired people and so on. That eliminates both Viseryses and Aegons, not that the younger two would have much to contribute as POVs. On the flipside, it suggests Nettles as a POV; a street child and daughter of a sex worker is a social class that we haven't seen before and she can cover the Sowing of the Seeds and Daemon Targaryen.

Schemers like Varys and Littlefinger also don't work b/c they'd spoil the stories. Thus the Caltrops, Otto Hightower's conspiracy and the people that arranged Aegon II's assassination are out, too. Daemon and Mysaria too would be problematic in this aspect. However, we need a POV at the pre-Dance court and that suggests Lyman Beesbury akin to Eddard Stark, especially since he (as Master of Coin) can cover the economy of Westeros, important to Rhaenyra's downfall and a generally underilluminated aspect of the ASOIAFverse.

Queens however, ruling (like Daenerys) or consort (like Cersei), are fair game. Westeros is quite sexist, opening avenues for discussion of the unique challenges they face. That gives us Helaena Targaryen as the initial POV on the Greens, akin to Catelyn. Alicent is a schemer, after Helaena's death she doesn't contribute much and before she's redundant to Helaena in non-political aspects. So I wouldn't give her a POV. Heirs rather than actual rulers are also in the running, as we see from Bran brother of King Robb in ASOIAF; this gives us Daeron the Daring, Aemond Targaryen and Rhaenyra's three elder sons. I'll note about them after the following paragraph.

Rhaenyra herself is a tough case. The story of the Dance is to a large degree her story, female rulers are allowed and a Cersei-like writeup has potential. Also, I am not sure that there would be other POVs following her all the time, unless we make Joffrey Velaryon the initial POV and introduce Rhaenyra only after he dies. On the other hand, the parentage of her sons isn't meant to be blatantly obvious the way Cersei's children aren't Robert's. I tend to include Rhaenyra Targaryen as a POV, with careful writing around the parentage questions.

The seven princes that don't become kings (Rhaenyra's three elder sons, Helaena's two sons and two brothers other than Aegon) are a special case, as they are technically allowed but would tend to draw too much focus. I tend to proceed by elimination and thus make Jacaerys Velaryon a POV, as he covers the broadest ground - diplomatic mission, dragonrider, possible bastardry, the Sowing and the Gullet. Jaehaerys and Maelor are a little too young, a psycho like Aemond doesn't strike me as a good POV and spectacular battle scenes aren't the point, Joffrey and Lucerys cover less ground and have some redundancy to other POVs. Daeron is in a similar position, but he has a bit of spoiler potential at the Honeywine and operates mostly with an army unlike Jace's solo operations. So I'd cover him and the Reach Greens with a nameless but idealistic Reach soldier, who devolves over time into the savagery at display in Tumbleton - emblematic for the course of the war in general.

For the Riverlands theatre, there are a number of events and battles and not many characters that span them all. Not helping is also that for some candidates we don't know where they were for parts of the war (e.g Alysanne Blackwood, Humfrey Bracken, Raylon Rivers, Sabitha Frey). Closest is probably Benjicot Blackwood, even conceding that Martin tends to favour the Blackwoods overmuch. Alysanne Blackwood and Sabitha Frey are probably next. Going by AWOIAF - I don't have a copy of Fire and Blood at hand - it seems like the Blackwoods aren't the good guys; apparently they initiated the hostilities with the Brackens and committed religious persecution. A Blackwood POV would probably look a bit like Jaime Lannister, with religious prejudice. On the Greens' side, we need a POV for Rook's Rest, Aemond's campaign and maybe the Butcher's Ball; I sort of think to continue the tradition of Kingsguard and Hand of the King POVs and go with a "bad guy" POV, that is Criston Cole, but only introduce him after Aegon II's accession and have him cover the coup retrospectively. And his assassination at a parley, which is somewhat iffy as far as proper conduct in war goes.

That leaves two further theatres. For the Lannister operations, given their ignominious end at the Fishfeed and the way the Ironborn contribution has been neglected, I'd give the nod to Johanna Lannister. She can also cover the post-war and a discussion of women in charge who aren't the actual ruler, akin to Tyrion. For the Baratheon operations, Borros Baratheon might work for Aegon II's second rule, the Vulture King and whatever Dorne's contributions were and the events of Shipbreaker's Bay, but he's a high noble without much to distinguish him. Well, some discussion of diplomacy as seen from its targets and possibly of the (bad) pre-Dance Green might be warranted, since we don't really understand why some houses joined a side. The Four Storms might contribute to the discussion of using women as political chesspieces, and Gyldayn's framing is very sexist, but unless one of them accompanied her father I'd default to Borros Baratheon.

I am on two minds about Gaemon Palehair. On the one hand, as a child companion and servant to kings he covers another aspect of society and he'd make a good POV for the Moon of the Three Kings and Aegon III personally. On the other hand, a 4-year old child really would only work as a "camera that walks" akin to Areo Hotah. Another fence case is Daemon Targaryen; the rogue prince might have an interesting interiority, and the fights at Harrenhal might be interesting, but he's also a schemer, there are other POV characters around him (and Gyldayn in canon) and once again fight scenes really aren't the main point of the ASOIAFverse. I'd have Gaemon Palehair as POV and keep Daemon non-POV.

That leaves us with 11 POVs: Benjicot Blackwood, Borros Baratheon, Criston Cole, Gaemon Palehair, Helaena Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, Johanna Lannister, Lyman Beesbury, Nettles, Rhaenyra Targaryen and Unnamed Reach soldier.

[casterlygldcs]

who; @ambroseserrett when and what: a random starter, in which ambrose is dragged into the mess that is the court of the westerlands. there are rumours spreading that certain areas within the west continue to worship according to the starry sept, rather than the new laws dictated by the great sept of lannisport. one of the reports include a small sept and settlement located with serrett lands, brought forth by ambrose serrett.

the procession through the lion's mouth was met with the sounds of drums and trumpets, the cheering of crowds that had lined the streets all the way from the gates of lannisport, climbing higher and higher into the clouds and the skies to follow the stone path leading to the lion's den itself. the people remained in high spirits, and whilst they did not throw petals as was accustomed to other regions, they sung westerland folk songs and cheered; and as the lion king held onto the reins of his faithful steed, he found time itself began to blur. it was in momentous decisions and changes did such events occur within the court of elegant savagery; when he married the lady of silverhill, she who had become his queen of choice.

it was entirely possible he could have made a more pragmatic international match, and yet he had decided to crown the woman he knew from what felt like the beginning of the never ending story: the court of the west needed perfection, it needed stability, and where else would he find such a thing except for within a woman of the westerlands? and now, the small folk line the streets and cheered various names, as though they were not returning from a coronation but rather as though they were returning from war.

but to the small folk, who had been forced to watch the kraken arise on the horizon like a scene from the end of times, to the small folk who had lost mothers and sisters to the sea if not the krakens, this was the return from war. king jaehaerys targaryen had taken his rightful place upon the throne, and it was their king that had overseen the final chapter of the dance of dragons coming to a close. his queen was one of the fairest women in all the realm, the middle daughter of lanna lannister: it felt as though it were the beginning of some fairytale.

but fairytales were often rooted in darkness, and in disturbance. and as the men passed through the mighty entrance to the rock that was the lion's mouth, there was a large number of serrett guards who remained within the courtyard and the keep: the belly of the beast, the lion's mouth was cavernous, dark and dimly lit. there came a harsh light in the arch that saw the sunlight, and the clouds, the sunset sea; and all those who remained below them. ambrose serrett approached him at the king's hand waving a gloved hand forward, both of them remaining atop  their horses and clad in their capes. for whilst some had seen the journey as the king closing the chapter that was the dance of dragons, it seemed as though some had viewed it as an opportunity for the king to once again be in the grace of the high septon.

