#Battle of the Great Grass Plains

[sw5w]

What the —

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:03:37

[aifanfictions]

a story about (y/n) who is khal drogo's translator and khal drogo slowly falls in love with her and asks her to be his khaleesi in front of all his people one night by the fire

The Khaleesi's Heart

(Y/N) had always been captivated by the vastness of the Dothraki Sea, with its endless golden plains stretching as far as the eye could see. She had joined the Khalasar as a translator, seeking adventure and a chance to immerse herself in the rich culture of the fierce horse lords. Little did she know that her journey would lead to an unexpected and life-changing encounter.

Khal Drogo, a man of immense stature and a reputation that preceded him, had never taken much interest in the affairs of outsiders. His heart was bound to the warrior code, and his focus was on conquest and the endless expansion of his Khalasar. As he led his people through the sea of grass, he rarely spared a second thought for anything or anyone beyond his warriors and his beloved bloodriders.

One fateful evening, as the setting sun bathed the horizon in hues of fiery red and orange, Khal Drogo's warriors captured a party of travelers on the fringes of his territory. Among them was (Y/N), who had been accompanying a merchant caravan on her journey to learn the Dothraki ways. She found herself standing before the imposing Khal, her heart pounding in her chest.

(Y/N) knew the importance of diplomacy and the art of communication. Fluent in both the Dothraki tongue and the common language of Westeros, she was able to bridge the gap between her people and the fierce Khalasar. Her eyes met Drogo's, and she bowed respectfully, uttering the words of introduction in flawless Dothraki.

"Anhaan vekhat hoshori, majin adak jin," she spoke, introducing herself as a translator.

Khal Drogo, unaccustomed to hearing his mother tongue from the lips of a foreigner, was taken aback. His dark eyes bore into hers as if trying to decipher her intentions. Her confidence, intelligence, and the fire in her eyes intrigued him in a way that no one ever had.

Over time, as (Y/N) continued to serve as translator, she and Khal Drogo shared more than just words. She found herself drawn to the strength and honor that defined his character. He, in turn, began to seek her presence during meetings and discussions, valuing her insights and wisdom.

As the weeks turned into months, a connection grew between them, though they rarely spoke of it aloud. (Y/N) saw beyond the fearsome exterior of Khal Drogo, recognizing the depth of his heart and the unspoken longing in his gaze. Khal Drogo, a man of few words, found himself yearning for (Y/N)'s companionship, her laughter, and the way her eyes sparkled when she shared tales of her homeland.

The Khalasar continued its relentless journey across the Dothraki Sea, conquering rival clans and collecting tribute. In the midst of the dust and chaos of battle, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) found solace in each other's presence. They shared stolen moments by the campfire, where he would listen to her recount stories of the world beyond the grasslands, and she would learn of the proud history of the Dothraki.

One night, as they sat by the fire, the sky above them was ablaze with a tapestry of stars. Khal Drogo turned to (Y/N), his eyes filled with an intensity she had come to know all too well.

"Anhaan vekhat anni, (Y/N)," he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. "You have brought light to my Khalasar and to my heart. You are strong, wise, and beautiful. Will you be my Khaleesi?"

(Y/N)'s heart skipped a beat. She had never anticipated such a proposition. To be the Khaleesi of the Great Khal Drogo meant leaving behind her old life, her dreams of adventure, and embracing a destiny she had never imagined. Yet, as she looked into the eyes of the man who had come to mean so much to her, she knew that her heart had already made its choice.

"Yes, Khal Drogo," she replied, her voice unwavering. "I will be your Khaleesi."

Word of Khal Drogo's declaration spread throughout the Khalasar like wildfire. The warriors and the women ululated in celebration, recognizing that their Khal had chosen a powerful and deserving Khaleesi. The union of two strong souls promised a future of prosperity and unity.

As the flames of the fire danced around them that night, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) sealed their commitment with a sacred Dothraki ritual. Their love would be tested in the trials of the unforgiving Dothraki culture, but they were determined to stand together, a force to be reckoned with.

And so, under the vast, starlit expanse of the Dothraki Sea, a new chapter in their lives began. Khal Drogo, once a warrior without equal, had found something even more precious than conquest – love. And (Y/N), the outsider who had ventured into this world seeking adventure, had found a love that would change her destiny forever.

As the months turned into years, Khal Drogo and his Khaleesi led the Great Khalasar to new heights, forging alliances and achieving greatness that had not been seen in generations. Their love story, whispered through the winds of the Dothraki Sea, became a legend, a testament to the power of love to transcend boundaries and unite even the fiercest of hearts.

In the heart of the Dothraki Sea, beneath the endless sky, Khal Drogo and (Y/N) embarked on a journey of love and destiny, a journey that would shape the future of the Dothraki and etch their names into the annals of history as a love that conquered all.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

[zoandreez]

hiding in plain sight . (prologue)

pairing: ao'nung x omaticayan!reader

summary: your mother worked alongside miles quartitch in the sky people battle. as a dreamwalker, similar to grace, she got pregnant (occurrence unknown.) after miles' death, the sky people retreated. you grew up alone on pandora, afraid of what was outside of your make-shift sanctuary, until one day you go hunting and bump into some of the sullys.

word count: 1.3k

warnings: like 2 seconds of angst

as you frantically scrambled around your hut of trees and leaves, a ripped (and mostly fluff-less) pillow, and organization of old blankets you found from the abandoned pods, the day you had been dreading for a few weeks had finally came.

you were out of food.

of course, for any na'vi this is no big deal, all they have to do is go hunting. however, in your case it isn't exactly that easy. the other omaticayan do not know you exist. your mother, jasmine brooks, worked for miles quartitch, who (you quickly learned) wasn't the best person to know on pandora. during the sky people war, your mother as a dream walker was concieved. although the answers to how are still unknown, you were born with five fingers, five toes, and eyebrows, resembling human features more than na'vi. the sky people had no time to react, and with no clue how to deal with you, abandoned you.

luckily, you were just about 3 years old when they abandoned you and understood the basics of life-- walking, peeling fruits and such. you had to train yourself to hunt, to make your own loincloths, and other necessities. you never went hunting much, in fear you would be discovered. so, once every three months, you would wait until night to hunt until the sun rose, to have enough food for the next few months.

the last cycle was five months ago, thank eywa for that. however, you knew you were too lucky, as your next hunting spree would need to begin today. in the morning. you had no food for the rest of the day, and you didn't want to hold out, you were skinny and rationed enough. you grabbed your bow and your arrows and carefully snuck out of your hut, beginning your day-long hunt.

about an hour has passed, and it seemed to be going great so far. you had quite a bit of spartan and yovo fruits to get you through for a week, and you decided you'd get your months worth stash next week. on your way back, you had begun to dig into a yovo fruit, one of the smaller ones, when suddenly you heard murmurs.

"tuk, keep up!" you heard a boy shout.

your ears tilted up as you turned your head in the direction of the noise. you said nothing as you backed away, afraid running would bring too much attention your way.

"bro, why'd you bring her anyway?" you heard another boy say, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

something about the scene, instead of scaring you, enticed you. you inched closer to the voices, finally stopping behind a tree. you peeked between two branches like a window as you stared at the 4. it was a na'vi boy, braids pulled back into a ponytail, leading the group. quickly following behind was a na'vi girl, younger than the rest, swaying her tail as she leapt across the log following him. a taller girl, strolled behind casually, as the human boy caught your attention, with a breathing mask on.

"she's such a crybaby." the na'vi boy huffed, and the steps on the grass you once heard stopped. "she's all, 'i'm telling! you're not supposed to go to the battlefield. i'll tell mom if you don't let me come.'"

the youngest one, most likely who tuk is, stuck her tongue out at the na'vi boy. you smiled at her remark. the older girl blurted out a quick "don't pick at her," looking at him with disapproval.

they continued on their path, and you quickly ran to drop your fruit off and follow them. it looked like they were heading to the pods, and miles' old suit. you passed by thousands of times, breathing in your mothers old mask or sitting in her pod (unfortunately someone seven, eight feet tall cant lay in a five foot pod.) you followed the familiar path as the four began to speak again.

"come on," na'vi boy spoke again. as he climbed up to the crashed ships, the three of the other companions followed.

"oh, sick." the human boy called. you began to walk further out, uninterested in the chance of "any dead bodies up there," that tuk claims to want to see. you followed the older na'vi girl, as she walked further into the nature. she brushed her fingertips against the branches and lifted her arms to twirl with the leaves, before eventually laying down in the grass. you stepped closer to her, before freezing. you saw the many atokirina that flew ahead of you, and calmly circled themselves onto the girl.

you stared in awe as she lay asleep, the spirit seeds of eywa sitting on her, before they buzzed away. it was like she just got blessed? you had no clue what happened, and reached out to one of the atokirina to graze it-

"hey!" your head whipped up to the human boy. you quickly took off, brushing past him. "what were you doing? get back here!" he shouted, dashing after you before he shouted.

