#Crown Corking Machines

[technogenenterprise]

Get to Know Your Crown Corking Machine: A Comprehensive Guide

If you’re in the business of bottling beverages, then you know just how crucial it is to have a reliable and efficient crown corking machine. This machine is responsible for sealing the bottles and ensuring that your product stays fresh and carbonated for as long as possible. However, with so many different types and models of crown corking machines available, it can be challenging to know which…

[adinathinternationalindia]

Crown Capping Machine

Adinath International is a reputed crown capping machine manufacturer in India offering world-class crown capping machines to its global clientele across various industries. Our crown capping machines are uses across various sectors. Our crown capping machines come with a variable capping range from 20 to 200 bottles per minute through different models. Ideal for capping glass, plastic, PET, LDPE, HDPE and other bottle types, Adinath International’s six head crown corking machine can produce up to 120 bottles per minute. On the other hand, single head bottle crown capping machine can produce up to 40 bottles per minute. We also offer four head bottle capping machine with a production capacity of 80 bottles per minute.

[sileomaolduin]

GREATAXE

[A Short Story about a Vampire, and those that fought it. Written for the community of The Delver's Guide to Beast World - and set within the Beast World. The following story contains visceral scenes of violence, derogatory language, and pronounced themes of emotional turmoil and loss of self - particularly in Part 4 onwards.]

PART ONE

There was a vampire in Madroileán.

It had put a tension in the air like Al’ar silk. You could see clear through it, but it cast an uneasy glow over all under it, and you could see that everyone was itching for their scian to cut it. The very idea was dragging up all the rotten old thoughts. All the horrid things whispered and sneered in times thought long past. The Vampire came from Allemance. Many did. They loved the veneer of royalty. Of monarchism, and power held over a class below them. They adored the theatre of it. Sometimes it felt like the nobility were all too keen to welcome them in when the gaze turned cynical and cold. And it felt like Glasrún’s gaze was colder than usual. More ammunition for the theories and whisperings that Madroileán’s many horrors were of Crown Gilt.

But for most of Madroileán’s kin, their concerns were less with what machination or conspiracy was responsible for the interesting times in which they always and eternally lived; and more with dealing with those times. In good years, with drink and song. But in years like this - with axe and blade. To call it concern did not seem quite right. There was a certain jovial stoicism in the types of beast that called Madroileán home. This was their life, and there was naught to do but get on with it and make the next day better than the last. A hard life, yes. But a good one. And an honest one. It was no wonder that Madroileán boasted a cadre of fine vampire hunters and delvers among the island’s alumni then - and it was something they were nonetheless glad for. Concern may not have been the right word. But there was a weight to everything that was not usually there.

Not everyone always came back from fighting a vampire. And everyone assembled knew it. It hung in the air as a cloud of daggers, each glance exchanged with another of the kern bringing with it the pointed, heart-stinging question in each direction.

“Which of us isn’t coming home?”

Clíona turned suddenly as someone actually said it out loud, blinking with shock. Her chain shirt rustled as she did, the whetstone coming to a scratch-halt along the blade of her sword, twisting to see who’d found the gall. Behind her, the water of Dramphine’s Well rushed and howled as it tumbled into the caverns below. And before her, a fox and a wolf held each other by the forearms, as they gathered shields and chain shirts and blades. With brows furrowed, and a coin marked with Dramphine’s image being worried between the fingers.

With her eyes a little more downcast, and her chest a little heavier, she returned her attention to her blade; though she did so now with her ears pricked and listening.

“McGuire sent a troop of footmen when he heard - and a wagon of Delvers showed up with a chest of crowns and a crate of silver, a gift from old Fred, apparently. There’s been talk of mercenaries coming in too, so…” They were speaking low, but halting. She worked slower now, so the sound of the whetstone on steel wouldn’t drown them out. So she could still listen in on it.

“So, maybe this might be less last hurrah, a little more vampire killing?” A shift of chain. A ‘clod’ of a cork sole on the stone. “You’re one of the mercenaries, right? That’s a mercenary’s sword.”

She looked back over her shoulder, even though the fox could only have been talking to her. But still she did the pre-requisite ritual. Looking behind her, glancing left and right - but she was the only one with a sword like that in her lap; with the guard ground to an axehead, and a heavy ring pommel, carved with runes down the blade. Clíodhna paused, halfway to nodding; halfway to shaking her head. Before settling on shaking it.