the bastard, son of a whore who wore a rainbow crown made of glass. easily shattered, just as tyland had overseen such violent bloodshed upon the steps of the starry sept that sent shockwaves through the realms. the master of whispers had reported of the updates during their travels, and it became abundantly clear that ambrose serrett would quickly renavigate to serrett lands to round up those who were rumoured to continue worshipping according to the faith of oldtown. mass was supposed to be done in the ancient tongue of the west, the presence of wine and bread was void since it was never the body and blood of hugor of the hill, and the notion of paying for helping souls pass over as they await their judgement. all things tyland lannister had abolished, and yet here came the rumours...from the lands of his queen, most of all.

ambrose serrett was not the ruling lord of silverhill, but the master of coin was needed within the rock for the council meeting come tomorrow - meaning it was up to the second son to gather together those who had tainted their worship with treason. within lands of his own, just when his family had reached their heights - the kin of tyland lannister's queen of choice. "lord serrett!" tyland's voice was booming and deep over the large number of servants who began to unpack from the horses, making it clear he intended to stop the man.

he remained on his horse and tyland came off it, for ambrose serrett had a job to do. a hunt to begin, and a line to bring back.to the lion's den to be charged according to the king's justice. "your sister the queen is holding great amounts of faith in your ability to see this done. as do i." tyland added, the latter half not completely true: he was not wholly aware of the mechanisms of ambrose serrett, having known his older brother more. was there space to drive a wedge between the brothers? "the hand has been made aware of your responsibility - when they are brought to us, he will have prepared the trial." how some words said so little but so much at the same time. it was clear, from the very beginning, that this was to be no fair trial. such was the reality of needing to ensure dissent and resistance would adequately removed. decreasing it would not be enough.

[pietrasgreeklitblog]

Ten Interesting Greek Novels

1. The Song of Achilles: A Novel by Madeline Miller

A tale of gods, kings, immortal fame, and the human heart, The Song of Achilles is a dazzling literary feat that brilliantly reimagines Homer’s enduring masterwork, The Iliad. An action-packed adventure, an epic love story, a marvelously conceived and executed page-turner, Miller’s monumental debut novel has already earned resounding acclaim from some of contemporary fiction’s brightest lights—and fans of Mary Renault, Bernard Cornwell, Steven Pressfield, and Colleen McCullough’s Masters of Rome series will delight in this unforgettable journey back to ancient Greece in the Age of Heroes.

“A captivating retelling of The Iliad and events leading up to it through the point of view of Patroclus: it’s a hard book to put down, and any classicist will be enthralled by her characterisation of the goddess Thetis, which carries the true savagery and chill of antiquity.” — Donna Tartt, The Times (Amazon.com)

2. Circe by Madeline Miller

In the house of Helios, god of the sun and mightiest of the Titans, a daughter is born. But Circe is a strange child--neither powerful like her father nor viciously alluring like her mother. Turning to the world of mortals for companionship, she discovers that she does possess power: the power of witchcraft, which can transform rivals into monsters and menace the gods themselves.

Threatened, Zeus banishes her to a deserted island, where she hones her occult craft, tames wild beasts, and crosses paths with many of the most famous figures in all of mythology, including the Minotaur, Daedalus and his doomed son Icarus, the murderous Medea, and, of course, wily Odysseus.

But there is danger, too, for a woman who stands alone, and Circe unwittingly draws the wrath of both men and gods, ultimately finding herself pitted against one of the most terrifying and vengeful of the Olympians. To protect what she loves most, Circe must summon all her strength and choose, once and for all, whether she belongs with the gods she is born from or with the mortals she has come to love. (Goodreads.com)

3. Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazanzakis

First published in 1946, Zorba the Greek, is, on one hand, the story of a Greek working man named Zorba, a passionate lover of life, the unnamed narrator who he accompanies to Crete to work in a lignite mine, and the men and women of the town where they settle. On the other hand it is the story of God and man, The Devil and the Saints; the struggle of men to find their souls and purpose in life and it is about love, courage and faith. Zorba has been acclaimed as one of the truly memorable creations of literature—a character created on a huge scale in the tradition of Falstaff and Sancho Panza. His years have not dimmed the gusto and amazement with which he responds to all life offers him, whether he is working in the mine, confronting mad monks in a mountain monastery, embellishing the tales of his life or making love to avoid sin. Zorba’s life is rich with all the joys and sorrows that living brings and his example awakens in the narrator an understanding of the true meaning of humanity. This is one of the greatest life-affirming novels of our time. (Amazon.com) Part of the modern literary canon, Zorba the Greek, has achieved widespread international acclaim and recognition. This new edition translated, directly from Kazantzakis’s Greek original, is a more faithful rendition of his original language, ideas, and story, and presents Zorba as the author meant him to be. (Amazon.com)

4. The House on Paradise Street by Sofia Zinovieff

In 2008 Antigone Perifanis returns to her old family home in Athens after 60 years in exile. She has come to attend the funeral of her only son, Nikitas, who was born in prison, and whom she has not seen since she left him as a baby.

At the same time, Nikitas’s English widow Maud – disturbed by her husband’s strange behaviour in the days before his death – starts to investigate his complicated past. She soon finds herself reigniting a bitter family feud, and discovers a heartbreaking story of a young mother caught up in the political tides of the Greek Civil War, forced to make a terrible decision that will blight not only her life but that of future generations... (Amazon.com)

5. The Silence of the Girls: A Novel by Pat Barker

Here is the story of the Iliad as we’ve never heard it before: in the words of Briseis, Trojan queen and captive of Achilles. Given only a few words in Homer’s epic and largely erased by history, she is nonetheless a pivotal figure in the Trojan War. In these pages she comes fully to life: wry, watchful, forging connections among her fellow female prisoners even as she is caught between Greece’s two most powerful warriors. Her story pulls back the veil on the thousands of women who lived behind the scenes of the Greek army camp—concubines, nurses, prostitutes, the women who lay out the dead—as gods and mortals spar, and as a legendary war hurtles toward its inevitable conclusion. Brilliantly written, filled with moments of terror and beauty, The Silence of the Girls gives voice to an extraordinary woman—and makes an ancient story new again. (Amazon.com)

6. Ariadne by Jennifer Saint

Ariadne, Princess of Crete, grows up greeting the dawn from her beautiful dancing floor and listening to her nursemaid’s stories of gods and heroes. But beneath her golden palace echo the ever-present hoofbeats of her brother, the Minotaur, a monster who demands blood sacrifice. When Theseus, Prince of Athens, arrives to vanquish the beast, Ariadne sees in his green eyes not a threat but an escape. Defying the gods, betraying her family and country, and risking everything for love, Ariadne helps Theseus kill the Minotaur. But will Ariadne’s decision ensure her happy ending? And what of Phaedra, the beloved younger sister she leaves behind? (Amazon.com) Hypnotic, propulsive, and utterly transporting, Jennifer Saint's Ariadne forges a new epic, one that puts the forgotten women of Greek mythology back at the heart of the story, as they strive for a better world. (Amazon.com)

7. A Thousand Ships: A Novel by Natalie Haynes

This was never the story of one woman, or two. It was the story of them all . . .

In the middle of the night, a woman wakes to find her beloved city engulfed in flames. Ten seemingly endless years of conflict between the Greeks and the Trojans are over. Troy has fallen.

