#And that is a luxury nigh impossible on the train

[chicago-geniza]

Had to buy anti-emetics and drink a quart of Pedialyte at the pharmacy so I didn't throw up on the bus but all things considered I'm increasing my public transportation tolerance, gastrointestinally speaking. I'm not so much agoraphobic from anxiety as from the knowledge that I will eventually vomit and there will not always be a ready or convenient receptacle, especially on a crowded bus

[acornsandoaktrees]

so, Greenwood cats.

(hear me out, hear me out)

Norwegian Forest Cats:

larger and more powerful than most domesticated housecats, they're adapted to colder climates, with very thick and long fur. they take 5 years to fully mature. as the name implies, before domestication they occupied Scandinavian forests

Ocelots:

on all fours adults come up to a human's knees. historically, they were sometimes kept as pets by Aztecs and Incans. they take 2 years to fully mature. they're active at twilight and night, and live solitary. they require dense foliage cover, which often means forests

etymology:

while The Hobbit's Mirkwood is not the only instance of the name, Tolkien has admitted its roots to be in early German, Old English, Old Swedish and Old Norse

the Old Norse word for a domestic cat (tom-cat specifically, but isn't it always) is köttr. in terms of lotr-invented animals, Warg is drawn directly from the Old Norse word for wolf, vargr

(side-note: Teldivo was a giant black cat in Tolkien's early development of lotr, later replaced by Sauron, so the idea of Big Version of Real Animal wasn't lost on him)

and what does this all amount to, you ask?

well, that quite neatly for a fantasy world, Greenwood's forests could feasibly be inhabited by large wild-cats known as Kottur.

(as decided by the author of this post, who has a frightenly loose concept of deriving words from others lol)

and with that said, here's a fun fact about Norse tradition: cats were often given as wedding gifts to brides. this was done to honour Freyja, the goddess of love and fertility, whose chariot was pulled by... Norwegian Forest Cats! who would've guessed

also want to add that -- as i've said before but a while ago -- i don't put much stock in elves marrying. they just... live too long for that kind of monogamous commitment. 'til death do us part' doesn't really carry much weight, does it? however, i am willing to say that some elves choose to 'bond' with one another, sort of entertwining their lives without the rather daunting promise of a singular eternity. and yes, polyamoury and divorce. again, they live too damn long for the expectation of one partner in an entire population to be sensical

so to bring this together, here's my concept:

newly bonded Greenwood elves sometimes gift their partners a Kottur kitten, not to be luxuriously treasured pets but to act as hunting companions and protectors. considering Silvans' deep bond with nature, it's plausible, no?

(kittens only, because once Kottur start hitting maturity it becomes nigh impossible to train them)

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Work in progress Wednesday, the dreaded ‘steampunk vampires’, and the things I had to google for the short transition, like plotting a reasonable route to get to London from ‘nothingwhere’ somewhere in the south of Crimea, or ‘what would be a colloquial name for morphine in 1910-20s’, or ‘what high class hotels were in 1920 in Copenhagen’, or ‘remember, it’s Constantinople, not Istanbul, in 1920′. Well, barely anything happens, but a wedding is mentioned. Also, mostly unedited.

*

The drive to Odessa takes well over a day, and to Jack's utmost satisfaction Gabriel has to forgo his wide-rimmed hat for the time as it turns out to be anything but aerodynamic. He doesn't ask about the Andalusian, sure it will find its way to the owner when needed. Then the situation gets turned back on Jack when his credit line at the bank is refused due to his lack of perceived regality until Gabriel vouches for him as his ward, which he, in the legal sense, probably is. He wouldn't put it past father to do so, the miserable fuck.

Only in the cabin of the ship bound for Constantinople, Jack lets himself rest, with a little help from Miss Emma for the insomnia and his shoulder, painful and contrary now after the stretch behind the steering wheel over the dirt roads and fallows. He dreams of the ghosts of Bosporus pulling him down into the depths of the strait and of teeth in his neck - the afterimages last until hours past the boarding of the train, the automobile sent back separately via the sea route. The days slip by in a flurry of indifferent phantasms punctuated by mostly polite non-conversations with Gabriel hovering over him as Jack medicates for the pain. The wound, left alone, is stiff but healing properly, and shouldn't bother him in the foreseeable future.

Jack leaves off the morphine a day before they arrive in Copenhagen; the city itself welcomes them with sunny disposition and crisp air regardless of the talk of a plague sweeping through Europe said to kill unfortunates in less than a night. Yet, there is no delay or any other trouble at the zeppelin terminal to book a seat on flight to London for the next day. Jack, with barely suppressed glee, spends the whole evening soaking in a hot bath at Hotel Terminus, a luxury if there ever was one. He emerges from the water red and overheated, and plunges straight into cool satin sheets spread over impossibly soft mattress, such decadence almost unthinkable after over a year away from his home country - and privilege afforded him by his birthright.

Unsurprisingly, half the night is sleepless until he moves to the floor and wraps himself with a blanket, and even then his irritated skin makes the sleep nigh unattainable as he dozes off only to wake at the smallest of sounds, making his disposition in the morning foul - but having his moment of solitude together with a glass of subpar cognac on the front of the empty deck of the zeppelin does wonders for his mood. The clouds are low and dense, the air chilly and humid, the wind trying to get into his buttoned up leather jacket.

"Just in time for the wedding," Gabriel speaks from the side, and Jack resolves he should put a bell on the man, to have at least an idea of his approach.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything, I told you I was on my return trip." Jack rolls his eyes, exasperated.

"The peace accords were signed months ago. What was the reason for the expedition to Crimea?"

"Oh, yes, the peace accords, I heard about those," Jack pushes away from the balustrade and sits at the table. "Took me by surprise, because how could they be signed if Tsar is dead?"

"And how would you arrive at such conclusion?" Gabriel inclines his head, almost imperceptibly, moving to take place at the other side of the table.

"A séance." Hearing the quiet scoff, Jack continues, unbothered. "Not one of those sideshows. A spontaneous one."

"Why trust it?"

Jack spins the cognac in the glass.

"Because it's been the first time I've seen soulfire animate a corpse. Don't have to trust it now that I have proof for the Home Office, so we're stopping by the Diogenes first thing."

*

Bonus: (to keep the tradition of godawful dialogue for this specific au - don’t ask me about Jayne complaining about the vicar on the estate and how he spends his stipend)

So it's good that a glimpse of silver catches his eye out on the street: two Maltans outside of a hotel, both mounted on ridiculously embellished artificer's horses.

"Someone should tax the Vatican, the stones on them are worth as much as the horses themselves."

"Knightly Orders maintain their own upkeep after the tithe to the Vatican," Gabriel states matter-of-factly.

"Oh, excuse me for not keeping up with the latest Catholic lore."

"But," Gabriel continues, corners of his lips creeping upward, "someone should tax the Vatican."

[wasabito]

home feels like you | naruto x fem!reader

here’s my entry for the konoha simps server collab with @bakubabes-hatake​; prompts are roommate au and “i was so stupid to make the mistake of falling in love with my best friend.” (i will be making edits to this later lmao)

wordcount: 3.0k

tags: fluff, angst, modern au, healing after a breakup

synopsis: it’s a little hard for him to describe the way he feels these days, but if anyone asked, he’d say that home feels a lot like you.

Naruto didn’t wake up that morning to the sound of his alarm blaring through the stillness, or even to streams of early morning sunlight filtering in through his curtains. Yet, he sat up in bed, shirtless, hair askew, with a dry streak of saliva at the corner of his mouth. 

Even though he searched for what had woken him up so abruptly, Naruto found nothing. 

Blinking back at him in bright neon green, his alarm clock read 5:23 am, approximately thirty-seven minutes until it was time for his morning run. Not one to miss out on the chance to get more sleep, Naruto was just about to turn over in bed, stuff his head back under his pillow and be dead to the world once more—then he heard it.

Harsh whispers and...sniffling.

The Uzumaki remained silent, sleep suddenly gone from his eyes. His gaze was trained onto his bedroom door, knowing that you, his roommate, were probably just a few feet beyond it. You’d been an early riser for as long as he’d known you and Naruto imagined you were shuffling into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee before heading to work for the day. 

This time, however, it seemed your peaceful morning routine had been interrupted by an unexpected and seemingly unpleasant phone call. 

Naruto listened close while you spoke hurriedly into the receiver, a rush of words garbled together and unintelligible due your shaky voice that pierced through paper thin walls. Even from where he laid, Naruto could tell that you were just barely holding it together; it sounded like you were a moment away from crying. 

Unable to sit still, he pulled off the covers and followed after your voice. The entire apartment beyond his bedroom was cloaked in darkness, so much so that he could barely see his own two feet. The only source of light came from your cell phone that illuminated a single corner of the room where you sat.

“Hey...you uh, you doin’ okay—” Truly he hadn’t meant to be so loud, but his voice boomed regardless, causing you to flinch. Not to mention, it sounded like he’d gargled nails just five minutes prior with how gravely his voice was. Great going, Naruto, he thought to himself.

He cleared his throat, whispering, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, heh.” 

You sat curled up on the sofa, with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear, but it didn’t seem like anyone was talking anymore. With a sigh, you hung up the phone, plunging the room in muted darkness.

“I’m fine,” you muttered. “...don’t worry about it.”

Bypassing his curious look, you trudged back into your bedroom. It seemed he would not be getting an answer anytime soon. Naruto blinked slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he reentered his room as well. But the more he thought about you, the more unsettled he became.

You had moved in with him six months ago after Sasuke left for business overseas. But even since then, Naruto still only knew as much about you as he had when he first met you, which was literally next to nothing. He could respect that you were a private person, but he still felt it was a little ridiculous that you both shared a refrigerator and he’d had to stalk your Facebook page just to find out your birthday. 

The two of you had lived as nothing more than strangers for an entire six months, but in all that time, he had never heard you sound like that...

