#Alexeyev family

[luciluck2046-md]

Uhhmmm I'm gathering memes from Pinterest for a little trolling.

This is smt Uzi would totally say idc.

And I will draw this as Nikolai the second he saw V break in his family's house for some friendly talk. Nikolai knows a BIT of English, but Yeva and Doll can't speak another language. I mean they literally can't. Their code is too corrupt to let them talk another language. Otherwise Yeva and Doll would have been bilingual.

:3

[thornescratch]

HUH, as @immoveableobject astutely pointed out, Darcy just really likes fighting Tkachuks.

Darcy Kuemper and Brady Tkachuk get into it during the waning seconds of the game; TVR comes barrelling in for his goalie's honor.

[pagesandpothos]

The Sins On Their Bones by Laura R. Samotin

I had no idea what to expect when I started The Sins On Their Bones by Laura R. Samotin. I saw that it was blurbed by several queer romantasy authors that I like, so I requested it from NetGalley on a whim and was happy to dive in. I'm so glad I did. It was not what I was expecting but it is an interesting and dark fantasy that I enjoyed discovering.

First of all, if there are things that could trigger you, be sure to read the content warnings before you start this book! This novel deals with some very heavy topics and the author has kindly included detailed warnings on her website (there's also some stunning character art for you to seek out while you're there).

The Sins On Their Bones is inspired by Jewish mysticism and folklore and is a high fantasy set in a world similar to Eastern Europe in the 19th century. Dimitri Alexeyev, one of the main POV characters and a former Tszar, has recently lost a brutal civil war to his vicious and newly immortal ex-husband, Alexey Balakin.

At the story's start, Dimitri is in hiding in the Free States with his closest friends and former members of his royal court: Vasily, his most trusted spy; Annika, who once led his army; Ladushka, his political advisor, and Mischa, his royal physician. Dimitri still harbors a lot of guilt (and other complicated feelings) about Alexey, the war, and the consequences of it. When Vasily brings word that Alexey is building an army to invade the Free States the group hatches a dangerous plan to finally defeat Dimitri's monstrous ex.

The novel cycles through three POVs. Along with Dimitri, we also get chapters from Alexey and Vasily. All three POVs are engaging and each adds different things to the story. Jumping back and forth through their parts of the story moved the plot along steadily while also filling in the needed backstory. Vasily's chapters, in particular, give a lot of clarity to the backstory which was one of the many reasons that his chapters quickly became my favorite.

The plot of this is fast-paced, dark, and full of religious and political themes. I also found it surprising and not predictable at all. Multiple moments shocked me and had me frantically flipping pages to see what would happen next.

The characters are also likable. Vasily, as I've already mentioned, is a fantastic character. Dimitri is sympathetic and has a nice arc of growth and healing. Alexey is a terrifying and well-written villain. Annika, Ladushka, and Mischa round out the main cast as dynamic characters with a lovely "found family" relationship (together with Dimitri and Vasily).

The Sins On Their Bones is a unique and very queer dark fantasy. I'd recommend it to anyone who enjoys classic tales of good versus evil in their fantasy!

Other Points:

Alexey reminds me of The Darkling from the Shadow and Bone trilogy.

There may be a Doctor Who reference?

There is an asexual character and a non-binary character along with the many same-sex relationships that the book features.

The whole book is delightfully queer normative with most of the main characters and several side characters being casually queer. There's no drama or trauma around their identities.

I also liked how the author wove Judaism into the world.

Did I mention how much I love Vasily?

The last 25% of the book is tense, action-packed, emotional, and surprising. It is almost impossible to put down!

The ending is satisfying while also setting up issues for a future sequel.

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

Tropes/Tags: achillean, queer, Jewish fantasy, dark fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, found family

Spice Level: 🌶️🌶️/5. There are multiple sex scenes (various m/m pairings) that are "Open Door" and mildly descriptive.

Content Warnings: Full list from the author

If you liked this I think you will like The Sins On Their Bones: The Shadow and Bone series for the Eastern European inspiration. This is a much more gory and adult version though!

Links: Storygraph | GoodReads | LauraRSamotin.com

The Sins On Their Bones will be released on May 7, 2024, and is available for pre-order!

This book was made available to me in advance thanks to NetGalley! I received a free digital copy of this book in exchange for this review. The above are my honest feelings on the provided book.

[neptuniadoesstuff]

Le main crew of Mortal's Curse! (Also TW for some scarring/injuries)

(Update: Had to remove a slight error I made in the drawing)

I spent way too much time on this just for Screb to make the quality trash. :( So yeh uh... Enjoy this "masterpiece" I made in IbisPaint-

Also some close-ups lol.

Btw the pink stuff on the knife is just jam.. ITS JAM NOT BL00D!

ANYWAYS, HERES SOME INFO I DECIDED TO COPY OFF MY SCREB PROJECT (but with some changes bcs frik u):

Elara "Velvet" Shelley (Velvet is just an online aliase as she is referred to "El" irl) (My ver of Canon Elara Shelley)

Jeremiah Samuel Greenbel/"JJ the Rascal" (JJ is a online aliases & his nickname) (My ver of Canon Jeremiah Greenbel)

Sirius "Foxglove"/"Fuax" Grant (Both Foxglove & Fuax are online aliases) (My ver of Canon Sirius Grant)

Harper Halmor Tolnek Turner (Often refered to "Hall" or "Harp") (My ver of Canon Harper Turner)

Miren'Aska Lao Middleton (Just referred to as Aska or Miren) (My ver of Canon Aska Middleton)

Facts are gonna be in a new post of mine so u goobers after to wait.

1: || Elara Shelley | Age: 27-28 | Female, She/Her | Straight Ally (Is prob a Gray-Ace as well) | Is Greek/Japanese American | Engaged to Sirius | Born a Mortal but was given the "Curse of Immortality" at a early stage of life ||

2: || Jeremiah Samuel Greenbel/Turner aka JJ | Age: 34 | Cross-Gender (Male), He/Him (Sometimes He/They or He/They/It) | Bisexual, Demi-romantic | That of European Ancestry + Korean-American | Married to Harper | Born with "Greenbel Syndrome" (a family-based gene) & a mutation that made him have a tail ||

3: || Sirius Grant | Age: 30 | Male (Trans), He/Him | Straight | Russian-American | Engaged to Elara | Last name was originally called "Alexeyev" but he was adopted by a mixed family ||

4: || Harper Hallmor Tolpek Turner/Greenbel | Age: 34-35 | Male, He/Him | Gae | African-American, Mexican (& is somewhat descended from the Ferronox Tribe) | Married to JJ | Is a complete coffee-adidct & will become feral when given decaf ||

5: || Miren'Aska Lao Middleton | Age: 32 | Demi-boy, He/They | Pan | Filipino & British but born in New Zealand | Married to a Russian/German woman named Rushka | Is often called Miren or Aska by his friends but is referred to as "Michael" or "Mikey" by close friends ||

Plz note all of this info I made up is only Canon in Mortal's Curse & not MO: Astray. Also my ver of Aska & Sirius are not related to their canon counterparts family-wise. + MC takes place in the later future of the good ending.

Characters: The main crew of MO: Astray but my vers (All designs are mine ig but originally by Rayark & Archpray)

Art: Mine.

Program: IbisPaint x

Bubs' TOS: Plz don't repost/steal, trace, or recolor my art WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! If you do, I'll take yur femur and pelvis.. SO, DON'T THINK ABOUT IT! (The PNS on my Blog's pinned project clearly means "Please No Steal" plz follow that rule.) If you do post my art on anything like yur blog or somewhere else (With my permission) PEASE CREDIT ME!

[chaoticrebels]

NAME : Dimitri Nikolaevich Graves-Romanov

NICKNAME : Dimi, Riri, Mimi, Niko, Romeo, DR. Graves

AGE : 28 - 30

BIRTH DATE : July 17

GENDER : Male

ORIENTATION : Pansexual

LOCATION : Saint Petersburg, Russia { Has homes in several places around the world }

PROFESSION : Prince, Streamer, Mafia Leader

SPECIES : Human

SPOKEN LANGUAGES : English, Russian, French, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian

HEIGHT : 6'3"  

WEIGHT : 168 lbs

HAIR : Brunette

EYES : Brown

TATTOOS : Several

PIERCINGS : A Few { Upper and lower earlobe piercings, upper, mid, lower helix piercings, forward helix piercing, industrial piercing }

SCARS : None

FACE CLAIM : Francisco Lachowski

FACTS

Is the rightful Emperor of Russia

Was an edgy angst filled reckless teenager who got into several fights and is still an edgy reckless trouble marker

Knows how to sing

Can play the guitar, electric and acoustic

Can play the drums and piano

Has a collection of cars, motorcycles, trucks

Paints his nails

Has studied martial arts, studying in Wada Ryu Karate, Kickboxing, Judo, Shaolin Kung Fu, Tiger Crane and Snake style Kung Fu and Sanjero Kung Fu because of his father

Is adept with numerous weapons

Had been modeling since he was young because of his mother

Knows how to change his voice and does it when he needs to

Is like a cat when it comes to affection

No control on what comes out of his lips at times

Comes from a wealthy family and is wealthy even without his family money

Dislikes tea, prefers coffee or hot coco

Likes to sleep in the middle of the bed, prefers the right side when sleeping with someone.