From the Trojan women whose fates now lie in the hands of the Greeks, to the Amazon princess who fought Achilles on their behalf, to Penelope awaiting the return of Odysseus, to the three goddesses whose feud started it all, these are the stories of the women whose lives, loves, and rivalries were forever altered by this long and tragic war. 

A woman’s epic, powerfully imbued with new life, A Thousand Ships puts the women, girls and goddesses at the center of the Western world’s great tale ever told. (Amazon.com)

8. Elektra by Jennifer Saint

Three women, tangled in an ancient curse.

When Clytemnestra marries Agamemnon, she ignores the insidious whispers about his family line, the House of Atreus. But when, on the eve of the Trojan War, Agamemnon betrays Clytemnestra in the most unimaginable way, she must confront the curse that has long ravaged their family.

In Troy, Princess Cassandra has the gift of prophecy, but carries a curse of her own: no one will ever believe what she sees. When she is shown what will happen to her beloved city when Agamemnon and his army arrives, she is powerless to stop the tragedy from unfolding.

Elektra, Clytemnestra and Agamemnon’s youngest daughter, wants only for her beloved father to return home from war. But can she escape her family’s bloody history, or is her destiny bound by violence, too? (Amazon.com)

9. Clytemnestra: A Novel by Costanza Casati

As for queens, they are either hated or forgotten. She already knows which option suits her best…

You were born to a king, but you marry a tyrant. You stand by helplessly as he sacrifices your child to placate the gods. You watch him wage war on a foreign shore, and you comfort yourself with violent thoughts of your own. Because this was not the first offence against you. This was not the life you ever deserved. And this will not be your undoing. Slowly, you plot.

But when your husband returns in triumph, you become a woman with a choice.

Acceptance or vengeance, infamy follows both. So, you bide your time and force the gods' hands in the game of retribution. For you understood something long ago that the others never did.

If power isn't given to you, you have to take it for yourself.

A blazing novel set in the world of Ancient Greece, this is a thrilling tale of power and prophecies, of hatred, love, and of an unforgettable Queen who fiercely dealt out death to those who wronged her. (Amazon.com)

10. The Island by Victoria Hislop

On the brink of a life-changing decision, Alexis Fielding plans a trip to her mother’s childhood home in Plaka, Greece hoping to unravel Sofia’s hidden past. Given a letter to take to Sofia’s old friend, Fotini, Alexis is promised that through Fotini, she will learn more.

Arriving in Plaka, Alexis is astonished to see that it lies a stone’s throw from the tiny, deserted island of Spinalonga—Greece’s former leper colony. Fotini at last reveals the story that Sofia has buried all her life: the tale of her great-grandmother Eleni and her daughters, and a family rent by tragedy, war, and passion. Alexis discovers how intimately her family is connected with the island, and how secrecy holds them all in its powerful grip.

Atmospheric and captivating, The Island transports readers and keeps them gripped to the very last word. (Amazon.com)

[lullabyes22-blog]

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 3 - Chess

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48

CH 3: Silco and Mel Medarda negotiate a peace treaty. An unexpected condition is thrown in.

Delicate in every way but one (the swordplay) God knows we like archaic kinds of fun (the old way) Chance is the only game I play with, baby We let our battles choose us

~ “Glory & Gore” - Lorde

The meeting is at the Riverside harbor.

Ordinarily, it is the liveliest hub in the Undercity. The merchants are the second-earliest risers—that is, second to the rats. The harbor vibrates with the music of boundless industry. The clanging of crates stripping off their metal clothing to unveil their wares. The riot of seafarers swapping prices in dozens of different languages. The skillet-fried sunfish and steaming mussel-soups at the stalls; the shrill calls of the gulls circling for easy snacks.

It's a chaotic microcosm of Zaun. Hard bargains struck, a knife up every sleeve, the air bleeding with fragrance and filth.

But oh! What cornucopia.

Now the harbor is nearly deserted. The exoskeletons of burnt-out ships cast massive shadows. Here and there, stragglers ply their trade. A clutch of sumpsnipes strip metal off a bomb-scored motorcar to resell at the black-market. In the feeble glow of a street-stall, an old woman skewers live eels on stakes to sell to passersby. Clusters of young men and women crouch in fire-gutted alleys, passing bottles of local rum.

A few of them stare in shock as Silco’s armed entourage stalks past. Others call out—cheers that hold the same savagery as curses.

The revolution has stoked the fierce fire raging inside every citizen against Piltover. The atmosphere is still volatile as a powder-keg. The least friction between Zaun and Topside could ignite into a fray.

Piltover's envoy—ten men flanking one woman—stay tensely rooted.

The harbor was their appointed spot. But Silco has barely kept to the appointed time. They are in Zaun's territory now. Let them wait. Let them stew, and sweat and second-guess. Whatever gives his own network the extra leg-up to surveil the surroundings. His teams have already made two circuits of the harbor, one wide, the other narrow.

Now they meet in the middle: Zaun with its colorful coterie of cutthroats fanned out into a claw, Piltover with its darkly-uniformed soldiers in rigid marching rows. Each party keeps their hands open. A peaceable sign, or the absence of its opposite. They each watch the other, a crisscrossing connection of sharp gazes.

Chess sequences. That's how the game is always played.

A half-minute ticks by. Then Silco deals the King's Gambit. He steps forward, a measured tread of footsteps and a piercing directness of eye.

"Councilor Medarda," he says. "Apologies for the delay."

It is a perfunctory pleasantry. So is Medarda's nod, languid as if passed over the rim of a champagne flute.

"An Undercity custom, I take it?"

"Zaun, if you please."

"Zaun. Of course." Her voice, all suave vowels and sumptuous consonants, is devoid of humor. "Please accept my congratulations. New nation. New notions of timeliness."

"In the Fissures, we move at our own pace."

"Shall I synchronize my watch?"

"You esteem your time so highly?"

"Or yours." A tart smile touches her lips. "You're a busy man, of late."

Silco meets her gaze with a sedate veneer, but a crooked twist to his mouth.

The opening bell has rung. The game begins.

A strip of sunlight flashes at the smog-hazy horizon. It silhouettes Medarda in gold. In the squalor, she is splendidly incongruous. Looking mint, as Vander used to say of an attractive woman. Her gown is of clinging off-white satin, with dapples of red, like parchment under a downpour of blood. The fabric, hand-woven textile from the Undercity's mills, probably cost real blood in every stitch. Her hair is twisted up off her neck in a sheath of dark rich curls, and the tips of her bare shoulders gleam like the golden geometry embellishing her skin, everything shellacked from the charcoal scrubs and mineral clays in the Undercity's mines.

In every player's arsenal, there are a variety of weapons. Silco doesn't miss the sartorial message Madarda conveys. Wealth and style—but also Piltover's indispensable commercial ties with the Undercity. It strikes him with a bitter breed of poignancy that this woman is the end product of his peoples' toil: a pureblood feline grown sumptuously glossy on their suffering.

Whereas Silco's own wardrobe, rather than the upshot of that suffering, is its well-tailored symptom. A cutthroat secondhand couture of worsted suits lined in Kevlar, silk cravats edged with garottes, high-buttoned boots with steel-plated toes. In Zaun, stylishness does not serve as a signpost of idleness. It signals threats subdued and obstacles surmounted.

It symbolizes survival.

"How was your journey downriver?" Silco asks.

"Eventful."

"No unpleasantry, I trust?"

She tilts her chin. "Five checkpoints. Each with full body searches. Until I showed the guards your seal. Then it was like an escort to a Demacian gala."

Keep it that way, is the cautionary message.

Silco's smile twists deeper. "Well, you're certainly dressed the part. A Vyx label, I believe?"

"Just what was on hand in my cabin."