His curiosity had gotten the better of him. Normally he wouldn't be so bothered, but with Sasuke away and Sakura busy with her own life, he was beginning to feel as if he had nothing else to steal his attention. Naruto was only now realizing how invested he was in the lives of his friends, more so than his own even. Being involved was second nature.

Two and a half weeks later, the reason behind your odd behavior made itself known. In fact, it quite literally stood at your shared doorstep. 

It was a normal Saturday night, and for once he was home instead of gaming the entire night away over at Kiba’s place. Naruto had been in the kitchen making himself yet another cup of instant ramen when a knock came at the door, shattering the evening stillness. Before he could even set down his chopsticks, you had bounded down the hall with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder. He had never seen you so upset, but your anger was unmistakable as you wrenched the door open with enough force to rattle it on its hinges.

“Here’s your shit.”

“Can we at least talk abou—”

“No!” You slammed the door shut in the face of… whoever that was.

Naruto came around the counter to stand in the hall. He didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was so blatantly eavesdropping on you. Was there really a point in hiding? 

You turned in time to catch him out of your peripheral, frown still set on your lips, though it softened a bit when you caught sight of him watching you. “You’re pretty nosy.” Was your only remark, but despite the edge in your words, it didn’t sound like you were annoyed at him, almost like you had expected it.

“Well, can you blame me?” Naruto scratched his neck sheepishly, “You were actin’ pretty weird, so of course I got curious, what did ya expect?”

You snorted. “So, that’s your perfect defense?”

Naruto gave you the goofiest smile in response. “Gimme a minute and I’ll think of a better one!”

With a laugh you slumped into one of the bar stools near the counter. You hadn’t stopped laughing at him for another minute, but then… your teetering laughter slowly turned into sobs. You shoved your face behind the palms of your hands, but Naruto could see the way your entire body shook. The sound of your crying startled him so bad, he nearly choked on his own spit. Every thought running through his mind came to a screeching halt. It was as if the sounds that escaped your mouth was set to a frequency that would break his heart to pieces over and over again. 

“H-Hey,” Naruto reached over, placing a heavy arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his chest. “It’s...gonna be okay, okay? Whatever it is, it’ll work itself out. Please, don’t cry...”

After another moment, your sobs quieted down to a whimper, your cheeks were still wet and Naruto was about seventy percent sure there was a little snot on his tee shirt. Nevertheless, he remained still until you were ready to pull away.

“Um, thanks…” you whispered, lips accidentally grazing his collarbone. Not a second later, you released him, and wiped at your eyes with your shirt sleeve. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I—um...I guess I owe you some sort of explanation, considering I just used you a human tissue.” 

Using humor to cope, that was familiar. 

You were trying to lighten the mood, Naruto could tell, so he went along with your joke and laughed. “Yeah, I guess havin’ you tell me is better than me playin’ spy, huh?” 

He reached for his forgotten cup of noodles. They were a little soggy after being neglected for so long, but that didn’t stop him from slurping up the entire thing in record time. 

“Ah! That hit the spot!”

You laughed again, sniffling as you did so and for a moment he was captured. 

That watery smile, the wrinkle in your eyelids, the upward curve of your lips, even the very sound you made, all of it caught him by the throat. It was almost like he was just now realizing that you were a girl. And a really pretty one, at that. Naruto gulped and looked away. He wasn’t sure what was happening to him or why he was just noticing how cute you were, but he shook his head as if to dispel some of the mental fog.

“That was my boyfriend—ex boyfriend, I mean.” 

“Ex boyfriend?” he repeated.

“Yeah, um, we kind of do—er—did the long distance thing...he lives a few cities away, goes to a completely different university so um…anyway I was just uh, returning his clothes....”

You seemed to be struggling to find the right words, likely still processing everything that had happened. At times like this, Naruto was thankful that he and Hinata had ended things so amicably. Not everyone had the luxury. Relationships were hard as it is, and when it was over, picking back up like nothing happened was nigh impossible. There was always something left behind as a reminder, be it scars, old wounds in the form of memories. Sakura had once dubbed it ‘relationship residue’.

“Hey, don’t push yourself!” Naruto offered a grin and a thumbs up. “C’mon, let’s get your mind off it. We can watch a movie, or play some music, or…” he looked around the apartment in search of something you both could do but came up short.

“I appreciate the gesture, Naruto, but I think I’m just going to head to bed early. I’m a little tired.”

You gave a small smile, and though it didn’t reach your eyes, Naruto could do nothing but watch after your retreating back yet again. 

He didn’t like the helpless feeling that latched onto him. He would always and forever be doer. He couldn't just sit idly by while you went through this hard time alone. Though he kept quiet, he was determined to make you feel better somehow. He never wanted to see you cry like that ever again.

Following that night, the dynamic between the two of you had changed. Naruto, naturally friendly as he was, made it his first priority to check up on you and see how you were doing. And instead of heading straight to your bedroom upon returning from class or work, nowadays, you spent your free time in Naruto’s company. Whether it be just by watching the evening news together or doing homework in the same area. For the first time in months, you two were acting more and more like roommates—maybe even friends. You still hadn't opened up much about your ex boyfriend, but that was okay. Naruto knew that as long as you understood he was there to support you, that you were not alone, one day you’d be able to speak about it with him.

A change in weather seemed to follow the change in pace. Winter was fast approaching and with it came colder mornings, frosted leaves that crunched under foot, and a need to remain bundled up lest one catch a cold. Naruto had just returned home to find that you had made a hot pot. The entire apartment was filled with such a delicious smell that had his mouth watering and stomach grumbling in askance.

“Hey there!” you called from the kitchen. “I just finished up, grab a bowl and get some.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Naruto quickly shrugged out of his coat and scarf, doing a little shimmy, then grabbed a bowl from the cabinet. “It smells sooo good~”

His eagerness managed to pull a laugh out of you. You quickly handed him the ladle. “Go nuts...well...not too crazy.” Knowing Naruto, it was safe to say he would inhale the entire pot if left up to his own devices, you’d come to learn this the hard way. 

“Yeah, yeah.” he said, scooping himself a hefty serving. He wasted no time at all, digging in with much gusto. “Damn!! This is hella good! You’re such a great cook, roomie.”

You were unsure whether he was merely flattering you for that sake of flattery or if he truly enjoyed the meal, but you accepted his compliments as gracefully as you could manage. 

Eating dinner like this was nice. Naruto made for good company. For the time being, you let yourself enjoy the simplicity of the moment, the utter lack of expectation, the vibrant energy that came with mutual understanding, all of it made you feel much warmer inside. You knew it wasn’t just the hot pot.

Several more nights were spent just like this, relishing the friendly companionship that was slowly being fostered between you two. It wasn’t like you had very many friends to begin with, but you could admit that Naruto was a breath of fresh air. His sunny persona and steadfast disposition always managed to brighten up your day. Most nights, he talked enough for the both of you and was a pleasant distraction from less than savory thoughts regarding your ex. It was safe to say that you rather liked being his roommate. Naruto made you feel safe in your own skin again. 

You had just returned from class when you heard Naruto fumbling around in the bathroom. He wasn’t a quiet roommate by any means, but he usually never made this much noise in the mornings. From the looks of things, he had just returned from a run, and was now showering away the sweat and grime. 

“You okay in there?” you called. There was no answer. 

Instead, the restroom door was thrust open and your roommate burst through, darting down the hall at breakneck speed, naked as the day he was born. You blinked rapidly, mouth hanging open. What...the actual hell?

“My bad!! I forgot my towel!” His awkward laugh echoed from somewhere in his bedroom. 

“You could’ve just asked me to bring you one.”

“I kinda panicked a little.”

You snorted behind your hand. “A little?”

“Okay, maybe a lot.” 

Naruto returned to where you stood, thankfully he was fully dressed, although his wet hair hung low around his face, wispy tendrils clinging to his cheeks. The water droplets were left to be caught by the towel around his neck.

“Dude, you’re gonna get sick,” you grabbed the towel and draped it over his head. Naruto was just a few inches taller, but you still managed, even if you had to get on your toes a bit, while he bent to accommodate the height difference. 

You carefully towel dried his hair as best as you could. Naruto kept his eyes solely on you. It was a little unnerving, but you did your best to ignore it, until he finally spoke up.

“How are you feeling?” 

Due to proximity, you could feel his puffs of breath fanning against your cheek.

“I’m good now, Naruto. Great, actually.”

He smiled at that. “I’m glad.”

You chewed your lip to stop yourself from smiling back but it was too late, he’d already caught a glimpse of it. 

“There you go,” you returned the towel to his open hands. “All done.”

“Thanks a bunch! I don’t think anyone’s ever done that for me before.”

You found that a little hard to believe. But Naruto was walking away before you could question him about it. You thought about the way he looked at you, how his eyes seemed to gleam as he did. It made your cheeks feel like they were on fire. 

Days later, you still thought about it even as you stretched yourself across the carpeted floors of your apartment living room in an attempt to gather your thoughts. It was a feeble attempt, and you weren’t really a yoga person, but you were insistent on doing something that didn’t fall into the category of wondering what your roommate was currently doing. And it worked for all of five minutes before you simply laid on your back and stared up at the ceiling.

That was the exact image of you Naruto walked in on. He tossed his keys on the table, left his backpack by the door, and toed off his shoes like normal, it was a routine ingrained in him by now.

“Uhh, what are you doing on the floor?” Naruto stood over your figure with a quirky grin. He was wearing a turtleneck… which was a little odd, you’d only ever seen him tee shirts and sweatpants. But it was nice. He looked nice. Wait, no—

“Why are you wearing…?” You trailed off as Naruto laid himself by your side, wedging himself between you and the coffee table.

“Nope! I asked first!” He shuffled a bit to make himself comfortable. “So, what are we doing on the floor?”

Keeping your eyes glued to the ceiling and not on the man who was getting a view of your side profile, you replied simply. “I was doing yoga at first.”

Naruto was silent. Did he know what yoga was? You were going to ask, but he beat you to it, humming an ‘oh cool’, and accepting your lukewarm response easily.

“You know...these past few months have been kinda like a dream.” 