Loves Disney & Sailor Moon

Loves the movie Anastasia, mainly because he is fascinated with his family history surrounding them

Is fascinated with the Titanic as well

Can see and talk to spirits

Is fascinated by the supernatural

Loves to skateboard, surf, snowboard

Loves adventures and loves to explore

Enjoys photography

Is allergic to cranberries, pineapples, soy

Only cares for a few animals and insects

Hates cockroaches, worms, and flies

FAMILY

Nikolai Alexei Romanov - Father

Anastasia Natasha Graves - Mother

Emiko Kasumi Sakurai† - Wife

Akemi Raisa Sakurai-Romanova - Daughter

Alexei Romanov - Paternal Grandfather

Raisa Romanova - Paternal Grandmother

Taisiya Romanova - Paternal Aunt

Luka Romanov - Paternal Great Grandfather

Mika Romanova† - Paternal Great Grandmother

Yuri Romanov† - Paternal Great Uncle

Katya Romanova - Paternal Great Aunt

Leika Romanov - Paternal Great Uncle

Artemis Graves - Maternal Grandfather

Ksenia Graves - Maternal Grandmother

Makari Graves - Maternal Uncle

Damien Graves - Maternal Great Grandfather

Tatiana Graves† - Maternal Great Grandmother

Alena Graves† - Maternal Great Aunt

Samara Graves† - Maternal Great Aunt

Ryusei Sakurai - Father In Law

Mitsuki Sakurai - Mother in Law

Takara Sakurai - Sister in Law

Kosuke Sakurai - Brother in Law

Nikolai Romanov ❪ Nicholas II of Russia ❫† - Paternal Ancestor

Alexandra Fyodorovna† - Paternal Ancestor

Olga Nikolaevna Romanova† - Paternal Ancestor

Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanova† - Paternal Ancestor

Maria Nikolaevna Romanova† - Paternal Ancestor

Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova† - Paternal Ancestor

Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov† - Paternal Ancestor

CONNECTIONS

Alexsey Solovyov - Best Friend / Second in Command { Has been in love with Dimitri since they were kids }

Maksim Morozov - Best Friend / Third in Command

Iyla Solovyova - Best Friend / Assistant

Ekaterina Morozova - Best Friend / Assistant

Alyosha Raskolnikov - Bodyguard

Artemas Raskolnikov - Bodyguard

Akilina Belova - Bodyguard

Nastashia Makara - Bodyguard { Has a crush on Dimitri }

Kiska Novikova - Capo

Nika Novikov - Capo

Vika Novikov - Capo

Zoria Aslanov - Soldier

Karina Makarov - Soldier

Matvey Orlov - Soldier

Jalena Agapova - Soldier

Mikhail Agapov - Soldier { Has a crush on Dimitri }

Hakoda Kazeev - Soldier { Has a crush on Dimitri }

Anatoli Alexeyev - Soldier { Has a crush on Dimitri }

Sitka Alexeyeva - Soldier { Has a crush on Dimitri }

Niurka Alexeyeva - Soldier

Olya Sokolova - Driver

Jeremie Garin - Driver

Veronika Rostova - Ex Girlfriend

Atsuko Haruki - Ex Girlfriend

Svetlana Karenina - Ex Girlfriend

Rue Nakamura- Ex Boyfriend

Nyx Kinsella - Ex Boyfriend

Kimika Kimura - Ex Boyfriend

Rania Akamai - Ex Fling

Electra Ricci - Ex Fling

Riki Koizumi - Ex Fling

Nikita Nikitin - Ex Fling

Kazimir Rasputin - Enemy { Obsessed with the Romanov family }

Norvina Dorofeeva - Enemy { Kazimir's assistant and advisory }

Zathura Alatyrtsev - Enemy { Is in love and obsessed with Dimitri but is jealous of Dimitri at the same time }

Gorky Laskin - Enemy { Zathura's Goon }

Simeon Laskin - Enemy { Zathura's Goon }

[shiningportraits]

Kendall Vanke Biography

Kendall Vanke was born on April 9, 2000 to an American mother and a Russian father, which made him Russian American.

Due to his father being very wealthy, Kendall was often referred to as a "spoiled rich kid" by many middle-class children and adults who did not like the Vanke family.

However, Kendall did not have a good childhood as seen by the scars on his back as his mother would begin to physically and mentally abuse him, claiming it was his fault she was no longer "beautiful" to his father and told him that he would now be a "doll for her to take her anger out on".

This led to Kendall's father eventually finding out about the abuse and he immediately divorced her. During the custody case, the mother had pulled out a gun and threatened to kill her "doll" if she did not win the custody case and was given a large amount of his father's wealth. Luckily, the officers in the courtroom managed to get the gun away from her and separate Kendall from his mother. The judge declared she was insane and very unstable. She was then sent to "Alexeyev Psychiatric Clinical Hospital" for an unknown amount of years as Kendall says she has still not been let out present day.

Sometime after the divorce, Kendall's father met and fell in love with an American woman who was a waitress at a local diner. During Kendall's final year of high school, Kendall's father announced that he and his new girlfriend were going to be married. At first, Kendall was afraid that this woman would just be like his mother and tried to avoid her a lot.

However, his soon-to-be stepmother had heard about what happened to him and comforted him as best as she could. Over time, he got more used to her and gave his blessing to his father. The two got married a couple of months after Kendall graduated high school and decided he was going to go to college. He chose to enroll in a law course at Ivy League University, where he soon met Julia, Lila, and Alex and became friends with all three of them.

Kendall was invited by Julia to come along on her diving trip in the South Pacific Ocean with Alex and Lila. Kendall tried to refuse the offer, as he was still recovering from the abuse of his biological mother and did not want to lose his only friends by having them find out about his scars. Kendall then finally agrees to it but states that he will not go under the water.

On June 20, 2019, Kendall, along with Lila, Julia, Alex, Brad, and Conrad went on a summer vacation to French Polynesia. With the help of Fliss, skipper of the Duke of Milan which they would stay in for the trip, Kendall was able to enjoy his trip as well as find a possible love interest in Brad. However, his trip took a turn to the sinister when three pirates ambushed the Duke and drove them to an abandoned WWII freighter. His fate would then be decided by the player's decisions, in which he would either escape or die like the former passengers of the ship.

[piers-wifey]

Here's the entire S.A.A.T. squad. Also called "The family" by the team members.

Alexey Dogranov "Dirus" & Vitali Alexeyev Dogranov "Eagleeye" (Captain + Sniper & Lieutenant)

Robin Kozbi "Coyote" & Tyler Mulani "Panther" (Explosives and pyrotechnics expert & Medic and service technician)

Rachel Callahan "Greyhound" & Jackson Callahan "Fox" (Sniper & Hacker/Communications expert)

Isaac Montgomery "Falcon" & Monty Fitzgerald "Python" (Pilot & Co-pilot)

[simonxriley]

OC Masterlist - Remastered

I was starting to become a little unhappy with my oc page, I decided to make a new one (instead of editing the one I have). I also really like how @nightwingshero did her’s, so I’m kinda copying her 😅. And like the last time I will be slowly updating with their bios. 

Call of Duty: 

Corporal Elizabeth “Liz” Walker

x: Simon “Ghost” Riley (Main ship) 

x: John Price

x: Gabriel Rorke

x: Dunn

x: Thomas Merrick

Sergeant Phoenix Rorke

x: Keegan Russ

Sergeant Jordyn Emily

x: Logan Walker

Rainbow Six: Siege

Skylar “Phoenix” Jackson 

x: Alexsandr “Tachanka” Senaviev (Main ship)

x: Timur “Glaz” Glazkov

x: Maxim “Kapkan” Basuda

x: Shuhrat “Fuze” Kessikbayev

Cooper “Leviathan” Lockyer

Daisy “Star” Morin 

x: Jordan “Thermite” Trace

Stargate Atlantis (+SG-1)

Second Lieutenant Emma Ross

x: Major Evan Lorne 

Major Hattie Cooper / Ti’ra of the Tok’ra

x: Colonel Albert Reynolds (main ship)

x: Colonel Robert Makepeace

SOMA: 

Spencer Grey

Harley Montgomery 

x: Johan Ross

Far Cry 5 (+New Dawn) 

Deputy Maci Dalton 

x: Sharky Boshaw 

Ellie Dalton 

Child of: Maci and an unnamed father

Captain of Security: Coming soon

Gunnar Boshaw

Child of: Maci and Sharky

Harlow Boshaw

Child of: Maci and Sharky

Maverick Boshaw

Child of: Maci and Sharky

Resident Evil: Village

Sofia Heisenberg

Child of: Karl Heisenberg and Ana Bogdan

Evil West

Mary Daniels

x: Jesse Rentier

Aurora Matsouka

Lucia Morelli

Other fandoms: 

Riley Sanders (Metro Series) 

x: Hunter

x: Ulman 

Kenadee “The Viper” Taylor (Ghost Recon)

x: Dominic “Holt” Moretta 

Anja Kovic (Uncharted) 

x: Zoran Lazarevic 

x: Chloe Frazer

Ashlynn Davenport (Tomb Raider)

x: Konstantin

Evelyn “Evie” Hazelton (The Order: 1886) 

x: Grayson

Lily (Marvel)

x: Thanos (don’t judge this was the only way to give Gamora and Nebula a parent that actually loves them and doesn’t abuse them 🙃)

x: Bucky Barnes

Phaedra Alexeyev (Werewolf the Apocalypse) 

x: Declan

Edith (Amnesia)

Aella (Horizon Zero Dawn)

Elia Cassel (Game of Thrones)

x Jory Cassel

Ulfhild Hávarðr (The Last Kingdom)

Lottie Wilson (Black Sails)

x Max

x Charles Vane

Anime: 

Kai’Sa Blake - Attack on Titan

x: Erwin Smith

Himiko Nakamoto - Demon Slayer

x: Sanemi Shinazugawa

Fumiko Nakamoto - Demon Slayer

Naho Kaneko - My Hero Academia

x: Twice

Aoi Kaneko - My Hero Academia

Zofia Fuze - Spy x Family

Amane - Jujustu Kaisen

x: Suguru Geto

Megumi Akiyama - Buddy Daddies

Callisto Amari - Hunter x Hunter

x Hisoka

Momo Kudou - My Happy Marriage

x: Kazushi Tatsuishi

Luna - The Rising of the Shield Hero

Raina - Berserk

Kimiko Nakayama - Haikyuu

x: Kōtarō Bokuto

Kōji Nakayama - Haikyuu

[yourdailyqueer]

Nikolay Alexeyev

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Gay

DOB: 23 December 1977

Ethnicity: White - Russian

Occupation: Activist, lawyer, journalist

Note 1: Won the first ever case at the European Court of Human Rights on LGBT human rights violations in Russia. The Strasbourg-based court unanimously ruled that by banning three Moscow Prides in 2006, 2007 and 2008, Russia breached three articles of the European Convention on Human Rights.