"Oh, indeed? We value the patronage."

"And we, the effort."

"It's a living." He gestures along the riverwalk, washed in the first faded waves of sunlight. "Shall we?"

They stroll shoulder-to-shoulder. Their entourages follow at a distance, each keeping a radius of space as if readied to draw their firearms. Neither Silco nor Medarda pay them much mind. They make small-talk, permafrosted politeness layered over sharp-edged wariness, each feeling the other out.

Strangely, they've seldom crossed paths beyond rare glimpses at Topside soirees. Silco despises pedigrees; she disfavors parvenus. Her reputation as a disinherited Noxian heiress with a chip on her shoulder is well-known among men-about-town. But it barely compares with her reputation among Topside's political players as the steel dagger in a velvet glove. Diplomacy is polished into her bones. She works by clouding judgement with a tweak of that Minerva's brow, and swaying emotions with a purr from that Venusian throat.

Ah, but what are honeyed tactics in the Undercity? Simply a confection to suck all sweetness out of.

"Candidly," Silco says, "I am surprised they sent you. I was expecting the Wonderboy."

Or the Yordle. Do they bob like a cork if punted into the water? Or sink to the bottom? Silco has always wanted to seize Heimerdinger by a fistful of fur and find out.

Medarda neither bobs, nor sinks. She meets his good blue eye, and extends an exquisite hand. "Disappointed?"

"On the contrary."

They shake hands. Silco's own is hard and chilly; it envelopes hers, the sharp phalanges pressing into her softer flesh like something locking its jaws. Medarda's smooth face shows no discomfort. Instead, she holds onto his hand and turns it over, eyeing it like a palmist.

"So many calluses," she says.

"A commoner's lot."

"Miner's calluses. Knife calluses. But here—" Her fingertip traces the rough joint of his middle finger. "A scholar's callus."

"Reading my future?"

"The past yields more wisdom."

"A regressionist and an oracle?"

"Merely well-informed." She detaches but stays within arm's reach, regarding him with hazel eyes that appear golden in the slow-creeping sunrise. "After the recent furor, the Council delved into your background. Their efforts yielded little. I took the initiative to do my own digging."

"Did you strike gold?"

"Not enough to write a novel. But certainly a synopsis." She measures him with a dark ascent of lashes. "Perhaps you'll be so kind as to fill in the gaps."

"I will do my utmost."

She keeps her eyes fixed on him. Her manner is all playful refinement; beneath that, it is reflexively probing. Tossing pebbles into the stillness of the blackwater; seeing what leaves a ripple. Silco knows she expects him to play the game accordingly. Mutatis mutandis, as the saying goes.

She doesn't realize such games are topsy-turvy in Zaun.

"You're a self-made man," Medarda says. "Undercity born and bred. You've made a fortune in the steel industry, with an extensive operation of integrated mills. Some say you have a virtual monopoly in contracts to supply Ionia with warship metal."

"Piltover cold-shoulders Zaunite businessmen. I must meet the rising demand elsewhere."

"The breadth of your assets is impressive. But your origins are modest. You were the youngest of three sons, from a hardscrabble fishing district north of the Bonscutt Pump Station."

"Somewhere between nowhere and Das ist mir egal."

She stares at him. "You speak Va-Nox?"

"My mother was Ionian. From the Sotka River in Zhyun. The Void Wars left their language a bastardization of colonizer and colonized."

"Indeed. Family records state that she fled her war-torn island with nothing but the clothes on her back. She settled in the Sumps, where she met your father, a riverman by trade. He patrolled up and down the watercourse circling the Old Hungry. On clear nights, it was his duty to haul out wreckage that had fallen into the river."

"By wreckage, you mean bodies."

She blinks, but doesn't balk.

"One thousand. That is the number of bodies Daddy dragged out of the river before his death. Suicides, drunks, children. Each one doomed as soon as they quaffed the toxic run-off from Piltover's factories." Silco's smile shows no nastiness. Yet the lulling calm of his tone is edged with something sinister. "I was three when I first saw the river's capacity for ruination. Thirty-three when I experienced it firsthand. It discombobulates human beings into shapes that defy description." He sketches a little nod, deference with overtones of derision. "But please go on."

Medarda levels an unflinching look. "You were six when your father drowned in the harbor. There were rumors that he was murdered."

"Shipping magnates don't care for backtalking unionists."

"Your older brothers passed soon after. A blaze tore through your neighborhood. Entire tenements gone up in smoke. In total, nearly eighty families perished. You and your mother escaped unscathed. A year later, the Coroner's inquest unyielded evidence of poor insulation and mass overcrowding in the district."

"Parsimonious slumlords and public safety? Poor bedfellows."

Tactfully, Medarda says, "I'm told your mother suffered a … collapse… soon after."

"Collapse?" Silco repeats with a flat scoff. "Mother went bat-raftered barmy. The Asylum of the Irreparable took her away. She stayed an inmate for the next fifteen years." He shrugs. "I'd visit her on holidays. Wished she'd die, truth be told. I think we'd both have liked that. But bodies can be stubborn."

For a moment, Medarda's expression shows the sweet bareness of shock. She recovers with swiftness.

"By seven, with no living guardians, you were sent to the Hope House Orphanage. By twelve, you volunteered to serve in the mines. By sixteen, you'd cut your teeth on smuggling and racketeering. That same year, you were arrested for stabbing a Patrolman to death. Owing to a self-defense plea, you were released into the care of the Hölle Correctional Facility for juveniles. There, you enrolled in several educational programs—and excelled. By age nineteen, the Warden himself penned a letter of recommendation on your behalf.”

Silco tilts his head in remembrance. “Warden Lascelles. A good man.”

“You have fond memories of him?”

“Fond isn’t the right word. He was, de facto, my jailor. But he understood the impact fatherlessness and a lack of support has on Undercity youths. He preached a firm voice for morale, and a soft hand for discipline."

“His style seems to have agreed with you. Your transcripts from Hölle are exemplary. You even wrote a series of short stories and essays, that captured the mood of the Undercity. One, titled A Death in the Pilt, attracted notice from Piltover's Ministry of Education. That year, the Academy of Piltover accepted you into its school of commerce to meet the Fissures quota."

"Admitted, yes. Accepted? Never."

Her curlicued eyebrows arch. "You found Piltover's hospitality lacking?"

"Topside lets you sit at the table," Silco says mildly. "It never lets you eat."

"Trouble filling your belly?"

"Or my wallet. A bright mind is no currency in the City of Progress. What buys true respect are connections. I began at the very bottom, the lowest of the low. That made me nothing, in the eyes of patrons. To get anywhere in Piltover, you must be next-to-nothing. But that is the privilege of those ensconced in Topside's embrace. The rest of us fall through the cracks."

Medarda's lips pucker slyly. "You sketched a similar narrative in your speeches."

"My speeches?"

"Before the Day of Ash. You rose to prominence as an outspoken advocate for Zaun and Piltover's separation. The spokesperson for the youth wing of The Liberated Lanes, with a treatise published by clandestine press, titled Pay the Lessons Forward. I took the liberty of skimming through its pages.” She quotes, “’In the call for resistance, there is no profound difference between a layman and a soldier.’”

Silco nods gravely. "A frank assessment of our situation."

“It would seem so. Your words struck a nerve—or tapped into a vein—for many Undercity dwellers. Street-corner vigils. Sit-ins. Protest marches. Your presence was invariably linked to each. The then-editor for the Sun & Tower Newspaper attended your rallies. He called you, and I quote 'A dangerous ideologue whipping the underclasses into a frenzy with illusions of victimhood.'"

