#A rebellions casualties

[bunabi]

I'm glad they left the casualty toll up for player interpretation because for better or worse at least it keeps people discussing DA2

If not this what else is left....do yall think Merrill uses the same ball of twine to find her way around town or does she buy a new one every day

[tetheredfeathers]

One of the things that amazes me the most about the trilogy is how subtly Collins molds Katniss' mindset to a softer and more understanding place. And how does she do it?

Through Peeta.

Peeta is the embodiment of empathy, love, and kindness, which is one of the first things Katniss notices about him. He is the first person to deciphers the main goal of the games: to pit the districts against one another, as mere pawns to the Capitol.

Katniss imitates Peeta more than we think.

In the first book, when her ally Rue is killed, she finally understands that Peeta had figured it out before tepping foot in the arena. She begins to rethink her animal instincts that made her kill Marvel without a second thought, wondering what the games had made of her.

She understands, what she and had Gale refused to at the beginning of the book, when he says that killing a human is no different. But it is different, and this is a point of epiphany for her. She covers Rue with flowers to show that she is not a piece in their games.

Ultimately, this change leads to the final move with the berries that sparks the rebellion. It is Peeta's ideology of non-conformity and rebellion through non-violence that saves them both and leads their country to freedom.

Additionally, in Catching her demeanour towards the other victors is amusing to say the least. It is obvious that she has let go of her survivalist mentality, she gives the victors a chance (even the most extreme ones such as Cashmere, Glass and Enobaria ) to view them as they really are, setting aside the Capitol created image.

Peeta’s empathy and moral integrity underpin her actions and decisions as she leads the rebellion, she conveys that true leadership involves compassion and understanding, and not just strategy and strength.

Through Peeta, she learns to love more and to have more understanding for the people around her, whether it be her prep team or a career tribute. Peeta's existence is what primarily helps her survive and prevents her from adopting Gale's extreme realist approach to war.

Katniss is the apex of the love triangle, representing the middle ground between Peeta and Gale's liberal and realist approaches. However, she is unsure of her stance at the beginning of the first book.

“Not people,” I say. “How different can it be, really?” says Gale grimly. The awful thing is that if I can forget they’re people, it will be no different at all.

Throughout Mockingjay, Katniss often finds herself at odds with Gale’s strategies, especially when they involve potential civilian casualties. And even then Peeta is physically absent, his voice rings at the back of her head. Even in his semi hijacked state he manages to guide Katniss in his propos.

"Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that — what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?”

Peeta brings out this sympathetic side, and so she symbolically becomes a neutral ground between Gale and Peeta's mindsets. She embodies the balance between a liberal and realist approach to war.

[sun-snatcher]

No no because I love your depiction of Jet??? Oh my god?? Like hell yeah hes a fearless leader of a freedom fighting rebellion group he built from the ground up but he’s also?? JUST A TEEN!! JUST A BOY!! Teenage boys get butterflies too!!??

🌾 ・ POCKETFUL OF BUTTERFLIES

summ. Operation: Creeping Cricket was a botch. It looks like you and Jet aren’t gonna be headed home anytime soon. pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader w.count. 1.1k a/n. ANON YOURE SO RIGHT. Sometimes we forget Jet is really just a teenage boy grappling with hormones and feelings and everything inbetween! Enjoy this short continuation to Hand in Loving Hand!

You take a mental note to thank Longshot and his squirrel-like tendencies to hide emergency stashes up in trees for times like these.

“Here,” Jet says softly, “Y’might catch a cold soon.”

The change of clothes he offers you is weathered, but a warm welcome respite from the frigid chill that’s settled into your bones. 

Operation Creeping Cricket had been a complete bust. Your narrow escape is a stroke of luck with all things considered, and at least the rain has finally stopped. It doesn’t help that both you and Jet are soaked head to toe, however, and the fact that the temperatures in the forests by Omashu can drop critically. 

Your cheeks are raw; your fingers ache— but you manage to begin peeling off the layers of your clothes one by one to dry by the campfire. From across, Jet’s already managed to change out. He frowns in concern from where he’s sitting by the fire, watching you tip over a boot of water. 

“You’re shaking.” 

“Shivering,” you correct, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth. You wonder if biting on a wheat straw like how Jet is doing right now would help. “But, yes. Same thing I suppose.” 

Then you’re untying the strings of your tunic, and pulling it swiftly over your head. 

Jet barely has time to react. 

He practically snaps his neck turning away, eyes wide. 

The whiplash, the innocent attempt at privacy, has you biting back a laugh. 

Ever the gentleman. 

“You can look now,” you finally say, after a quick minute, and Jet is careful to turn. 

The garments that Longshot had stashed practically drowns your figure, sleeves bundling at the wrists; collar wide and dipping low enough to reveal the corded necklace you never remove. And then there’s the glow of the fire, honeying you in amber light as you run your fingers through your damp hair. 

You’re… effortlessly beautiful. He’s not quite sure there’s any other way to describe you.

“That bad, huh?” you ask, pinned under his gaze. 

Jet startles. “Sorry, I— No, you just, look cold, still.”

He clears his throat as the tips of his ears burn. He hopes to the Spirits beyond you hadn’t noticed them go red. (You did.) 

“Well, so do you.” You reach back into Longshot’s knapsack and tug out a blanket from inside, before making your way across to the log Jet’s settled on. The material is tanned and threadbare, but it would do for the night.

Your hands brush as you wrap the cloth around the both of you. 

It’s difficult not to focus on just how warm Jet is. Even more difficult not to lean against him.

It hadn’t mattered much in the end, though; Jet shifts closer, and presses his shoulder against yours. 

“Y’okay?” You ask, gentle.

Under the dim firelight, his hard edges seem to soften. The fearless leader of the Freedom Fighters can be surprisingly endearing. Suddenly, Jet is simply another survivor; another casualty of war.

He shrugs lightly, careful not to jostle you, and makes a face. “Eh. We’ve faced worse, haven’t we?”

You laugh, ducking into his shoulder. Jet wonders if you can physically feel the butterflies taking flight in his chest.

There’s a spill of flowers behind you— budding Moonflowers, he recognises; native to Earth Kingdom wildlife— and has half the mind to pluck one and hand it to you. 

He chews harder on the straw in his mouth instead. 

( He knows you don’t see him that way, anyway. You’d made that clear before. ‘We’re family,’ is what you’d told him; Him and the rest of the Freedom Fighters. ‘Found family.’ And while he isn’t complaining, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t imagine atleast once what it’d be like to be something more with you. 

Even if you did, he’s not quite sure he’d act on it. He’s not quite sure he can allow himself to be that vulnerable to someone. Not when he's a wanted man; not when subjecting someone into his dangerous lifestyle is the last thing he wants— even if said someone had signed up for it. )

“I’ll take first watch.” he says, after a moment.

“Y’sure? I don’t mind doing it. I promise I’ll wake you up this time.”

He laughs at the old memory. The smile, however, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. You need rest.”

Quietly, you read him. Measure the micro-expressions that pass his face. Having fought alongside Jet throughout the years of survival made it easier. Whenever night falls, and the weight of his duties could settle if only for a little while, you could finally see all of him. Just a teenager who’s fighting for what he believed in; a kid who had to take on the world too early.

That illusion of 24/7 confidence falls around you often, though never around the younger rebels. You’ve kept the privilege close to your heart.

“You’re worried.”

He picks on the hearth for a moment, listens to the crackle of the fire.