"lo'ak! tackle that girl, i think she hurt kiri!" you looked around, for any signs of lo'ak, the now name-assigned na'vi boy. after not seeing him, you took off for safety before you were pinned down by lo'ak.

"who are you?" he blurted out.

"get off me!" you protested, twisting and turning as you reached for your knife.

he quickly stopped you, but froze when he grabbed your hand. slowly, he put his hand up to yours. it took you a minute to realize what he was doing, until you looked. your hands matched up perfectly, but that isn't supposed to happen unless..

"are you a dreamwalker?" you both asked, and looked at each other in shock. "what do you mean are you a dreamwalker? stop copying me. why are you saying everything i say? stop it!"

the human boy interjected. "wait, what are you guys talking about, 'dreamwalker?'"

"she has five fingers."

the boy turned to look at you, before walking up and looking at her hands. "so, what- do we take her to dad?" "no way, he'll kill us if he knew we came this far."

"he'll kill us if we don't tell him the sky people are back."

you watched the two argue for a moment, before lo'ak finally sighed and gave in. he looked back at you. "sorry dreamwalker, gotta turn you in to big boss." he said before tapping his neck, as you caught sight of the little mic he had.

"but i'm not a dreamwalker."

the boys both froze and looked at you. "so, what are you?" the human boy said.

"well, my mother was. i'm just.. a freak." you said, wiggling your pinky.

lo'ak hesitated for a bit, looking at you. he had no clue whether to believe you or not. he grew up thinking he was a freak for his fifth finger, his eyebrows, his demon blood. now, this girl that laid before him could be like him. or, she could be what he's sworn to not. a sky person. a demon. he pressed his mic.

"devil dog, devil dog this is eagle eye, over." he spoke.

after a moment, they heard static and then a male voice spoke. "eagle eye, send your traffic." the male said. you stared off into the distance.

"we found this girl, she looks like an avatar, but she says shes not a dreamwalker. she has five fingers though, and we've never seen her before." you had begun to wriggle under his grasp, not wanting to be caught. "let me go!" you protested.

"where are you?" the male on the other line said. lo'ak looked at the now returned human boy, with kiri, and hesitated before answering. kiri mouthed a snarky remark to lo'ak that you couldn't hear, but it made lo'ak wince.

"oh. we're.. we're um.. attheoldshack." he said quickly.

"who's we? who's with you?"

"me, kiri, spider... tuk."

you heard a faint gasp in the speaker on his neck, and looked over at tuk as she said to kiri, "is dad coming for us?"

"dad's coming for lo'ak's ass, definitely." lo'ak hit kiri on the shoulder, as he continued to lean on you with his knee on your back, one hand pinning your wrists together.

this just acts as a prologue for a series i have coming, i figured i should get practice writing in!

[whencyclopedia]

Great Sioux War

The Great Sioux War (also given as the Black Hills War, 1876-1877) was a military conflict between the allied forces of the Lakota Sioux/Northern Cheyenne and the US government over the territory of the Black Hills and, more widely, US policies of westward expansion and the appropriation of Native American lands.

The Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 had established the Great Sioux Reservation, including the Black Hills, and promised this land to the Sioux in perpetuity. When gold was discovered in the Black Hills in 1874, the treaty was ignored by the US government, leading to the Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876. The Sioux, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho responded with armed resistance in raids on wagon trains, skirmishes, and five major battles fought between March 1876 and January 1877:

Battle of Powder River (Reynolds Battle) – 17 March 1876

Battle of the Rosebud (Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother) – 17 June 1876

Battle of the Little Bighorn (Battle of the Greasy Grass) – 25-26 June 1876

Battle of Slim Buttes – 9-10 September 1876

Battle of Wolf Mountain (Battle of Belly Butte) – 8 January 1877

In between these, were so-called minor engagements with casualties on both sides but, after June 1876, greater losses for the Sioux and Cheyenne. The final armed conflict of the Great Sioux War was the Battle of Muddy Creek (the Lame Deer Fight, 7-8 May 1877), by which time the Sioux war chief Crazy Horse (l. c. 1840-1877) had already surrendered and the chief Sitting Bull (l. c. 1837-1890) and Sioux war chief Gall (l.c. 1840-1894) and others had fled to the region of modern-day Canada. Although the war was over by May 1877, ending in a victory for the US military, some bands of Sioux and Cheyenne continued to struggle against reservation life until the Wounded Knee Massacre of 29 December 1890 broke their resistance.

Background

Although the first armed conflict between the Plains Indians and Euro-Americans was in 1823, problems between the Sioux and the US military began on 19 August 1854 with the Grattan Fight (Grattan Massacre), when 2nd Lieutenant John L. Grattan led his command of 30 soldiers to the camp of Chief Conquering Bear (l. c. 1800-1854) to demand the surrender of a man they claimed had stolen a cow from a Mormon wagon train.

Conquering Bear refused to surrender anyone, offering compensation instead, and, as the negotiations broke down, Grattan's men fired on the Sioux, mortally wounding Conquering Bear, and the Sioux warriors retaliated, killing Grattan and all of his command. The US military responded with campaigns against the Sioux in the First Sioux War of 1854-1856, which also included actions against their allies, the Cheyenne and Arapaho.

Tensions escalated after the opening of the Bozeman Trail in 1863, the establishment of forts to protect white settlers using the trail, and the Sand Creek Massacre of 29 November 1864. Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) was launched in response to the construction of these forts and the policies of the US government, concluding with the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868, which established the Great Sioux Reservation (modern-day South Dakota and parts of North Dakota and Nebraska), including the Black Hills – a site sacred to the Sioux – which was promised to them for "as long as the grass should grow and the rivers flow."

When Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer (l. 1839-1876) discovered gold in the Black Hills in 1874, the Fort Laramie treaty was broken as over 15,000 white settlers and miners streamed into the region during the Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876. The US government offered to purchase the Black Hills, but the Sioux would not sell. More settlers arrived, the government ignored Sioux demands that the 1868 treaty be honored, and the Great Sioux War began in March of that year, with the Reynolds campaign on the Powder River.

Continue reading...

[gingerlee-holds]

okay so uhm- i know nobody was really asking for this heh- but idk i hate feeling like this story is unfinished so- remember the Fernsby Journals? ,,,yeah so i wrote the final piece to that lmao- im sorry gang this is purely for my enjoyment alone and i just wanted to get this silly story finished lmao so here enjoy xD

to those unfamiliar, The Fernsby Journals is a world of my own creation, it was made as an afterthought a year ago but it turned into a story and idk heres the ending lol

March 23rd, 1745.

Read the first one here! Read the previous one here!

Words: 1766 Pairing: Ler!Clara, Lee!Eren Warnings: None! Lots of fluff though (literally hahahahahahaha-)

"Are... are you sure this is the way?" I asked over my shoulder.

"Absolutely, Eren!" She poked the middle of my spine, making me jump. For the past ten days, it seemed she couldn't get enough of my pathetic reactions to her poking and squeezing, and I had had just about enough of her... unprofessional behavior!

"Mr. Fernsby! Please, Clara, I have a degree." I rubbed my back, glaring over my shoulder the best I could.

"This is a fact of which I'm well aware, Eren! If you'll remember, I was with you as well! I have the same degree you do." Clara hummed a tune she heard a week prior. 

We had been walking for perhaps a quarter-hour by this point, and needless to say, I was a tad winded. We approached the base of a large hill covered in bright green grass, and I sat on the gentle slope to regain my breath. Clara opted to continue walking for a bit, just to peer over the crest, and then she came back down to sit by my side.

I sighed and got back on the subject. "Now, if you knew where the featherflakes were, why did it take you so thunderingly long to take me here? It's not like we spent the time productively!" 

"Ah! But don't you remember, we had that study session, Eren!" Clara wiggled a finger in my ear, causing me to jump up with a squeak. I straightened my coat and huffed.

"When we were supposed to be looking for historical sources, I seem to recall you first eating all the biscuits I had prepared for us and then spending the rest of the hour tick- ahem... distracting me from the task at hand!" I turned to walk up the hill, wanting nothing more than to be finished with this nonsense.

"It was tickly tea time! I told you!" She sent another poke to my back, and I jumped again.

I whirled around and jabbed an accosting finger into her breastbone. "Listen here, you-!" However, I could not finish my statement as Clara took me by both shoulders with an affectionate smirk and gave me a gentle push. With a yelp, I began tumbling down the other side of the hill, yelling expletives the entire descent. 