Note 2: Since 2005 Nikolay Alexeyev is known as the founder and chief organizer of Moscow Pride, which is officially banned year after year by city authorities.

Note 3: On 5 September 2008 he became the first public figure in Russia’s history to enter into a same-sex family union. The marriage ceremony took place in Geneva City Hall on the basis of the Swiss Federal Law on registered partnership.

[luciluck2046-md]

Guys I'm calling Doll's last name Alexeyev cuz idk it sounds cool.

Imagine.

Doll Alexeyev, Yeva Alexeyev and Nikolai Alexeyev.

The Alexeyev family.

(the picture was found on Pinterest you can see that it isn't the way I draw drones)

[you-are-my-neverland]

so. it’s finally time to talk about [my] nano.

i’ve kept my nano project pretty under wraps so far, mostly because it’s been out of my hands. i wasn’t actually planning on doing a for real for real nano; instead, i thought i would dedicate some time to my fanfic (spoiler alert, but i haven’t yet) or work on finishing up revising fairbone (spoiler alert: i did revise one chapter, but i still have like half of it left to go and a nov 30 deadline...rip). if that didn’t work, i thought i would pick a wip i started over the summer or one i had half developed (let’s just say the ideas note i have really boomed over the summer and like...yeah). in conclusion, there were many wips ready for me to work on them, including ash heart, which i really want to write but haven’t figured out how to.

instead i started a new wip.

well, it’s not necessarily new, persay. it’s an idea i’ve had stewing since like late september/early october and planned out a good portion of. however, deciding to start it was a last minute decision - and by last decision, i mean that on october 31st i finished developing the barebones of character development and basic plot lol and then gave it a go. it’s honestly been going crazy well. as of today (november 9th), i just hit 21.2k words. i’m hopeful about this year, while also not wanting to jinx stuff, but like...wow. but writing is has made me realize that, wow, this book is going to be crazy long probably...like i’m 21k words in and we’re still like in the exposition idk what’s going on. but hey, i finished planning out the rest of the basic plot for it today!!!

right. onto the wip details.

honestly, the only reason i haven’t introduced this wip is because a) i want actual stuff done on it and like a proven commitment, because i feel like too often i introduce wips i don’t actually go anywhere with and i hate it, b) i don’t have a set title and c) i actually have no idea how to summarize this.

the novel i’m working on right now is the first of a projected trilogy. i say projected because i have a vague idea that it belongs to a trilogy, but like not a lot of plot except some vaguely connected ideas that should happen in the future. in it, i used a lot of characters from these violent ends, which i tried to write for camp april 2020, but like just their basic barebones; i changed a lot to fit the story, of course. 

not to sound nerdy, but it is like....harry potter inspired, but ONLY in the magical boarding school sense. of course, right now all i have is magical boarding school shenanigans, which i don’t really like because i feel like it unfairly sets the book up as like fun magical stuff when it’s really about murder & politics & student activism (+ a lot of other things ending in -ism). the whole activism part came from watching the trial of the chicago 7 and i was like, bingo, this is what this story needs. 

kay but ANYWAYS. onto the story. like i said, i can’t really summarize it, but there are lots of themes of classism, feminism, the affect on youth and youth’s effect, manipulative adults, revolution, terrorism, sibling dynamics and found family vibes, like all that stuff...packaged into a magical boarding school off the coast of maine setting...recipe for disaster!

mainly i’ve been writing in ophelia’s pov, because she’s my main girl and she’s problematic, but also she’s trying her best and just having a little difficulty fitting in. some other main characters are her twin brother, sebastian, and two other boys, asriel and vincent, who have an initially animistic relationship with ophelia (& kind of each other?) but it’s like enemies to friends (to lovers?).

anyways. here are some carefully curated excerpts below the cut:

i. vincent and asriel meet on a train (ch. 1)

The boy pursed his lips together. “It’s unusual,” he said, finally. “That’s all.” But he was looking at Vincent as if he was noticing him, which meant he was lying, or at least withholding the truth about something. He added, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Do you mean geographically?” Vincent replied, raising an eyebrow. “Because I’m from New York.”

A small glimmer of a smile appeared on the boy’s lips, though it vanished as quickly as it had come. “From the Magical World,” he clarified. 

“What gives it away?” Vincent asked sarcastically, waving a hand across his body. “My impeccable taste?”

“Among other things,” the boy said.

ii. sebastian and ophelia discuss grief on a ferry (ch.2 )

“You and mom talked?” Ophelia asked, surprised. She hadn’t exactly been keeping track of them, but she was sure she and Sebastian had spent much of the day together, as they were wont to do.

Sebastian looked at the floor. “Yeah,” he answered, hoarsely. “At least she wants to talk about Des. Dad doesn’t, and neither do you.”

Ophelia sighed, wondering why, today of all days, her sister was haunting them. Maybe it was because there should have been three people heading to Rijevduct, instead of two. Maybe Mother Magic was reminded of the loss of one of her own. 

“I’ve let her go,” she said. “You should too. We have too much of our lives ahead of us to mourn Desdemona forever.”

“I don’t mourn,” Sebastian said, words uncharacteristically sharp. “But I do grieve.”

“Isn’t that basically the same thing,” Ophelia mumbled, closing her eyes and feeling the press of a headache behind them. 

“Sorrow,” Sebastian said, the word a soft shudder. “And sad endings.”

“What?” 

“That’s what makes a good tragedy,” Sebastian answered. “I read it in a book.”

iii. headmistress alexeyev gives a speech (ch. 2)

“Eight years ago, seventy two students were slaughtered here. Some died on the very spot where you now stand today.” Ophelia glanced down at the floor, seeing the motion repeated instinctively around her as well. She looked over at Sebastian, who had closed his eyes instead, a pale flush meeting the faint color in his cheeks. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, tennis shoes scraping against stone as he toed them against the floor, as if he was shaking something only visible to him off.

“It was a tragedy,” Headmistress Alexeyev continued. “I say this because it is the truth. It was a tragedy, and not one that should never have happened.” She inhaled; Ophelia saw her chest rise, shoulders with it, in a sharp motion before she exhaled, body rearranging itself into poise once more. “I speak of this to tell you to assure you that Rijevduct is safe. I know there have been continuous doubts over the security of this school since that day eight years ago. I cannot, of course, guarantee that you will not come to any harm here. I cannot tell you that Rijevduct is the safe haven you were taught it was growing up; events have already proved that it is, in fact, not as impenetrable as one might think.”

Ophelia frowned, confused as to the line of reasoning. She had thought the whole point of the year of transition was to make sure that Rijevduct was infinitely more safer than it had been—and they had all been under the assumption that Rijevduct was virtually impenetrable until the massacre, which had led to the heightened security measures they saw today.

“I can, however, promise you that I, and everyone here today, will do anything in their power to keep you safe,” the Headmistress said. Next to Ophelia, Briar bowed her head, lowering her eyes and swallowing, the action almost a convulsion of her throat and mouth. Ophelia brushed her hand, lightly, in question, and the other girl just shook her head, looking away purposefully, so that Ophelia lost sight of her face and her sad eyes.

“These next three years will be far from easy. Gone are the sheltered lives where your parents could kiss your injuries goodbye, or sing you to sleep at night. Rijevduct is far from the cold, real world, but it is close enough when it comes to not asking you what you want first. This is an adjustment period. This is learning how to survive—and I will tell you this; surviving means many different things to many different people. You will have to decide on your own what this will mean for you, and how you will apply what you are taught here to your futures. Be wise. Be proud. Be humble. Cry. Laugh. Live. As your Headmistress, I, along with your professors, will be here throughout your time.” She raised her glass, “To the worthy,” and then drank, turning and walking back to her seat, which she lowered herself into gracefully.

iv. sebastian pov! (ch. 3)

There was a dead girl in Sebastian’s first period Magical Theory class. She was sitting diagonal from him, on the Glass side of the classroom, in an empty chair, staring straight ahead at the chalkboard. Sebastian tried not to look at her too obviously, his eyes straying from the open book in front of him to her cautiously, beneath the sleeve of his sweater.

She was sitting blankly in the chair, scraping her shoes against the ground, though they could not leave any scuff marks. Though she was the same faded shades most girls were, Sebastian could make out her pleated pale blue plaid skirt, which brushed around her knees, and the stained white blouse that might have once been spotless, but had been marred forever by the circumstances surrounding her death—objectively, that was to say, with blood. Her dark brown hair fell into loose curls around her shoulders, little silver studs glinting dimly, unable to catch the light. Her knee high socks now pooled around her calves and ankles, revealing a rotting bandaid on one of her knees. One of her tennis shoes was peeling at the toes, looking as if it had been ripped apart. 

Her fingernails had all been pulled off. Sebastian was good at analyzing ghosts by this point; he recognized the bloody flesh and bone of the nail bed. There was also blood matted across her head, trickling down her temple, with bruises covering her body; they peeked out from beneath the collar of her shirt, blackened across her cheekbones with a sunken quality in particular to one of her cheeks, as if the bone had begun to cave.

Subjectively, she was far from one of the worst that Sebastian had seen.

[shachihata]

    Ivan Valentinovich is born of ice.

    He wakes up in the biting frost of winter, the wind dancing around him, the cold wreathing his eyelashes and his face with shivering kisses like a long-lost mother greeting a newborn child. Something pounds in his head. Something echoes in his chest. He is heavy, weighed down with sheets of sleet that slide off of him in chunks when he rises to his feet, his breath the quick exhales of a man who’d slid like a fish out of the cold grasp of death for the tenth -- hundredth -- thousandth --

    His coat is stiff like a cutting board and snowflakes fall heavy on his collar, like an inexplicable gravitational force is somehow drawing them there, but he does not feel the bite of the cold. His hands are bare and he spreads his fingers wide, feeling the winter call his name, Ivan Valentinovich, the singing of violin strings in an empty concert hall.

    Household lights gleam in the distance. Under the moonlight, Ivan follows their glare.

---

    Changeling, they whisper.

    Ivan Valentinovich does not know what the word means.