"The article did say something to that effect." Silco blandly feigns nostalgia. "My small claim to fame."

"Or infamy. On the night known as Bloody Sunday, tensions boiled over. Enforcers were anonymously tipped off about smuggled artillery in the Temple of Janna. They raided the building with flashbombs. In the explosion, fifty-five worshipers—including thirty-two women, twelve children—were killed. Rumor has it one woman was paralyzed below the waist by a bullet. Instead of calling for an ambulance, the Enforcers beat her to death."

"After taking worse liberties."

"How do you know that?"

"I entombed her ashes afterward."

Medarda stares in finely-diluted disbelief. "You knew her?"

"Somewhat." Silco's good eye is unnervingly blank, reflecting nothing. "As per common law, at any rate."

On Medarda's expression, the barest twitch of alarm. But her gold-dark eyes stay guarded.

"No artillery was found at the Temple," she says. "The Enforcers were never indicted for the attack. For the Undercity, it was the last straw. Five months later, the Day of Ash began. A mob gathered at Bridgeside. You were in top form. Your speech was exceptionally fiery. A call to arms. Payback for desecration—then, now and always. It whipped the crowd into a frenzy. Once Enforcers arrived, the scene erupted into a bloodbath. Afterward, there were barely any Undercity dwellers left. The few who survived were arrested and summarily sentenced. You were among them."

Silco nods minimally. "Three years in Stillwater."

Three years. Enough to pare a scholar into a scourge, or grind a warrior into a worm.

That's what the three years—marked by failure and fatherhood—did to Vander. In Silco's absence, the righteous rage had drained out of him. In its wake was a soppiness that reeked of self-hatred. And for what? The deaths of friends and families? The loss of old loves? As if succumbing to the status quo would honor their sacrifice.

To Silco, it was the cowardliest rationalization. Far better to honor the fallen by carrying the torch of revolution in their name. Turn Piltover into their funeral pyre. That's what a revolution was at its core. Not blood or brick or mortar. It was an act of love. A natural cataclysm, with the capacity to sack cities and birth civilizations in the same breath.

Medarda swallows, a subtle movement of her satiny neck. "After that?"

"Hm?"

"After the sentencing. What then?"

Silco leans an elbow alongside the dock's walkway. His other hand trails lazy-fingered over the railing; pockmarked in rust. He rubs his fingertips together, then dips them into his coat to withdraw his silver cigar case. In the background, Piltover's bodyguards snap into alertness.

Silco stops halfway. A smile tugs the split scar on his upper-lip.

"You don't mind, do you?"

Medarda proffers the faintest frown. "I beg your pardon?"

"If I smoke? A wicked habit, but one I cannot forgo at this hour." He dips his head to light up, his pomaded hair picking up the diffused sunrays in a blood-red patina. Smoke curls from his parted lips; Medarda coughs delicately. "Oh dear. Allergies?"

She disguises her distaste with a twitch of her nose. "A potent tobacco."

"Zaun's own brand. Brightleaf."

"It lingers."

"Hmmm. Like bloodstains on a good suit."

"Have you much trouble with the latter?"

"I'd lead a blessed life indeed, if that qualified as trouble." Silco tips his head back, expelling a sharper stream of smoke. "Now where were we?"

"After the Day of Ash." Medarda slinks closer. Her fingertips trail along the railing until her hand nearly meets his own. "You were sent to Stillwater. What happened?"

"I served my penance. The guards at your prison are miracle workers. Truly. They change a man to his marrow." He removes the cigar, contemplating it with an idle roll of his knuckles. "When the rotting slop cores a hole through your gut, they slug it out of you in a river of puke. When the darkness closes in after lights-out, they keep you company in your cell. When the winter nibbles chilblains into your feet, they strip you naked and drag you outside to remember that life could be much, much chillier."

Medarda doesn't flinch. But her hand slips nervelessly off the railing.

"Afterward," Silco says. "I returned a reformed man. I wiped my hands clean. I put my nose to the grindstone. I pulled myself up by the bootstraps. All the things Fissurefolk do, to drag themselves from their natural state of undeservingness. So they may one day—a fortunate day!—look good, upstanding citizens like yourself in the eye."

She stares at him, disturbed or dubious, it is hard to tell. "Simple as that?"

"Simpler."

He tenders the cigar toward her. A pantomime of politeness—Care to try? She shakes her head.

"There remains a shadowy chapter in your life," she says. "I've heard only rumors."

"Oh?"

"Perhaps you'll confirm or deny them. Give me the proper… elucidation … to understand you as a man."

Silco's shrug is a shameless lure. "Whatever helps us see eye to eye."

Predictably, she pounces. "What about your eye?"

"Mine?"

She challenges him with a bold once-over across the dark disfigurement of his face, hidden beneath ashen layers of make-up. "You had a brother-in-arms. The cocky fist to your crafty tongue. You preached revolution from the pulpit. He pummeled revolution into the streets. Old mugshots and police reports mention your boyhood of shared misdeeds. They called him The Hound."

"Man's best friend."

"After your release, you had a falling out."

"All bark, no bite."

Medarda sidles closer. The heat of her body radiates through her gold-speckled gown. Silco takes in the spray of subtler gold on her cheekbones. She smells headily of hot-house hyacinths.

"They say," she whispers, "that he gouged out your eye. And you, his heart."

"Sick dogs deserve mercy."

"They say he left behind an orphan. A troubled girl."

"The Lanes are full of them."

"She was special." Her voice descends into a hush of intimacy. "You took her in. Kept her close amidst a campaign of terror."

"Raise a boy, raise terror at every turn. Raise a girl, and terror becomes you."

"You trained her for years. Not just to fight, but to do what you do."

"I taught her to survive. To never back down. To always win."

"And to unleash chaos on Piltover."

"Chaos is never unleashed," Silco says, their eyes locked from inches apart. "It surfaces wherever injustice takes root."

"And does she share your dream?"

"As she's shared far worse."

Silco's cigar glows red; a wisp of smoke curls from the side of his unscarred mouth. He thinks of Jinx, that night. The pale cleverness of her hands across Fishbones. The eye-searing blueness of her flying braids. The glow of Piltover's wreckage touching the curve of her tearstained cheek.

(We showed them, didn't we, Jinx?)

Victory cost dreams. Dreams cost blood. Blood cost love.

But what did the love of a father for his daughter cost?

He senses Medarda's deep-set scrutiny. The sun expands hazily behind the harbor's jagged escarpment. He glances off, smoke twirling from his untasted cigar. One careless hand meanders along the other's sleeve, smoothing the cuff so the barest half-inch of embroidered fabric shows. It seems like a self-soothing tic disguised as vanity.

Except it is just theater. Offering Medarda the illusion of power—then snatching it away.

In an eyeblink, he swivels.

"Shall we end on a cheerful note, or a bloody one?" he says.

"I—what?"

"Not to cut the reminiscence short, my dear. But the breadth of my life bores even me. The worst way to charm a man is to remind him how heavy his years weigh. And the best rule of a negotiation is to know when to stop belaboring."

He glides closer, Medarda sways back, and he glides closer still. Then—oh my!—she is snatching at the hem of her fabulously unfeasible gown to steer away from a puddle of dead seagull rotting on the cobblestones. Her dainty shoes skid. She barely keeps her balance. Her fingers flutter in the air, the fleeting impulse for a handhold.

Silco's cold fingers fold through hers. The grip is cocksure as a frigging in a Sumpside street-corner. She startles, he steadies her. They disengage with a mutual swiftness: affront on her part, amusement on his.

"Watch your step," he says. "Rough roads in Zaun."