When I finally rolled to a stop, I lay on the floor of the valley for a minute, groaning as the dizzy feeling wore away. "Are you alright, Eren?" I heard Clara call down from the hill.

I extended a shaky hand to begin pushing myself up. "Yes, I'm- f-fihihihine-!" I gasped with shock as I felt a tingling feeling in my palm. My head shot up to look around me, and I beheld a vast white plain extending for kilometers out of sight. I slowly reached my knees to gaze over this veritable sea of featherflakes.

"Welcome," Clara called from behind me, "to the Field of Feathers!" She laughed at my face when I turned to her, seeing her slowly walk down the hill toward me. "First recorded in 486 when the Romans occupied this part of Britain, the native tribes used this to their great advantage, turning out an entire legion of soldiers into squealing schoolchildren!" 

"How did-?" I started to ask, but she paid me no mind as she continued teaching me about this place. 

"Then, of course, when the Normans invaded in 1066, this field was the site of what was to be the greatest battle these isles had seen until then. Neither side knew this place existed, so both armies had to call a hasty - and giggly - retreat!"

I rubbed my head, stunned. How had all of this information eluded me? "I don't-"

"You certainly must know of the War of the Roses, Eren! Studied your history at university, I know. It was here, at the Field of Feathers, where the Lancasters forced a surrender from the House of York by so shrewdly pushing their enemy back into this field, where they were quickly tickle-tickle-tickled into submission!" Clara sat on the slope in front of me, smiling at me all the while. A blush darkened my face, and I looked down to avoid her gaze. "Then, a few centuries later, an adorable little scholar named Eren Fernsby became so enraptured by the idea of being tickled by the Field of Feathers that he somehow avoided all history of them in his textbooks. His library was filled with historical mentions of this place, but it seemed like he pretended not to see all these, to give him an excuse to visit the field for himself."

My head shot up, pale as a sheet. "I- You-"

She extended her hand, keeping her pointer finger out to keep my chin up toward her. "Many things you are, Eren. A scholar, a pedant, a stubborn little boy. Regardless, you have never been an actor."

I could feel my face heat up, red like a Lancaster rose. Whining softly, I felt my body relax into the grass beneath me. She had me all figured out.

"Now, Eren, if you please," she chuckled, reaching up to grip the back of my collar and turning me around to face the Field of Feathers. I felt my coat loosen as she undid my buttons, leaving me only my undershirt to defend myself with.

"Wait, wait, Clara, hold on," I pleaded, wriggling in her grasp a bit. 

Clara leaned in to whisper in my ear. "Study to your heart's content, little scholar~!" With that, I was unceremoniously heaved forward into the field, my disturbance causing the field to erupt in featherflakes. I didn't even get the chance to gain my composure before it was swiftly broken again, as I felt swarms of featherflakes rushing into my clothing. 

"N-NohoHoHOHOHO! CLAHAHAHARAAHAHA!!" I laughed, rolling around to stop the invading fiends, only succeeding in disrupting more featherflakes to join their companions. "MEHEHEHERCYHYHYHY!"

"Mercy?" Clara rested her chin on her palm as she watched me writhe on the grass before her. "Why are you asking me for mercy, you silly boy? I'm not doing anything to you~! You should be begging those featherflakes for mercy, and you will have to beg because you've so inconsiderately disturbed their peaceful spring day~!"

"DAHAHAHAHAHAMN YOUHUHUHUHU!" I squealed, unable to bring myself to my feet. The more I thrashed about, the more flakes I turned into the air, which only made me thrash harder! Somehow, I hadn't felt my shoes being tugged off my feet, and when I felt a few flakes finding their way into my socks, I well and truly shrieked to the heavens above. 

"Sohoho dramatic~!" Clara giggled, standing up. She cautiously approached the edge of the field, reaching her hand out for me to grab. "C'mere, cutie."

I rolled onto my stomach and began to crawl towards her, trying with every fiber of my being to ignore the hundreds of flakes filling the inside of my shirt. "IHIHI- IHIHI CAHAHAN'T REHEHEHEACH!! IT'S TOOHOOHOO MUHUHUHUHUCH!!" I cackled.

Clara rolled her eyes affectionately. "My goodness, you're ticklish. Whatever would have become of you if I weren't here to save you? Laughed yourself to death, I reckon." She reached out further. "C'mon, I'm right here. Take my hand."

I raised my hand to take hers before squealing in surprise at the feeling of featherflakes flying down my sleeve into my underarm. I shrieked and curled in on myself. "THIHIHIHIS-! IHIHIS HEHEHELLISH!" 

"Hm, then why are you enjoying yourself so much? Nobody can have a bad time when they have a big adorable smile plastered over their face~!" 

Looking up, I saw her hand, closer, within reach. I reached up to take it with a monumental effort, yet I missed it. Through my mirthful tears, I couldn't see her smile or that she had moved her hand back at the last second. "CLOHOHOHOHOSHEHEHEHERRR!!!!" I squealed.

"I'm as close as I can get, Eren! Come on, you can grab, lovebug~!" She called to me, and I tried grabbing her hand again, only to miss and end up with more flakes in my sleeve. I collapsed onto the grass and rolled onto my back, holding myself around my stomach.

"HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHELP MEHEHEHEHEEEE!!!" I cackled at the clouds above.

I heard a fond sigh. "You really are helpless when you're being tickled. Guess I gotta do everything around here~," Clara purred. Suddenly, I felt her hand grabbing the back of my collar again, and with a single tug, I was safely back on the slope. "There, you baby, you're safe."

"BuHuhuhUhuut-!!" The feeling of the flakes hadn't gone away. The villains were still trapped in my clothing! 

"Ah, I see the problem. Here, let me help you out there~!" With that, I felt her hands diving into my shirt, picking around for flakes... and scribbling!

"NOHOHO!! CLAHAHARAAHAHAA!!!" I threw my head back onto the grass, kicking my legs as her strong arms worked around in my shirt. 

"What~? I'm helping you, Eren! Stay still. You're only going to make the tickly-tickly-tickles worse for you~!" She giggled beside me, throwing away all pretense of helpfulness as she scribbled over my belly button.

My eyes bulged out of my face, and I lunged upward. "NOHOHOT THEHEHEHERE! PLEHEHEHEHEASEE, CLAHAHAHHAARAHAHA!!!" 

"Oh, good heavens, you're a mess!" Clara tittered. Her scribbling slowed to gently rubbing with one hand, using her other to pick around to get the flakes out. "Just a bit of tickling, and you're absolutely helpless. Tsk, tsk..." 

I whined as she gently took all the flakes out, continuing to rub my stomach. My laughter slowly wound down to giggling and then to a ragged breathing. I was sprawled out on the slope of the hill, and Clara beside me lay down, not stopping her belly rubs. Before us, the flakes settled back down to the valley floor, and the sunset in the distance painted the Field of Feathers in a cheery, dare I say, tickle-me-pink. The warmth was getting to me.

"You look tired, dear~," she whispered. I didn't have the energy to reply as my eyelids drooped. "I suppose I'll have to carry you back home after this..." 

She said something else, but I didn't get a chance to hear it. For the life of me, I swear it sounded something like 'I love you,' but perhaps it was simply my weary delusions. I awoke the following day in bed, spooned by my sweet Clara. I didn't mind it as much. Writing down my observations could wait. I went back to sleep, a little closer to her this time. 

[thomaswaynewolf]

In far west Texas and eastern New Mexico, there is a land so flat you’ll swear, if you squint hard enough into the infinite horizons, that you can see the back of your head. This treeless, sand dune, canyon and grass filled country stretches some fifty thousand square miles of land that used to be called The Great American Desert but today, is called The Llano Estacado or the High Staked Plains. In the deep past, it was home to Ground Sloths, Mammoths, and Bison before Clovis, Apache, and then the Comanche. The Spanish explored it, the New Mexicans hunted buffalo on it, the Americans fought the Indians on and around it. Coronado, Oñate, Kit Carson, and Robert E Lee all travelled across or around it’s flat emptiness.

In this Roadrunner exclusive episode of the American Southwest Podcast, I cover all of that and a whole lot more as I uncover the Tierra Incognita that is El Llano Estacado. I discuss what it looks like, how it distorts the mind, the creatures that live on it, the violent weather, the history of the American Indians including the mysterious Teya, the Spanish, The French, The English, the New Mexicans, the Comancheros, the Contrabandistas, the Ciboleros, the Texans, and finally, the Americans. I introduce important Southwestern Characters, animals, peoples, cultures, and battles. I quote from great authors who wrote fantastic books about the place that only those who hunted the bison, and those that hunted the bison hunters ever dared to venture into.