“What do you mean by that, Naruto?”

Finally craning your neck to the side, you were greeted with the full view of him. Soft blonde hair, ocean-blue eyes, and the kind of smile that made you want to smile too. It was so hard to be sad or down in his presence, it was like he vanquished darkness with his light. God, you were sounding so shakespearean. 

Unaware of your inner battle, Naruto continued. “I grew up in an orphanage, so the thought of having a home was...a bit like a fairytale. But then I learned that people can be just as much a home as any random building, ya know?”

You did know. You knew it too well, in fact. Once you had made the mistake of falling in love with your best friend. He had become your home, only to leave you broken and abandoned. 

“Yeah...I get that.” 

“And you,” Naruto continued. “You feel a lot like what I think home feels like.”

You blinked at him, stunned, heart stuttering because you could tell he meant what he’d said. Goddamn him for being this way. For being so good.

Naruto sat up and you followed suit. “I just wanted to say thank you, Y/n.” 

And with that, he leaned forward and pecked your cheek.

[www-ldyjulanna]

The oubliette of life

By Ldyjulanna

(Betty Hayes)

June 29, 2022

oubliette French for a place of forgetting

authors note:

 {{I’m not sure exactly when I first heard the word oubliette, but I remember being intrigued by the whole concept an oubliette is usually a very deep hole. Most the time either natural or man-made going down deep enough that it would be dangerous to Nigh impossible to get back out. That is why it’s called the place of forgetting in medieval times, it said that castles had oubliette as forms of punishment most often near and/or below banquet halls so that once someone either fell or was placed in the oubliette they had nothing, save the smells and sounds of parties and banquets. As in sound would travel and the smells of food they would be left forgotten at the bottom of this great black pit. Smelling and hearing everything that was going on but left to their own hell of sensory deprivation, solitude and starvation. I feel I should also mention it was around this time that I was asked to write some medieval poetry around the concept of the oubliette. I don’t remember what happened to the former exactly what it was about or what it said. I do however remember that the teacher in question. The board was for thought it was good enough to show the principal to try and enter some sort of poetry contest. He agreed with her, but he also ended up sending me to school, shrink LOL needless to say I never turned to any more poetry into the school after that. :-) Also don’t ask me what prompted this little squirrel moment I was currently trying to write a fanfiction and lost my train of thought and couldn’t pick it back up. I recently read that if you were working on one thing and couldn’t continue start something small and it might help new get back to where you are going so will see! I’m kinda disappointed. I don’t have a copy of the original to see how they differ. With the passage of time.}}}

I for one have always thought that an oubliette and life had a few things in common. An oubliette is usually dark and deep, so you don’t know what you’re going to find at the bottom. Much like you don’t know what’s going to happen in life. When were born as infants we are brought into a foreign, world.

The unknown oubliette of life. If we’re lucky were born to a good family who helps us and supports us and holds us up during our slow exploration into the oubliette of life until their arms get tired or with age. We become too heavy for them to be our safety net. As with the exuberance of youth.

We rush headlong into the dark unknown trying to find the answers at the bottom of this very big deep unending hole known as the oubliette of life. As we age while hanging out over the edge. Those lucky to have been born to caring and loving parents provide us with proper grounding and/or education which could also be known as tools such as, safety harnesses and rope, pickaxes and pitons to slow our descent into our journey of life to a safer, slower, more controlled descent.

 Where those of us not so lucky have to be content with scraping and bouncing along the sides, dragging scraping our fingernails bloody along the oubliette’s unforgiving walls scrabbling for whatever cracks, crevices, footholds and left-over purchases made by those before us. That we can hope to find. Leaving pieces of ourselves along the way.

So, that we can survive hitting bottom at a faster rate with enough energy to fight our way back to the top. Without the luxury of repelling gear in the form of caring friends, family and lovers to be our anchor to give us respite when we lose foothold on the flimsy purchases, we’ve carved out in our haste to see what’s at the bottom of life’s oubliette.

Some can set and wait to be pulled into the light. Those that are lucky… They didn’t get scraped and bloodied on their way down so they can handle a few scrapes as they lazily twirl and bounce off the walls while being hauled up.

The not so lucky ones whose fingertips are bloody by the time they hit bottom from trying to find footholds purchases and respite for just a few minutes here and there, all on their own. When they finally find the bottom of the so-called oubliette of life. This, pit of existence. At first, there is enjoyment and excitement at having finally accomplished this task, no matter the pain and fear suffered to reach the bottom. This is the place everyone wants to go right?

 The place everyone strives to find? and they found it. So there has to be something here, right?

 It’s a few minutes later, though, looking around cold, hungry, blind from the complete darkness they feel around the walls even feel the marks and indentations of so many before them.

 Where they have scrabbled probably most likely in a panic. After discovering the same thing, they did that this entire activity. This journey all the pain. Everything is meaningless.

There’s nothing here just more endless blackness. And they, being, who they are;

 don’t even have the luxury of the safety rope or harness to see dangling in the darkness.

 When they look above them at the place they’ve been, it’s just more endless, pointless, cold darkness.

 Maybe if they are one of the lucky ones who had footholds, handholds; also known as friends and lovers by who they would truly be missed. And remember that they want to hear about their journey. Maybe then they would have a reason to claw their way back; and to remember light that they want to believe is still up there where they left it. But as they look around and they see nothing but blackness around them

they begin to lose sense of their surroundings, the sense of their feet on the firm ground; that they’ve fought so hard to get to. They think to themselves,

why?

Why?

 Why should they try?

Why, should they claw why should they risk falling back down?

Again and again into the darkness and shame and disappointment for not having accomplished yet another goal?

 This time?

Why try getting out?

 When there’s really not anything up there in the so-called light they can barely remember to begin with?

That was the whole point, wasn’t it? The whole point in this journey down the oubliette of life, wasn’t it?

 To accomplish something to have something to show for it?

Once they got to the bottom have something to bring back to the top so that they could say yeah, they did that!

But there’s nothing here at the bottom of this endless darkness.

There’s nothing to take back nothing worth fighting for. Now that they’ve got to where they thought they wanted to be. Especially since they don’t have an anchor at the top, waiting to help to pull themselves up so they can show them what this was all for. That they’ve journeyed into the oubliette of life and have something to show for it.

 So, they square their shoulders, pick up a pebble and put it in their pocket for later, for remembrance.

 Placing their Fingers against the unforgiving walls when the pressure against their battered and used fingertips, sends fire up their arm and into their already abused overworked shoulder muscles.

They take a deep breath and push the pain down. Because if they concentrate hard enough, they can hear faint sounds of others and they tell themselves that maybe, just maybe on their way up,

They might meet someone, and if they do, they’ll wait for them, to find what they’re looking for at the bottom.

If they are lucky, maybe they have an anchor that can help both of them up. So, time to start ignoring the pain. Trying with all their might to find purchase almost slipping back into the darkness. When their feet skid.

 Lucky for them though they are  there not that far off the ground. So, when they land again. They sense movement around they decide to wait. Suddenly a hand comes out of the darkness and grips. There’s pulling them closer. They noticed that the person belonging to the hand does indeed have a rope.

 So, they graciously accept their saviours offer of help, and they are cautiously pulled up after waiting for their Saviour to come to terms with what they to discovered, at the bottom. Of this all-encompassing darkened oubliette of life, they become too comfortable allowing their offered lifeline out of the darkness to take most of their weight when suddenly it snaps. And this time they are falling harder and faster.

Then They ever did when they lost their hold on their first journey down. They find themselves scrabbling even more desperately than before to slow their rapidly increasing dissent.

Fear overtaking them in the total blackness that was starting to grey before their lifeline snapped. Once again, they feel the fire in their fingertips. Even worse, before as they are not yet healed from their first journey slow as it was into the pit of life. Their only half muffled scream of protest at the persistent pain is echoed back at them off the walls.

However, is cut off quickly when there back slams into the unforgivable ground, that they were standing on. Before deciding on trying to claw their way to the top. They are disoriented because in the darkness. They can see nothing; and know nothing of what’s coming to them or what may not be. They know, their eyes are open but in the absolute blackness. It makes no difference. Knowing they are staring in the direction that they know the light has to come from, but all they can see is absolute darkness. They wait a few minutes to see if their lifeline and anchor also joined there fall? They try to breathe in and feel pain in their chest, their mouth fills with coppery liquid. They know is blood.

They weigh their options trying to get up and climb their way out with their obvious injuries.

But really what is the point now? They are and have been repeatedly bruised, battered and scarred and have nothing to show for everything that they wanted to do. Hope they’d find at the bottom of this forgetting place. With no answers to be found.

No treasures to take with them and show off.

What’s the point, why even try?

Why, why, cause themselves even more pain with absolutely nothing to show for it?

What’s the point?

Especially for something that from down here at the bottom of this oubliette of darkness. Of this place of forgetting. They can’t even see the faintest hint of light, that was never very bright to start with.

no, why not stay? save themselves the pain? Fadeaway as those who are meant to fade into the oblivion of life’s oubliette.

Even if they are a lucky one. How long will others stand at the edge of life’s oubliette waiting for them, really?

Or could they really truly look beyond the darkness and work together to bring each other back to the edge of light? How far and how long will another allow their weight to drag them down?

They have already made many missteps in haste, and suffer many failures, resulting in more permanent damages and despair. Each time. Is it fair to make another pay for their hastily made mistakes and multiple failures?

If you fail alone in the dark, yourself. That’s one thing. However, at some point you have to make a decision.

-The oubliette of life

Ldyjulanna 6-29-2022

[vento-aureo-redrawngon]

Pages 240-241: New Chapter!

Okay, I am feeling better. Now, for partially related drivel. Post-It-Less version coming soon!