    He listens to the steppe grass sleeping under the thick snow, soaks in the sunlight that creates overcast clouds out of an overcast sea, falls into the torpor of sleeping bears curled up in their caves after having been fattened by the rich blood and milk and honey of the summer land that he has so disdainfully been rejected from. He smiles at the people he passes by, but his frost spreads unwillingly and unwittingly like a disease to the adults who deign to listen to him. He walks the dirt roads and listens to the men and women whispering changeling behind his back and does not know if, to them, there is a truth to what they cannot understand.

    “Changeling, changeling,” the children chant, with unseeing eyes and speaking mouths, whenever they see his stiff brown coat pass over the snow in the wind. “Tell us a story, please.”

    “I work in trades,” Ivan replies, simply. “I work in truths.”

    And so the children give him chestnuts and frozen flowers and the dead animals that their cats bring home as offerings to the family, smiling, understanding yet unseeing of the life and color and memories that they grant a colorless man like Ivan. He, in turn, lets them remember what they could not and should not possibly remember -- they feel the lifeblood of elk running thin after the snap of the hunter’s bow, the flick of siren’s fin as she darts through the floes of the arctic ocean, the fierce satisfaction of the fearful hawk as its talons pierce its fearful target. They shout changeling to his face and he knows that, to them, there is no truth to what they cannot understand.

    “I have a gift for you,” a child says, once. She holds out her tightly-closed fists expectantly.

    “I work in trades,” Ivan replies. “I work in truths.”

    “Then let me give you one of mine,” the girl says.

    Ivan crouches to meet the girl’s eyes and holds out his hands, carefully cupped, fearing that his own frost will spread to her fingers unwillingly and unwittingly like a disease. “I will give you something in return. It’s only fair, devochka.”

    “That’s what you just told me,” the girl says. She opens her hands, and from them fall a handful of chrysanthemum petals, red and white, blood on fresh snow. “Aren’t these pretty, changeling?”

    “Very much so.”

    “I buy these flowers for my brother. I don’t know what he does with them.”

    “Would you like to know?”

    “It’s not your truth to tell,” the girl pouts, and Ivan smiles. “Tell me something that only wise men like you could know. I know what is true to me.”

    “There are many men wiser than I am, devochka.”

    “But they live differently from you, changeling. Tell me a story -- you promised to, anyway.”

    “Let me think,” Ivan says, the chrysanthemum petals burning holes through the skin of his hands. “I know the story of a man -- one who was whispered to by the seasons.”

    “What did they tell him?”

    “The spring brought him their flowers, and he bloomed under their bright colors. The summer brought him their sun, and he grew tall under an everpresent sky. The autumn brought him their leaves, and he learned how to preserve his warmth under the chilling bite of cold.”

    “And the winter?”

    “The winter brings death.” Ivan closes his eyes. “But this man was given -- a name, a body, and a life, instead.”

    “Did the winter choose him?”

    “Perhaps.”

    “What does he want to use that life for?”

    “To work in trades,” Ivan says, opening his eyes again. “To work in truths.”

    The winter wind falls around them, and Ivan gets to his feet, crushing the chrysanthemum petals in his bare hands that do not feel the bite of the cold.

    “Is this your truth, changeling?” she asks.

    “Tell your family that I wish for them to have good health,” Ivan replies, instead. “Run along, now.”

    “And what truth will be mine?”

    “It will grow within you -- as long as you have patience,” he says. “Simply remember to see -- to listen -- and finally, to speak.”

---

    Ivan coaxes an abandoned campfire back to life using the dead twigs of the winter trees, letting the night fall over him like a funeral shroud. The forest trees shudder at his presence; they give up their lost, give up their fallen, let him feel their cold roots clinging stubbornly to life underneath the freezing permafrost, waiting for the spring flowers to return to the earth and sky where they belong and he doesn’t.

    “Ivan Valentinovich,” he says, tasting the name on his tongue. It tells him who he was, tells him who his father was. Now, he doesn’t know if he needs it; he is born of ice, after all. And yet -- a name is so little to ask for from the greater world around him, isn’t it?

    Ivan Valentinovich, the trees whisper back, the susurration of the falling branches around him singing like violin strings as they give up their dead for Ivan to burn into frostbitten ash. Ivan tears himself away from the spiderweb of trees and voices and tends to his material needs.

    He hears the man’s boots crunching over the snow before he hears him speak.

    “Changeling,” the man says. His hands must be warm under those thick leather gloves. He wears a fur-lined cloak that clings like a shadow to the contours of his figure, moving as supplely as a freshly-dead animal.

    “Ivan Valentinovich, actually,” Ivan says, lazily, tipping his head back to meet the man’s eyes from where he’s sitting cross-legged in the snow. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Matvei Dmitrievich Alexeyev.”

    Matvei’s name had been humming through the branches of the trees long before he’d even started to speak -- he is a brother, a son, a man in thick leather gloves and a fur-lined coat, who starts when he hears Ivan’s response.

    “You know my name?”

    “The forest does.”

    “I do not understand.”

    “Listen closely, Matvei Dmitrievich.”

    Matvei pauses, for a minute -- but he only hears the crackling fire, dead wood burning into frostbitten ash.

    “You offered my sister the truth,” Matvei says, instead. “I would like to know it as well.” He approaches Ivan, crouches at his side like he is approaching a hurt animal, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire that casts Ivan’s eyes in shadow like pale milk and moonshine. Ivan thinks that perhaps he will never know, he will never understand, that Matvei can have his seeing eyes and speaking mouth but he will not feel the waves of steppe grass, feel the drops of water in those overcast clouds, sleep in the torpor of the bears curled up in their underground dens after having been fattened upon the blood and milk and honey of the summer land.

    “I offered your sister a truth. It’s not a race,” Ivan says, simply. “Nothing is, really. I have learned throughout many lives to see -- to listen -- and finally, to speak.”

    “I would like to learn from you,” Matvei says. He stares at the fire instead of the firs, warms his hands under his thick leather gloves.

    “You already know and see your own truth,” Ivan says. He stares at the firs instead of the fire, but his hands stray unwillingly and unwittingly towards the cinders, watching the embers shy away from his fingers. “You simply do not understand them, not entirely.”

    “I would not consider that sight at all, Ivan Valentinovich.”

    “Blindness isn’t a sin. I don’t judge the children who beg for stories and beliefs on the cobblestone paths.”

    “I’m not asking for a moral judgement; I’m asking for your gift.”

    “I work in trades,” Ivan says. “I work in truths.”

    “Tell me, Ivan Valentinovich, what you value. I will find it for you -- I will search the steppe grass, watch over the freezing oceans, hunt the sleeping bears with holy arrows and hawk’s feather.”

    Ivan spreads his arms wide, lets snow fall between his fingertips. “I value what has value to you, Matvei Dmitrievich. In return, I can only show you my world and my truth -- within them, you will still have to discover your own.”

    “What kind of world and truth do you see, Ivan Valentinovich?”

    “They are both as cold as the winter wind.”

---

    Matvei returns the following sunrise with a book of dried flowers, colors staining its dirty pages, dusty leaves leaving a trail that leads the town towards him as surely as a trail of blood leads a hunter towards its prey.

    “This is the truth I have to offer,” Matvei says, presenting the book to Ivan by the light of the steadily-waning fire, by the light of the steadily-waxing dawn. “A collection of dried chrysanthemums -- gifts from my sister, who buys them from peddlers and merchants whenever they pass through the town, and gives them to me. It is a collection of the years gone by -- the colors, the memories, the life that lives within.”

    “Is this the sister that I offered the truth to, Matvei Dmitrievich?”

    “Her name is Olga Dmitrievna.”

    “She is a nice girl,” Ivan says, “who offered me petals of the same flower.” He takes the book delicately in his hands, watches his fingers of white frost creep over the leather binding, cracks it open in a heavy puff of pollen, lets snow settle into the creases between heavy folios of aged paper. Red and white chrysanthemums stare at him from between the pages. There is no water left in them for Ivan’s touch to freeze.

    “She is,” Matvei agrees. “You’ve met her -- you would know.”

    “You are giving me her life, Matvei Dmitrievich?”

    “A portion of it -- a reflection of it. Something that is part of her, but something that she is not part of anymore.”

    “A fair distinction to make.”

    “A truth, then, Ivan Valentinovich?”

    There is a silence. Ivan flips through the pages of the book, deliberately, like he’s trying to absorb the colors on each page with only his eyes. Matvei listens to the crackling fire, dead wood burning into frostbitten ash, before Ivan finally speaks.

    “Look at the sky,” Ivan says, raising his head to stare off at the distant stars. “Trace the constellations -- the Hunters, the Fish, the hundreds of spirits that haunt the heavens above us. They tell stories with more meaning than that which I told your sister.”

    Matvei follows Ivan’s gaze, but he only sees the black expanse of a starless night, the void of a new moon. He doesn’t reply.

    “Learn to recognize the patterns,” Ivan says, with finality. “Then, you will begin to see.”

    Matvei leaves Ivan with a book of dried flowers and watches him drain their colors with the sheer intensity of his gaze. He hugs his coat tightly around himself, allowing it to cling like a shadow to the contours of his figure, and trudges back into the snow, following his hunter’s-trail of dried leaves back to the town where he came from, staring up at the black sky that covers the earth like a funeral shroud.

---

    “I have looked,” Matvei says. His coat absorbs the cool, silvery glow of the waxing night; his eyes glimmer in the light of the waning fire. “But it is not enough. I have returned with a question, and another trade, if you are willing to accept it, Ivan Valentinovich.”

    “I always am,” Ivan replies. The book of chrysanthemums is carefully put out of reach of the flaring cinders. There is no color in his dark eyes and his dark hair, plated in the caress of silver that makes him look like a creature that’d  somehow managed to escape from the grasp of the earth that supports him. “Ask, Matvei.”

    “I see the sky for what it is,” Matvei begins, carefully, tracing the lines connecting the stars with a clinical gaze. “The Hunter chases the Scorpion across the ethereal unreality of space; the Zodiac circles endlessly, month after month, a wheel of fortune that never ceases to spin onwards; the Eagle aids the Waterbearer with wing and with talon on their journeys into the heavens. I see the colors, the memories of worlds and lives that are not my own, but I have already given my own colors to you. Why is this, Ivan Valentinovich?”