This is the first of many exclusive episodes for the Subscribers or Roadrunners and at 3 hours and 30 minutes, I hope that it satisfies everyone’s desire for awesome and exciting information on the American Southwest. Thank y’all for subscribing and listening.

Sign up at Substack!

[ringtownrangerlark]

Ranger Helper Spotlight: Doduo/Dodrio

I firmly believe any pokemon can be a good partner for a ranger. Even the "scary" or "strange" pokemon can be the right fit for the right ranger and the right situation. But I wanted to do a series of posts on pokemon that are particularly common, or have reputations as helpful for rangers in particular.

First up: Doduo/Dodrio!

Or as they know them in Almia, "ranger bikes". The practice is slightly less common in Fiore, which is small, with population centers densely packed. Only a few rangers keep doduo or dodrio- though there's a reason Joel was the record-holder in the Kisara plains challenge for years. In Almia, rangers keep an unofficial stable of doduo around bases, and are constantly using them to run around the whole region. There are many good reasons for that!

Sharp-eyed watchers The long necks and tall bodies of doduo are adapted to looking out over high grasses in plains. And they have excellent vision. A doduo can spot a target- whether a pokemon, human, or other concern- from a very far distance. And with multiple heads, they can cover a 360 degree view, and take turns sleeping, making Doduo very hard to sneak up on or catch off-guard.

Tireless speedsters There is no denying that Doduo are fast. Again, their long legs are so well-built for speed, that they regularly set records in any kind of time-based challenge. They can run up to 60 miles per hour. In rescue missions, every second counts. And it makes many of them great at escaping an unwanted battle. Dodrio are slightly slower than doduo, but have a complicated circulatory and respiratory system (simplified: multiple sets of hearts and lungs) which lets them keep going much longer without needing to rest. This line is excellent for rangers who want to get to the source of trouble- or get out of danger- quickly.

An-all terrain vehicle with multiple brains I once had someone ask me why rangers (especially in Almia) ride on Duduo all the time instead of using normal bicycles. The reasons are similar to why you can't use scissors to open their own packaging. You know those cool cycling roads, or walking routes? The ones where you don't encounter any wild pokemon unless you go off-road into wild grass? Rangers maintain those. Which means we have to be there when there isn't a usable road. Bikes are an excellent way to travel on a paved or otherwise relatively clear path. Rangers, on the other hand, often have to traverse the kind of untamed terrain that even acrobatic bikes would have some trouble with, or to be able to switch terrains. A doduo, with its long legs and sharp claws, can run across an open field at top speed, pick its way through dense jungle underbrush that would take a machete to hack through, and keep its footing on a steep rocky mountain. And it's even capable of flight! Doduo are smart enough to resist following orders into terrain they can't traverse safely (which is few and far between), or to take their partners home if their rider is unconscious or incapacitated. If I get poisoned in the wild, a doduo can bring me to the nearest base- a bike cannot.

All together, the Doduo/Dodrio line makes excellent partners for any ranger. Their specialty is certainly travel, being able to get anywhere, practically regardless of terrain, quickly and efficiently. But they also make excellent guards, and are intelligent and strategic capture partners.

[fandomsnstuff]

Day 5 - Bones

It's my birthday so i think you should read this fic (and the others, if you want) and be nice to me :3

@blupjeansweek

Read it on AO3

Summary: Lup commits a crime but she swears she has a REALLY good reason

It's nearing 6am, the sky is just beginning to turn orange, and Lup's been digging since eleven. She's sweaty, exhausted, and covered in dirt. Barry better know what he's talking about, because if she went through all this only for the ritual not to work, she'll kill him. She doesn't care if he's already dead.

She pauses for a moment to give her aching back a short reprieve.

Why did she have to buy the murder house? "It has a story," she said. "It has character," she said. "It's in a good neighbourhood," she said. But who is she kidding? She bought the house that a guy had been murdered in years ago because it was cheap and nobody else seemed to want it. It didn't take long to find out why. The place was haunted as hell. The murdered guy was mad about being murdered and kept scaring people away, but Lup's no quitter. She and Barry fought not just a battle of wills, they fought a war. He wanted her out so he could sulk, she couldn't afford any other house in the area. They eventually came to a tentative truce. Then they started talking, and then Lup was in a lot of denial, but seeing as she's committing grave robbery to complete a ritual that Barry's "pretty sure" will work, she has to admit that she has a stupid crush on the fucking ghost.

Her shovel hits wood with a hollow thunk, and she could cry in relief. She tosses the tool aside, and uses her hands to brush away the dirt on top. Barry said his mom is a simple woman, who always talked about getting buried in a plain box and not getting embalmed, so they were hoping she'd done the same for her son. Cleared of dirt, Lup finds exactly that. A plain wooden box. She grabs her shovel and brings the edge down on the box. After a couple good whacks and a few silent prayers to no one that there isn't a groundskeeper around to hear it, she's able to pull away enough of the lid to get at the remains inside. It's nothing but bones and a tattered suit. She takes a cloth bag from her back pocket and carefully removes the bones from the casket. She ties the bag to her hip, then climbs out of the hole and flops back onto the grass with a heavy sigh.

She doesn't dare stay there for long. She's already been here for way longer than she wanted, and the sun is on its way up. Fortunately, even though she wasn't able to find the "dig a hole" kind of magic in the old tomes she dug out of a dusty chest, she did find the "move dirt back into a hole" and "make grass grow" kind of magic, so she's able to cover up her crime and hustle her ass out of there.

Back home, she's in the basement with the carpet torn up, revealing a stain on the concrete that no one's ever really been able to get rid of. Runes have been carefully drawn in a perfect circle, centering on that spot. She's lit only by candles and the faint blue glow that comes off of Barry's spectral form as she arranges the bones in the middle of the circle.

"Perfect," he says, "that's perfect. Okay, I think we're ready."

"You think?"

"I know. I know we're ready. This will work. It has to work."

"It better," she steps out of the circle and picks up the old leather bound book they found deep in the attic, "I spent all that money getting your new documents."

"Thank you, Lup. You didn't have to do all this for me. You… you're amazing."

"Don't thank me just yet." She jerks her head towards the circle, "get in there."

Obediently, Barry moves so he's floating just above his bones. Lup looks down at her marked page in the book, at the words she's been practising over and over for months. She was never great at latin, but now she has to be. She takes a breath and starts the ritual. All she has to do is read the lines again and again until it's over. Until, hopefully, the spectre and bones are replaced by a living, breathing Barry.

On the first round, Barry's glow gets brighter. On the second, his bones start to glow. Third, the runes light up. Fourth, the candles start to flicker violently. Fifth and sixth, Barry's spectre starts to lower towards his bones. Seventh, he disappears into them and there's a flash of bright light. Eighth, there's a body in the middle of the floor now, but his eyes are closed and he's not moving. Ninth, his chest starts to rise and fall almost imperceptibly. Tenth, Barry inhales sharply, his eyes snap open, and all the candles go out.

It's pitch black. Lup stops reading. She can hear breathing, and it's not her own. She whispers, "Barry?"

"Yeah," he responds, "I'm- I'm here. Can we turn the light on?"

Lup drops the book and stumbles to the wall, feeling blindly for the switch. She winces when it turns on, having to take a moment to let her eyes adjust from one extreme to another. But when she blinks the spots out of her eyes, there he is. Sitting butt naked on the concrete floor is Barry Bluejeans in the flesh.

"Uh, Lup," he says, "could you- the robe?"

"Oh, right." From their table of supplies, she grabs his glasses and the robe she bought for him just in case old taboo resurrection rituals didn't take clothes into account. He wraps it around himself then starts trying to stand. He's a little wobbly, so Lup grabs his arm to steady him.

He's warm.

"Here," she unfolds his glasses and hands them to him.

He puts them on and looks around. "Can we go upstairs?"

"Of course."

She helps him up the stairs, and takes him out into the backyard. He takes a deep breath and looks at her, "it worked."

"It did."

"Lup, you're a genius."

"Glad you noticed, but you're the one that figured out the ritual."

"Run away with me."

She pauses. "What?"

"Lup, I- god, I'm being an idiot right now, but I like you so much, and I think we make a great team, and I can't stay here, but I want to stay with you." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, this is stupid, the whole reason we even talked was because you wanted to stay in the house, I shouldn't have-"

"No," she cuts him off, "I mean yes. Yes and no. It's not stupid, and honestly I stopped giving a fuck about the house ages ago. Let's run away. We can live in a shitty apartment and you can work your way back up to a PhD and we can complain about people together and one day we'll get a house that no one's ever been murdered in and no one ever will be murdered in."