Medarda squares her elegant shoulders. Her poise isn't gone. But it is off-center. Silco knows why. He is not acting according to her private script; he is not adhering to the rules of engagement.

Worse, he is no longer languishing. He is looming.

Bright fingers of sunlight poke through the smog to trace the harbor: all bullet-pocked scaffoldings and scorched ship hulls. In the intensifying glow, the ravages of war are irrefutable. Medarda's eyes pass over them, and Silco's scarred visage. A vein rises and falls in her throat. It seems to dawn on her that she's not drifted downstairs on silk slippers from her warm boudoir to her basement. She's entered a different society, with different rules.

A blind spot in the shadow of civilization.

Silco takes in her discomfort with relish. Dilettantes and despots—they both seek novelty for its own sake, a temporary rescue from their privileged bubble of boredom, which is the profoundest (the only) horror they must endure. They descend en masse to disaster zones. They gawp through prison bars at inmates on death-row like monkeys at the zoo. They size up the madmen in the padded cells of asylums like ghouls at a party séance. The reduce the victims' suffering to comedy and censure, cabaret and consumption.

Then they move on, while their leftovers are left to rot.

Medarda—prodigy of Piltover—is no different. She deigns her presence as a fragrant cloud of charity, with Zaun no better than dung under her shoe. She thinks to reopen the wounds of Silco's sad history, then wield her own attentions as a benevolent balm. His selfhood is an oyster she wants to crack open, to slurp up what's inside, leaving him an emptied husk that does her bidding.

Such sweet delusion.

Whatever she finds inside of Silco is enough to consume her entirely.

"I give you full credit," Silco says. "You blended record with hearsay most cleverly. The rest? She filled in for you."

"I'm not sure what—"

"Her. The girl staying with the Kirramans. Lapping up Piltover's kindness, in exchange for dirt on the Lanes." He flicks his cigar over the railing. "Well, every guttersnipe deserves a day in the sun. Just as Piltover deserves its nose rubbed in the dirt."

"I hardly think—"

"Ah, ah. No belaboring." He gives her a slithering stare-down. "Now listen closely, my dear. I enjoy your wit and your dimples. But I don't have time to play with you. What do you have in mind with this parley? Beyond purveying children's games?"

"I am purveying peace."

"Not payback?"

"One needn't describe it in such terms."

"A little of each, hm?"

"Or something longer-lasting." Keeping a smile in place, she closes the space between them. "Our nations needn't be at an impasse. We can help each other."

"I'm not sure I follow you," Silco says, though of course they both know better.

"It's quite simple. The girl under your charge stole something from us. Used it to tear down our city. We could demand her as tribute. One terrorist as recompense for months of mutual terror. But last time—" Her eyes shade a fraction. "—you esteemed the bargain too little."

"Talis demanded too much."

Too much for a deal struck too late. Jinx is born to blaze through Zaun's history as a miracle, not a martyr. Weighed on the cosmic scales, her crimes are barely a fraction to Piltover's crimes against Zaun. Their inhumanity, their indifference. Never a finger lifted; never a moment's mercy. In taking Jinx, did they expect Silco to show mercy in turn?

(I won’t lose my child again.)

The strangling blackness returns to his chest. Pressure thick as drowning.

Quietly, Medarda says, "I think I understand."

"Oh?"

Something drains from her eyes: a gloss melting into gentleness. "A child's life, for any crime, is no even trade."

"You demanded it, all the same."

"It was a bargaining counter. But those, I find, are best suited to tangibles."

"So what is the new tangible in question?"

"The Hex gem. We would see it returned. In exchange—" her small hand rests on his forearm, "— Piltover will support Zaun."

"Once, you buried us under hostility. Now, you'd bind us through humility?"

"On the contrary. We will recognize Zaun as a new nation. We will help to rebuild it into an equal. You're at a vulnerable juncture. We can ease the transition through aid and access to our Gates. Establish a mutual prosperity between our citizens. A paradise—each in our own image."

Her gaze holds a magnetic glow of goodwill. Meanwhile, Silco feels the bullet click into place within the inner-chamber of his own skull. He gives her the first truly genuine smile that has stretched across his features in nearly three months. It isn't a pleasant smile.

"Your family," he says. "They hail from Noxus. Correct?"

Medarda nods, then blinks down at her hand on his arm. Through her fingertips she can feel it: the low-down vibrations of something monstrous uncoiling inside.

"What's it like?" Silco wonders softly. "Banishment for having a spine of watered silk instead of steel? Perhaps if you'd profited from your family's lessons, you'd have kept an eye to the horizon—instead of your coffer. Then again, Piltover has blinded itself with hubris for years. We are simply its rude awakening."

Medarda darkens and draws away, her eyes flashing.

Much better, Silco thinks.

He is too old—too damned rabid—to be led by his cock like a cunt-struck mongrel. He'd known from the beginning that she would choreograph the meeting on her terms, then offer a backhanded peace-deal like a benevolent mistress doling out scraps, while letting Zaun believe it was a banquet.

Zaun is done being Piltover's mongrel.

"It isn't cowardice," says Medarda, "to prevent more killing."

"My, aren't you the pristine pot to my tar-black kettle."

"What do you mean?"

"You had the temerity to regurgitate my life like a storybook. Yet you never noticed?" His accent carves itself into a cultured contempt that mimics hers to the letter. "My life is any Zaunite's life. My driver's, my lieutenant's, or my bootblack's. Piltover doesn't look us in the eye when it kills us. But it kills regardless—with dirty water, toxic air, gridlocked housing, rigged ballots, and Enforcer's bullets. Now you dare to offer us decolonization through political dependency?"

"Aren't you guilty of the same?" Medarda's gaze, which was golden gentleness a moment ago, is now a tigress' glower. "The Shimmer you've crippled the Undercity with. The terror you wield to keep them in line. The crimes that corrupt the very core of your shining vision."

"Two wrongs don't make a right, eh?"

"Nor good a pretext to do evil."

Silco smile becomes a mouthful of shark's teeth around a throatful of blood. "Ah, but what is evil? A game of semantics. Kick a man to death and you're a murderer. Enslave an entire nation and you're a conqueror." His good eyelid shades to a death-pall. "Surely, your mother taught you that lesson? I've met her a time or two; proselytizing for peace isn't her style."

Medarda's eyes flash brilliantly.

Silco enjoys the effect. Poised, she is attractive as an architectural edifice. You take a roving eyeful and move on with your life. Angry, she is erotically charged, and vulnerable as an exposed vein.

He can imagine how many men have dreamed of stripping away that lustrous façade to sink their teeth into the hot throb of tenderness beneath. He wonders how many more have imagined her as he can: on her elegant knees, her throat baring itself and her lips wet and distended to take what he drives inside.

"Pity," he murmurs. "It seems her lessons didn't stick. Personally, I'd pack you off to the trenches until you learned, and never forgot. You cannot create a perfect society with your eyes wide shut—while shit soils your feet. You want Paradise? Such things aren't built on lofty ideals. They are made in naked ambition, and war, and blood."

"Until there is nothing left."

She doesn't raise her voice. But the ferocity of her tone rips the words into a snarl.

Silco's polite smile becomes a lopsided rictus. Go on.

Medarda drags in a slow breath. Her anger, no longer held at a dignified distance, now suffuses her entire body like a sunlit aureole.

"I am trying," she says. "To protect both our interests." Her hands make supple curving motions in the air, describing a set of scales—or a pair of wedding rings. "We were once a unified nation. A marriage of equals. Now every moment Zaun stays separate from Piltover is moment of peril."

"Marriage? Do they beat and rape their spouses in Topside?"

She doesn't balk at the depthless hatred in his voice. Her expression is grave.