    “A truth does not always have to be given away, Matvei,” Ivan says. “Just because something is taught does not mean that it is irreversibly lost from its original student.”

    “You still have no color in your eyes or your hair, though,” Matvei observes. “Was my truth really a shared experience, then?”

    “I am the winter,” Ivan says, simply. “I can only learn as much as the winter allows me to. I exist, with or without the memories, the life, the red blood that runs through humanity.”

    “Tell me, Ivan Valentinovich, what you have learned from our trade.”

    “I learned that chrysanthemums are a very pretty flower.” The corners of Ivan’s mouth quirk upwards, like he’s trying to hide a smile.

    “The next time the peddlers come through town, then, I will bring them to you -- in more colors than just red and white. You’ve surely seen more blood on fresh snow than any man rightly needs to see within a single lifetime, Ivan Valentinovich.”

     “Life is a constant -- as I have become.”

    “All mortal men would wish to claim the same.”

    “Well, that’s a shared truth between the two of us.”

    “You deal in trades, you deal in truths,” Matvei echoes. “But now, I wish for a truth that neither of us have sought to recognize yet, Ivan Valentinovich.”

    Ivan watches as Matvei pulls out a bundle wrapped in white cloth, before he sits down next to him in the winter frost, crossing his legs neatly, his back straight, a primary-school student at the beckon of their strict teacher. He unravels the package carefully and reveals a loaf of bread. There are lumps where it should be smooth, boils where there should be hard crust, three slashes across the top that’d parted irregularly to reveal a broken, crumbling interior.

    “Bread,” Matvei says. “I will break it with you. This is my truth.”

    “I do not understand, Matvei.”

    “I am offering you the vulnerability of a first attempt, the promise of company, a hand extended outwards and inwards to the winter snow. I offered you the shadow of the colors in Olga Dmitrievna’s life, and now I offer you the presence of mine.”

    “You are offering me bread.”

    “I am offering you bread, broken by a friend.”

    “The winter will not protect you, Matvei Dmitrievich,” Ivan says, warningly.

    “I seek no protection.”

    “I have no control over the sleet that freezes the steppe grass, the ice floes that sink the greatest of ships, the frost that kills sleeping bears and watches the world grow white around it. I am no blizzard, stepping around the figure you cut in the winter haze; I am the cloud that brings it.”

    “I have called upon you nonetheless, wishing to see a world and a truth as cold as the winter wind. I have brought my coat, you have brought your fire, and we will outlast each other.”

    “Then listen to the forest, Matvei. Run alongside the elk, drink from the rivers that gave it life, allow the earth to provide for you as you have provided for me. Watch the stars, and they will turn for you. Allow yourself the space to see, to listen, and finally, to speak. A truth will come to you immediately -- a truth will come to you in time. Neither is more important than the other.”

    Matvei breaks bread, and the storm falls silent around them.

---

    “I have listened,” Matvei announces. His hands are sticky with the blood of a successful hunt; they are no longer reddened, but Ivan can feel the electricity crackling in the air, like Matvei’s life had been inexorably intertwined with the life of something both greater and lesser than he is, that’d occupied an entirely unique place in the world and still managed to pull Matvei towards it like an inexplicable gravitational force.

    “What have you heard, Matvei?”

    “I heard the calls of hawks -- the whisper of the steppe grass, the crashing of waves against a beach, the gentle breathing of animals, nestled in dens far away from the rush of human life. I hunted with arrows fletched with hawk’s feather, I watched sunrise and moonrise over the mountains, I returned lifeblood to the earth and shared lifeblood with those that I love. I see the winter wind cutting through the spring, bringing both death and life to the men that grasp at its heels. I see roots twining together between the stars and the skies, lines between my hands and my heart and the trees that grow thick around the town. Tell me, Ivan, is this the truth I was meant to see?”

    “There is no deception in what you describe.”

    “And did my bread provide a truth, as well?”

    “Company is comforting,” Ivan says, instead. He smiles. “But you have still returned.”

    “I merely spoke of the truth that came to me immediately. I offer one more gift -- for the truth that comes in time.”

    “I work in trades,” Ivan replies. “I work in truths.”

    “Take my coat,” Matvei says, decisively, shedding his pelt like an insect sheds its skin. He holds it over the fire and it slumps as supplely as a freshly-dead animal; Matvei cuts a rift through the funeral shroud of winter darkness with his sheer presence alone. “It is protection; it is warmth; it is a line between my hand and my heart. I no longer need a shield against what I used to fear.”

    Ivan laughs, and the fire glows like the sun.

    “Then take mine in return, Matvei,” Ivan says. He casts off his own coat and holds it over the fire and it’s as stiff as a cutting board; Ivan wraps the funeral shroud of winter darkness around him like a man condemned to life. “The fairest of trades -- a shield for a shield.”

    They exchange hands. Matvei puts on Ivan’s coat and it brings with it the frost of winter, the cutting divide of ice, sleet laced between its thin lining and its thicker outer layers. Snowflakes fall heavy on his collar, like an inexplicable gravitational force is somehow drawing them there, but he does not feel the bite of the cold.

    “The truth, Ivan?”

    “Wear my coat for a week,” Ivan promises. “Feel the winter’s chill, and tell me whether spring is on the horizon.”

    “I will not return without an answer.”

---

    “Tell me,” Ivan asks. He is the first to speak, for once, having already heard the man’s boots crunching through the snow. “What did you see, Matvei?”

    “I saw many things,” Matvei begins, slowly, “and I still do.” He closes his eyes, but Ivan steadies him. “I see snowflakes, falling from an overcast sky; I see a door being slammed open by a sudden cold draft; snow drifting through the cracks of open windows; icicles forming and falling from the heavy eaves of buildings. I see the steppe grass that buried you and the steppe grass that birthed you, the clouds rising from their liquid sleep into their liquid sky, the torpor of the bears nesting in their dens after having been fattened on the blood and milk and honey of the earth of the summer land that you have so disdainfully been rejected from. I see the warmth of fire, having been coaxed to life by a man who was whispered to by the seasons, who was gifted with a world and a truth as cold as the winter wind.”

    “Tell me more.”

    “I finally see you,” Matvei whispers.

    The fallen branches around them sing their names, violin strings in an empty concert hall. Ivan Valentinovich, born of ice, smiles like a summer’s breeze.

    “Is this your truth, Matvei?”

    “There is no deception in what I describe.”

    “I can offer you no truth of my own that you have not already heard.”

    “You don’t have to,” Matvei says, firmly. “I know what is true to me.”

    Matvei takes Ivan’s hand and leads him out of the snow-laden woods, away from the dying campfire that’d shied away from Ivan’s fingers, under the gaze of the Hunter as it chases the Scorpion across the ethereal unreality of space. The lifeblood of the earth thrums underneath their feet; the darkness of the forest clings to their coats; the bright moonlight wreathes their faces in its heavenly breath. There is color there, twining around them like starlight, red and white chrysanthemums blooming where their fingertips meet. There is memory there, hovering on the edges of their consciousnesses, like their lives had been inexorably intertwined with each other, neither one greater nor lesser, each of which had occupied an entirely unique place in the world and had pulled themselves towards each other like they were drawn together by an inexplicable gravitational force.

    Household lights gleam in the distance. Under the moonlight, Ivan Valentinovich closes his eyes, allows Matvei Dmitrievich to lead him away from the winter, follows Matvei Dmitrievich into the spring, thinks that this is truth, this is life, this is --

[bladengineer]

a loud house

Title: a loud house

Characters: Blitzkrieg Boys + Sasha Alexeyev (OC)

Word Count: 1558

Summary: Snippets of the Alexeyev Household – the home of teenage disasters, petty arguments, russian yelling and boisterous laughter all in-between.

It was almost ironic how time seemed to slow down when disaster was about to happen – infuriatingly more so, when you can’t prevent the said disaster in time. So, with a painful sounding thump!, Bryan slid another few inches forward on his belly over the wooden floorboards, arms outstretched as the expensive looking ming vase shattered into, what he felt like, a million of pieces. He could even feel the impact on his very finger tips, it made him both angry and irritated because oh fuck, that particular vase was Boss Lady’s favourite.

They’re so dead.

“We’re so dead,” he muttered horrified, wide eyes still glued to the pathetic heap of shards in front of him. Behind him, Spencer made a sound between a terrified squeak and pained groan. The two teenage boys proceeded to look at each other with various levels of fear and Bryan was sure, Spencer’s face journeyed through the entire stages of grief in a span of 10 seconds. He would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so hellbent on trying to convince himself that all of this was a fucked up nightmare – Boss Lady will ground their asses well into the next century.

“What was that sound?”

Speaking of the devil. They had to act quick if they wanted to keep their generous outdoor life privileges, so Bryan quickly heaved himself onto his knees and hastily tried to scrape the shards together, mindful of the sharp edges. He threw a panicked look over his shoulder.

“C’mon Spence! Help me, it was your fault anyway!”

To his confusion however, instead of helping him, Spencer’s face went somber as the telltale sound of footsteps ascending the nearby stairs rang through the house. Slowly, Spencer backed away from Bryan, regret in his eyes as he shook his head. Bryan gaped at him.

“Spencer. Don’t you dare–”

The blond stood within his room he shared with Ian, slowly closing his door, face hard.

“Long live the king, Bryan.”

“Spencer, I swear– did you just quote The Lion King at me?!” Bryan hissed, “Spence– Spencer, get your ass–”

The door clicked close and he could only stare at the door in absolute disbelief – betrayed, in cold blood, by his very own brethren. Was this how heartbreak felt like? He couldn’t mull over it too much when a shadow fell over him. Bryan cringed.

“Is that my favourite vase?”

Oh man, and he was really looking forward to that Friday Sale at the local Arts & Crafts Store.