Jet doesn’t doubt the Freedom Fighters’ capabilities. Longshot’s probably camping out somewhere in the trees with Smellerbee and The Duke, and Pipsqueak and Sneers can navigate these forests even better than him. They’ve all probably made it home already, knowing them.

And yet. And yet—

“Yeah,” he says. He didn’t like admitting it, because it implied they couldn’t protect themselves. It’d have meant he isn’t confident in them; that he, to some degree, didn’t trust them. It’s a twisted mindset, he recognises, but he can’t quite help his way of thinking these days. He didn’t like admitting he cared more than he really should— it’d be a concession. An admission. 

An admission that he might truly snap if he lost any of the Freedom Fighters; that he might truly break if, Spirits forbid, he’d lose you.

The thought sends a frisson up his spine.

That shouldn’t scare him. It shouldn’t.

He blinks, shakes his head. “That obvious?”

“No. But I’ve known you for years now,” you nudge.  “It’s okay to worry, y’know? You can care. You do care. There’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to act like you don’t for the sake of appearing calm and collected and… cool.”

He cocks his head at that, musters a playful smile. “Ah. So you think I’m cool?” 

It’s meant to derail the conversation. Fortunately for him, it’s successful. Jet watches you bow your head and laugh; the bright one, the kind that makes his heart sing.

Camaraderie, he reminds himself, swallowing thickly as he reluctantly turns away from you. Nothing more, nothing less.

[indigo-casson]

something that i've been thinking about lately is the parallels between star wars: andor/rogue one and tamora pierce's trickster's queen duology. primarily because the star wars brainrot is real and the tamora pierce obsession is forever, but also because they are kind of both tonal and thematic departures from their main 'verses in some similar ways?

in both the star wars verse and the tortall verse, the majority of the media has focused on one individual (or a small group of individuals) who make a profound difference in the world. Whether that's alanna singlehandedly finding the dominion jewel/becoming king's champion/making way for female knights, or luke skywalker blowing up the death star, or daine and numair going to the divine realms during the immortals war, or anakin skywalker becoming a sith and dooming the republic, most of the original material has seen battle and political change as something that is affected by either an actual chosen one or simply a single very plucky and well-placed individual.

trickster's queen and andor, however, really look at rebellion as something that has to be done by a diverse group of flawed people who work together despite their differences. mon mothma knows that her role is raising money. ulasim, chenaol, and the other members of the raka conspiracy each take their individual roles in the rebellion, and recognize that even though they might not want to work with aly or the luarin nobility, they need their skills and influence to make it happen.

both stories also show rebellion as extremely costly and something that requires making tough calls. nobody has their hands clean by the end of a civil war. notably, trickster's queen explicitly narrowly avoids having the protagonists kill a group of 5 year olds. luthen is ready to kill cassian when he becomes a liability, and cassian does kill lots of people, including some allies whose only "crime" is being susceptible to giving up rebellion secrets.

in rogue one, we don't like davits draven because he orders jyn's father killed, and that just feels wrong. jyn is our heroine and it upsets her, so emotionally it's distressing. but of course, draven and cassian and jyn are all working towards the same goal. draven did what he had to--galen erso is a liability as long as he's alive. dove and sarai's little brother elsren has to die because he's a direct heir to the throne, ahead of his sisters. it doesn't matter that he's five and totally innocent. as long as he lives, a luarin has a greater claim to the throne than a raka, and as long as that's true, the rebellion can't succeed.

in the star wars original trilogy, people for sure die! i'm not trying to say that they don't, but it's definitely not something that's shown affecting our protagonists on a deep, emotional level. they're all side characters, or else they come back as force ghosts. the prequels are uh. fucking tragic, but at the end of it, almost all of our heroes make it out. even the casualties of the war are droids vs clones, which is to say, totally interchangeable cannon fodder on both sides!

the number of character deaths in the tortall 'verse is fewer, probably because it's primarily created for middle grades, but even when people do die, they're either demonstrably bad people or minor enough characters that the emotional resonance isn't the same.

by contrast, at the end of trickster's queen, almost the majority of the main conspirators die in battle, not to mention those who don't even make it to the final conflict. at the end of rogue one, all of our heroes are dead, and people aren't exactly making it out of andor s1 in good shape either. more than half of the aldhani team dies on that mission.

I could go on further, but I think my main takeaway is that once you've invested a lot of time and attention and fandom into a 'verse, you have a lot more leeway to tell different kinds of stories. tamora pierce could not have written trickster's choice until after the values and world of tortall were so clearly established, and if she had, it wouldn't have had the impact that it did. similarly, part of what makes rogue one/andor so striking is the fact that it is such a departure from the preexisting values and story format of star wars.

for every chosen one we see in media, there are hundreds of people working behind the scenes to make their big, death star destroying moment possible. the only way to improve society is through collective action, and part of that is that everyone's hands are going to get dirty. i think lots of people want to imagine that they could be like luke skywalker and swoop in 2 weeks before the battle of yavin and become a hero, but the fact of the matter is that that's not how the world works! war requires us to do things that would ordinarily go against our values, but in the context of a drawn out, bloody, thankless battle, maybe we decide the ends justify the means.

[protectionsquad24601]

I don't think people understand how intrinsically Jewish the Les Misérables musical is. The writers of the original French musical were Claude-Michel Schönberg (Hungarian Jew), Alain Boublil (Sephardic Jew), and directed by Robert Hossein (Moldovian Jew). Schöneberg also composed the music. It was adapted into English by Herbert Kretzmer (Lithuanian Jew).

The lyrics include many references to Jewish beliefs and values. Schöneberg said in an interview, "When I’m writing a show there is always a part that is typically Jewish."

However, the one that sticks out to me especially is a line from the Epilogue:

"They will live again in freedom,

In the garden of the Lord;

They will walk behind the ploughshare,

They will put away the sword."

The origin of the phrase - specifically, the bit about 'ploughshares' and 'swords' - can be traced back to a nevuah (prophecy) by Yeshayahu (Isaiah), a Jewish navi (prophet) from the sefer Yeshayahu (Book of Isaiah). (Sorry, yes, I insist on the Hebrew words first.)

"The Torah will go forth from Tzion (Zion) and the word of Hashem from Yerushalayim (Jerusalem)... They will then cut their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning knives. No nation will lift a sword against the other, and they will no longer learn warfare."

This is a quote about the 'end of days', and the idea of a peaceful paradise free from war was emulated in the song to convey a similar paradise for our barricade boys, the casualties of the June Rebellion. This is only one of the many examples of Jewish themes and references in the Les Misérables musical!