"Today, you celebrate independence from Piltover," she says. "Tomorrow is another story. A nation forged in war remains at war. The Undercity's loss will briefly unbalance Piltover. But we have the Hex Gates. The resources and international goodwill. We will recover. Zaun will not."

"Rather sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"I know that in destroying the Bridge, you have dealt yourselves the cruelest blow. The Council is already on the warpath for reparations. They will enforce sanctions. They will pressure our neighbors into doing the same. All of these are serious barriers to Zaun's growth. Remember—a newborn is most vulnerable in its first months of life."

"Now we've been demoted from battered spouse to newborn?"

She shakes her head, subtly seething. "Jeer your fill. But you are burying yourself in a hole."

"A hole has two ends."

"Isolation or Hell? Then the Fissures are doomed."

"Are they?" He tilts his head. "You destroyed our trucks, but not our depots. You burned our ships, but not our harbor. You stole our wealth, but not our mines. You've certainly not killed our potential. A population of multitalented, highly skilled and ruthless workers. Unlike Piltover, we eat, sleep and bleed innovation. You gave us no other choice. In time, we have the capacity to become a free trade zone."

Medarda's lip curls downward. "Perhaps so. But in the interim? You'll need more than schemes and Shimmer. More than your chem-barons' checkbooks. A nation needs roads, rails, flyovers, highways. It needs schools and hospitals. It needs a lynchpin of humanity. Not this den of wolves you seek to create."

"Wolves are loyal. I can't say the same for foxes."

Something in Medarda's face occludes. It is brief, but not beyond Silco's threshold of perception. On himself, such displays are farcical diversions. On her, he senses something different. The perfect mask of diplomacy dislodged by a moment's doubt.

Slowly, she says, "I'm asking you to reconsider."

"Fall in line, rather."

She shakes her head. Her mask is back in place, but so neutral that she seems to be effortfully clutching it.

Silco says, "You're taking a lot of risks, my dear. Some might argue that, with the blow we've dealt Piltover, things are irreparable between us. You should cut your losses. Cut us loose. Yet you refuse."

She smiles, but it doesn't sit right on her face. "We are the City of Progress and of Principle."

"Is that right? Or—"

"What?"

"Are you trying to prove something?" His tongue flirts absently around his mouth; a rake of incisors and chipped teeth. "Trying to earn someone's respect? Show them that diplomacy is the best recourse. The fox can outwit the worst of the wolves."

"What would you know of that?"

Her words are modulated but also fiercely wound. Her fingers trace the gold ring on her left hand—the Medarda crest. Silco takes it in, and knows he is on to something.

"I think I understand," he says. "If Piltover chose, they could defeat Zaun without bloodying their hands. Get Noxus involved, perhaps? They've a mighty army. They'd thrash us soundly. But what then? Piltover would be in Noxus' debt. In time, the City of Progress would be the City of Paupers—its funds drained and its potential decimated. Just like any Noxian colony. And should Demacia enter the picture? Well." He spreads his arms. "You'd start another Void War. All because we dared to shove your boot off our necks."

"It needn't go exactly as you describe."

"It needn't. But is the risk worth it?" His voice drops conspiratorially. "I'm told you've a taste for risk. But not for war. You're one of those decaffeinated Noxians. Conquest-free, low on bloodshed, with civilized traces of mercantilism. But scratch deeper beneath the surface, and your neurosis is based in guilt. You believe in taking responsibility. In showing mercy."

Caught between self-revelation and self-protection, Medarda scowls. His words have struck a nerve.

"In that case," Silco says, "I have a proposition."

"What?"

"Zaun will not return the Hex gem. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Under Piltover, we've already possessed so little. However—" He crooks a sharp-knuckled finger. "We will offer reparations. Safe passage to refugees; secure zones for diplomats. Mercy, in exchange for access to the Hex Gates."

Medarda tosses her bejeweled head in defiance. "Ludicrous! The Council will never accept."

"Would they prefer more bloodshed?"

"Now you threaten us?" She lets off a sweetly gilded laugh. "Zaun hasn't the manpower to lay siege to Piltover. Nor the weapons to sustain it. We would outlast you in a month's time."

"Or perhaps we'd ambush you from the inside." Silco bares his crooked teeth. "Remember, we are a den of wolves. You've starved us and suffocated us. But you've taught us to survive, in spite of yourselves. Piltover has a reputation to uphold as a beacon of fairness. Fairness doesn't factor into Zaun's vocabulary."

A hot silence grips the air. Silence like a strangulation.

Medarda struggles against its pull. "You are bluffing."

"Then call it."

"You'd sacrifice your people for pride?"

"You'd sacrifice yours for mercy?"

"War is never mercy! Curbing bloodshed is!"

"Well then."

Silco takes a step closer. Before she can recoil, he snatches her dark hands and brings them up to frame his pale neck. Lets her feel the beat of his pulse in the veins. Her wrists are satiny-hot in the callused cold of his grip. He feels the rapid thrum of her heartbeat in his fingertips.

Their eyes lock. The expression that skims Medarda's face is fleeting. But Silco sees something there. Shock, disgust. And fear that veers into a speechless subspecies of fascination. Like a nymph looking into the mouth of a deepsea monster, its jaws laid open, teeth glinting in the aquatic twilight. Her hands roving deeper inside.

"Show mercy," Silco whispers. "Curb the bloodshed."

Medarda sucks in a shaky breath. Her pupils are dilated around golden threads of iris. Their gazes stay fused in a frozen loop, two animals sizing each other up. But when Silco's good eye drops to Medarda's mouth, half-parted and inches from his, her paralysis breaks and she jerks away on a strange noise, equal parts choke and snarl.

"You—" she says.

"I, what?"

She suppresses the adrenalized tremor racing through her body. "You are intractable."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment." Her voice smooths over at the last word; a forcible repossession of self-control. "Eliminating you will not solve the crisis."

"Then what will?"

Medarda searches for something inside of herself, then shakes her head. Regret, refutation. Her eyes drop a few degrees to stare down at the graceful clasp of her own hands. The Noxian ring glimmers in the gloomy daylight.

"I make no guarantee," she says.

"Hmmm?"

She draws in a breath, then releases it steadily. "I make no guarantee that the Council will accept your proposal."

"Let them consider it."

"Letting them agree to our parley was a feat in itself."

A surreptitious smile edges Silco's lips. Hmm. A two-pronged goring in a lambskin sheath: appeal to his logic by reminding him of Zaun's precariousness; appeal to his emotion by claiming that she is in his corner and has already worked wonders on his behalf.

Well, she's good. He'll grant her that much.

"What do you suggest, then?" he asks.

She lifts her chin; a gentle summons. "A treaty."

"Entailing?"

"Peace."

"My dear." He starts to smile, then cuts it off with a warning stare. "Learn to be more explicit."

"Zaun's terms and Piltover's, merged into one. Zaun will keep the Hex gem. But we must have its surety that it will never be weaponized against us. Zaun will have access to the Hex Gates. But Piltover will have its just desserts through reparations. We will grant Zaunites amnesty for war crimes. In exchange, Zaun must host Piltovan journalists safety within its borders."

"You mean tattlers and spies."

"The price of freedom, First Chancellor."

"Or its worst impediment."

A corner of Medarda's lips curves. "Except Thyself may be/Thine Enemy—"

"Captivity is Consciousness," Silco says, deadpan. "So's Liberty."

Silence creeps like the coronal threads of sunlight through smog. Medarda blinks, then catches hold of herself.

"I confess, Chancellor, I had you somewhat typecast."

"Oh?"