He smiles at her, and he's so much more handsome in flesh and blood. "I like the sound of that."

She leans her head on his shoulder and admires the gardens. "Do you think I could charge extra for the house since it's been ghost busted?"

"I don't think anyone will want to live where a ghost busted."

[liminal-zone]

courage, dear heart

i wrote a thing! 

AO3 fic link: atomic blonde

fandom: Narnia/LOTR crossover | ship: Susan Pevensie/Éowyn, background Haladriel

rated: mature | tagged: crossover, canon compliant, pining, Gender Politics with Clive Staples and John Ronald Reuel, post The Horse and His Boy, bittersweet

Summary: It’s not the first time a power beyond understanding ripped Susan away from her home to fight in another world’s war. And in this strange country, she will find her courage.

Set as Frodo becomes the ringbearer, set after Susan returns from Tashbaan and the Battle of Anvard is won.

a/n: Written for @thenarniaficexchange 2023 for @syrena-of-the-lake. Is this fic just a string of references from all seven narnia books, at least five lotr books, various narnia and lotr films, a lotr tv show, Churchill’s “we shall fight on the beaches”, and Shakespeare? Maybe so.

Two canons in a blender, my favorite scene in this is when the Dark Lord Sauron comes to Queen Susan in her dreams to take her apart and finds something he didn’t expect. And my heart aches to answer an unanswered question in the fic about magicked memory loss and the Problem of Susan, perhaps in a sequel. 

Excerpt:

Her hands are dirty from drawing the circle, fingers burned from the blue fire.

The bright magic ring she wears is cold, very cold; cold as the bottom of the sea. And it sings of power, not of the flesh, but over flesh. The power of the Unseen World.

In her mouth is the language spoken before the dawn of time. Before the Deep Magic was written. Before the Sun and the Moon were made. “Call her up.”

*

It’s quite sudden – the searing sound in her ears and then a great pop – and she’s no longer riding alongside her sister in the wilds of Galma but in a strange, alien land.

She stills her horse, and is surprised to find it not the dumb Galman beast who was a pleasure to ride along the sands of the ocean, but a great stallion fit for a warrior of renown. The shabby islander saddle is now richly ornate, covered in symbols she does not recognize. The windswept sea of grass smells sweet; rich earth beneath and a warm yellow sun in the endless blue sky above. Massive forests and towering mountains in the distance, and far off to the south, clouds of smoke. No recognizable landmark of any kind.

This curious little girl from Finchley has experienced travel between worlds before, but she does not quite remember the first time. Something about a mother who loved her and a great stairwell and the numbing horror of nonstop destruction; all faded in memory and deemed unimportant, lost. She is now queen of a great country; taller than her brother, the High King, and a remarkable beauty sought by highborns across the known world. Her raven-colored hair and red lips, haunting the dreams of many. Her gracious kindness, a balm to her loving subjects once subjugated by winter and a witch.

More importantly, she still remains curious.

For she is Susan, by the gift of Aslan, by election, by prescription, and by conquest, Queen over Narnia under the High King Peter, the Lady of Cair Paravel and Protector of the River Rush, Blessed by the Radiant Southern Sun, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion, Daughter of Eve, the Gentle.

And this strange country, unknown to her, is Middle Earth.

*

Her magical horn came with her, tied to her belt. There is no hesitation as she raises it to her lips. Father Christmas had said “–wherever you are–,” so she blows it, calling for help in this alien place.

The full velvety sound rings out across the grassy plains, ringing up through the nearby mountains and reaching forests unknown and reaching foreign ears in their towers of stone. (Perhaps even reaching the power that brought her here.)

A rider appears in the distance. Susan narrows her eyes, considering if this is friend or foe. She only has a dagger and her wits, which may be enough.

It is a warrior with a shield on his arm. He rides a white steed and golden horse hair flows out of his helmet. He shines bright like the famed white stag and Susan feels an intense urge to chase this rider at once, to put an arrow in his heart and drag him to the ground.

To demand wishes? Perhaps. The urge is unknowable.

But no: this is no white stag, nor a magical creature of any sort.

And Susan does not yet know that this is no man.

Susan called for help, and help has arrived in the form of Éowyn, the Lady of Rohan.

*

It is a cautious meeting and neither dismount.

The rider’s gaze is appraising, obviously noting Susan’s foreign dress. There’s the uncommon length of her raven hair, adorned with the lush island flowers of Galma. The dagger and white horn at her side, and the ease in which Susan is managing a stallion. The queenly posture; a regal confidence undoubted. (This is learned behavior. Pevensies can trace their lineage to poor fishermen in East Sussex and poorer soldiers from Normandy.)

Susan’s assessment is this: the young rider is a dangerous warrior, lithe and well-knit in frame, made all the more queer with his open courtesy to a stranger.

“What country, friend, is this?” Susan asks.

The rider tilts his head. “This is Rohan, my lady.” His voice ringing out clear.

And what shall I do in Rohan? Susan thinks, miserably.

“Are you in need some assistance, my lady?” the rider continues, a look of concern in his gray eyes. A pause. “I am Dernhelm, at your service.”

*

Dernhelm listens to her tale and “strange sorcery” is his response. He thinks a moment before: “Have you experience with witches?”

Susan gives a smile, but it is a bitter one. She knows more than some about witches.

After Susan explains, Dernhelm nods. “The way I see it is this: you have appeared here through magic, for what reason, I cannot say. And you have appeared in Rohan, for what reason, I cannot say. You are no servant of the Dark Lord, there is something true and honorable about you.” He stops there for a moment before a continuing in a most peculiar tone. “The wizards have no interest in queens; what is a woman to the affairs of air and earth? So, the Lady of the Golden Wood, she must be behind this and her reasons could have promise in them.”

“The Lady?” Susan echoes quietly. There are hags that called Her “the White Lady.”

“She is a great sorceress. An elf-witch of terrible power who dwells in Dwimordene.” Dernhelm looks grave. “It is said that all who look upon her shall fall under her spell and are never seen again.”

Susan shivers, thinking of the horror of Jadis’ castle. Of Tumnus’ look of terror, frozen in stone.

Dernhelm continues. “My brother believes she is a myth, and–” he pauses as if pained by a memory unspoken. “My king’s advisor says webs of deceit were ever woven in Dwimordene.” He raises his chin, and his eyes are shining bright. “But I believe differently. There is an old, old tale of this elf-witch helping my annointed forebear, the first of our kings. I choose to believe that tale. I choose to believe that in our time of need, the Lady came to our aid. High honor to protect the king and his men, and dread magic too. And perhaps, perhaps if she is behind this, she can be reasoned with and you can return home. Should you have the courage, you seek her out.”

“Then I shall go to find this Lady of the Golden Wood,” Susan says. “If you will take me there, sir. For I do not know the way.”

The man sucks in air and holds it a moment before: “For this journey, you have my sword, your grace.”

[sw5w]

[ All Hooting, Cheering ]

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 02:03:50

[memories-of-ancients]

this human document was written last Summer by a Japanese captain of infantry. the introduction and conclusion have been written by his American friend Seymour Gordden Link, dean of liberal arts at Andrew Jackson University in Nashville Tennessee.

When I attended Columbia University sometime ago I was fortunate enough to be one of two Occidentals admitted to intimacy with two Chinese students, Chang and Kim, and two government - fellowship scholars from Japan, Tatsuo and Mitsui. The latter's true name is not given because identification would doubtless lead to his immediate execution as a trader to his government.

We have corresponded for years. Our correspondence has dealt largely with the arts. Although Mitsui is a great mathematician, he is also a great lover of painting and poetry, of flowers and comparative linguistics. This multiple development is more frequently encountered among the Japanese intellectuals than anywhere else on earth. Most of what I have been lucky enough to absorb about the intricacies of Japanese grammar on honorifics and social usage, I owe to Mitsui. All that he knows of contemporary art and literature outside the Orient comes, he has said, from my letters. And we have exchanged mutual references to our Chinese friends Chang and Kim.

But the other morning came a letter more moving than the others, and more disturbing. While I hold it to be a thing of personal and sacred to me, I offer it in the hope that readers will profit from the small glimpse into the heart of " a thousand Mistuis" and will refrain thereby from too hasty a surrender to the drums of jingoism - S. G. L.

Tokyo, Japan

July 15, 1937

Link sensei,

Writing this I do now in great and lementable haste for the fear is that soon no letters will go out. War has no respect for the things of the heart. And here is War. And here soon one small unwilling captain of infantry will wake from a night of rest and look around to discover he no longer is honored by the friendship of his great friend and teacher in America.