[queerism1969]

Atrocity created by CAPITALISM

Irish Famine (1845-1852)

Indian Famines during British colonial rule (Various, 18th-20th centuries)

Indigenous Genocide (Ongoing since colonization)

Slavery (16th-19th centuries)

Indonesian Genocide (1965-1966)

Pinochet Dictatorship (1973-1990)

Argentina Dictatorship (1976-1983)

Brazilian Dictatorship (1964-1985)

Pakistan Incident (Bangladesh Genocide, 1971)

The Gilded Age (Late 19th century)

The Great Depression (1929-1939)

Operation Condor (1960s-1980s)

Banana Wars (Early 20th century)

Batista Dictatorship (1952-1959)

Guantanamo Bay (Ongoing since 2002)

Vietnam War (1955-1975)

My Lai Massacre (1968)

Sinchon Massacre (Korean War, 1950-1953)

Kent State Massacre (1970)

Patriot Act (2001)

Red Summer (1919)

Jim Crow (Late 19th-20th centuries)

MK Ultra (1950s-1970s)

1985 MOVE bombing (1985)

1921 Battle of Blair Mountain (1921)

Malayan Emergency (1948-1960)

Mau Mau Rebellion (1952-1960)

Covert war in Yemen (Ongoing)

Stanley Meyer incident (1998)

Genocide in Turkey (Armenian Genocide and others, WWI era)

Congolese Genocide (Late 19th-20th centuries)

Greek Civil War (1946-1949)

Invasion of Cyprus by Turkey (1974)

Washita River Massacre (1868)

Minamata Disaster (1950s-1960s)

Bhopal Disaster (1984)

Kentler Project (1960s-2003)

Thomas Midgley Jr. and leaded gasoline (Early 20th century)

Forced labor in private US prisons (Ongoing)

Collateral murder in Iraq (2010)

Julian Assange and leaks (Ongoing)

US drone strikes (Ongoing)

US sanctions (Ongoing)

US support for dictatorships (Ongoing)

Korean War and civilian casualties (Korean War, 1950-1953)

Nazi funding and collaboration (WWII era)

Hitler and "Judeo-Bolshevism" (WWII era)

[dorsvenabili1777]

Katniss isn’t the main character and that’s what makes the hunger games great

I know that this has probably been said before but after I reread the hunger games (after not reading them for about 7 years) the biggest thing that stuck out to me is the fact that in the end Katniss is not what you expect. I remember her as the rebel, the mockingjay, the one that brought down the Capital and President Snow. But then I read the books again and I realised how wrong I was.

Katniss has consistently been put into situations that completely destroy her. First she and Peeta are used by the capital, before, during and after the games as ‘the Star-crossed lovers from District 12’. A new thing, perfect for the entertainment of the Capital citizens. Forced to act and pretend to be exactly that. Victors mostly get to choose who they are and what their life will be to some degree after the games. But with Katniss she has to be with Peeta, there is no other option.

Then she is used as the Mockingjay for the rebels in District 13. They save her from the arena (you could argue that they kidnapped her as she didn’t know or consent to it) basically on the condition that they could use her as their mascot, the fake leader of the rebellion, the outward facing leadership, while the real ones hide behind her.

It isn’t till the third book that you truly see the effects all this trauma has had on her. You see it partly in the first half of the second book but it isn’t until she is away from the capital and the Districts that she basically falls apart. And in the end when she tries to get to Snow in the capital, she fails, killing most of her team in the process. She never even reached him.

The way you are supposed to think of Katniss is this inspiring leader who brought down the fall of the Capital and the games. But actually she is a young traumatised girl who was only trying to protect her family.

Anyway, my point that I am trying to make is that yes Katniss is the main character of the books but she is not the main character of the world she exists in, she is not in charge of the rebellion. She was the straw that broke the camels back, she was not in charge of anything but did inspire. That is what makes these such great books, Suzan has chosen to tell a different perspective on rebellion, one that’s about more than fighting, one that’s about how and why people rebel in the first place. By choosing Katniss she is able to add in themes about the entertainment industry and society, things that the reader can more easily understand and relate to compared the the world that the story exists in.

I think that the reason why I thought of Katniss as what I said at the start is because what she inspired, what the hunger games inspired, that whole Dystopian genre became about the leaders of the rebellion. The Hunger games focuses on a casualty of that rebellion. It focuses on the effects that can have on a young girl.

After all, Katniss is only 16-17/18, she is in no position to be in charge of a rebellion. Her skills are perfect to help her survive the games but not to win a war. So why is it that the dystopian genre became so obsessed with preteens being the leaders of a rebellion when they are the least qualified?

[ladamedusoif]

Tempered in the Fire - Part One

See the Series Masterlist for complete content warnings, historical event information, and series notes.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Pairing: Blacksmith!Din Djarin x F! Reader

Summary: Ireland, almost a decade after the rebellion of 1798. You are an unusual woman: married, but alone; a widow, with no certainty her husband is dead. When your local blacksmith is badly injured in an accident and unable to work, you have no choice but to travel to the next forge, run by a man of few words whose uncertain origins and dark complexion make him stand out among the locals. You are immediately intrigued by this mysterious, taciturn figure - and the striking little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

Word Count: 3.3k

Rating: Mature (chapter); Explicit 18+ (series)

Content (chapter specific): Blacksmith!Din AU; historical setting; references to violence; references to spousal abandonment; strong language; almost certainly inaccurate depictions of blacksmithing; slightly wonky history; likely slightly wonky renderings of Irish language (technically my third language!).

A/N: Translations for any dialogue in Irish are provided at the end of the chapter. The Irish language was one of the casualties of the colonisation of the island, as it became associated with a lack of education (though the tide turned somewhat in the late nineteenth/early twentieth centuries) and has never recovered. (Go and listen to ‘Butchered Tongue’ on Hozier’s latest album for a musical reflection on this, it even includes references to 1798)

Tagging interested parties and my usual taglist people - sign up via my taglist if you want to be added (or let me know if you’d rather not be tagged!): @gracie7209, @yourcoolauntie, @tessa-quayle, @lunapascal, @julesonrecord, @trulybetty, @fuckyeahdindjarin, @katareyoudrilling, @perennialdoll247, @joeldjarin, @sunnywithachanceofjavi, @iamskyereads, @tieronecrush, @javierisms, @pedrostories, @readingiskeepingmegoing, @rhoorl, @red-red-rogue, @survivingandenduring, @khindahra, @love-the-abyss, @fictionismyreality, @imaswellkid

This is a quiet place, a landscape rendered in greens, greys, and whites, the simple rural dwellings peppering the good agricultural land that stretches across the county.

Appearances can be deceiving, though. What seems to the outsider as a long-established peace is the result of a more recent and more violent pacification. The fields where young men lost their lives in the pursuit of a dream of freedom give nothing away today, almost a decade after the rebellion was brutally crushed. They didn’t stand a chance against the arrayed ranks of muskets, being armed only with tall, sharp pikes, hammered for them on the anvils of sympathetic blacksmiths around the country.

The people who live and work here bear the scars - some literal, some psychological, but all livid, fresh, and painful.

In this idyll where trauma and anger simmers beneath the surface, his forge is a long, low, whitewashed stone building roofed in thatch. It’s a little outside the nearest village, sitting just off the main road on the way to the next big town. Like most of those who ply this trade, the blacksmith here lives alongside his place of work: one half of the building is the forge, the other is the neat, simple home he shares with the little boy he’s taken as his apprentice.

He’s an essential figure: he makes all manner of metal goods and repairs them, too, in a world where nothing is disposable. He shoes horses, too, and his gentle care for the elegant beasts is well-known around the county.

Still, he’s not the most obvious candidate for a ‘pillar of the community’. Unlike other smiths in the area he’s not known for holding court while he works, regaling his customers with yarns and stories. He keeps himself to himself, mostly, though he comes into the village with the boy to buy supplies, collect items for repair, and return what he’s mended to their owners.

He’s been at his anvil for twenty years, or thereabouts. As is the way of a small community, all manner of stories circulate about where he came from and why there was no obvious family of origin. Most assume he comes from travelling people, who are known for their skill with metalworking.

Such is his reputation for consistently good work, fairness, and decency, though, that no one would ever dream of pushing him to say more about himself. This man of few words, who wears his apron like his armour and sometimes wraps a band of grey cloth around his mouth and nose when he works, to protect his lungs from the soot and smoke, is both insider and outsider in a place where such binaries are normally strictly enforced.