Sasha lifted off the rattling pot lid, mindful of the hot steam emerging from underneath. She took a good whiff, smiling contently at the pleasant smell of food. Swiftly, she picked up the ladle she had put aside previously, stirring the contents in the pot. Attempting a taste, Sasha scooped some of the curry out of the pot, free hand clawing at the countertop next to her. After coming up empty, she furrowed her brows, finally looking away from the pot.

“Huh,” she mumbled. Weird, she was sure she left the fork from before right there. Shrugging, she turned down the heat, checked the rice cooker and then opened the drawer where she put all her cutlery. There, she fished out another fork, only to blink, stunned, again.

Where did her wire whip go? She could’ve sworn it wasn’t missing before, she didn’t even use it today. Now suspicious, she pierced a potato within the curry, blowing on it to dispel some of the heat before eating it. Deeming the curry ready, she went on to get the plates. To her surprise, when she opened the plate cabinet, she was greeted by the sight of the electric hand mixer.

“What on earth–” Sasha muttered, taking the utensil out of it’s wrong spot, only to notice how much lighter it felt than normal. Then, as if on cue, one of the surrounding plastic shells dropped from its unscrewed position, allowing Sasha to discover that the entire motor was missing inside.

A beat of silence. Then, she turned her gaze towards the ceiling.

“IAN!”

Snickering, Bryan took in Tala’s dismayed look and the split lip the other was sporting. Meanwhile, Sasha was busy brewing tea and fussing at the same time.

“I can’t believe you punched that kid at the festival!”

Tala grunted, “He deserved it.”

The woman gave him an unimpressed look.

“Well,” Bryan drawled, “the guy did try to kiss Astrid without her permission, he had it coming.”

“He deserved more than a punch,” Tala grumbled further, leaning his head back against the couch. The Alexeyevs had decided to visit the local festival for a fun day and a chance to meet up with one of Sasha’s former daughters Astrid Rundström, a sweet but incredibly shy young scandinavian woman, who had left the household to attend her scholarship at a prestigious art school abroad. She had been the first ‘sibling’ the boys had met, and though the woman towered over almost half of them, her personality was meek but kind. And despite initially low-key teasing her constantly how her looks didn't match her character, Tala had taken an incredibly protective stance on her – sure, the other boys did too, Ian was even ready to deck the guy at the festival after Astrid had broken into a fit of anxious tears, but Tala had always been the one to fend off unwanted attention.

“So you just break a guy’s nose?” Sasha’s voice brought him back from his reverie.

“He also lost a tooth,” Bryan informed unhelpfully her, which earned him a scornful glare from Tala. Realising his mistake, Bryan shrugged as if to say ‘my bad’ and ducked out of the living room, back outside.

The traitor.

Tala heard Sasha sigh and he watched how she craned her neck to look out of the window – no doubt trying to see if the others were still outside. Spencer and Ian had taken up the task to calm Astrid down, the youngest pelting a joining Bryan with snowballs in an effort to make Astrid smile again. The redhead prepared himself for a long lecture, when a small bag of special festival-only dried chocolate-covered strawberries was shoved under his nose. he looked up to see Sasha grinning down at him.

“Don’t tell your siblings, Pretty One,” she said, winking, “good job on that jerk.”

Tala snorted, taking the bag and opening it eagerly – he had a taste of them before and they were absolutely delicious.

“You’re so full of shit, Babushka.”

He got another bag from Astrid later, who smiled down at him serenely.

“Bryan, you absolute piece of shit!”

Tala’s screech greeted the entire family seated at the table in the morning as he came thundering down the stairs. Sasha, halfway through her usual morning tea, immediately looked up, appalled and ready to rip her second eldest a new one. That was, until she saw his face.

“Ay, Pretty One, what happened to your face?” she blurted out, causing the rest to finally turn around. Ian snorted into his cereal, immediately cackling loudly as he pointed at Tala, whose usual clear skin was now mottled with what looked like green paint. Spencer avoided eye contact altogether in favour of trying to conceal his twitching lips. Bryan, however, unabashedly grinned at Tala’s misfortune while taking a huge bite out of his peanut butter-strawberry jam toast. Icy blue eyes immediately zeroed in on him.

“You,” Tala hissed, “you did this!”

Bryan only shrugged, finishing his toast.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, Red, but I hope that teaches you not spill nice on other people’s sketch books.”

“Oddly specific for someone who doesn’t know what’s going on,” Spencer muttered behind his mug before taking a gulp. Sasha put her hands on her hips, ready for a lecture but Tala interrupted her as he leaned forward, glaring at Bryan with such ferocity, the other actually started sweating a little.

“I shall piss on everything you love,” he threatened and Bryan would’ve laughed if he didn’t know what Tala was truly capable of. Ian sniggered again.

“Kinky,”

Spencer choked on his drink.

“IAN!”

“Guys, this is a bad idea.” “Spence, you always think it’s a bad idea.”

“Yeah, because that shit usually blows up.” “Hey, you gotta sacrifice some things for innovation!”

“Well, your innovations always catch fire, Ian.”

“Uh, no they don’t.”

“The automatic potato peeler.”

“Self-serving coffee pot.”

“Automatic can opener slash jellybeans dispenser.”

“Oh god, that one was a mess.”

“You guys are all shitheads, you know that, right?”

“Shut up, pipsqueak, and fire it up.” “Don’t tell me what to do, Bryan!”

“10 bucks says it’s gonna blow up.”

“You’re on, Red!”

“Oh, fuck off, guys.”

“If you ain’t moving, I’ll do it myself then.”

“I– wait, Bryan, no! That– ouch! That is very sensitive, you can’t just–!”

“Eh, what could go wrong?”

“I really hate when you say that.”

“Zip it Spencer. Bryan, turn...whatever that is on.”

Sasha sat at her desk in her workshop, sketching up a new watch design, when a sudden explosion shook her room. Not a minute later, a barrage of angry russian floated through her open window, followed by roaring laughter. She shook her head, chuckling slightly.

My, what a handful they are.

She left her seat, sticking her head out of the window.

“Boys!”

[greatwar-1914]

December 10, 1917 - Russian Civil War Begins as Bolsheviks Declare War on Don Cossacks

Pictured - The Don and Kuban Cossacks were some of the Bolsheviks’ earliest opponents. Lenin referred to the Don as the “Soviet Vendée.”

Lenin and the Bolsheviks were almost out of one war, but dead-set on starting a new one. Peace with the Central Powers meant that their real objective of creating dictatorship of the proletariat could begin. This meant elimination of the bourgeoisie and the collectivization of farmland. It also meant war with those who opposed the new regime. Around the fringes of European Russia were many groups who opposed Bolshevik rule. Among the staunchest opponents were the Cossacks in the south, an independent-minded people who refused to give up their land and the many privileges they had enjoyed under the Tsars. In December Lenin declared war on the Don Cossack host. By the end of the month, the Kuban Cossacks had also joined the anti-Bolshevik opposition, cooperating with counter-revolutionary officers led by Generals Kornilov and Alexeyev. The Russian Civil War had begun in earnest. It would be even bloodier than Russia’s participation in the World War. From day one it divided families; many young Cossack soldiers returning from the front sided with the Bolsheviks, while their elders resisted them.

[today-in-wwi]

Alexeyev Attempts to Organize First “White” Forces

November 15 1917, Novocherkassk--The Bolsheviks were swiftly consolidating their hold on what parts of Russia they could.  Kerensky’s attempt to retake Petrograd had been rebuffed, and he was now in hiding.  On November 15, the Bolsheviks secured the Kremlin after a week of on-and-off fighting, cementing their hold on Moscow.  They had also by this point secured Smolensk, Tashkent, and other major cities.  For the most part, however, as in Petrograd, life continued as normal.  On the other hand, many officers viewed the rise of the Bolsheviks as an existential threat, and some of them began to organize against them.

The chief anti-Bolshevik figure at this time was General Alexeyev, who had effectively been the head of the Russian military from September 1915 to May 1917.  Although in poor health, he was committed in his opposition to the Bolsheviks, and in November began to explore options for active resistance against them.  On November 15, he arrived in Novocherkassk, home of the Don Cossacks, hoping (as had Kerensky) that they could be relied upon to fight the Bolsheviks.  He was to be disappointed by his first meeting with the Cossack General Kaledin, however, who told him that his men, like the rest of the Russian Army, were tired of years of fighting and just wanted to return to their families.  Kaledin refused to help Alexeyev, and cautioned him to keep a low profile.  Undeterred, Alexeyev began reaching out to Stavka and as many officers as he could, in an attempt to form a nucleus of opposition to the Soviets.  

This effort would eventually result in the Volunteer Army, the first organized force of Whites (as opposed to the Bolshevik ‘Reds’).  Most of those who heeded Alexeyev’s call were officers; enlisted men (even among the Cossacks) were not responsive.  Furthermore, many officers would join the Reds--most notably, Brusilov, who was wounded in the November fighting in Moscow but still went on to serve the Red Army.

Today in 1916: Allied Conferences at Paris and Chantilly  Today in 1915: Persian Shah Decides Not to Side with Germany Today in 1914: Russians Call Off Invasion of Germany

[autodidact-adventures]

World War I (Part 37): The Rest of 1915

A series of meetings was held in France over July-August, to decide what should be done next on the Western Front.  The first meeting was at Calais on July 6th, and those attending included Asquith, and the French War Minister Alexander Millerand.

Joffre presented his plans for an autumn offensive.  Kitchener was very much against it (he was almost scornful), and so was the new First Lord of the Admiralty, Arthur Balfour (who was also a former prime minister). The next day, Kitchener and the civilians had left, and Joffre & JF met at Chantilly.  They agreed that Joffre's plans should go ahead anyway.

A larger meeting was held on July 17th.  At this one, Douglas Haig objected to Joffre's plans.  He'd examined the ground where the offensive was to be carried out by his army, and now he stated that it was too open – his troops would be too exposed.  Also, he didn't have enough artillery.  Joffre didn't listen, though.

In mid-August, Kitchener was at the last of these meetings (and that's when he heard about the recent failure at Gallipoli).  He was there not only to sort out details of the western offensive, but also because things were getting even worse in the east.