For war enters into the heart where it is not welcome and makes a strange chemistry; and my American friend who once said he had a great love for one small Japanese scholar, will think only of many small captains of infantry making many unpopular battles. He will hold on to the last and say all men are brothers and that he thinks the same thoughts and loves the same poety and speaks the same languages with his former Japanese brothers. but he will remember these things better of Chang and Kim then he will remember them of Mitsui.

For Chang and Kim will be in the war on the side where the heart leans and mitsui will be on the side that the heart is turned against. And he will forget that not a thousand Mitsuis can make a war or stop a war. he will forget that Chang and Kim and Tatsuo and Mitsui and Larson and Link once walked together beneath the shade of trees of the Columbia campus and ate together at the cafeteria and read poetry together in many languages.

And what of Chang and Kim? they who once called Mitsui brother now join their countrymen and blind hate of a thousand Mitsuis. And Mitsui dare not send them a letter full of his ancient love. It would mean the firing squad.

Once upon a time, so long a time it seems, Link sensei wrote in Mitsui's book English translation of a poem, because Mitsui showed him a scroll with a painting of long green plains that led to Fuji. This is written in the heart as War approaches. it says:

All that comes to pass

Of the warriors proud dream

Is this summer grass.

Because the scroll is beautiful and because it has memories in it of the happy years in America it is now enclosed as a parting souvenir of Mitsui who will fall in battle with a bullet from Chang or from Kim and his heart. Please to someday inform these brothers that their bullet entered Mitsui's heart only to find there love and brotherhood and great sorrow.

Here is the death song of Mitsui:

These grasses that bent

Underfoot will lean as soft

Over the cleft skull.

And in the deep roots will drain Love and peace that filled the brain.

Sayonara brother.

Mitsui

I shall never see my "small unwilling captain of infantry" again. He will lead his troops into action and then with his arms at his side walk calmly into the drum fires, thinking as he dies of his Chinese friends, Chang and Kim, and perhaps, I hope, of his American friend whom he did the honor to call sensei, teacher. Thus he will pay homage at once to his ancestors, his Emperor, his friends, and his dream of peace on earth, good will to men. S.G.L.

[rjalker]

an eat the rich story from 1907

A young man, named Beam, was telling a fanciful story when Wall entered.

"From the plains of Elysium were sent across all the dangerous wastes on the way a gentle and beautiful tribe of sheep to dwell on this earth, then uninhabited and fertile. To guide them safely the Great Shepherd provided a guard of dogs, fleet and fierce, with long fangs and untiring limbs. Through many a battle they brought the beautiful and gentle tribe of sheep to this earth, fed on the way by the commissaries of the Great Shepherd supplying both sheep and dogs with food suited for them.

"But on the earth where the luscious grass grew thick, the sheep spoke to the commissary of the Great Shepherd saying:

"`Here is food more exquisite than that we had on the way, we need no more from your hands.'

"`And the dogs?' asked the commissary.

"`If the ungrateful animals do not relish the food of this exquisite earth, 'tis their own fault,' replied the sheep; `besides their task is done. What further use can there be for them, on this safe-guarded earth—what foe can come nigh us? '

"So the commissary withdrew.

"And while the beautiful peaceful sheep nibbled the grass of the earth, the dogs lay faint and dying. One old worn-out hound could drag his limbs no more, and to him a lamb came, and with the sportive grace of its kind kicked with its soft white legs at the muzzle of the decrepit useless dog. The tender foot was entangled in the old hound's fangs—the starving jaws closed upon it, and food and life better than all that had ever been given him coursed through his veins. Invigorated, he rose, and going to where his brothers were lying, waiting for death, he lay down amongst them. `Where have you found food?' they asked in surprise. `I have eaten a lamb,' he replied. They viewed him with horror, but some of the younger ones soon after pulled down a sheep.

"And the race of wolves arose—a race justly handed down to execration in all the tales and histories and stories the sheep have told, but it is no less just to tell its origin."

[whencyclopedia]

Battle of the Little Bighorn

The Battle of the Little Bighorn (25-26 June 1876) is the most famous engagement of the Great Sioux War (1876-1877). Five divisions of the 7th Cavalry under Lt. Colonel George Armstrong Custer (l. 1839-1876) were wiped out in one day by the combined forces of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors under the Sioux chief Sitting Bull (l. c. 1837-1890).

Custer located Sitting Bull's camp by the banks of the Little Bighorn River (known to the local Native Americans as the Greasy Grass) in modern-day Montana but had no idea how large it was or how many warriors were present. Having been given a free hand to wage total war against the Plains Indians, Custer divided his command as he had in 1868 at the Washita Massacre. His plan was to attack the camp from opposite sides and close on it in a pincer movement, capturing the women and children as hostages, and forcing whatever warriors had not been killed to surrender. He sent Captain Frederick Benteen (l. 1834-1898) to scout, and Major Marcus Reno (l. 1834-1889) to position himself to strike at the far side.

When Reno launched his attack, however, he was met by a large force of warriors under Sioux war chief Gall (l. c. 1840-1894). Benteen, who had been ordered to bring ammunition to Custer's position, instead tried to support Reno but wound up joining him in retreat. While Gall was driving back Reno and Benteen, Sioux war chief Crazy Horse (l. c. 1840-1877) led a charge against Custer's position.

Custer and all five companies with him were killed in what has come to be known as "Custer's Last Stand." The battle was a decisive Native American victory but could not be capitalized upon because of the public outcry for revenge for the death of Custer, a popular hero of the American Civil War who had also made a name for himself as an Indian Fighter.

After the Battle of the Little Bighorn (also known as the Battle of the Greasy Grass), the Native American leaders went their separate ways to avoid capture and execution. The last major engagements of the Great Sioux War were US victories (or a draw, in the case of the Battle of Wolf Mountain), and, with the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and others pushed onto reservations, the Great Plains were open for colonization.

Background

According to the Yanktonai Sioux Chief Lone Dog's Winter Count (a yearly account of events from 1800-1870), "White soldiers made their first appearance in the region" in 1823-1824 (Townsend, 128). The Sioux had little to do with them until 1854 when 2nd Lieutenant John L. Grattan arrived at the camp of Sioux Chief Conquering Bear (l. c. 1800-1854) and demanded the surrender of a man he claimed had stolen a cow from a passing wagon train of Mormons. Conquering Bear refused the demand, Grattan's men opened fire (mortally wounding Conquering Bear), and the Sioux then slaughtered Grattan and the 30 troops under his command in what came to be known as the Grattan Fight or the Grattan Massacre, leading to the First Sioux War of 1854-1856.

Prior to the Grattan Fight, the US government had negotiated land rights and territories with several nations of Plains Indians, including the Sioux and the Cheyenne, through the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, which stipulated, among other terms, that the United States had no claim on the lands occupied by those nations. Southern Cheyenne Chief Black Kettle (l. c. 1803-1868) was among those who signed the treaty, which was never honored by the United States and was broken in 1858 when gold was discovered in the region, prompting Pike's Peak Gold Rush and an influx of settlers. Further encroachments led to the Colorado War (1864-1865), during which Black Kettle's peaceful village, flying the American flag and the white flag of truce, was attacked in the Sand Creek Massacre of 29 November 1864.

Black Kettle at Sand Creek

Stone Rabbit (CC BY-SA)

As more settlers claimed Native American lands as their own, Oglala Sioux Chief Red Cloud (l. 1822-1909) launched Red Cloud's War (1866-1868) in defense of his people's land and to force the United States to honor its treaty. The war concluded with the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 but, that same year, Black Kettle, his wife, and between 60-150 Cheyenne and Arapaho were slaughtered by troops under Custer's command at the Washita Massacre on 27 November. The treaty of 1868 established the Great Sioux Reservation, but this was broken when, in 1874, Custer discovered gold in the Black Hills, sacred to the Sioux (and other nations) and part of the lands promised them. The Black Hills Gold Rush of 1876 that resulted from Custer's find ignited the Great Sioux War when the US government demanded the Sioux sell the Black Hills and the Sioux refused.

Continue reading...

[waterfallofspace]

Just something small for D/azai's birthday. Whipped this together pretty quickly, so don't expect anything great, but I love this man so I had to do something~!

Mentions it being his birthday, but it's not focused on that situation, as Poni and Vic already did top quality wavs about that kinda thing! (Totally go check them out, Poni's also features art from Hachii which is ADORABLE!!)

Characters: C/huuya and the Birthday Boy D/azai Word Count: 1.5k (jus a lil short thing!)