“You’ll be living high on the hog soon enough, then, Din? What with all the work that’s coming your way now.”

He looks up from the horseshoe he’s hammering into shape, dark eyes staring at the silhouette of the local priest, framed by the light of the forge’s small front window. Father Carthy has come to have his horse shod - and, it seems, to discuss the blacksmith’s fortunes.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The priest steps closer to the anvil, a look of surprise on his face when he realises the blacksmith hasn’t heard. “Bad accident over in the forge at Donapatrick. He’ll be alright, but their smith is out for the next few months, at least. He’s lucky to be alive.”

Din dips the shoe into a tub of cold water, sending a hiss and a plume of steam into the air.

“So they’re coming to me?”

“Most of them. Your reputation precedes you.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Not sure I can take on all that extra work.”

Father Carthy scoffs. “Don’t turn it down, Din. Lean times are always waiting round the corner, just when you least expect them.” He peers around the stone forge at the centre of the room, trying to spot the little figure who’s been hiding in the shadows.

“Sure you have an apprentice to help you, don’t you?”

The little boy stares silently, intently with his huge, dark eyes at the man clad in clerical black.

“Well, he’s inherited your gift of the gab, Din, anyway. Look, you’ll be glad of the few extra shillings. I know it’s not always easy making ends meet, between looking after yourself and the lad.”

Din pulls himself up to his full height, cutting an imposing, broad figure in his soot-marked shirt, leather apron, simple brown woollen breeches, and boots.

“We manage. Gró?” The boy appears at the blacksmith’s side. “Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.”

He swiftly locates a box of horseshoe nails, each made by hand at Din’s anvil. The priest raises an eyebrow.

“He’ll need English, Din, or he’ll get nowhere. I’d be glad to teach him if-“

Din cuts him off with a pointed sigh. “He understands every word. But this is how we talk to each other.”

Behind him, the sandy-haired boy narrows his eyes and scowls at Father Carthy.

You know it’s not usual for a woman of your age and station to ride alone, but then you’re not usual for a woman of your age and station. And your washtub is leaking, and your horse needs to be shod. Needs must.

You saddle up the horse, strapping the tub on one side, and wrap yourself up in your shawl, securing it at the waist with a well-worn leather belt. You mount the little brown horse and turn her in the direction of Donapatrick and the local forge.

“How did you not hear?” Seán, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stares up at you in astonishment. “Everyone heard!”

You feel like kicking him in the ribs for talking to you like that. He’s no more than thirteen, and yet here he is talking to a woman who could comfortably be his mother (and then some) like she came down in the last shower.

“I didn’t hear because I wasn’t told, and because I have better things to be doing than gossiping around the village.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, regardless. You’ll have to go over to the other forge - the fella over the bridge, about twenty minutes away. You know it?”

You do know it, though you’ve never had reason to go inside. Why would you, when Peter’s forge is so much closer? You don’t even know the other blacksmith’s name, and in this part of the world that’s a strange situation indeed.

“Right, so.” You gently dig your heels into the horse’s sides, she starts to walk, and you make your way to the road that leads down to the river, the stone bridge, and, eventually, the whitewashed forge beyond.

Just as Father Carthy had predicted, Din was snowed under with extra work since Peter’s accident a week or so before. He is exceptionally well-organised by nature, managing his own accounts and records with great attention to detail, and he has extended the system to help him cope with the new demand. With Gró’s help, he organises the items for repair into separate sections, labelled according to whether they belong to existing or temporary customers. He sets up a new ledger to take account of custom orders from people who normally go to the other smith, and takes note of new faces who come to have their horse shod.

Din is cross-checking his records at the table in the main room of his home when he hears the sound of hooves approaching. He asks Gró to peek out, to see if it’s a familiar face or another new customer.

The boy climbs up on the deep windowsill to look out through one of the small cottage windows.

“Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í.”

Din stands up and goes to the door, reaching for his apron as he does so.

He cuts an unusual figure, this blacksmith. There aren’t many people around here who look like him. You notice the penetrating dark eyes first, taking you in as you slow and pull up the horse. His dark hair is wavy, curling in places, and you are surprised to see that he’s bearded - if you can call the patchy scruff around his mouth and jaw a beard.

He’s younger than you’d expected, maybe forty, and well-built - broad shoulders, strong, muscular forearms marked with scars from his work, his shirt loose and open to expose a stretch of his tanned chest. He ties on a leather apron as you dismount, and walks out to greet you.

“Good day. I was hoping you could help with a repair? And my horse needs to be shod, too. I’m sorry, I usually go to Peter up in Donap -“

He cuts you off with a nod. “I know. Yes. That’s fine. The tub, is that the repair?”

You raise your eyebrows at how direct he is. Curt, almost. Rude, some would say.

“It is. It’s leaking at the side, here.” You undo the strap and he takes the washtub down. It looks strangely tiny against his substantial form.

He turns and gesticulates with his head in the direction of the open door. From the dark interior, a striking boy emerges, clutching a piece of paper, some string, and a stubby pencil.

The blacksmith gives him instructions and he diligently scrawls a number on the paper, before attaching it to the tub with the string and carrying it into the forge.

“Do you only speak in Irish to him?”

The smith has turned his attention to your horse, examining each of her hooves in turn. He looks at you quizzically.

“It’s what he prefers. What we prefer. He understands English perfectly.”

“Unusual that he’s fair and you’re dark. Is his mother fair? I suppose she must be.”

He sighs.

“I don’t know.”

You can’t stop yourself from letting out a little gasp. He looks up at you, dark eyes frustrated at your constant chatter. But he knows this needs explanation.

“He’s my apprentice. He’s a foundling. I’ve taken him as my own.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, not looking directly at you. “You didn’t know. I can shoe the horse now, though you’ll need to wait. The tub will take a day or two.”

You nod in agreement.

“What’s her name?”

His voice is softer. He’s still looking at your little horse, who’s loving the attention from this new person.

“Réaltín.” She has a perfect little splash of white between her eyes, in the shape of a little star. You couldn’t have named her anything else.

He repeats the animal’s name, and you see the tiniest hint of a smile cross his lips before his serious expression returns.

It turns cold, and you wait it out on a stool just inside the door of the forge, glad of the warmth.

You watch as the blacksmith heats up and works the metal shoes at his anvil, so they’ll fit Réaltín’s smaller hooves perfectly. The light from the fire illuminates his features as he works, highlighting the beads of sweat on his brow and picking out the various shades of brown in his eyes. He has pulled a band of grey cloth over his nose and mouth, which draws your attention all the more to his dark gaze.

The little boy stares at you while the man works, occasionally helping him by fetching an implement or helping work the bellows. You give him a little wave and a smile, hoping he’ll respond. He doesn’t come any closer, but you see him grin for a moment before he disappears behind the broad figure of his master - well, his adoptive father, if what the blacksmith said is correct.

Peter’s forge is always full of chat and song and gossip, a kind of social hub as much as a vital service. In contrast, the only music here is the singing of the anvil as the silent, stoic smith works, interspersed with the whoosh of the bellows and the hiss of the cooling tub. He doesn’t look at you, eyes always trained on the task at hand or at his little apprentice. He doesn’t speak, except to the little boy.

After a few exchanges, you realise something. “Is he called Gró?”

The smith keeps working. “That is what I call him, yes.”

“Funny to call a little thing like that after a poker.”

He turns his attention to the fire for a moment before he answers you. “He kept trying to stoke the fire on his own when I first took him in. I said the word so much it became his name. He likes it.”