Eastern Front

For generations, Russia had forced most of its Jewish population to live in eastern Poland, in ghettos and shtetls (small Jewish towns).  They were mostly prevented from becoming farmers, or entering academic professions.

In late 1914, Russia had driven over 500,000 of them from their homes, claiming it was for security concerns.  Many died in the harsh winter.  In early 1915, Cossacks drove another 800,000 from their homes in Poland, Lithuania, and Russia's Courland region.  Often, they weren't even allowed to take whatever possessions they could carry or take by cart.

General Nikolai Yanushkevich directed Russia's final military withdrawal from Poland. The tsar had forced Grand Duke Nicholas to accept him as his chief of staff early in the war, and he was a protégé of the corrupt War Minister Vladimir Sukhomlinov (who himself was one of the tsar's favourites).

In Poland, Yanushkevich adopted a “scorched-earth policy”.  All inhabitants (Jewish or not) were put to flight.  Many died from starvation and disease (cholera, typhoid & typhus); the total death toll is unknown.  Food stores were destroyed; machinery was taken eastwards on wagons & railcars.  Four million cattle were killed, which led to a meat shortage that would last longer than the war did.

Not long after capturing Warsaw, Germany took Novo Georgievsk, a fortress city. They took 90,00 soldiers POW (including 30 generals) and captured 700 guns.  Only days later, they took Kovno (an equally important city), and another 1,300 guns.

By now, they'd taken over 700,000 Russian POWs, and the Austrians nearly as many. They were still marching eastwards, and the Petrograd government was in a high state of alarm.  They issued a decree saying that the families of POWs would receive no government assistance; and soldiers who surrendered would be sent to Siberia after the war.

Reports of what was happening were beginning to arrive in the west.  General Sir Henry Wilson was the British officer closest to the French high command.  He was a very good manipulator, and he found ways to use the eastern disasters to help his French friends.  He warned London that if they didn't fully support France's next offensive, then that could lead to Joffre & Millerand losing their positions, and to France making a separate peace.

So Kitchener told Hamilton that he shouldn't expect any more troops to be sent to Gallipoli.  He ordered the BEF to completely support Joffre's offensive, “even though, by doing so, we suffer very heavy losses indeed.”  Kitchener expressed no hope that the offensive would actually succeed – for him, the point was to keep the Entente together.

In the last days of August, the tsar removed Grand Duke Nicholas from his position as head of the Russian armies.  He put himself in that position instead, to the horror of his ministers.  He explained to the Grand Duke in a letter that he believed it was his “duty to the country which God has committed to my keeping” to “share the burdens and toils of war with my army and help it protect Russian soil against the onslaught of the foe.”  The Duke was relieved when he heard the news, saying, “God be praised.  The Emperor releases me from a task which was wearing me out.”

This was the last of a number of command changes that the tsar had made that summer (and the worst one).  War Minister Vladimir Sukhomlinov had gone too far with his corruption – for example, when the army's chief of artillery begged him for shells, telling him that Russia would have to make peace otherwise, Sukhomlinov told him to “go to the devil and shut up.”  In late June, the tsar finally realized that he would have to go, and replaced him with Alexei Polivanov, a capable and energetic general.

Polivanov immediately began a program of reforms – he made major improvements to the supply system; he formed committees to take responsibility for food, munitions, transport, fuel and refugees; he was willing to work with Russia's national assembly, the Duma.

The tsar made other command changes as well, and almost everyone was glad of them, except Tsarina Alexandra, his wife.  She believed that the tsar should become more autocratic in response to Russia's problems – that it was the only solution to them.  Many ministers begged the tsar not to become commander in chief, but she persuaded him to ignore them, and later wrote, “You are about to write a glorious page in the history of your reign and and Russia.”  The way she saw it, the ministers had questioned not only his decision, but his authority as an autocrat; they were enemies of the crown and should be dismissed.

Tsar Nicholas explained his decision in a letter to Paléologue: “Perhaps a scapegoat is needed to save Russia.  I mean to be the victim.  May the will of God be done.”  What he didn't think of, though, was that by being so far from the capital, the increasingly widespread belief that the government was really controlled by the tsarina & Rasputin would grow even more.

The British & French were pleased by the tsar's decision – they saw it as evidence that he was committed to the war.  They were also pleased with the man he'd chosen as his chief of staff – General Mikhail Alexeyev, an experienced commander & strategist.  The Germans, too, were glad of the tsar's new role, because they'd come to respect the Grand Duke's abilities in that position.

Russia abandoned the cities of Brest-Litovk and Bialystok, and by early September they'd withdrawn to the Pripet Marshes, a remote region which was treacherous and mostly uncharted.  Falkenhayn refused to follow them there, and ordered all eastern commanders to stop offensive operations.  He then began preparing to move several army corps back to the Western Front, and to conquer Serbia.  But Conrad & Ludendorff ignored his instructions.  Later, they would claim they had misunderstood him.

On August 31st, Conrad had began an offensive that would encircle 25 Russian divisions, and then drive them eastwards into Ukraine.  It began well, but then went downhill.  One of the Austrian armies captured the city of Lutsk, but then was taken in the flank by a Russian force that had hidden itself in marshland grasses.  Further disasters followed.  Eventually, Falkenhayn had to take two of the divisions that were preparing to invade Serbia, and send them to help.  During September, Conrad lost 300,000 men.

Meanwhile, Ludendorff was continuing his Courland campaign.  His troops captured Vilna (the capital of Lithuania), and the Petrograd government panicked and began preparing for flight.  But the Germans had taken 50,000 casualties in capturing Vilna, and so Ludendorff decided not to advance on the Russian city of Riga.  He halted the campaign, and settled down to organize & administer his conquests for the winter.

Cracks were appearing in the Hindenburg-Hoffmann-Ludendorff alliance.  Max Hoffmann was one of the best generals on either side, and he was now incredibly frustrated with the state of things.  He blamed Falkenhayn for failing to keep going in the east.  But he also was angry at Ludendorff for attacking too directly at Vilna, and thereby suffering so many casualties.

Hoffmann was contemptuous of Hindenburg, believing him to be passive and nothing more than a figurehead.  He wrote, “On the whole Hindeburg no longer bothers himself with military matters.  He hunts a good deal and otherwise comes for five minutes in the morning and evening to see how things are going.  He no longer has the slightest interest in military matters.”  Another general on Ludendorff's staff said that, “Hindenburg himself is becoming a mere stooge.”  Hindenburg was spending a lot of time having portraits of himself painted, and writing to his wife.

Later in the year, Ludendorff & Falkenhayn met at Kovno, to join the kaiser's ceremonial celebration of their victories.  Falkenhayn asked, “Now are you convinced that my operation was correct?”  Ludendorff replied, “On the contrary!”  Russia hadn't surrendered, or sued for peace – they were, as before, merely being pushed eastwards. Falkenhayn was heard to say that he would need to court-martial Ludendorff when the war ended.

Western Front

Joffre's autumn offensive began on September 25th.  It actually consisted of three distinct offensives.  One of them was the Second Battle of Champagne, in France's Champagne region west of Verdun, against the southern part of the original German line.  There were 27 French divisions with 900 heavy guns and 1,600 light guns (Joffre had stripped these guns from the border fortresses), against 7 German divisions which were stretched thinly across 58km of front.

The Third Battle of Artois was in the same place as the last Artois offensive.  Here, Ferdinand Foch commanded 17 French divisions.  The German line ran north-south, and had only 2 divisions.

The third offensive was a bit north of Artois, at Loos.  Here, there were 6 British divisions against only one German division.  It was part of the Third Battle of Artois.

Basically, this (Artois + Loos) was the spring offensive on a much larger scale.  The goal was to cut off the Noyon salient, break the railway connecting the two ends of the German front, and force a general withdrawal.

But back in the spring, the Germans had shown that they could defend very well even when greatly outnumbered.  During the summer, they'd been setting up new lines far to the rear, beyond the reach of the Entente artillery. They'd connected these lines with perpendicular trenches and tunnels.  They were well-equipped with heavy artillery, and – very importantly – very good at using it.  The Germans were learning to position their machine guns to neutralize any enemy attackers who had survived the artillery.

The British weren't very optimistic about Joffre's offensive, and that was partially why.  Kitchener had insisted on full British participation, even though he didn't believe it would succeed.  Part of his reason for doing so was that there was talk of putting all Entente forces under a single commander, and if he didn't co-operate, he worried that he wouldn't be given that job.

JF was usually eager to attack, but he wasn't in this case.  He warned that he had less than 1/3 the number of divisions needed for victory, and that the ground they were going to advance over had far too little cover. But he didn't complain too much, also for political reasons – JF believed thast it was only Joffre & Foch's support that was stopping the London government from removing him from command, so he had to support this offensive.

General Sir Henry Rawlinson was the commander of the corps that would lead the British attack.  Before it began, he said that “it will cost us dearly, and we will not get very far.”  Pétain was in direct charge of the Champagne offensive, and his attitude was much the same.

Strangely, Douglas Haig was the only optimist, even though he'd initially been against it.  His opposition had been because the BEF would only have 117 heavy guns to prepare their advance on a 8km-wide front (the Champagne offensive, in comparison, would have over twice that many per mile of front), and the lack of protective cover.  But then it was decided to precede the offensive with a release of chlorine gas, and he was much happier about it all.  In fact, he was so encouraged by this decision that he had tower built, from which he would observe his troops attacking the German defenses.  (This would be the first time the British used poison gas during WW1.)

Before the battle began, King George V visited the BEF headquarters, and borrowed a general's horse to review the troops.  According to a corporal in the Sherwood Foresters regiment, this is what happened:

“The King rode along the first three or four ranks, then crossed the road to the other three or four ranks on the other side, speaking to an officer here and there.  Our instructions had been that at the conclusion of the parade we were to put our caps on the points of our fixed bayonets and wave and cheer.  So that's what we did – 'Hip, hip, hooray.'  Well, the King's horse reared and he fell off.  He just seemed to slide off and so of course the second 'Hip, hip' fizzled out.  It was quite a fiasco and you should have seen the confusion as these other high-ranking officials rushed to dismount and go to the King's assistance.  They got him up and the last we saw of him he was being hurriedly driven away.”