“No. Not today, anyways. I’m not here for crowns, I’m here for home.” If the scarf hadn’t given her away already, then speaking definitely did. The same song-sing voice, the same lilt and melody. “Any other day… aye. But I’m not about to charge going rate for the defence of my own home now, am I?” She offered up a tired smile, wiping the whetstone with her thumb, and setting it aside her on the low, polished stone wall that ran a ring around the spring and its pools. Her head went back slowly, away from the questioning fox in their ill-fit shirt of chain over a baker’s apron, and their nervous partner leaning on her spear like a walking stick. Up; towards the apex of the spring, where carven from marble Dramphine’s image stood tall, a lantern in one hand and sword in the other; the lantern raised - the sword resting low. The silver-light from the waters below danced across her form, making her painted chest seem to rise and fall with furor, her stern gaze wander across those assembled.

It made her heart ache. Which in itself made her rather abashed. A sigh came like a huff of exertion, then she reached down to the pouch at her side and from it drew a slender silver dart.

“I’ll give you something more to take hope in though -” she said, holding the dart up so it caught the light. “The Motherguard have heard. Tonight we fight alongside her stewards.”

She saw them flinch. Not everyone held the same puppy-eyed adoration for the Motherguard that she did. Many of the others assembled in the cave were not career fighters. For them, the Motherguard’s appearance was not the cry of a battle won. For them, the Motherguard took their payment in heartache. Away, the dart went.

“Give what you can. We will give what you cannot.” She almost flinched herself, saying it, before she pushed herself to her feet, and slid her sword back into its scabbard. Abruptly, she realised she had more eyes on her than just the couple she’d been talking with. It became keenly, painfully clear to her that of all the people that had gathered in this sanctum, she was the only one of them who both had real training - and still had the vitality of youth to put it into practice. She knew her kinsmen were a hardy people, but…

Regardless. She was glad that they had the support of the continent. She pushed it from her mind, and settled to help the volunteers fit their arms and armour.

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 6.21

Events

New Amsterdam paying its soldiers in beer (1644)

Oliver Perin patented an Alcohol Still (1881)

William Fowler patented a Machine for Filling and Corking Bottles (1898)

Francis Oakley patented a Liquid Cooler (1898)

Theodore Hollencamp died (1901)

Wilhelm Vogelbuseh patented an Apparatus and Process for Aerating Wort in Yeast Production (1933)

Beer became legal in Idaho after Prohibition (1933)

Pabst Brewing invited family members to tour their L.A. brewery (1952)

James Adair patented an Ornamented Drinking Glass (1966)

Nicholas Lech patented a Shipping Carton for Crown Capped Bottles (1966)

Reginald Stott patented a Beer Dispensing Apparatus (1966)

Labatt buys Webster’s interest in Toronto Blue Jays for $67.5 million to become 90% owners of the team (1991)

1st bottles for sale from St. Peter's Brewery (England; 1996)

Gregg Smith wed fellow brewer Lisa Varino at Idaho Brewing (2002)

HopUnion announced merger with Yakima Chief (2006)

Brewery Openings

Amstel Brewery (Netherlands; 1870)

Copper Tank Brewing (Texas; 1994)

Coddington Brewing (Rhode Island; 1995)

Founders Hill Brewing (Illinois; 1996)

Haines Brewing (Alaska; 1999)

Monte Carlo Pub & Brewery (Nevada; 1996)

Auburn Alehouse (California; 2007)

[packagingmachinesusa]

Bottle-Filling Machines

We take a glance at the types of capping machines and when your corporation could require bottle capping machines. Our bottle-filling machines are available in a broad range of types and designs depending on your needs. For instance, wine artisans can choose our vertical crown and cork capping machine while others could as a substitute choose hand-operated corking and capping instruments - candy wrapping machine.

[chasepipes]

The History of the Torpedo Bottle for Carbonated Water and Soda

One of the most unusual beverage-related artifacts of the 19th century is the torpedo bottle, a blown-glass bottle used as a soda or mineral water container. The bottle had a pointed or rounded base so it would sit on its side. This shape kept the wired-down cork in constant contact with the liquid inside and prevented it from drying out and shrinking, which would cause the liquid to lose its carbonation and evaporate.

The bottles date to the late 18th century, when attempts to ship carbonated water from healing springs failed, with the fizz dissipating over long land and sea journeys. Trial and error led to a torpedo or egg-shaped design. English collectors refer to these bottles as “Hamiltons,” which reflects the patent granted to William F. Hamilton of Dublin, Ireland, in 1809. Jacob Schweppe and Nicholas Paul were early enthusiasts of torpedo bottles, which promoted swift consumption as the drinker had to finish the contents or pour them out before setting the bottle aside.

Another benefit of the torpedo bottle's design was its robust construction. The glass used could weigh as much as a pound, significantly more than upright bottles of comparable size, allowing it to withstand high levels of carbonation pressure. Torpedo bottles were also safer to ship and pack in crates. Often shipped from England to the United States on trade ships, torpedo bottles also functioned as ballast (heavy material placed low in a ship to improve its stability) during lengthy sea voyages. The demand for these bottles in the United States surged in the late 1830s as beverage manufacturers started incorporating artificial flavors into carbonated drinks. This trend continued in the years leading up to the Civil War, during which well-known flavors like ginger ale were introduced.