Silence. Singing metal. Hissing steam.

He makes sure Gró watches him at every step as he removes the old horseshoes, cleans Réaltín’s hooves, files them carefully, and attaches the new shoes. Throughout, he quietly explains to the boy what he’s doing, and why.

Your stomach is rumbling, and you remember the supplies you brought with you (and had forgotten about).

When they’ve finished the last hoof, you speak up. “I - I brought a cake of fresh bread with me, in case it took longer. And I have butter, too, and a little crab apple jam. I’d be glad to share it with the little lad.”

Gró’s enormous eyes widen with excitement and he grins. (He really does understand English perfectly, you think.)

“We have enough food for ourselves, thank you.”

The boy’s face falls.

“I just meant as a little treat. A thank you, for taking the job when you’ve so much to be doing.”

He sighs, again. “Well… ach. Yes. Come in.”

Their home is neat and simply furnished, and he evidently knows how to look after a household as well as a business. You sit at the wooden table in the main room, which serves as kitchen, living area, and office for the blacksmith’s records. Out of the corner of your eye you spy a ladder going up to the attic, which you presume must be used as a sleeping space. A door leads off the main part of the house to what looks to be a smaller room.

Gró is already on his third piece of bread, butter, and apple jam, a shiny orange smear on the tip of his little nose.

“I hope this tastes okay. It’s always so hard to know when you churn butter, isn’t it?” You sip some of the cool water he’d poured into an earthenware mug for you.

“I don’t know. I’ve never churned butter.”

His reply is so deadpan that you wonder for a moment if he’s joking. You decide he isn’t.

“It’s not that hard,” you continue. “And I have the cow and the milk so why not?” You chew on a bit of bread, appraising your handiwork. “Actually, not bad at all, this time.”

He grunts in agreement. “You have a farm?”

“A very small smallholding. Tenant to the lord, like most of us.”

“Your husband works the land, then.”

You stare at the crust of bread in front of you, and clear your throat.

“He doesn’t. He’s…not here. He’s gone.”

The blacksmith’s eyes soften. “I’m very sorry for your troubles. Sickness, or was it in the fighting -”

You look at him directly. “That bastard wouldn’t fight for anything, not even his wife. He’s not dead. Or at least, I don’t think he’s dead. But I wish he was, because then I’d really be free.”

For a moment it looks like the stoic blacksmith is going to choke. He reaches for his own mug and drinks deeply.

“Well, now, I -“

“He upped and went. A few years back. God knows where he is now. He’s not around here, anyway. I’d say he’s skipped to Belfast or London.” You finish your bread. “Lucky the smallholding had come through my father, so I wasn’t out on the road.”

He’s flushed, and evidently a little uncomfortable. Well, he started it, you think.

“How do you survive - do you have children, too?”

You shake your head. “No, a blessing not to have them. And I do what I did before I married - I sew. Mostly alterations and refashioning and repairing, now, but at least I have a trade.”

The smith nods to himself. “A useful one.”

“Not as useful as yours.”

He gives you a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

You stand up and start to clear the dishes. “Keep the rest of the bread and the butter and jam. I’ll collect the jars when I come back for the tub.”

He starts as if to speak, standing up from his chair, and seems nervous.

“Could I - we - ask you to do something for us?”

“It depends, but…”

“Clothes. Gró’s clothes are in need of mending. Badly. Would you be able to help?”

You smile and nod. “I’d be delighted to. Lord, has the poor lad been going without mending for this long?”

The smith opens a wooden chest and takes out a small bundle of tiny items of clothing. “Not quite. Peigí normally does it, but she’s been so busy with the work in her yard lately that I didn’t want to ask.”

Peigí is something of a legend in the area, a fiery woman who stubbornly insisted on taking over her father’s trade in repairing carts and wagons - and succeeded. You smile wryly to yourself at the vision of her wielding a needle and thread.

He hands you the clothes, wrapped in a faded piece of red and white cloth. “Oh, hold on.” He reaches back into the chest and retrieves a dark grey knitted sweater that has seen better days. “I don’t know if you darn, too, but he’ll need this in the colder weather, and -“

You take the sweater, handling it with care, and clutch the little bundle to your chest. “It’s no bother at all.”

He smiles, genuinely smiles, at you for the first time. You marvel at how such a stern, hardy man can reveal himself to be quite so soft - eyes crinkling, expression warm and friendly, teeth white in that tanned face streaked with grime from the forge.

“Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for you to introduce yourself. You tell him your name.

“And you’re…”

“Din.”

“Din. And Gró.” The little boy swivels in his seat at the sound of his name, and sends the sneaky spoonful of apple jam that he’s been enjoying flying to the flagstone floor.

Din accompanies you as you strap the bundle of clothes to the saddle, and mount Réaltín for the journey home.

“I’ll be back in two days for the tub. I’ll bring his things then.”

Din gives the horse an affectionate pat, and nods as you turn and head back up the narrow road.

Gró has come to the door of the house.

“’s bean deas í, a dhaid.”

Translations:

Tabhair dom na tairní, maith an bhuachaill.

Give me the nails, there’s a good boy.

Is bean ar chapall í - ’s stráinséir í

It’s a woman on a horse, she’s a stranger.

’s bean deas í, a dhaid

She’s a nice lady, daddy. (Can also mean ‘pretty lady’).

And yes, ‘gró’ in Irish can mean crow-bar - or, in older dialect, a poker.

[ptseti]

How Did Brazil’s Biggest Slave Revolt Start❓

The Malê Revolt, occurring in Salvador, Brazil, on January 25, 1835, was the biggest slave uprising in Brazil and was driven by a strong influence of Islam.

It involved predominantly Muslim African slaves, mainly from the Nagô ethnic group, but also included Hausa and Tapa (Nupes) Africans.

The revolt’s name, “Malê,” derived from “imalê,” a Yoruba word for Muslim, underscoring the central role of Islam.

About 600 enslaved Africans, most of whom were Muslims, participated in the revolt.

They planned the uprising to coincide with the end of Ramadan, and the commemoration of the Quran’s revelation to Prophet Muhammad.

This timing highlights the deep connection between the revolt and Islamic beliefs.

The rebels, identifiable by their white ‘abadás’ (Yoruba), traditional Muslim garments, and amulets inscribed with Quranic verses, were led by prominent figures like Ahuna and Pacifico Licutan.

However, the revolt was prematurely discovered and resulted in a brutal conflict that led to numerous casualties.

The aftermath saw harsh punishments, including executions, reflecting the severe consequences for challenging the colonial system.

This revolt stands out in Brazilian history, showcasing the resilience and faith of the Muslim slave community in the face of oppression.

It also intensified the fear among slave owners of a potential large-scale rebellion, akin to the Haitian Revolution, driven by religious fervor.

Voice over: Historical Africa 🎥 from Roots (2016) & Haitian revolution - History channel

[angstywaifu]

The Lost Sister - Part 8

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

Garrick Tavis x OC A/N: Wasn't going to double post today but I'm feeling generous with it being Valentines Day. Sadly nothing super romantic about this one, but I promise some really good stuff is coming soon! I also have a few more one shots, but my requests are open if you have any more you guys want to send through! The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

The rotunda is empty as Imogen and I enter. Everyone in the dining hall eating. The feeling of being alone should unsettle me given recent circumstances, but after today I feel like that’s behind us.