It isn't until my student work resumes, every year, that I am fully able to measure the differences between traditional and digital art. And every moment I do so, I favor one over the other less and less. Traditional art is more readily avaiable; I do not use the computer on any other day except Friday so that I may focus on my studies. The internet, as you all very well know, is a very distracting beast that rears its ugly head whenever I access my PC/phone/mail pigeon. Traditional art is, as well, much more familiar. Like many others it is something I have been doing since a pencil was placed on my hand and paper in front of me; my hand is trained in the movements, it knows how to hold the pencil/pen exactly to get the pressure needed and the flow required. However, there are luxuries digital art provides that traditional cannot. In order to get markers (my favored coloring method, take it as an example) of every known colour, I would have to spend obscene amounts of money. Digitally, it is as easy as picking something off the colour wheel. Editing is easier: to change the size of something you need only... Resize it, while traditionally you must redo everything if you don't wish to use post-its. So is shading, effects, so on, so forth... But with so many tools so freely avaiable, so much more is expected of yourself that getting a panel *absolutely* right is nigh impossible.

What do you think? Which do you prefer?

[unionjackpillow]

Five Years Of Zurich - Day One

Favourite Douglas moment

My favourite Douglas Moment? Sir must be kidding!! How am I supposed to choose just one moment for a character brilliantly written by John Finnemore and equally brilliant brought to life by Roger Allem, the one actor who can speak in Italics for crying out loud? I think it is nigh on impossible to do so.

Anyway, imho there are - at least - two moments that give us a kind of look behind the facade of sky god Douglas Richardson. One is in Cremona, where Douglas admits to having rehearsed his speech so that its timing is spot on:

DOUGLAS: Indeed we bloody well should be, and so we bloody well are. Firstly, let me assure you that the medieval contingent have now been entirely vanquished; and furthermore, in recompense for your suffering, I have been authorised to secure for you perhaps the most luxurious accommodation in Italy not already bagsied by the Pope. Behold ...


(Lift bell dings.)


DOUGLAS: ... your State Rooms.


(The lift doors open.)


HESTER: How did you time your speech so that it ended precisely on the ding?


DOUGLAS: I rode up and down in the lift a few times, practising.


As naturally gifted and  smart as Douglas may be, he does put an effort into coming across as the smartest person in the room. This also makes me wonder if Martin wasn’t at least a little bit right in Xinzhou when he accused his first officer of suggesting word games for which he already has some answers prepared. Douglas of course denies doing so but still, there is that little bit of doubt.

MARTIN: You always do this! You always do this! You always-always save up loads before you announce what the game is.

DOUGLAS: I do no such thing.


The second moment is in Yverdon-les-Baines when Douglas has his Martin-moment. For the first time ever he really seems to realise how hard it must have been for Martin to always be thought of as „surely-this-little-man-can’t-be-captain“. Martin was the skipper, maybe not the most qualified or skilled one but despite this and also his faults and hubris, a little more respect may have gone a long way. I don’t think that Douglas has ever had a similar experience so this was a real eye opener for him.

DOUGLAS (his voice rising angrily): No. ‘Skipper’ means person in charge of the vessel, and as I am the only one on board who is trained or qualified to fly her, I think you’ll find that I am the supreme commander of th...


(He trails off.)


HERC: Y’all right, Commander?


DOUGLAS (horrified): What have I become? . . . DOUGLAS (hesitantly, anxiously): ... and ... it was as if I was seeing the whole world through Martin’s eyes. HERC: That sounds unnerving.
DOUGLAS: It was absolutely terrifying! I don’t know how he does it!


Thanks to Ariane DeVere for providing the transcripts. 


[dancingkirby]

Jonerys Week-Day 1-Foreshadowing.

Rated: T.  Takes place between Seasons 7 and 8.

The instant that Dany was awake enough to arise from her bed, she ran over to the porthole and looked out.  Her heart lifted when she saw blue skies.  Yesterday, it had rained all day and night, and all of the passengers had had to stay in their cabins and listen to the dragons’ shrieks of discontent.  Dany knew that she should be grateful that her room, furnished with all of the luxuries that were possible on a seagoing vessel, has protected her from the rain and wind.  Nevertheless, it had been tedious waiting for the hours to pass by.

No, that was not completely correct.  The daytime hours had certainly elapsed slowly, but the night, when Jon had paid his usual visit, had been quite enjoyable.  Still, today she was eager to get out and enjoy some fresh air, and she even had an idea for an activity for them to do while on the deck.  

The instant that Dany was awake enough to arise from her bed, she ran over to the porthole and looked out.  Her heart lifted when she saw blue skies.  Yesterday, it had rained all day and night, and all of the passengers had had to stay in their cabins and listen to the dragons’ shrieks of discontent.  Dany knew that she should be grateful that her room, furnished with all of the luxuries that were possible on a seagoing vessel, has protected her from the rain and wind.  Nevertheless, it had been tedious waiting for the hours to pass by.

No, that was not completely correct.  The daytime hours had certainly elapsed slowly, but the night, when Jon had paid his usual visit, had been quite enjoyable.  Still, today she was eager to get out and enjoy some fresh air, and she even had an idea for an activity for them to do while on the deck.  

She looked in her trunk until she found the required item.  Opting to not disturb Missandei with a request for hot water and hair restyling, Dany washed up as well as she could with the water that remained in the basin, rubbed her teeth with a cloth, and dressed.    After scribbling a quick note informing her friend of her whereabouts, she set off for Jon’s cabin.  (They had decided to maintain the fiction that he spent the entire night in his own room for the nonce, if only for the sake of politeness.)

When he opened the door in response to her knock, the first words out of his mouth were, “You look lively today.”

“Yes, I was wondering if you would want to join me for a walk on the deck,” Dany answered in a bit of a rush; her relationship with Jon was still new enough that even being in his presence made her feel giddy and quite unlike her usual self.  She showed him the small, ceramic jar in her hands as she added, “Perhaps we could amuse ourselves with this.”

“Of course,” Jon answered automatically.  Then, as he looked at the jar, “What is that?”

“I am not certain myself,” Dany admitted.  “It was a gift from Dorne.  Ellaria Sand gave it to me when we met, among other things.  Unfortunately, I was not able to test it out before she was captured.”

“From Dorne?” Jon echoed.  He stretched out his hand, and Dany handed the jar over to him.  He examined it carefully from every angle, and shook the liquid contents within.  “Are you certain that this is meant for outdoor activities?”

“By order of your queen, you are to cease that train of thought immediately,” Dany replied, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face.

“You were not so reserved last night,” Jon reminded her.  

“Jon Snow!” Dany admonished.  She would have said more, but she was laughing so hard that she had to ben over double to regain her composure.  When had the last time been that she had done that?  Perhaps never.

When she stood upright again, Jon was looking at her somewhat bemusedly yet not unkindly.

“Ellaria said that her children liked to play with this in the water gardens,” she explained, still short of breath.

“And you take her at her word?”

“Why would I not? She has…had…no reason to harm me.” When Jon still appeared unconvinced, she said, “Let’s just see what happens.”

“All right. You are my queen,” Jon conceded, and let Dany lead him to the deck.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They soon found an ideal location on the deck: relatively quiet, yet not completely isolated.  Dany saw Drogon and Rhaegal flying a short distance away, although the sun was climbing in the sky and making it nigh on impossible to tell which was which.  Jon stood nearby in case he was needed for the traditional male duty of jar-opening.  However, Dany was able to pull out the cork stopper on her own, and felt quite pleased at her accomplishment as Jon applauded her.  The liquid inside was colorless, slightly viscous, and smelled of soap.

“Now what do we do?” Jon asked.

Dany dug around in her coat, located a small pocket sewn within, and withdrew a small wooden wand with a hoop affixed to one end.

“Ellaria was rather vague on what would happen,” she admitted.   “Doubtless she wanted it to be a surprise.  She did say that one sticks the hoop end of this into the liquid and then blow on it.”  She pretended not to notice the poorly-concealed smirk that Jon made at the wording.

When she removed the wand from the jar, she noted that the hoop had formed a sort of film on it. Intriguing.  She blew on it, but to her disappointment, the force of the air popped the film.  She thought about this, and decided that she may have blown too hard.  So she tried again, and couldn’t hold back a gasp of delight when a stream of bubbles were produced.

And what marvelous bubbles they were too!  Small, to be sure, but glistening with all number of shades of red and blue and yellow and purple as they drifted in the breeze.  Dany had seen so many amazing things in her lifetime, and while this was not on the magnitude of hatching three dragons, it felt miraculous in its own small way.  Judging by the way Jon was gaping at the bubbles, he was equally enthralled.  He wordlessly reached out his hands, and Dany gave him the jar and wand in kind.

Back and forth they passed these objects, until they grew so adept at this game that they were making new bubbles faster than the old ones could disintegrate.  As they became surrounded by the colorful orbs, Dany felt a sort of giddiness.  It was like, for this brief moment, she was reclaiming a fragment of her lost childhood. After a while, she broke out into an impromptu sort of dance, twirling in place and letting the bubbles dance around her.  Everything else–including Jon–seemed to fade into the background.  She was only vaguely aware that passing crewmembers were shooting them odd looks.

She wanted it to never end…but of course it did.  The jar’s contents could not last forever.  As the last of the bubbles began to pop, Jon turned to look at her.  He had a strange look of longing in those dark eyes…not lust, but something subtly different.  It appeared that he had been as touched by this activity as Dany had.

Finally, only one bubble remained.  The wind was propelling towards Dany, and she stretched her hand out by instinct.  For the briefest instant, it made contact with her skin, and then it popped, never to be seen again.

Dany felt a sense of sadness which she did not fully understand.  However, this was quickly forgotten as Jon pulled her into an embrace and kissed her.

[teratoscope]

The unforseen result of hybridization between natural and modified life down on earth

Meta-catYou light your headlamp and dozensof eyes shine back at you in the dark.It turns out a whole colony of catsfluffing up into threat posture makes a noise, even before the unearthlywarning growl rises in one voice from the clowder. That’s not the sound thatworries you, though.The sound that worries you are allthe other preparatory sounds. A hiss becomes a burblebecomes the sound of something corrosive dribbling on the concrete floor. Asmall plume of fire spits into the air. Somewhere in back you hear theunmistakable sound of a chaingun spinning up, and the clank of iron-shod paws.