Not all such bottles were torpedo-shaped, however. Some round-bottom soda bottles featured a small flattened area at the center of the base. This enabled the bottles to stand, somewhat unsteadily, and gave them names such as “semi-round.”

Another unique factor of torpedo bottles was a thick, heavy blob attached to the jagged bottle top. This blob gave the top the extra strength it needed to withstand the force of tapping in the cork.

Today, early hand-blown torpedo bottles are the most sought-after collectibles, with air bubbles and other imperfections often indicative of their rarity. Collectors can unearth hints about bottle origin from the names of cities, like Belfast, etched into the glass.

Since America imported millions of torpedo bottles, the greenish aqua bottles are often found in historical garbage dumps, old house foundations, and port sites. While American-made torpedo bottles date back to the 1840s, most range from the 1870s to the 1910s. In 1895, manufacturers introduced crown cap bottles, which ended the necessity of placing bottles on their sides to prevent carbonation leakage. The bottles could then be packed and shipped upright. Machine-made round-bottom soda bottles were produced from the early 1910s to 1925. After this point, the flat-bottom soda bottle that today’s consumers are familiar with permanently took their place.

[arcanemoody]

It's 9:50am.

I'm in Chicago.

I just had a hotdog for "brunch" and I'm seriously thinking of getting a fountain drink from 7-11. Or maybe just ice -- because I have Liquid Death "Berry It Alive" in the kitchen but our ice machine remains broken.

We have a week and a half left of summer camp at the learning center. My assistant quit last week. I cried for three hours straight on Tuesday when I found an unsigned post-it note outlining everything I'd done wrong when I closed the room the night before... I framed it. Gave it a nice cork-backed mount. Flanked it with some glittery mermaid stickers. And we're going to keep going until December or until I get cleared for my Level 2-6 ECE credential. Whichever comes first. Maybe my savings won't be built up by then but I don't think this role with the center's sheer amount of mismanagement is good for my mental health.

The theme this week was Lollapalooza. So I've been making music festival crafts with all the kids: festival badges, flower crowns, streamer wands, kandi bracelets. We're revamping our cardboard rocket from Space Week into a flower power minibus. And the kids seem to be really happy.

I keep having small terrifying "long dark night of the soul at 1pm on a Tuesday" moments where I look at my current profession and the progression of my education career and go "AM I TRULY PERSUING THE APOTHEOSIS OF MY LIFE AND CAREER?!" Am I acting out my living curriculum as a queer person arguing for my humanity, placing the appropriate anchors in children's brains? Isn't just living enough...? Fuck, I hope so.

Things I feel positive about today: my skull-shaped lip gloss came in, along with Rocket's birthday present. I'm volunteering at Market Days this weekend as well as LAM. Friday the 13th is at the Drive-In tomorrow night. Peggy's about to make some mistakes this weekend

[field-cryptobotanist]

Thank you both for tagging me @sleeping-arsonist and @vvanillavveins!

For me it has to be the 80's environmental poster and the little frog friend!

no pressure tagging: @skyeoak @buried-in-the-archives @amelie-isnt-french @missimbalance @mortimerghast @courtlyvampyrism @curseofkolyana @hrimceald @bloodied-metal-pipe @isitjustmeorlifeisweird @ozcarr @noviceunicorn @horrid-mothlegs

new tag game, because I can

no pressure tags:

@red-velvet-0w0 @nyxisagod @lynx-brynjar @encryptidarchivist @justbugsnstuff

@justanotherenbyhere +Anyone else

[isolemnlyswearpevensie]

Paper Cut Part 2 | Edmund Pevensie x Reader Soulmate AU

Warnings: Making out/kissing

Time/Era: Modern AU but the Pevensies have been to Narnia. 

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Y/N confronts Edmund about the intense injuries she had received in the past. 

A/N: Here’s the second part to paper cut :) If you haven’t read the first part, link below! Please send requests :D Enjoy! 

Part 1 | Part 3 | masterlist | read on ao3

“Edmund, I think you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Edmund’s face was unreadable, almost as if it was made of stone. He stayed quiet; the only sounds that filled the air were the shuffling of the barista and the espresso machine. Y/N wished he would just say something. The silence was damning. 

“Edmund?” His gaze didn’t falter at his name but stayed glued to Y/N’s hand. His eyes traveled up her arm, taking mental notes of every scar, bruise, bump, or cut. Edmund stood up without a word, the chair making a painful screeching noise in his path, and walked out of the coffee shop. 