Usually I would feel her eyes on me, but as she approached me in the hall I had no idea. Though I had been a little distracted at the lack of Garrick, Xaden and Bodhi at dinner.

She leads me over to the edge of the rotunda, and sits on the ledge, leaning up against one of the pillars. I copy her on the opposite side. For a few moments we sit in silence, looking out over the trees and mountains. It’s beautiful under the moonlight. In the distance I occasionally see dragons flying around. I wonder if one of them will be mine come threshing.

“I’d say I’m sorry for how I’ve acted towards you and what I did today. But I’m won’t. It’s just my weird way of processing this I guess.” She finally says, still looking out over the trees. “But, I can’t assure you it won’t happen again.”

I slowly nod my head. “Thanks, I guess.”

She looks over at me as if confused by my response.

“Not going to lie I was expecting a different response out of you regarding this. Also kind of surprised Garrick isn’t attached to your hip after what I did.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes my lips. “Yeah well I kinda ran off after he told me he had feelings for me and I haven’t seen him since.”

She narrows her eyes at me and the look she gives me is like she thinks I’m crazy. Which honestly, I definitely am.

“You ran off?” She emphasises each words.

“Yeah.” I lean my head back on the pillar and sigh. I was such an idiot. “I ran off. Like an idiot. And now he’s nowhere to be seen.”

She shakes her head and laughs at me. “Well if it’s any help, I don’t think you haven’t seen him because of what happened. With Bodhi and Xaden also both gone, and from what I could see their dragons to, I think something’s come up.”

I nod. She’s right. In the last few weeks it had become almost normal for the boys to disappear some nights without much warning. But it still felt like it had to do with me. Maybe they went out to help Garrick clear his head. But if that was the case I’m sure either Xaden or Bodhi would have come to see how I was.

“I’m sure Garrick has told you are history and why I’ve been the way I’ve been?” She finally says after a few minutes of me swimming in my own thoughts.

“Yeah, only took me weeks of asking and then snapping at him in the healers quadrant before.” I tell her, earning a laugh out of her.

“I knew I’d like you. Even if I hate how much you have Garrick wrapped around your finger, I can see why.” She says with probably one of the first genuine smiles I’ve seen on her since I’ve been here. “And honestly I did this to myself. He always said he couldn’t give me more than something casual. That his heart lay elsewhere. He never said who, just that they were part of the rebellion casualties. And then you showed up.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any issues. Though was inevitable with everyone thinking I was dead for the last few years. Though I didn’t know Melgren’s plan till the night before conscription day.” I look away from her back out over the valley below us.

I catch the sad look that passes over her face as she studies me. “Don’t be sorry. You being back, as much as its annoyed me in one aspect, has been good the the guys. But can you promise me one thing?” She says as she stands.

I look over at her and nod.

”Don’t fuck it up. He deserves to be happy. And you definitely make him the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

And with that, she turns and leaves me alone in the Rotunda with my thoughts.

Imogen’s words hang over my head. Don’t fuck it up. Easier said than done. Part of me is over joyed that Garrick shares the same feelings. Though looking back I’m an idiot for not seeing it sooner. I just put it down to us being best friends. Yes he wasn’t like that with Xaden, but I was a girl. Of course our friendship would naturally be a little different.

But part of me is also terrified. What if it goes badly? What if it puts a divide in the dynamic of our group. I couldn’t live with myself if I came between Xaden and Garrick. As much as Xaden is extremely loyal to Garrick, Xaden would pick me over him without a question. It would destroy him. But he would do it. And that’s not something I’d want him to do.

So I do the stupid thing and avoid them. Which sadly is quite easy with how little they are around. They’re in our daily battle brief class, wedged up in the back corner. I know cause I feel their eyes on me despite not turning around to see if they are there. But when it comes to challenges, their appearance is few and far between. And if they are there I do my best to blend into the crowd. As best as I can with my hair colour. Though I haven’t dyed it since arriving, and at nearly 2 months in my natural dark hair has started to shown through. Rhiannon and Violet keep telling me to let it grow out as it looks good with the dark red.

But outside of classes, I rarely see them. I get glimpses of them, but most nights they aren’t at dinner. Imogen makes comments about them being sent out for drills and such. Must be part of being a third year. Though I do notice they are gone more often than the other third years.

A few times Garrick tries to catch me after battle brief or find me at challenges, but somehow I manage to get away. I’m not quite ready to have the conversation he wants to have. But I can’t avoid it forever. A few times I nearly cave when I see the pained look in his hazel eyes. Pain I was causing. Pain I’d seen in Xaden and Bodhi’s eyes as well.

Soon our gym time turns into Gauntlet training with presentation day around the corner. So far our squad has done pretty well. Only one casualty so far. One I had to watch Violet almost be apart of. She hid it but I knew how much it killed her on the inside. She was yet to fully complete the gauntlet and today was our last day of training before presentation day tomorrow.

As we walk up the stairs to the gauntlet my heart drops. Not only is Xaden standing off to the side, Garrick is with him. It wasn’t uncommon for leadership to watch their squads do training on the gauntlet, so far neither had turned up for ours. Of course they show up on the last day.

Rhiannon who is next to me must notices something is off and follows my eyes to where Xaden and Garrick are.

“Why do you look so scared to see Xaden and Garrick?” She asks.

I hadn’t quite built the relationship with her that Violet had, but it was getting there. But I hadn’t told her about my interaction with Garrick after the challenge with Imogen.

“Remember how he took me to the healers after my fight with Imogen?” I whisper to her so the others around us don’t hear. The last thing I need is gossip spreading about this while I’m still figuring my own feelings out.

She nods. “Yeah I remember. Practically rushed over and scooped you up in his arms before you could get off the mat. Was quite romantic.” I roll my eyes at her.

Our group comes to a stop in front of the gauntlet, Xaden and Garrick making their way over with Emettiro. Both their eyes locked on mine.

I lean closer to her. “He might have confessed he’s essentially been in love with me for years and years despite me being dead and I kind of panicked and ran off and have been avoiding him ever since. Which also means avoiding my brother.”

She shakes her head and chuckles at me. “Girl I could have told you he was in love with you. No one looks at someone the way he does with out being in love.”

I go to reply but Emettiro calls us to start running the gauntlet. And I’m glad Rhiannon and I end up near the front, being one of the first ones to go. Though I doubt Xaden and Garrick are here to try talk to me, as much as they may want to. At the end of the day, they want the wing to do well.

I step up as Rhiannon takes off, my eyes meeting Garrick’s. His face is a mask and I can’t read it at all. I can tell he’s upset though. He’s never like that with me. I’m one of the few he never puts a mask up for. Xaden on the other hand is intently focused on Violet who is behind me. Before I take off up the gauntlet I offer Garrick a quick smile. For a brief second before I take off, his mask falters and his eyes soften as he gives me a tight lipped smile. The entire way up the I feel his eyes following me. He’s yet to see me climb it. And probably won’t tomorrow as most of the leadership wait up top for their squads and wings to pass the gauntlet.

I reach the top with ease. Yet again Melgren’s training had really prepared me for this. I’d barely had any issues getting up the gauntlet in the first day. And most times I caught up to or passed the person in front of me. As much as I didn’t want to think it. I was grateful for his training over the years. I turn around to look down the gauntlet to see both Garrick and briefly Xaden looking up at me. Both look happy with how easily I made it up. Xaden’s gaze drops to something below me. Violet is yet again stuck on the last parts of the gauntlet. And dare I say, does Xaden looks concerned? His eyes shift up to mine. We both know she needs to find an alternate way up the last part of the gauntlet.