HD 1 MV 240’ AC 13 AT claw x2 (d4), bite (d6) Special savage, feline anatomy, melting pot

Savage—like any feline, when it’s good andpissed and gets a firm position, a meta-cat can and will rake the shit out ofyou. If all of a meta-cat’s attacks hit a single target, reroll its damage diceand add the result to the original total.

Feline anatomy—meta-cats treat damage from fallsas though they were 20’ shorter, have natural darkvision, and can fit through any space large enough for theirhead.

Melting pot—no two meta-cats are alike, due totheir explosive reproductive tendencies paired with the intense Darwinian pressures of the Contact War and theirexposure to a cornucopia of human and alien mutagens, nanotech contaminants,and retroviral plagues. Below is a list of possible meta-cat variations;particularly badass meta-cats may have multiple deviations.

1d20 ways this cat is fucked up

1.    Enormous,sedentary, weirdly gelatinous. 1/3 MV, +3 HD, paws deal d8 bludgeoning damage.Reduce damage from kinetic, sonic, and cold attacks by 1. Always acts last.

2.    Evendead-on, looks like you’re seeing it from the corner of your eye. Weighs thesame as an adult tiger, casts no shadow. Claws deal d4+1 damage, bite upgradedto d10, ranged attacks against it are at disadvantage, and always has a 1 in 6chance of showing up on your side of any door you shut on it.

3.    Looksnormal, has a transmitter array nano-grafted to its central nervous system.Anything it sees, the Repton network sees. Has Repton security permissions; ifit scent-marks you so will you, at least until you bathe again.

4.    Partialuplift descended from leftover Project Myrmidon proof-of-concept. Transgenicmodifications allow it to roughly approximate human speech and tool use. SpeaksEarthlang patois, can jury-rig and salvage competently.

5.    Clawsand bite are envenomed—on any hit that beats AC by 4 or more, deals 1 point ofConstitution damage.

6.    Battlearmor grafted over synthetic musculature. Vocoder installed in chest shoutsgrainily synthesized agitprop and/or pleas for painkillers and immune boostersin Herlog-ban and algorithmically translated Earthlang. AC 17, upgrade allattack damage one die size, can forgo melee attacks for a 60’ cone,d8-imploding kinetic flechette volley that takes a full round to reload.

7.    Everyonesees a different color morph. Once you look at it you physically cannot look away until it breaks line ofsight.

8.    Canuse its whole action to spit fire in a 240’ line for 3d4 damage (Dex check forhalf). Each time it uses this there’s a 1 in 20 chance the volatile secretionsmeet too soon and the cat explodes in a 30’ radius for 1d10 fire damageinstead.

9.    Hairless,web-footed, and coated in a thick layer of mucus. 120’ swim speed, can operate underwater without needing to surface for afull exploration turn..

10.  Glows in the dark, shedding weakpurplish light in a 30’ radius. Anyone who keeps one within arm’s length for 8hours a day erases 1 Rad, has advantage on all Con checks to resist radiationdamage, and takes 1 less Rad from all sources.

11.  Cutting edge genemodded luxurybreed gone feral. Exotic colors, hypoallergenic, extreme ectomorphic body plan,bizarre ears. +1 HD. Deeply embedded conditioning sends them into seizures ifthey feel aggression towards a human. Food animals for some indigenes, lifelonghunting partners for others.

12.  Honeypot. Looks adorable. Fur andfluids carry a nanoagent that putrefies flesh on contact, dealing 1d8 exoticdamage/round until the effected areas are sterilized or amputated. As itsabilities render it impossible to practically feed itself, its gut andintestines have been replaced with a bacterial stack that synthesizes nutrientsthrough respiratory processes; these are valuable to biotech specialists andcalorie-desperate populations, as the organ can be salvaged and sustainedrelatively easily. Look at the bones!

13.  Shaggy, huskily-built breed.Carries 2d3 thumbnail-sized mutualist insects descended from flea stock thatdefend their carrier on command by launching themselves like bullets. 300’range, 1d8 kinetic damage, and they find purchase in a flesh wound on a hitthat beats AC by 4 or better, dealing 1d6 bite damage each round until they areremoved with a successful Wis check or their host calls them back. Will pastethemselves against armor plating, however. Some particularly strange indigeneskeep one or two trained specimens and their entourage.

14.  Overclocked. Hairless, steaming,perpetually underfed. Ages visibly if you watch closely. +1 to all damage rolls;can double MV and act at the top of initiative at the cost of 1 hp. Dead stupidand monstrously territorial from the psychological wear and tear of constantestrus.

15.  Gecko-like foot pads. Gains a 180’ climb speed.

16.  Magnetite facial organ. Perfecthoming abilities. Anticipates inclement weather with nigh-perfect accuracy.

17.  You can see the cat; you know it’s there and what it’s doing. However, youcannot describe the cat. Talkingabout the cat with adjectives (in or out of character) deals 1d3 Wisdom damage.

18.  An ordinary-looking black cat withmismatched eyes. Once you have seen it you are also aware of a white tiger. The white tiger is not there, but you are aware of itnonetheless. If you harm the cat, signs of the tiger follow you everywhere. Youfeel its hot, wet breath on your neck at dinner, or the weight of a paw on yourchest when you try to sleep. It hides in crowd scenes in your comics, makingeye contact; you see its stripes take shape momentarily in the static on atelevision screen. You can tell that it hungers. It needs fresh, raw meat. Youhave to leave a freshly-killed body out in the open once a month, or you willtake 1d12 psychic damage each day that will not heal or end until you satisfy thetiger.

19.  A cat-shaped distortion in the air,like it’s made of heat haze or warped glass. Takes a Wisdom check to spot. Utterlyoblivious to the world around it. Matter parts around its body, and so when itmoves through things it leaves a cat-shaped exit wound. Energy weapon effectswash over it. Does not appear to need food or water, or else gets by onsustenance that exists out of phase with the world we know and is even lessvisible.

20.  Roiling, malignant cat-mass. Lumpthe whole cat colony into a single creature with all of the individual members’attacks, abilities, and hit dice.

 With asmall handful of exceptions, Forward Escape was not conceived of as a retreatwhere you brought your pets along. When the Freestars went up, they left behinda vast population of dogs, pigeons, rats, horses, cattle, assorted birds andreptiles, and wild but human-adjacent species to fill the vacuum.

Of course,ecological catastrophe and alien invasion meant that this didn’t work out sohot for a lot of them. Domestic cats had always existed in a strange sort oflimbo in the ecosystems carved out by humanity—welcome nowhere in the naturalorder of things, always in demand and yet also always in surplus. The specieswas a bottle full of chaos, barely sealed, often leaking, and just waiting tobe upended on the planet’s nice rug.

Now there’shardly any such thing as an “ordinary” cat left in the world anymore. TheEnluss treat them like raw materials or the canvases on which they build theirthesis statements. The Herlog-ban turn them into war-toys to be disposed ofwhen they lose their novelty. Depending on which brain’s calling the shots at themoment the Reptons turn them into food or spies. Occulters adore them but have a funny way of showing it.

In spiteof this, they hang on. Arguably they thrive.

In part,this is because meta-cats, in spite of their wildly divergent phenotypes,abilities, and origins, practice a certain degree of solidarity. No matter howfar you bend them out of shape, they’re still cats and they still do theircommunal cat-pile thing.

So you mayrun into a meta-cat colony of Occulter existential weapons, metabolicallyovercharged tweaker-cats, and trapsmithing, foul-mouthed macroencephaliticuplifts with awful little hands, who all answer to a power-armored cybercatwith an oxycontin addiction. And in its own anarchic, hissing, spitting way, thatcommunity mostly holds together.

God onlyknows what they’ll be like in another couple of generations.

[bellesdomain]

Starlight Express 6.0 - Mama the Steamer

Photos 1-3  - Reva Rice as Mama, dress rehearsal Photo 4 - Andrew Lloyd Webber and Reva Rice, opening night June 2018 Photo 5 - Regi Jennings and Reva Rice, closing night May 2018

OK.  so.  why. 

WHY did they change Poppa’s gender, not Electra?  Why do we not have a female Electra?  Who asked for Mama?  Who thought this a good idea?  Where did this even come from?  How does this fit the story?

Apparently, they had international auditions, and there were 10. TEN applicants to play this role.  I mean, I know they’ve struggled to find performers for Poppa - how many mature black guys want to learn to skate and move to Germany for a role?  Do they somehow thing there’ll be more mature WOMEN in musical theatre, prepared to learn to skate and move to Germany?  let alone try to maintain the racial diversity....  If they’d spent the last 20 years actively seeking to keep the cast diverse, maybe there’d be enough women who’s previously performed in the show who’s want to come back when they’re in the 30-60 age bracket (and haven’t settled down, had a family, moved career to something where there’s actual opportunities for mature women unlike the vast majority of musical theatre...)

They’ve pulled off an amazing coup in getting Reva Rice to join the cast.  But unless she decides to permanently move to Bochum, who’s next?  Who is going to replace her?  And in this rumoured new UK/English language production, who’ll be Momma there?  Who else has the skill set to perform this role?  Maybe...  3, 4 other ex-Starlighters that I know of are still actively performing, have the soul voice, and aren’t white.  Maybe 3.

Then there’s the role.  Poppa’s big numbers - Poppa’s Blues, the Starlight Sequence, and Light at the End of the Tunnel - all fall comfortably in a tenor range.  (I’m a trained singer with a fairly good alto range, I can hit Poppa’s notes for the big songs).  But there’s also a lot of recit - the story telling conversations, and those are all baritone.  The vocal range goes way down there.  You can style it out, sprechgesang it, fake it....  But it’s not ideal and not kind to the other characters.

Not Kind?  HAVE YOU HEARD THE STARLIGHT SEQUENCE NOW???  Mama is simply in a different key to Rusty.  It just cuts back and forth in the most jarring manner. (then poor Rusty’s vocal range is so abused in “I Do” as well....) Reva apparently can’t get those bottom alto notes?  Or they decided to mess about with it because of reasons? 