(References to violence, swearing, implied death and blood, just in case anyone doesn't like those!)

~~~~~~~

The remnants of their mission lay strewn across the open plains, the smell of copper lingering in the air. Chuuya wipes some dirt from his jacket, pointing a snarl at Dazai. The bastard seems oblivious, a light shining in his eyes as he surveys the scene. One word pounds at Chuuya’s head as he watches. Majestic. 

A light wind whistles through the grass, gliding along the fields as Dazai lifts himself from the ground, wiping something red from his hands. The draft rustles his hair, each strand seeming to dance on the breeze. Chuuya can’t stop himself from looking, mind captivated by the beauty Dazai possesses, even in a place like this. 

“Is Chuuya planning to keep staring? I know my beauty is show-stopping, but we do have some papers to find in one of their pockets.”

“Huh!? Wh- what are you on about, you ass?”

“I believe I just said, finding the papers. Must I do everything myself?” 

With an effortless motion, Dazai dips to his knees, leaning towards one of the fallen soldiers. Chuuya feels another surge of affection, quickly dulled as he aims his focus at another body nearest to him, gloved hands rifling through their jacket. ‘It’s just the adrenaline rush from the battle, that’s all. It’s jus- what is he doing?’

Chuuya finds himself leaning against the ground as he watches Dazai’s movement pause. There’s a beat where time seems to stand still, Chuuya unable to break free from the spell.

Finally Dazai moves again, his back shaking slightly as he reaches down to steady himself. Feeling his heart stop, Chuuya’s mouth hangs open, thoughts racing. ‘I- is he… crying..?’ 

Dazai stands again, this time jerky and forced. Chuuya echoes his movements, activating his gift to add a fluidity to the actions. Once they’re both upright Chuuya lets his gaze drift over Dazai’s form.

‘Despite a slight shine to his eyes, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of tears… Maybe he was laughing? I didn’t hear anything, but that would be just like the bastard.’ 

“You really couldn’t use corruption? Even just a little bit?” Dazai pouts, twirling on his heel to face Chuuya. He raises a hand to sniffle against, a fake sigh spilling out as he raises an arm to drape across his face, dramatic as ever. “I had to get my hands dirty.” 

“You ass- you know how- you… you just… it…” Chuuya growls, shouts dissolving into furious muttering. Dazai laughs in return, a strained sound that leaves Chuuya’s hairs standing on edge. ‘Maybe he really was crying…? No, that’s ridiculous… he can’t be… but-’ 

“What a way to spend a birthday; out in a field.” Dazai’s voice cuts into his mind, a quality to it that Chuuya can’t seem to place. “Not my ideal choice, I hope you know. I’d much rather be in a nice cozy river, drifting along with a beautiful gi-” 

“It’s not like I wanted to spend my day like this either. Besides, birthday’s don’t really mean anything. You’re a year older, so what? You’re constantly getting older, who decided that ‘a year’ is the important one?” 

“Chuuya’s awfully cynical today. Is it the idea of me finding happiness, or the bohh… bodies-” 

There was more to the taunt, but it’s lost in the wind as Dazai dips back towards a body, kneeling as he jerks forward. His hands graze over the jacket of the fallen, but it seems more like an afterthought. Finding the papers is certainly not important enough to cut off his brilliant comeback. 

“Okay seriously, what’s with that?”

Dazai doesn’t make any effort to turn himself to Chuuya, instead sending a “what’s with what?” over his shoulder. Chuuya’s about to reply when Dazai answers for him, a squeak breaking free as his shoulders tremble once more. 

“Are you crying?” 

A tense silence falls over the meadow, even the birds seemingly pausing their songs. With an air of grace he lacked before, Dazai brings himself up to his full height. Letting his eyes drift down he meets the harsh gaze, a water present in his eyes that sucks Chuuya’s breath away. At least, until he begins to speak.   

“Yes, I am in fact. It’s just such a tragedy. Such an important day, one that should be filled with celebration! Instead I’m wasting it in this field with Chuuya, who didn’t even get me a present!” 

He wipes his eyes with a convincing sniffle, only downplayed by the smirk creeping across his cheeks bringing a glint to his watering eyes. Chuuya huffs in response, pointing a snarl at the ground as his head rushes over the facts.

‘He wants me to think that he’s crying? No wait- he wants me to know he’s joking, but there’s still tears in his eyes? Damn it! Knowing that bastard, me being uncertain is exactly his plan. It’s all a distraction.” 

“I mean,” Dazai begins once more, clearing his throat lighty before continuing, “Chuuya’s just so useless now. It’s enough to bring a tear to your eye.” 

“Huh?!”

“I mean, sure sure, Chuuya shot the bullets. But it was my plan, all you did was follow it. To the letter, might I add. Quite boring honestly.” 

“You were hoping I’d ignore your plan?!” Chuuya gawks. Dazai smiles at this, a deep chuckle breaking out, laced with the familiar superiority that sends chills down Chuuya’s back.

“I was hoping you’d do something in- inter… eh’gNT-! ek’nXT-! Interesting. Or at least not make me do work on my special day!” 

The sneezes are directed into his fist, expertly stifled, almost as if it took no effort whatsoever. A pang of jealousy runs through Chuuya; he’s never quite been able to get the hang of that trick. ‘Okay, so he’s sneezing… why wouldn’t he just tell me that?’ 

Dazai seems to be too preoccupied with his nose to notice the intensity of the look Chuuya shoots his way. It’s clear there’s something irritating him. Each breath leaves his nose scrunching, there’s a pinch to the corners of his watery eyes, and his tongue peeks out between his lips. 

Oblivious to the scrutiny, Dazai turns a glare over into the field. Chuuya tracks his gaze over to a group of lilies sprouting near the edge of a stream. The wind swirls around them once more, a wave of yellow floating into the air at the water's edge.

From the corner of his eye, Chuuya catches Dazai noticeably shuddering, before ducking into his collar with a harsh, “heh’yeEISHHH’shoo-! ah’yiiESHHHihhh’oo-!” 

“Shit-” Chuuya yelps, catching himself as the volume nearly knocks him off his feet. “You bastard, warn me-” 

Dazai turns to face him, nose almost quivering, a deep pink tint seeping down into his cheeks from the dripping appendage, tears spilling down his face. He opens his mouth, seemingly to speak, but hitching spills out before any words can break free, his hand raising to pinch his nose long enough to get a weak sentence out. 

“N- nohhht… notdone-!” 

“Oh fuck, are you oka-”

“hH’KIIEESHHhh’oo-! ah’YIZIISHHh’oo-!” 

There’s no attempt to cover, instead Dazai leans away from Chuuya, aiming towards the ground as another set of explosions bursts free. He mutters something through the gasping that might have been an apology before spinning further away and dipping once more with a full body shudder. 

“ihhHKEIZSHhh’oo-! Sorry I- I hahhh… have to- I’mgonnakeep- hahh’TIEZZHHh’shoo-!” 

“Just- hold on, okay? I think I have… somewhere around here,” Chuuya offers, digging through his pockets. Finding his prize, Chuuya holds out the handkerchief with a snarl, pointedly avoiding meeting Dazai’s eyes. “Blow your damn nose.” 

“Aww, is this a birthday present after all Chuhh… hehh… Chuuya?”

“No!? I- I just want you to shut up, that’s all. You’re gonna be sniffling and whining all day anyways. I don’t need to deal with you having an ongoing allergy attack as I drive you home.”

“Whatever you say! I knew Chuuya ca… heh… cared-  ahh’YIIECHHUUU’ya-! heH’KKCHHUU’ya-!” 

Chuuya aims a roundhouse at his chest, snickering as Dazai has to take a step back to catch his balance. The bastard coughs lightly and Chuuya crosses his arms, “You wanna keep bathing in your allergen, or can we leave now?” 

“ihhKIESZShhh’oo-! ek’eAASHHhh’oo-! Oh ouch…” Dazai snaps into the handkerchief, staring to straighten up as his eyes gloss over once more, “W- wait… heH- tiEZSHhh’oo-!” 

The third catches them both off guard, Chuuya practically kneeling on the ground as he lunges to grab Dazai’s shoulders. The bastard nearly faceplants from the force of it, Chuuya shooting a rough, “Christ, you dumbass.” 

Dazai dips back into the cloth with a fierce blow, moaning as an airy “hh’tiezshh’oo-! kiezshh’oo-!” slip out. Chuuya huffs, tapping his foot as Dazai blows again, before finally giving Chuuya a genuine look over the folds of the cloth.

At a volume only Chuuya would be able to hear, barely a whisper above the rush of the wind, Dazai lets another moan fall from his lips, nipping on the heels of, “Tibe to go hobe.” 

Chuuya smiles. An actual smile, one he hasn’t let himself do in a very long time. Taking Dazai’s arm and wrapping it around his shoulder, they head off back towards his motorcycle, Dazai pausing every so often to dip into his collar with another, softer, outburst.

“Hey, you better not sneeze on me while we’re driving.”

“I make no prohh… prombises- ek’tiezshh’oo-! hk’enzshh’oo-!”

“Bastard. And uh… happy birthday…” 

“en’kshhh’oo-! eh’tiezshh’oo-! Why thagk you Chuuya!”

“Shut up, you ass.”

[sabraeal]

Summer Camp 2024 prompts: 3, 19, 35

03. A leader in a time of change