The Third Battle of Artois began in the French sectors with four days and nights of shelling.  This destroyed the Germans' first line, and many of the troops in it; however, it also told them that something big was coming.  When the attack began on the morning of September 25th, it went smoothly at first for the French.

But in the British sector, the winds were uncertain, and Haig wasn't sure if he should release the chlorine gas or not.  Meanwhile, the troops were in the front-line trenches, and being given all the rum they could drink, while waiting for the order to advance.  At 5:15am, the winds finally seemed right, so Haig approved the gas release, and climbed into his tower.  But the wind soon shifted backwards, thus bringing the gas back to the British.  Once it had dissipated, those who still could began to advance.  Soon, they were making rapid progress.

But then things started to go wrong all over the place.  Over in Champagne, the French had destroyed the German first line, and advanced through it, reaching the second line much sooner than they'd expected – and this success was not to their advantage.  They entered the trenches just as an artillery barrage from their own side attacked them – it was supposed to clear the way for them before they got there.  The survivors had to retreat.  By the time they could resume the attack, German reserves had come forward.  They had many machine guns with them, and quickly recaptured what the French had had to give up.

These reserves included two of the corps that Falkenhayn had recently sent to the west.  Falkenhayn himself was on the scene, because he was so worried about Germany's weakness there, and he helped keep the defenses intact.

Earlier, when the French had been rapidly advancing, he'd arrived at the German 3rd Army headquarters, where the chief of staff was preparing to order a retreat.  Falkenhayn sacked him, and ordered that the troops hold their ground at all costs while waiting for the reinforcements that he knew were going to arrive soon.

At Artois, the French captured the crest of Vimy Ridge for the second time – but yet again, only briefly.  An intact German second line stopped them, and eventually drove them back.

At the beginning of the offensive, Joffre had regarded the Champagne battle as the important one, and the Artois battle as relatively unimportant.  The British attack at Loos was intended only as support for the French at Artois.  But now, he began to be manipulative.  He now wanted to end the Artois attack, because it had no chance of getting anywhere.  So he stopped it, but pretended to the British that he hadn't.  Now the British were fighting alone at Loos.

They did well at first, passing easily through the first German line, which had been wrecked.  They also broke through the second German line (although taking heavy losses).  Ahead was open ground, and they could push forward into open country like they'd been wanting to do for ages – but.  They needed reserves for that, and there were two problems.  1) JF had placed the BEF's general reserves too far to the rear (as much as 16km back).  2) Haig hadn't held part of his army back in reserve, which was the usual military practice.

It took many hours to get the general reserve to the front lines.  And by then, the Germans had filled the hole, and were attacking the British with machine guns.  The British attacked again, but it was a slaughter – 7,861 British troops & 385 officers were killed, while German casualties were zero.  When the British finally withdrew, the Germans let them go.  A later German history of the battle would record that the machine-gunners were “nauseated by the sight of the massacre of the field of corpses.”

A British soldier wrote, “Coming back over the ground that had been captured that day, the sight that met our eyes was quite unbelievable.  If you can imagine a flock of sheep lying down sleeping in a field, the bodies were as thick as that.  Some of them were still alive, and they were crying out, begging for water and plucking at our legs as we went by. One hefty chap grabbed me around both knees and held me.  'Water, water,' he cried.  I was just going to take the cork out of my water bottle – I had a little left – but I was immediately hustled on by the man behind me.  'Get on, get on, we are going to get lost in no man's land, come on.'  So it was a case where compassion had to give way to discipline and I had to break away.'

Joffre ordered the Champagne fighting to continue, and it did so until November. Eventually, Pétain simply ignored the orders to continue.  The Second Battle of Champagne had 143,000 French casualties, and 85,000 German casualties (including 20,000 POWs).

At Artois & Loos, the British took 61,000 casualties (including 2 generals and 28 battalion commanders), the Germans 56,000, and the French 48,000.

Joffre told the Paris newspapers that the German losses had been far greater than the French (which wasn't really true), and that the campaign had been a great success.  In reality, the Germans had stopped the Entente from achieving anything, and inflicted huge losses on them, despite being hugely outnumbered.  Also, it was now obvious that the Entente couldn't spare any troops for Gallipoli, or other theatres.  Joffre's credibility was further damaged (at least among the insiders who knew what was really happening).  However, he stayed in his position.

JF, on the other hand, did not.  During the Battle of Loos, Haig had complained to his friends that it was JF's incompetence that had prevented victory. Later, he declared that, “If there had been even one division in reserve close up, we could have walked right through.”  Of course, Haig was to blame for this as well.  But JF panicked and falsified the official record of orders issued during the battle.  Haig learned of this, and made sure the King heard of it.  The King then intervened with Asquith, who gave JF the opportunity to resign.  JF realized he had no choice, and agreed.  Haig was promoted to the position (which he'd wanted since before the war began).  JF returned to England, and was made Viscount Ypres.

Serbia

The fighting was winding down on the Western Front, and winter settling in on the Eastern Front.  Attention turned to the Balkans and the Aegean.

During the summer [June-Aug], both sides had been trying to get Bulgaria to join them (much like they had Italy).  And like Italy, Bulgaria's government was basing their choice on whoever could give them the most territory.  Edward Grey had tried to win Bulgaria over by offering them many concessions, but what he couldn't give them was the land that Serbia had taken from Bulgaria in the Second Balkan War (because Britain was Serbia's ally).  In early September, they joined the Central Powers.

Even before Joffre's autumn offensive began, it was obvious that Germany & Bulgaria were preparing to invade Serbia.  If Serbia fell, then the Entente would lose their tiny foothold in south-eastern Europe (taking the Gallipoli failures into account).  Also, Russia would be even more demoralized, and Greece & Romania might join the Central Powers as well.

So Entente troops had to reach Serbia somehow.  This meant Salonika (Thessaloniki), a Greek port that had been a possible alternative to the Dardanelles earlier in the year.

By the end of September, the French had several divisions on the way to Salonika (one division had been removed from Gallipoli).  General Maurice Sarrail commanded them.  He'd been removed from command on the Western Front, but because of his political connections, the government had had to find him another position elsewhere.

Britain didn't want to leave the Balkans to the French, so they sent the 10th Division from Suvla Bay to Salonika.  For a while, they hoped to persuade Russia to send troops as well.  On October 3rd, Foreign Minister Sergei Sazonov said that was impossible – Russia was losing 235,000 men a month on average, and its pre-war professional armies had basically been wiped out.

The British & French troops landed at Salonika on October 5th.  On the 7th, German & Austrian troops (commanded by Mackensen) crossed Serbia's northern border.  On the 9th, two Bulgarian armies arrived from the east.  One pushed the Serbs towards the German/Austrian forces; the other cut the rail lines that connected Salonika to Serbia.  The Serbian army was trapped between two enemy forces, coming from two direction.  They fled towards the sea, and civilians fled with them.

A mass of refugees tried to cross Albania's mountains, and tribal enemies, eager to settle old scores, attacked them.  It was chaos, and a horrific situation.  Serbia lost 250,000 troops.  Only 150,000 managed to reach the Adriatic Coast, and only half of them were fit for further service.  British ships took them to camps on the island of Corfu.

Serbia had fallen. It was the final straw, and the French government fell.  Premier René Viviani was replaced by Aristide Briand.  The Minister of War Alexandre Millerand was replaced by General Joseph Gallieni, who had helped Joffre save Paris in 1914.  Now Joffre was reporting to the man who had been responsible for his getting the Commander-in-Chief position the year before, and whom he'd tried to sideline before & after the Battle of the Marne, due to jealousy.  Joffre's critics hoped that Gallieni would dismiss him, but this didn't happen: instead, Gallieni yet again defended and protected him.

Gallipoli

On October 11th, Kitchener cabled Hamilton, asking him how many troops he thought would be lost in a withdrawal from the Gallipoli beachheads. Hamilton replied that it would probably be at least half of them. Kitchener then removed him from his position as the Gallipoli commander.

Edward Grey promised Greece the island of Crete if they'd join the Entente.  But Greece had been intimidated by the failures at Gallipoli and in Serbia, and declined.

In mid-November, Kitchener travelled to Gallipoli himself to see the situation, and decided that they had to evacuate.  He returned to London, to find that Asquith had reduced his authority even further during his absence.  The committee responsible for war strategy was now reduced to five people, and Kitchener was no longer one of them.  General Sir William Robertson was brought back from France, and appointed chief of the imperial general staff, the new War Committee's chief adviser on military operations, and the channel through which the government's instructions would be sent to the BEF.  Kitchener went to Asquith and offered his resignation, but it was refused – he was still an important propaganda figure.

Winston Churchill wasn't on the committee, either.  Since being fired as First Lord of the Admiralty, his only position was the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster – a meaningless position in which his only responsibility was to appoint county magistrates.  Churchill left the government and entered the army as a Major (although he'd hoped to be made a Brigadier General).  When he arrived on the Western Front, he had with him a servant, a stallion & groom, heaps of luggage, and a bathtub with its own boiler.  A limousine took him to a château, where he would live.  By January, he would be serving on the front as a competent battalion commander.

On November 23rd, the War Committee approved a detailed Gallipoli withdrawal plan, worked out by Hamilton's successor.  The retreat was carried out over the next month, in total secrecy, and was the closest thing to an actual military achievement since the Battle of the Marne.  The Royal Navy worked together with the soldiers on the beaches, getting men away in darkness.  Of course, the more men that were evacuated, the more vulnerable those still remaining were.  On January 7th, 1916, Sanders ordered an attack on the 19,000 British troops still left at Cape Helles.

But the Turks under his command refused to attack.  Even when the officers threatened them, and then shoved & slapped them, they would not move.  Mustafa Kemal wasn't there – his health was wrecked, and he'd been sent away in December.

36hrs after the mutiny, the last Australian troops were evacuated safely.  The Gallipoli Campaign was over, after killing at least 87,000 Turks (the real figure is probably higher).  46,000 Entente troops had died. Total casualties (both sides) were around 500,000.