Is Mama special for being a female champion steam engine, or is her gender unremarkable? Why does she introduce herself with the “I Got Me” melody, as if she were one of the coaches?  (Since both Mama and Coco are Engines, the coaches clearly have a problem with Engines shoving them around, not Men... not all engines are men, so it’s an Engines vs Coaches issue, not Male vs Female.  and if Mama uses “I Got Me” because she’s a girl, why doesn’t Coco use it too?)

ANYWAY.  COSTUME.

Now bear in mind the first three photos are from a dress rehearsal, and the final image with Andrew Lloyd Webber is from opening night.  The difference that is immediately apparent is her wig - in the intervening week she gained a headscarf, and the wig is re-styled to look a lot better.  It looks atrocious in the first images, but credit where it’s due, by opening night the wig looks fine. 

So Mama’s basic costume, as seen in the race picture, is exactly what I hoped to see. She’s wearing the exact same design as Poppa, bit scaled and tailored to a female cut.  The only discrepancies are her under-shirt is painted into more, less the white/grey base but painted an “old gold”, and the neckerchief she wears is more subdued than Poppa’s bright orange.  These tweaks are an improvement in my mind, as the costume is more cohesive, less high contrast between the overalls/shirt which isn’t an important detail.  

We see Mama’s Blues - she has new set details surrounding her, a dilapidated water tower and bridge behind her (are they to scale?  or is the buffer seat to scale?  because those elements are NOT to scale with each other....)  She’s wearing a grubby old apron - suggestive of Grandma in the kitchen or in the garden at home, this works.  We’re seeing her in her own space, in private, hanging out with her friends / adopted kids.  You can bet she’s already offered them all some iced water.  She takes off the apron as a symbol of getting up, going out there to RACE - which is perfect story telling.

And then it all falls apart. Mama gets a skirt.  Because she’s GIRL and GIRLS WEAR SKIRTS.  How else would we know she’s a GIRL if she’s not in a SKIRT?! 

WHY???

Especially after we’ve already seen her throughout the show (the skirt only appears for Light at the End of the Tunnel) - we know the character, we’re comfortable with her already, but she has to be swathed in a massive amount of fabric to close out the show?

Allow me a brief ramble about skirts in European Fashion History.  Skirts have always existed to slow women down.  Our ancestors could do so much DESPITE their skirts, not because of them.  Little girls have to be careful of their pretty dresses while their brothers climb trees. Girls have to be careful not to have a Marilyn Monroe incident and let their skirts blow up. Skirts are a hindrance to physical activity - even the shortest skater dress skirts, purely decorative, are symbolic of this feminine archetype that women are to be slow, careful, cautious, take care of their appearance, to be decorative, not physically active.  (I’m sitting here wearing a dress right now, but if I wanted to mow the lawn, I’d have to change first)  Skirts represent the feminine home-maker, the wife, mother, source of comfort and refinement.  This is not a negative association necessarily, it’s simply the connection that’s made.  Look at our four classic coaches - Pearl the First Class carriage, ultimate in luxury.  Dinah the Dining Car - table-service, stylish restaurant.  Ashley the Smoking Car - a comfortable lounge car where you can relax and smoke. All three, appropriately, wearing skirts.  Then there’s Buffy the Buffet Car - serving quick snacks and drinks, not somewhere to linger, no-frills supplying your needs.  For speed and efficiency?  No skirt. 

So, why does Mama (and Coco, I’ve got a big problem with her design too) wear a skirt?  With this symbolism behind the garment, how on earth is is appropriate for an Engine to represent comfort and domesticity?  Why does Mama gain this at the end of the show, when her part in the narrative is complete?  What further development of her story does this costume change represent? 

Why bother?

So in conclusion, I have a big problem with the concept of Mama (as opposed to a female Electra which would have made a much stronger story).  I almost love her costume design.  And then they ruin it at the end. I’m very sceptical about Mama’s longevity - I think casting will be nigh-on impossible while maintaining any integrity to the character, and I’d much rather have Poppa back than scraping the barrel to find someone approximately appropriate to play Mama in years to come.   and sort out those keys.

[commie-robot-fairy]

oh god I am terrible at updates

I... honestly don’t remember everything that’s happened since I last posted a Ciel update, but I’m going to try.

So apparently we’re becoming our handler’s “People have been mysteriously vanishing, go figure it out” team. We were sent to investigate a series of disappearances in a low-rent neighbourhood; eventually, through luck and happenstance, we tracked it down to a particular building, where the manager had apparently gone bugfuck posthuman and was killing people and taking their stacks as trophies. We got trapped inside, pretty sure we were about to get eaten, terrified out of our wits... and as the manager was finally approaching us, the wall blew in and everything turned to plasma.

Train friend had sent support, in the form of a member of the Rail Transit Authority - technically a cop but, y’know, without the jackboots. And with a plasma rifle.

We got out, reported in... and then realized that a) because of the disappearances and this incident, this building was on the real estate market and hellaciously undervalued, and b) Nima had the leverage to have it quietly acquired as a corporate asset and then left alone.

Some time passed while the site was cleaned up, and now the team has a new and more secure headquarters in the form of the luxury apartments off the atrium on the top few floors. The rest of the building is, per Ciel’s request, being rented out for just above cost, providing cheap subsidized housing to people who need it.

[I’m probably forgetting something in this period. I know I’m missing the exit of Kabuki and the introduction of Talyor, our new heavy hitter and a bit of an oddball.]

Having done well with the last missing-persons case, we were given another: An entire city just... dropped off the radar. TITAN-discard activity suspected.

Fuck.

We were given a car and some decent Faraday-equipped armored suits and sent to explore. We got there and entered to an eerie silence... and then the machines attacked.

But these weren’t TITAN toys. A handful of wild artificials, easily put down. That was... odd.

We continued exploring, still on high alert, unsettled as fuck. We made contact with our rail authority friend! She’d secured the city’s train station, which turned out to be terribly convenient when we started encountering survivors. Nobody seemed to have any idea what was going on, but they needed out, and we weren’t gonna leave them behind. At this point, we were pretty damn sure there was no TITAN bullshit going on here.

Another encounter with artificials... except these ones had support. From the combat spiders we’d been tracking all along. Taylor, Ciel, and Petrov got pinned down by spider fire, leaving Jenn and Nima to get swarmed by artificials. Ciel took an artificial over and had it try to attack the others, then started pouring fire into them, trying to save her loves. Petrov and Taylor, IIRC, focused on the spiders. We were not doing well - very likely to lose at least one of ours - when another team showed up and provided supporting fire. We got out, but Nima was badly mauled and Jenn had definitely seen better days.

The other team refused to identify or explain themselves in any way. Fortunately for Ciel, they had questionable network security, so she managed to snag some details - including a brainprint that had been left lying around carelessly.

We kept exploring; Ciel’s new pet artificial received a return-to-base order that she reluctantly let it obey. By following it, we managed to find Team Spider’s beachhead - and overhear their plans to turn the entire fucking city into a secure factory site. This... would not do at all. They needed stopped. Some frantic discussion with Mystery Team ensued, in which options like “How big a bomb can we build?” and “Maybe I can hijack an iceball and turn the city into a crater!” were floated.

In the end, we went with a much simpler option: Ciel, who had control of the infrastructure at this point because hacker, poked her head around the doorway to Spider HQ, emptied two full clips of disassembler nanoswarms (with the “don’t disassemble organics” overrides removed) into the room, then closed and locked the door and scrambled the controls.

And then we ran, as fast as we could manage, for the train station. Mystery Team peeled off and headed their own way.

We made it with surprisingly little incident, boarded a train, and are currently on our way back to civilization.

The identity and agenda of Mystery Team was high on the discussion priorities, once we were sure nobody would bleed to death. Nobody seemed to have much in the way of answers; Taylor hinted at having encountered something like them before, but was extremely reluctant to discuss details. Ciel offered up the brainprint she’d found. Jenn took a look at it -- and recoiled.

“I know this brainprint. How do I know this?”

This was deeply unsettling to Jenn - she doesn’t just forget things. Not ever. But she didn’t remember why this brainprint was so intimately familiar - how she knew every detail of it intimately, could even see the seams where it had been worked on extensively in the past. It tickled at the edge of her memory but stubbornly refused to let itself be nailed down.

She called her folks, trying to get some details on an... oddly fuzzy patch of her memory that this tickled at, and got a bit of a bombshell.

She’d had a girlfriend, just after the fall. Someone she’d been deeply infatuated with and inseparable from. And her perfect memory had no record of her. But the things this was stirring up in her mind were... deeply unpleasant, and her mother’s response message hinted at a suicide.

It was at this point that Taylor finally decided to provide active support, and drop a bombshell: They were an async. Which meant they were uniquely positioned to help with weird psychological shit. They sat Jenn down, touched her forehead, and the two of them went on a memory hunt I cannot possibly do justice to here.

They found some answers: This was, in fact, Jenn’s forgotten girlfriend. She had, in fact, killed herself. And Jenn had put her back together from scraps. The reason she knew that brainprint? She’d stitched it together from the shredded remnants of half a dozen backups, a nigh-impossible feat.

And somehow, they’d gone their separate ways, and she’d wound up with a group that... well, Taylor still didn’t want to say much, but they said this group was not unlike us, a quasi-legal possibly terrorist conspiracy eliminating threats to innocent people. They also gave us a name.

Firewall.

[weareplanarchampion]

“Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)”

Below is the text of “Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)” by Algernon Charles Swinburne, which served as the inspiration for the one and only Lady of Pain. Though Our Lady is not nearly as sensual as the subject of the poem, the influence remains. 