"I didn't consider poetry to be your speed."

"A bit of poetry never hurts the shank end of a revolution."

"Then we are in accord?"

"I leave our future—" he says, mock-graciously, "—in your soft hands."

One of Medarda's brows spasms. Then she glances off, but not before Silco glimpses a private frown. As if she's taken his full measure, as surely as he's taken hers. She meets his eye again, and her face smooths itself, once more a study of serene sophistication.

"Thank you for attending the parley," she says. "First Chancellor of Zaun."

"A privilege, Councilor Medarda."

They shake hands. Their arms slide into synch, fingers interlocking. Two players after a satisfactory chess match.

Except, like before, Medarda holds onto his hand, and turns it over in both her own. Her smile holds no edge. Her eyes glow warmly: sunshine and honey.

"I'd like to make a small request."

"By all means."

"It will prove pivotal in convincing the Council of your good intentions." Her hands are a coaxing squeeze around his own. "It involves a citizen of Zaun."

"Anyone I know?"

"A mutual acquaintance, in fact."

A chill of premonition rises. Silco smiles, thinly, "Whom might it be?"

"The girl at the Kirraman's home. Violet."

Silco's expression snaps shut with a renewed charge of hostility. Suddenly he is all venom, as if his body is a siphon for the blackened ichor trapped within Zaun's core.

"What of her?" he hisses.

Medarda drops his hand as if singed. But her eyes stay glued to his, because the waters are chummed and the net is unfurled, and there he is: caught.

"She is a former citizen of Zaun," she says. "She asks to visit the Fissures."

"To see the corpses?"

"To see her sister."

"She has no sister."

"She does." Demurely, "Shall I be more explicit? Your daughter. Jinx."

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

‘Hardened, Reckless Youths’: Constructing Criminals

The Free Press stated:

On Sunday many score of people visited Emily and Lisgar Streets, viewing Mrs Cooper’s house and locating the spot where the poor old man fell by the wayside, killed with stones thrown by hardened, reckless youths, whose moral sensibilities were dull through lack of home training and discipline, and who little thought of results. All the four parties now under arrest on the charge of complicity in the crime admit to have been drinking some during the evening but none of them were drunk – in their own opinion. It would be far better for them even though they could have had such a poor excuse as being drunk to offer for their lawless and murderous conduct’ (FP, 16 August).

Notions of criminality expounded ... by the press draw upon notions such as the fundamental animality and savagery of those who perpetrate crime, and the concept that criminals can be identified on the basis of their physical characteristics (see, e.g., Chevalier 1973, 409–33). Reportage on the four accused exemplifies how the newspaper used contemporary concepts of criminality as a descriptive frame. The Daily Citizen reported, ‘Christopher Berry lives in that part of the By estate known as Bully’s Acre, (so christened from the number of roughs who for years past have congregated there and committed all kinds of depredations)’ (15 August). Berry admitted to being at the charivari, and to having ‘had a glass on board,’ but claimed that he and Bob McLaren had been bystanders:

When O’Brien and Kelly were beating the old man with stones we went away and called them away also, and told them to let him alone … Kelly came up to us and said “by God, we have killed him,” and immediately O’Brien came up and says, “the old man was as dead as a nail,” at the same time laughing’ (ibid.).

Conversely, Kelly laid the blame on McLaren:

McLaren, who had stones in his possession, immediately began to treat the old man with them. We heard him moan and saw him fall down, and we knew he was dead. McLaren may tell what he likes, but that is God’s truth’ (ibid.).

When O’Brien was arrested, he was reported as saying, ‘“You may lecture me if you like, but it is not a neck-snapping affair”’ (ibid.). The Daily Citizen noted, ‘He is a hardened young character, and has only been out of jail a few days’ (ibid.). The arresting constable, Edward John O’Neill, testified that O’Brien had told him, ‘“McLaren and Berry are the lads that done it and now they want to put it on us.”’ Ruggles Bonell testified that he had seen Berry and McLaren at the charivari. He didn’t know the names of the other two men also present when he had left, but those at the Police Court were the ones he had seen at the charivari. He had attended both the first charivari, with the ‘little boys and men amongst them,’ and the second.

...

The papers note that Berry’s and Kelly’s mothers are widowed, and O’Brien’s mother is separated. The descriptions, however, point the direction of guilt as the papers see it. McLaren is good looking, comes from a good family, and speaks openly; therefore he cannot be guilty of murder. Berry, although ‘the authorities say he is a bad one,’ weeps, has never before been under arrest, and is willing to talk; therefore, although possibly implicated in the events, he is unlikely to be one of the murderers. Both Kelly and O’Brien, on the other hand, are constructed in the mode of guilt (both are Catholic, Berry is Church of England). Kelly is ‘passionate and revengeful’ and rough. O’Brien, however, again only on appearance, is constructed as the most guilty. Though from ‘honest people,’ he is cool, bloodthirsty, and goes out of his way to blame others (a kind of reverse evidence that he is himself guilty).

Character, appearance, family background, and employment were just some of the aspects used in the newspapers to direct their readers toward presumptions of guilt or innocence of the four accused. Their influence and success in this process is suggested by the fact that lawyers for the four men alluded to the press accounts in their addresses to the jury on behalf of their clients. Perhaps because it underlined their own influence, these interventions, too, were reported in the papers.

- Pauline Greenhill, Make the Night Hideous: Four English-Canadian Charivaris, 1881–1940. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010. p. 59-60, 64-65.

[traveltoobulgaria]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[holidaysinn]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[travelcamp]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[xholidays]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[bookforgroup]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[traveltobalkan]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.

[alltours]

The Brutal Aftermath Pillage and Massacre

Chaos and Carnage Unleashed

As night fell and the following morning arrived, troops and Bashi-Bazouks descended upon the town, initiating a rampage of pillage, violence, and slaughter reminiscent of the infamous events at Batak. No one, regardless of age or gender, was spared from the brutality unleashed upon the town. Homes were looted and set ablaze, with approximately one-fourth of the houses reduced to ashes. The streets became a battleground where people met their demise, whether on their own doorsteps or before their hearthstones. The cries of the elderly begging for mercy mingled with the screams of terrified children and infants, all falling victim to the merciless swing of the sabre. It is estimated that around 3,000 individuals lost their lives in this onslaught, including approximately 400 town residents and the remainder from neighboring villages seeking refuge Bulgaria Tours.

Attempts to Conceal the Atrocities

Unlike the scenes of horror witnessed in Batak, Hafiz Pacha acted swiftly to bury the bodies within three days, seeking to obscure the evidence of his heinous deeds. This calculated move aimed to erase traces of the massacre and evade accountability.

Responsibility of the Authorities

Despite attempts to attribute the atrocities solely to the Bashi-Bazouks, evidence suggests complicity of the authorities in the massacres. Whether perpetrated by regular troops or irregular forces, the cruelty displayed was equally appalling. Mr. Schuyler’s report will affirm that both regular and irregular troops were equally culpable, underscoring the guilt shared by Hafiz Pacha and his counterparts. The root of this savagery lies in the shared identity of the perpetrators as Turks, with distinctions between regular and irregular troops being insignificant in the face of their barbarism. These massacres were sanctioned by the authorities, evident in the subsequent rewards bestowed upon those responsible in the form of decorations and promotions.

The aftermath of the pillage and massacre depicted a harrowing scene of devastation and loss, with innocent civilians bearing the brunt of unchecked violence. The attempts to conceal the atrocities and deflect blame underscore the systemic nature of the brutality, implicating the highest echelons of authority. Such atrocities serve as a sobering reminder of the human cost of unchecked power and the urgent need for accountability and justice.