Part 9

@riorgail @going-through-shit @fw-gt @bbkissme99 @xceafh

[enixamyram]

I love comparing Coriolanus and Katniss as narrators dealing with their issues with the opposite side.

Snow blamed all District for the war and his suffering, blaming them for his parents death and his lack of food and everything he and Tigris had to deal with during the first rebellion. To the point where he even tried to reason, with himself as much as the audience, that Lucy Gray wasn't actually a District citizen because there was no way he could fall for a District person because they were so awful (and beneath him) in his eyes. He used and betrayed Sejanus multiple times and was often repulsed by his loyalty to District 2 and never stopped looking down at him for it.

And then there's Katniss who openly struggles with hating Capitol citizens because she understands they're not all the same. She hates them for what they've done to her and her home but also sees a lot of them for what they are, puppets, pawns and unaware casualties. Like her prep team who she often sees as naive otherworldly people who don't understand what they're saying or doing. Or how different she as a person would have been if she were born somewhere other than 12. She has anger and resentment but because she was able to look past it, she was able to unit all the District's and team with Capitol rebels and ultimately win the war and bring down Snow.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Yo I wonder… what would happen if Genesis had gotten demoted to 2nd class?

Good question. What happens when everything you’ve worked for, everything you've built yourself up to be, is taken away in an instant? Genesis learns this harsh reality sitting in Lazard's office, facing punishment for disobeying orders during a costly operation—both in terms of money and casualties. The sentence is just a month back in his old Second Class uniform, but what is a month compared to the red leather he has grown accustomed to for years?

The purple uniform brings back memories of youthful idealism and a desperate need to match Sephiroth's heroism, but now he questions whether he ever truly understood himself. Was his worth tied to rank, title, or prestige? Because despite the superficial change, he remains the same person with the same interests, blessed by the same goddess. The distance he chooses to keep from Angeal and Sephiroth is not due to shame or pride, but a realization that rank often divides rather than unites.

The drive to measure up to the title of a hero was once a driving force in his life, but now feels hollow after losing everything in an instant. His charisma and influence among the lower ranks grows. Everyone is unsettled, fear similar repercussions now that Genesis was demoted. If a First Class like him could get the boot, what does it mean for them? And is striving towards a First Class title really worth it?

When someone is wronged in a way they fear for themselves, that fear turns to resistance, and resistance breeds rebellion—which is why in this AU, Genesis' degradation happens, but instead of taking half of SOLDIER with him, he takes everyone.

Including Zack.

Angeal and Sephiroth are the only two left.

And then Angeal leaves.

Suddenly Sephiroth is alone.

[whencyclopedia]

American Revolutionary War

The American Revolutionary War (1775-1783), or the American War of Independence, was a conflict between Great Britain and its 13 North American colonies, who declared independence as the United States of America. Initially a rebellion within the British Empire, the war took on a global scope when France and Spain joined against the British, contributing to the eventual American victory.

War Begins

The war was the central part of a broader political upheaval, the American Revolution (c. 1765-1789), which had taken root over a decade before the first shots were fired. The quarrel between Britain and the Thirteen Colonies, over the issue of parliamentary taxes, steadily escalated, as colonists were divided into factions; the Whigs, or Patriots, opposed the taxes on the basis that they were unconstitutional, while the Tories, or Loyalists, remained in support of Great Britain. Tensions sometimes boiled over into acts of violence, such as the Boston Massacre (1770) and the Boston Tea Party (1773); a group of political agitators known as the Sons of Liberty was also known to assault Loyalists, tarring and feathering them.

In 1774, Parliament responded to the Boston Tea Party by issuing the so-called Intolerable Acts, which aimed to punish Boston by closing its harbor to commerce and suspending representative government in Massachusetts. In September 1774, 12 of the 13 colonies sent delegates to the First Continental Congress, where it was decided that the New England militias should begin preparing for a potential conflict with British soldiers. Amidst these rising tensions, General Thomas Gage, military governor of Massachusetts, knew that he could not crush a rebellion with the meager forces he had on hand and sought to suppress the New England militias before they had a chance to strike. He decided to achieve this by seizing stores of munitions that the militias had kept stockpiled in various towns.

Shortly after midnight on 19 April 1775, 700 elite British soldiers marched toward the town of Concord, where one such stockpile of weapons was stored. Despite Gage's attempts at discretion, the Patriots had discovered his intentions several days in advance; no sooner had the British troops set out than two Patriot riders, Paul Revere and William Dawes, were on their way to alert the militias. When the British soldiers reached the town of Lexington, on the road to Concord, they were confronted by 70 militiamen. After a brief standoff, a shot was fired; although it is unknown who fired it, it became immortalized as 'the shot heard round the world'. The British forces responded by firing two musket volleys, killing eight militiamen and wounding another ten.

After clearing the colonial militia off Lexington Green, the British continued on to Concord, where they encountered more resistance from 400 militiamen. After discovering that most of the munitions had already been removed by the Patriots, the soldiers began their 12-mile (19 km) retreat to Boston. The Patriots harassed them utilizing guerilla warfare, and by the end of the march, they had lost 273 casualties, compared to 95 Patriot losses. By then, the number of Patriots had swollen to 15,000 men. Encouraged by their victory in the Battles of Lexington and Concord, the Patriots laid siege to the 6,000 soldiers trapped inside Boston.

Continue reading...

[auspicioustidings]

Any chance of us finding out how Price got his wife in the ghost drabble? 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 pretty please

Ok so in my head Price met his wife in his younger days. She was a rebel fighter against an opressive regime (it's why he has such a soft spot for Farah) but the rebellion was violent as all hell. Think suffragettes or IRA, most countries classified them terrorists because they were absolutely willing to fight dirty.

So Price is a newly promoted Lieutenant sent to subdue this terrorist cell after a bunch of civilian casualties from an attack. Through a series of increasingly unlikely events, him and his future wife wind up captured together. Him for obvious reasons, her because someone at the top of the rebellion wanted her out of the way and betrayed her, did not like a woman having that much influence.

She spent the whole time trying to kill Price with her bare hands, very much viewing him as the enemy. They sort of trauma bonded when they were getting treated worse and worse and in the end the only way to get out of it was to work together.

She found this begruding respect for him that turned quickly to violent homicidal tendancies when having finally escaped he slapped cuffs on her and hauled her ass in. He manipulated his way into becoming her handler, arguing that putting her in prison was optically a bad move.

Queue years of being attached at the hip with her coming up with new ways in which she thinks she can kill him and escape. Only when one day he comes home and he's injured, he's defenceless, he'd be so easy to kill, she just cannot do it. Nurses him back to health.

They take down the man who betrayed her together and while her home did see a regime change for the better, by that time she realised her home was now with Price.

He does bring her on base sometimes to give his boys some lessons on guerrilla warfare and tricksy ways to escape captivity, but she has never found herself in violent situations again and honestly? She finds she is totally at peace with that. She killed her first human at the age of 15 and was waging war right up until they met, so now she just gets to bake and knit and read strories to kids at the library she works at.

Like he absolutely held this woman captive for years, but they are currently very much in love and she comes and goes as she pleases.

[solar-sunnyside-up]

"Casualties of violent resistance to violent oppression are ultimately the SOLE blame of the violent oppressor"

Hey, you know what's interesting? I've been following solarpunk blogs for years. And I never saw any solarpunk blog display any kind of apologism for violence until this past month. In the span of a few weeks, the entire eco community has completely changed its tone about violent strategies. Apparently, since everyone is hyped about violence this month, violence is on the table now.