Kivan folklore speaks of their first true king: in time of chaos he arrived, men and women and children alike dying as they fought each other for the land left to them as the Empire encroached. Clans would fight and make peace only to turn around and sink the knife in as soon as it might given them a single toehold, the Kivan way of life dying as the plains were soaked red with the blood of its true people.

There was to be one, last great battle, the six tribes limping to what was meant to become their grave-- but before the warriors could meet, a great shadow fell over the field. When they looked up, they saw a bird in the sky, red as flame itself, and when it landed the dried grass set alight, smoke rising up until it nearly blotted out the sun.

A great wind blew from the north, and when the smoke cleared, a man stood before all of them, calling himself Koschei. He told the khans and their great armies that today they would have the pleasure of bending down before him and calling him king.

If we have not bent to the will of the Emperor, one khan laughed, then we will not bend to the likes of yours either. The khans sent their best warriors to take him on, and Koschei dispatched with all six. You may have defeated one man from my tribe, said another, but you cannot defeat all of us.

It is then that Koschei's army revealed itself: a hundred swordsmen, surrounding the valley and the khans. As the battle began, each of them took down a hundred of each khan's warriors before the clans yielded, overwhelmed by their superior skill.

I am now your king, the man called Koschei declared, and I will stand for no other in my kingdom. In less than a year, he had expelled the Meridians from their borders-- though it would not stop their inevitable encroachment through culture, later-- and the Zhartisov dynasty was born.

19. A sub-culture considered larger-than-life by some

Koschei's first army came to be known as the Mechin; sword-sons, born and sworn to the blade, his most loyal retainers-- and feared by the new boyars he made from the old khans. His best he kept by side, marrying them off to the daughters and granddaughters of khans, starting the new lines of the Kivan nobility, and the rest he freed, allowing them to choose their own lives. Many of them chose to make their own fraternity, honing their already prodigious skills into something nearly supernatural, lending themselves out to worthy causes-- or whoever had the most coin-- and, in time, becoming the teachers of their brothers' sons, and their sons in turn.

It is said that not just any young man can become a Mechin; one must first past their rigorous tests, and even still, many of their young applicants end up crippled by the experience, unable to do more than lay in bed and wait for Maaneh to take them. But those that do pass become one of Kiva's elite, nearly good as a landed title itself.

35. A tradition that represents moral decay

With so much of their life based around the planting and reaping of harvests, the Kivans worship no one more than the Horned Pater and his earth-goddess wife, the mother goddess Easha. She is a devoted wife to her husband, and obedient wife, giving way beneath the share of his plow, allowing herself to be molded by his will.

However, in the heathen south she is known of as Eanna, earth and mother goddess still, but also that of fertility and love. Her temples are tended by the most tempting clergy, meant to aid their devotees in keeping sexual release divorced from romantic desire. Most devout Kivans find this practice barbaric, calling her southern temples bordellos at best, and whorehouses at worst, shunning the Empire for its corruption of the Horned Pater's loyal wife.

However, with only a boy prince on the throne and a Vilin regent behind him, Koshstena has become a more cosmopolitan city, welcoming more of the Empire's influence. The worst, at least in the opinion of the Paterev and their devoted parishioners, is that of a new temple to Eanna, with clergy sent up from Kentropa Mundi itself.

[melestasflight]

837 words. Ard-galen witnesses Fingolfin's final stand. On AO3.

Before the gates of Angband filth and desolation spread southward for many miles over the wide plain of Ard-galen; but after the coming of the Sun rich grass arose there, and while Angband was besieged and its gates shut there were green things even among the pits and broken rocks before the doors of hell. The Silmarillion

A stubborn bush of yarrow swayed idly in the thick smog that stretched across the plains. Its stalks reached eagerly for the choked light of the Sun as if it had skin yearning for comforting warmth. A single, solitary soul it made upon the ashen field. A dainty whiteness rebelling amid the arid scars across the land, marking the path of terrible, fiery waves.

The mouths of Thangorodrim spat flames no more, but the ground shivered still, the charred stones jumping like carp in murky waters.

‘What new evil disturbs the earth now?’ One of the yarrow flowers cried out.

‘It is no evil,’ murmured the vulnerable seeds of grass trembling still beneath the dirt.

‘Who then? Is that not Oromë returned to roam these lands?’

‘None of the Valar, but the King rides upon Rochallor, his great steed. Yea, and wrathful he is, flying ahead as an arrow.’

‘The King? The elven King? The Wise?’ All the flowers of the yarrow stirred, shuffling in their clusters. ‘Here comes the one who summoned us from our long dream! Beneath his marching feet, our kin of old sprang to life.’

A clatter of hooves brought about a storm of winds, and the yarrow was turned to where the King gleamed as a star, clad in silver with his blue shield set with crystals. He smote the brazen doors of Angband, and the music of his horn awoke the dormant plains.

He called and called, his voice a taunt.

At last, the Dark One hearkened to his call, coming as a limb cut out of his Iron Mountains, uncomely and heavy. All of Ard-galen rumbled as thunder, rebelling against his discordant presence.

She breathed strength into the King, the soil rising and dipping, pushing and pulling his body away from Grond’s iron head. The land's breath steamed out in fiery gushes as the Hammer of the Underworld dredged deep wounds into the ground, and it hissed in pain.

The fighting went on night and day, the flowers of the yarrow closing and opening again, but the plains did not sleep, did not rest, and the yarrow rejoiced as the Dark One screamed. Seven times he shrieked in anguish, and each time the yarrow grew, its white flowers bursting open under the mighty song of the King. For the King’s strength was the strength of a mountain river, rushing and swelling with the melting snows under the first warmth of Spring.

But at last, the King fell even as he clove the foot of the enemy with his dying breath, filling the pits of the earth with his blood. Deep it seeped, trailing through rock and dust, reaching the roots of the yarrow.

‘Oh, despair!’ the yarrow wept. ‘Were that Yavanna was here to stretch her green limbs and choke this darkness, but she too has forsaken these lands!’

Ard-galen mourned, and her cries were so profound that they carried through Manwë’s winds up the mountain to the peaks of the Crissaegrim, and called to the King of the Skies.

‘Carry the King away, oh mighty Thorondor, for he belongs to us and not to shadow!’ the plains pleaded, and the great eagle bore the King's body high above the clouds, clawing a ghastly landscape upon the face of the enemy.

The Dark One limped to his hiding hall, and deadly silence fell once again. But death is not truly known to Ennor. An end is only a beginning.

‘Arise now, sisters, from the earth,’ the yarrow called in spite.

The grasses wailed in response, ‘What for, now that our King has passed? Oh, who shall guard our plains, now that his silver trumpets are silent?’

‘Our friend, the Prince, yet lives. A King now he will be,’ shook the yarrow with all its voices as one. ‘Arise now so that his sorrow is lessened. Arise, arise, so that his steps are swift when his battle is renewed.’

Voiceless whispers quivered beneath the dust, and the memory of Ennor was summoned.

‘The hero who alone braved the filth of Thangrodorim,’ squeaked the trampled seeds of a dandelion.

‘The Prince who chased away the dragon that scorched our leaves,’ joined the broken branches of a sage.

‘The King who shall avenge us,’ growled the roots of a dropseed grass.

A defiant bush of yarrow flowered before the Gates of Angband. And slowly, so very slowly, all but imperceptible to the eyes of the Children, mosses began trailing around it. And the seeds of the grasses soon began to sprout, and great ferns unraveled soon after. Last came the sturdy little flowers, poking their heads between the broken rocks as clusters of a rainbow on a rainy day.

Ard-galen, tho Anfauglith it was now called, grew again green, grasses rising even upon the Hill of the Slain, and no force of evil would quench its life fully until all the land was splintered and all its beings were released into Ulmo’s Great Sea.

In water begotten, all living things to water return.

Notes:

The common yarrow (lat. Achillea millefolium) is a plant that was frequently associated with war and battle in ancient times, and supposedly even Achilles took it with him to treat battle wounds, thus its scientific name. It has a wide range of medicinal uses, healing anything from burns, abrasions, fever, infection, and serving as pain relief. This knowledge is still well known among indigenous people in the US. It is a sturdy plant with a lovely scent that grows anywhere, including where you'd least expect it.