Anyway:

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel      Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour; The heavy white limbs, and the cruel      Red mouth like a venomous flower; When these are gone by with their glories,      What shall rest of thee then, what remain, O mystic and sombre Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain? Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin;      But thy sins, which are seventy times seven, Seven ages would fail thee to purge in,      And then they would haunt thee in heaven: Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,      And the loves that complete and control All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows      That wear out the soul. O garment not golden but gilded,      O garden where all men may dwell, O tower not of ivory, but builded      By hands that reach heaven from hell; O mystical rose of the mire,      O house not of gold but of gain, O house of unquenchable fire,      Our Lady of Pain! O lips full of lust and of laughter,      Curled snakes that are fed from my breast, Bite hard, lest remembrance come after      And press with new lips where you pressed. For my heart too springs up at the pressure,      Mine eyelids too moisten and burn; Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,      Ere pain come in turn. In yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,      Out of sight though they lie of to-day, There have been and there yet shall be sorrows      That smite not and bite not in play. The life and the love thou despisest,      These hurt us indeed, and in vain, O wise among women, and wisest,      Our Lady of Pain. Who gave thee thy wisdom? what stories      That stung thee, what visions that smote? Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores,      When desire took thee first by the throat? What bud was the shell of a blossom      That all men may smell to and pluck? What milk fed thee first at what bosom?      What sins gave thee suck? We shift and bedeck and bedrape us,      Thou art noble and nude and antique; Libitina thy mother, Priapus      Thy father, a Tuscan and Greek. We play with light loves in the portal,      And wince and relent and refrain; Loves die, and we know thee immortal,      Our Lady of Pain. Fruits fail and love dies and time ranges;      Thou art fed with perpetual breath, And alive after infinite changes,      And fresh from the kisses of death; Of languors rekindled and rallied,      Of barren delights and unclean, Things monstrous and fruitless, a pallid      And poisonous queen. Could you hurt me, sweet lips, though I hurt you?      Men touch them, and change in a trice The lilies and languors of virtue      For the raptures and roses of vice; Those lie where thy foot on the floor is,      These crown and caress thee and chain, O splendid and sterile Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain. There are sins it may be to discover,      There are deeds it may be to delight. What new work wilt thou find for thy lover,      What new passions for daytime or night? What spells that they know not a word of      Whose lives are as leaves overblown? What tortures undreamt of, unheard of,      Unwritten, unknown? Ah beautiful passionate body      That never has ached with a heart! On thy mouth though the kisses are bloody,      Though they sting till it shudder and smart, More kind than the love we adore is,      They hurt not the heart or the brain, O bitter and tender Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain. As our kisses relax and redouble,      From the lips and the foam and the fangs Shall no new sin be born for men's trouble,      No dream of impossible pangs? With the sweet of the sins of old ages      Wilt thou satiate thy soul as of yore? Too sweet is the rind, say the sages,      Too bitter the core. Hast thou told all thy secrets the last time,      And bared all thy beauties to one? Ah, where shall we go then for pastime,      If the worst that can be has been done? But sweet as the rind was the core is;      We are fain of thee still, we are fain, O sanguine and subtle Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain. By the hunger of change and emotion,      By the thirst of unbearable things, By despair, the twin-born of devotion,      By the pleasure that winces and stings, The delight that consumes the desire,      The desire that outruns the delight, By the cruelty deaf as a fire      And blind as the night, By the ravenous teeth that have smitten      Through the kisses that blossom and bud, By the lips intertwisted and bitten      Till the foam has a savour of blood, By the pulse as it rises and falters,      By the hands as they slacken and strain, I adjure thee, respond from thine altars,      Our Lady of Pain. Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining      The light fire in the veins of a boy? But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,      Who has wearied of sorrow and joy; Less careful of labour and glory      Than the elders whose hair has uncurled: And young, but with fancies as hoary      And grey as the world. I have passed from the outermost portal      To the shrine where a sin is a prayer; What care though the service be mortal?      O our Lady of Torture, what care? All thine the last wine that I pour is,      The last in the chalice we drain, O fierce and luxurious Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain. All thine the new wine of desire,      The fruit of four lips as they clung Till the hair and the eyelids took fire,      The foam of a serpentine tongue, The froth of the serpents of pleasure,      More salt than the foam of the sea, Now felt as a flame, now at leisure      As wine shed for me. Ah thy people, thy children, thy chosen,      Marked cross from the womb and perverse! They have found out the secret to cozen      The gods that constrain us and curse; They alone, they are wise, and none other;      Give me place, even me, in their train, O my sister, my spouse, and my mother,      Our Lady of Pain. For the crown of our life as it closes      Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's,      And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision,      Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division      Make barren our lives. And pale from the past we draw nigh thee,      And satiate with comfortless hours; And we know thee, how all men belie thee,      And we gather the fruit of thy flowers; The passion that slays and recovers,      The pangs and the kisses that rain On the lips and the limbs of thy lovers,      Our Lady of Pain. The desire of thy furious embraces      Is more than the wisdom of years, On the blossom though blood lie in traces,      Though the foliage be sodden with tears. For the lords in whose keeping the door is      That opens on all who draw breath Gave the cypress to love, my Dolores,      The myrtle to death. And they laughed, changing hands in the measure,      And they mixed and made peace after strife; Pain melted in tears, and was pleasure;      Death tingled with blood, and was life. Like lovers they melted and tingled,      In the dusk of thine innermost fane; In the darkness they murmured and mingled,      Our Lady of Pain. In a twilight where virtues are vices,      In thy chapels, unknown of the sun, To a tune that enthralls and entices,      They were wed, and the twain were as one. For the tune from thine altar hath sounded      Since God bade the world's work begin, And the fume of thine incense abounded,      To sweeten the sin. Love listens, and paler than ashes,      Through his curls as the crown on them slips, Lifts languid wet eyelids and lashes,      And laughs with insatiable lips. Thou shalt hush him with heavy caresses,      With music that scares the profane; Thou shalt darken his eyes with thy tresses,      Our Lady of Pain. Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle,      Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive; In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,      In his hands all thy cruelties thrive. In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,      In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache; Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him      Asleep and awake. Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses      With juice not of fruit nor of bud; When the sense in the spirit reposes,      Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood. Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,      Who would live and not languish or feign, O sleepless and deadly Dolores,      Our Lady of Pain. Dost thou dream, in a respite of slumber,      In a lull of the fires of thy life, Of the days without name, without number,      When thy will stung the world into strife; When, a goddess, the pulse of thy passion      Smote kings as they revelled in Rome; And they hailed thee re-risen, O Thalassian,      Foam-white, from the foam? When thy lips had such lovers to flatter;      When the city lay red from thy rods, And thine hands were as arrows to scatter      The children of change and their gods; When the blood of thy foemen made fervent      A sand never moist from the main, As one smote them, their lord and thy servant,      Our Lady of Pain. On sands by the storm never shaken,      Nor wet from the washing of tides; Nor by foam of the waves overtaken,      Nor winds that the thunder bestrides; But red from the print of thy paces,      Made smooth for the world and its lords, Ringed round with a flame of fair faces,      And splendid with swords. There the gladiator, pale for thy pleasure,      Drew bitter and perilous breath; There torments laid hold on the treasure      Of limbs too delicious for death; When thy gardens were lit with live torches;      When the world was a steed for thy rein; When the nations lay prone in thy porches,      Our Lady of Pain. When, with flame all around him aspirant,      Stood flushed, as a harp-player stands, The implacable beautiful tyrant,      Rose-crowned, having death in his hands; And a sound as the sound of loud water      Smote far through the flight of the fires, And mixed with the lightning of slaughter      A thunder of lyres. Dost thou dream of what was and no more is,      The old kingdoms of earth and the kings? Dost thou hunger for these things, Dolores,      For these, in a world of new things? But thy bosom no fasts could emaciate,      No hunger compel to complain Those lips that no bloodshed could satiate,      Our Lady of Pain. As of old when the world's heart was lighter,      Through thy garments the grace of thee glows, The white wealth of thy body made whiter      By the blushes of amorous blows, And seamed with sharp lips and fierce fingers,      And branded by kisses that bruise; When all shall be gone that now lingers,      Ah, what shall we lose? Thou wert fair in the fearless old fashion,      And thy limbs are as melodies yet, And move to the music of passion      With lithe and lascivious regret. What ailed us, O gods, to desert you      For creeds that refuse and restrain? Come down and redeem us from virtue,      Our Lady of Pain. All shrines that were Vestal are flameless,      But the flame has not fallen from this; Though obscure be the god, and though nameless      The eyes and the hair that we kiss; Low fires that love sits by and forges      Fresh heads for his arrows and thine; Hair loosened and soiled in mid orgies      With kisses and wine. Thy skin changes country and colour,      And shrivels or swells to a snake's. Let it brighten and bloat and grow duller,      We know it, the flames and the flakes, Red brands on it smitten and bitten,      Round skies where a star is a stain, And the leaves with thy litanies written,      Our Lady of Pain. On thy bosom though many a kiss be,      There are none such as knew it of old. Was it Alciphron once or Arisbe,      Male ringlets or feminine gold, That thy lips met with under the statue,      Whence a look shot out sharp after thieves From the eyes of the garden-god at you      Across the fig-leaves? Then still, through dry seasons and moister,      One god had a wreath to his shrine; Then love was the pearl of his oyster,      And Venus rose red out of wine. We have all done amiss, choosing rather      Such loves as the wise gods disdain; Intercede for us thou with thy father,      Our Lady of Pain. In spring he had crowns of his garden,      Red corn in the heat of the year, Then hoary green olives that harden      When the grape-blossom freezes with fear; And milk-budded myrtles with Venus      And vine-leaves with Bacchus he trod; And ye said, "We have seen, he hath seen us,      A visible God." What broke off the garlands that girt you?      What sundered you spirit and clay? Weak sins yet alive are as virtue      To the strength of the sins of that day. For dried is the blood of thy lover,      Ipsithilla, contracted the vein; Cry aloud, "Will he rise and recover,      Our Lady of Pain?" Cry aloud; for the old world is broken:      Cry out; for the Phrygian is priest, And rears not the bountiful token      And spreads not the fatherly feast. From the midmost of Ida, from shady      Recesses that murmur at morn, They have brought and baptized her, Our Lady,      A goddess new-born. And the chaplets of old are above us,      And the oyster-bed teems out of reach; Old poets outsing and outlove us,      And Catullus makes mouths at our speech. Who shall kiss, in thy father's own city,      With such lips as he sang with, again? Intercede for us all of thy pity,      Our Lady of Pain. Out of Dindymus heavily laden      Her lions draw bound and unfed A mother, a mortal, a maiden,      A queen over death and the dead. She is cold, and her habit is lowly,      Her temple of branches and sods; Most fruitful and virginal, holy,      A mother of gods. She hath wasted with fire thine high places,      She hath hidden and marred and made sad The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces      Of gods that were goodly and glad. She slays, and her hands are not bloody;      She moves as a moon in the wane, White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,      Our Lady of Pain. They shall pass and their places be taken,      The gods and the priests that are pure. They shall pass, and shalt thou not be shaken?      They shall perish, and shalt thou endure? Death laughs, breathing close and relentless      In the nostrils and eyelids of lust, With a pinch in his fingers of scentless      And delicate dust. But the worm shall revive thee with kisses;      Thou shalt change and transmute as a god, As the rod to a serpent that hisses,      As the serpent again to a rod. Thy life shall not cease though thou doff it;      Thou shalt live until evil be slain, And good shall die first, said thy prophet,      Our Lady of Pain. Did he lie? did he laugh? does he know it,      Now he lies out of reach, out of breath, Thy prophet, thy preacher, thy poet,      Sin's child by incestuous Death? Did he find out in fire at his waking,      Or discern as his eyelids lost light, When the bands of the body were breaking      And all came in sight? Who has known all the evil before us,      Or the tyrannous secrets of time? Though we match not the dead men that bore us      At a song, at a kiss, at a crime — Though the heathen outface and outlive us,      And our lives and our longings are twain — Ah, forgive us our virtues, forgive us,      Our Lady of Pain. Who are we that embalm and embrace thee      With spices and savours of song? What is time, that his children should face thee?      What am I, that my lips do thee wrong? I could hurt thee — but pain would delight thee;      Or caress thee — but love would repel; And the lovers whose lips would excite thee      Are serpents in hell. Who now shall content thee as they did,      Thy lovers, when temples were built And the hair of the sacrifice braided      And the blood of the sacrifice spilt, In Lampsacus fervent with faces,      In Aphaca red from thy reign, Who embraced thee with awful embraces,      Our Lady of Pain? Where are they, Cotytto or Venus,      Astarte or Ashtaroth, where? Do their hands as we touch come between us?      Is the breath of them hot in thy hair? From their lips have thy lips taken fever,      With the blood of their bodies grown red? Hast thou left upon earth a believer      If these men are dead? They were purple of raiment and golden,      Filled full of thee, fiery with wine, Thy lovers, in haunts unbeholden,      In marvellous chambers of thine. They are fled, and their footprints escape us,      Who appraise thee, adore, and abstain, O daughter of Death and Priapus,      Our Lady of Pain. What ails us to fear overmeasure,      To praise thee with timorous breath, O mistress and mother of pleasure,      The one thing as certain as death? We shall change as the things that we cherish,      Shall fade as they faded before, As foam upon water shall perish,      As sand upon shore. We shall know what the darkness discovers,      If the grave-pit be shallow or deep; And our fathers of old, and our lovers,      We shall know if they sleep not or sleep. We shall see whether hell be not heaven,      Find out whether tares be not grain, And the joys of thee seventy times seven,      Our Lady of Pain.