The US government legally classifies pipeline disrupters as domestic terrorists. Now, with our newfound violent rhetoric, we can give the FBI even better reasons to call us domestic terrorists. Everyone has spent a month calling terrorism "decolonization." So now the media will have a field day portraying eco activists as terrorists any time we mention decolonization. This will make attempting to communicate with the public much more complicated and challenging. But oh well. What's done is done. Tiktok decided to associate terrorism with the decolonization movement and now we all have to live with the consequences.

Do you think the eco movement's new political attitude towards violence will help our cause or hurt it? I'm genuinely curious. By the way, oil companies are deeply integrated with the military industrial complex which requires fossil fuel for missiles. So I'll ask again. Do you think violence is a good strategy for resisting the fossil fuel empire? Should we be studying, glorifying, and emulating violent movements? Is that a form of battle that we could ever possibly win? Or is that just a way for us all to martyr ourselves?

Also, how do these violent resistance movements even get off the ground? Do they just conjure their weapons out of thin air? Or are those weapons smuggled across borders by Iran's proxy militias? Do you think Iran or some other country with proxy ambitions would smuggle weapons to eco defenders? I don't know if they would. I'm just curious how murderous violent resistance could ever possibly overlap with solarpunk.

Woah woah bestie feels like we've jumped the gun on the actual post here, you must be new to eco movements it's ok tho! Let's handle this one bit at a time 💕💕

^^^ This is the post this is referring to for context. Now let's get down to dissecting this below the cut bc YIKES this is a lot to discuss but here why dont join me for a spot of tea yeah?

Before I start to tackle this with as good faith as I can let's get some facts in order:

A) I'm from Canada, a country known by its citizens for not respecting protesters/activists. Hell, the first Premiere of Manatoba, Louis Riel was a classified Traitor and was hanged for fighting against the government for the rights of his people and we treat him as the hero he is now. In the mid 2000s a "rebellion" was lead to protect a reservation from the mounties and they stole a tank! While the news and gov ripped them apart give it 10 years and ppl cheer at the idea now. The fairy creek protests and the pipeline protests are more recent examples. They arrested and brutalized people doing nothing more then having breakfast on their own land while blocking construction. So like.... I don't have the illusion of a "peaceful" protest. Here (particularly my province) you go to a protest you simply dont expect to come home. We are functionally a monarchy, we don't have "freedom of speech" and the government was never instilled for our "freedom" or our benefit it was solely to divide up the land and to conquer.

B) this is super not new to Eco movements in particular. They've have "Eco terrorists" on record as early as the 1900s ranging from Treespiking during early logging, to throwing paint on fur wearers in the 1970s. Wiebo Arienes Ludwig is from my Province, arrested for sabotaging Oil wells and went to trial in 2000. This is definitely not a new concept to eco movements and as Solarpunk enters a more Praxis heavy punk scene instead of pure sci-fi this is likely going to be a branch of it there's no avoiding that.

"Choose peace rather than confrontation. Except in cases where we cannot get, where we cannot proceed, where we cannot move forward. Then, if the only alternative is violence, we will use violence."

This additiude comes from a reasonable place in fact here a quote from Nelson Mandela in Gaza, 1999 sums it up pretty well:

Particularly since typically they will blame a peaceful protest just as much as a "violent" one. I think "violence " is something that will happen no matter what we do. If we're as peaceful as possible, they'll still call us violent mobs just to have an excuse to crack some skulls. Even if they're just having breakfast, on their own land, they will arrest and beat them. It won't matter at a certain point bc they want to prove they can be in control.

Now don't get me wrong, I would honestly prefer to slowly adapt. To build as we take down, to show ppl the joy of this and they'll come on their own. But that only works if the goverment and the citizens are equal partners. And idk bout the states since im not from there, but here? It wouldn't matter how many citizens asked for us to go Green overnight the government would ignore that cry for the corpate money.

"People should not be scared of their governments, governments should be scared of their people" and sure this is because we out number them but they should be working for us because that's the point of a goverment in the first place.

Next is: Do I think this is a useful way to spend energy?

Yes! I do, giving something for people to do with their hands, with groups, makes ppl realize how powerful they are and how weak the system oppressing them is. Empowering ppl to do what they can where they can is always good! What ppl do with knowledge is up to them, and if they feel it's needed then generally needed.

Now to the point of weapons: no one has said anything about weapons that something like the oil companies or military would back?? All the weapons endorced by these movements are typically things like using spikes and putting them into trees, or like in France- the energy union cutting off power to the CEOs house (while giving free electricity to hospitals and poor communitis) until they reconsidered the penson plans. Or when they put BBQs on tram lines during a protest. These are weapons, but they are of the ppls trade, they are tools ppl already have not as you said "[weapons] smuggled in to eco defenders" no one is suggesting Guns? That simply won't solve things.

Organizing, communicating, and strategic planning is our best weapons.

I think that covers it, but I'm also doing this on mobile while sick so I might not have covered it all. Although i think my point is made! The final thing I'll say is, if you don't agree with these parts of the movement you don't have to participate or even look at them. Forge your own path! Others I'm sure will follow! My way will never be the only way and we are in charge of our own experiences online. This post original wasn't even tagged as solarpunk, it was under revolution so feel free to block that tag or me if you need to! Have a good day!!! /genuine

[warsofasoiaf]

What are your thoughts on the Donbass war (2014-2022)? Were the separatists russian puppets or the expression of (parts) of the local population? And what’s your views on the non-implementation of the Minsk agreement ?

The separatists were Russian proxies, full stop. The tapes from Glazyev clearly prove that, and opinion polls in those provinces show that even in Crimea, native Russian weren't enthusiastic on the idea of being annexed or controlled by Russia. Hence, the rebellion was largely manufactured out of whole cloth, and when paid demonstrations failed, Russia responded with importing irregulars to pose as native separatists. Here is an exhaustively well-researched report on exactly what went down with that, and when even irregulars failed, Russia had no choice but to launch its own invasion with its regular forces in 2014.

The idea of a "Donbas genocide" or "Donbas shelling" is a myth. It's a blatantly revisionist take that argues that while the Russian-led separatist forces were allowed to attack and shell the Ukrainians (more casualties were caused by Russians and Russian-led separatists), Ukraine was not allowed to defend itself or conduct counter-insurgency operations against an insurgency in its own territory.

The idea that "the Minsk agreements secured peace, but Ukraine refused to implement it" is likewise false. For one, Russia also habitually failed to implement its own provisions, conducting its own rigged elections in Donetsk and Luhansk contrary to the stated provisions of Minsk. For two, all foreign groups, i.e. Russia's imported forces, were to be removed, and they weren't. For three, Ukraine was supposed to have full sovereignty over its border, which Russia routinely transgressed to resupply its forces. It also blatantly broke the ceasefire to seize more territory. Russia pretended that it held no control over the separatist forces, but that was a transparent lie - repeated investigations and even testimony from the separatists themselves said that they took orders from Moscow.

Pretty much all the arguments are largely post-facto justifications to support Russian deniable asset wars. For all the claims of the Euromaidan being a "CIA-sponsored color revolution" (pro-tip: if someone uses those words unironically, you don't have to take anything they say seriously, they're just an unthinking consumer of Russian disinformation), the "Donbas separatists" were actually far closer to what that operation would be like in reality - imported agitators to create a false appearance of a separatist movement with military support to overthrow an existing government.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King