[thecoroutfitters]

Written by Guest Contributor on The Prepper Journal.

Editor’s Note: This post is another entry in the Prepper Writing Contest from Kirk Reynolds. If you have information for Preppers that you would like to share and possibly win a $300 Amazon Gift Card to purchase your own prepping supplies, enter today.

Looking around I couldn’t find an important piece of information – how one should fight in a SHTF situation. I think this is an important topic to cover because it has several special circumstances that need to be considered.

Ammo will need to be conserved – I don’t care how many rounds you have saved up, it won’t be enough and the long-term of a complete collapse of society (potentially 40+ years) means that from the get go every single shot will be precious.

Due to the fact that it is almost a certainty that combatants will be intensely familiar with the area and possibly have been residing for a long period of time it rather changes the mechanics of combat.

Due to limited manpower and the fact that any attrition will be felt heavily, patrols, night combat, and outposts will be nigh impossible to field with regularity.

Expanding on the above, most medication has a limited shelf life and even minor wounds will start to become quite threatening (increased risk of disease and infection) – Medication will run out fast.

//

With that in mind, let us analyse why tactical considerations are always important and what style of fighting we will have to adopt. Due to the fact that ammo will always be a luxury, modern tactics which rely on the idea of expending more ammo in a gunfight at the foe over men or positioning is obviously not possible.

Now – every weapon you should use should focus on stopping power, the smallest cartridge in your arsenal should be 6.5mm (handguns excluded). Whilst 5.56 has good aerodynamics and is plentiful it simply is designed to suppress whilst a mortar, grenade, or artillery piece does the killing – it simply isn’t designed with taking down man-sized targets with minimal rounds (I have heard anecdotes of anywhere between 5-15 torso shots on an adrenalized up foe before they go down).

With that out-of-the-way – let us look at the overall thought process and things to identify before you engage in any situation.

Manpower: Who has more bodies at their disposal – do they look weak and ill-trained or are their movements/positions well thought out and the men (and women!) well fed? Are they all moving armed or do they have the luxury of people dedicated to guard duties?

Armament: What weapons are they using – are they rusted and in ill repair? Can you identify if they are carrying enough ammo for everyone to fight adequately?

Maneuver: Who is in the better position? – do they have a path of pursuit and escape, do they have a height advantage? Importantly are they defending something valuable (like a base or stash)? If so you may have the luxury of being able to attack at will, the same thing goes if you are on the defensive.

From these 3 guidelines a threat level can be deduced, obviously there will be some situation where one advantage is so great that it will offset disadvantages – this is a rough guideline. If they check off none, then you are probably in a position to utilize a diplomatic approach and join groups. If they check off one of 3 then you should approach with caution, maybe attempt to surround them at night and make your intentions clear – again diplomacy may be the best decision here. If they check two of three than combat should be avoided until you are in a position to use your advantage to overwhelm them (attacking at night, in an ambush, etc). Do not attempt diplomacy at this threat level as you will not be in a position to make a fair deal and all emphasis should be placed on evening the odds or avoiding the threat. Finally if they check off all three do not engage at all, the goal is survival not heroic death and if worst comes to worst retreating completely or surrendering goods is preferable to a bullet in the brain. They still are people and unless you are absolutely sure that they are completely hostile they may be willing to work with you.

Now with the overall threat assessment done we may now talk about the five stages of combat (Recce, Skirmish, Combat, Push/Withdraw, Decisive Blow/Total Withdrawal).

RECCE

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.” – Sun Tzu

Recce is often the most overlooked stage of combat but it is BY FAR the most important. Recce is the mode of thought that you should be on at all times, dispatching a scout if possible and identifying incoming threats. The more focus you place on recce the more forewarning you will have as to inbound threats, and more time to prepare/evacuate. Obviously you will be unable to have a complete recon net due to limited supplies but any extra hands should be trained for recce and dispatched when possible.

This is where you will identify your enemies capabilities on your threat checklist and decide whether to choose engagement/diplomacy/retreat. Just to outline how vital this is, 90% of a good tactician’s skill is how the deploy and utilize information from recce, with the other 10% being a good leader with good interpersonal skills and the ability to keep cool under pressure.

SKIRMISH

This is where you action your initial decision on engaging the enemy, it is the period where hostilities have begun but you are not locked into a fight. This will be the period where you harry the enemy with traps and marksman to attempt to pick off men before you attack or they reach your designated point of defense (usually your fortifications).

Some skirmishes may only last a minute or two and some may be the entire fight, note that your main focus should be leaders and sensitive targets (heavily armed fighters and if possible, medics). The goal of this will be to break your enemies organisation and morale when combat begins – that being said…

COMBAT

This will be the time when individual training counts. Communication will be close to impossible in this brief period and this is where the most casualties will be sustained – though despite this being the most calamitous point of a fight it will be the least important for you as the person in command. Your main role will be encouraging your men and stopping any obvious screw-ups.

What you should be watching closely is the movement of combat, are you making good progress towards your goal or are you sustaining casualties – are there hostile elements that you were unaware of?

Before I make my next point the thing to keep in mind is that in a ‘battle’ there may be multiple combats, intensive fighting between periods of skirmish, pushing, and retreat.

PUSH/WITHDRAW

This is as much a phase of combat as it is its own separate action, and the commands will have to be executed well and especially in the case of a withdrawal you need pre-planned points to ensure cohesiveness.

Really the most that can be said of pushing is that your enemy has begun to break or have thinned enough that they can no longer maintain the area their position demands, as I would expect almost all combatants to be ill-trained this will almost certainly result in a decisive victory as the enemy breaks completely.

However, keeping your men together in the case of a withdrawal is another issue. The things to watch out for: can you retreat to your designated point safely (if you have one – keep in mind most defense should take a multi layered approach), do you have enough manpower left to pursue another attack, is the enemy willing to pursue or are they holding position. If it is the latter the combat may switch to a skirmishing stance again.

TOTAL WITHDRAWAL/ DECISIVE BLOW

Decisive blow: Your enemy has completely shattered, this is the period encompassing cleaning up resistance before taking stock of supplies and beginning the process of recce again – re-assessing.

Total Withdrawal: This comes about one of two ways – Your force has broken and are fleeing in a blind panic, or it is (hopefully) an organised retreat to put some distance between yourselves and the enemy combatants and re-asses. You will again need to survey the situation and determine the next point of action for your group.

Something to note – Overall your group should always be prepared for a total retreat, even an easy fight could be a ruse and you always need to be prepared to move and maintain as many supplies as possible.

The post The Tactics of a Gunfight After SHTF appeared first on The Prepper Journal.

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