Meeting her soulmate had been completely different in her head; maybe they would fall into each other’s arms in the streets of London. He would sweep her off of her feet after noticing a small scar on her neck and say something disgustingly romantic. “I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N, you’re even more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.” Then, they would fall madly, deeply in love, and adopt a dog. Fall wedding perhaps? Maybe summer? But here Y/N sat, one hand on her stomach, the other gripping a foreign notebook. Before Y/N could process what was happening, Edmund was out of sight and she was left to her own thoughts. 

~

“Y/N! Wake up!” Y/N was startled by Y/B/F/N shaking her awake. “Don’t you have a final in like an hour?” 

That sentence felt like a bucket of ice water. Y/N sprung up from her warm bed and scrambled to get ready. The clock seemed to run dangerously fast and by the time she opened the door of her lecture hall, the test was being passed out. 

“You have three hours and because I’m in such a good mood, you may use your study guide.” The professor continued to pass the packets around the room. They looked thick and time-consuming. Time management had never been Y/N’s strong suit. 

When she was handed her paper, all she could do was take a deep breath. This professor was a harsh grader, so unless her answers were 100% correct, there was no way Y/N would pass. She took the unfamiliar notebook she received from Edmund out of her bag and opened it to his scribbled notes. 

His handwriting was somewhere in between messy and neat; some of the words ran into one another and they were all slanted to the right slightly, yet the letters were beautifully constructed and entirely intelligible. Edmund also took it upon himself to highlight passages he deemed important with a note at the beginning that read: my sister had to take o chem. I asked her what’s important. That was sweet, Y/N thought. 

It seemed as if Edmund knew what he was talking about, too. Each answer was answered completely with further background information to make it easy to understand. Why would you willingly take this? Seems like hell… was written in the margins next to one of the boxes of text. I could say the same about law, sweater boy. 

By the time Y/N had finished her final, the three hours had turned into 10 minutes. She was one of three students left in the classroom and the other two were looking beyond panicked. Most of the class seemed to have either blazed through it like it was an 8-year-old’s math homework or given up halfway through and accepted their loss. Y/N, however, had to pass this class so she triple-checked her answers, took a daydream break, then checked it again. She would be lying if she said her daydreams didn’t consist of Edmund. She wondered if he would ever text her again. 

The young girl hurriedly walked out of the classroom, happy to be done with the semester. She wrapped her jacket tightly around her and braced herself to brave the aggressive weather. 

“Hey,” A voice from her right called out. It was Edmund; he was leaning against the wall lazily. His nose was a bright pink, as were his cheeks, and his hands were pushed into his pockets for warmth.

“Edmund? What are you doing here? You must be freezing!” Y/N walked over to him and looked him once over. A simple long sleeve shirt, vest, and jeans. Y/N slung her wool scarf around his neck. 

“Oh, uh, thanks…” He pushed himself off of the wall with his shoulder. Damn, his shoulders were huge. 

“I’m sorry about the coffee shop, I didn’t mean to jump you like that,” Y/N apologized bashfully. He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“No, I get it. I would have the same reaction. That’s, uh, why I’m here.” Edmund was awkward, looking anywhere but her eyes. Instead, he observed her freckles, eyebrows, and cheeks. “I was wondering if we could, uh, talk? Maybe somewhere private? Like my dorm?”

“Oh, so you want to take me, your newly discovered soulmate, back to your dorm?” Y/N had a hint of mischief in her eyes and a teasing smile on her lips. Edmund’s eyes grew wide and he started to sputter. 

“That’s not what I meant! I would never! I mean unless you wanted to, but no! I just meant to talk,” His cheeks are red again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. 

“I’m just taking the piss, let’s go, vesty.”

~ 

Edmunds dorm was not what she was expecting. One side looked like it was hit by a tornado, but the other was very organized. Even on the floor, there was a distinct division between the two sides. The neat side, which appeared to be Edmund’s, was very plain. His bed was made with a red duvet and black pillows, his desk was blank besides a small pencil cup, and the cork board hanging above his desk had reminders and pictures. 

“Those are my siblings,” Edmund noticed Y/N’s wandering eyes. “They’re practically dying to meet you, Y/N.”

“How did you know my name? I never told you,” She crossed her arms and strained her neck to look back at him. 

“Ah, so I was right, you don’t remember me. We took a few classes together during first and second years. I always thought you were cute, so I guess it stuck.” Now it was Y/N’s turn to blush. 

“You think I’m cute?” Her arms uncrossed and turned so she was facing him head-on. 

“Well, yeah. You are my soulmate, after all, Y/N. Don’t be silly,” Edmund seemed to be growing more and more comfortable. He was enjoying watching her blush because of what he said; it made a sense of pride grow in his stomach. This was his person, and she was standing right in front of him. 

“Speaking of soulmates…” Y/N trailed off and looked towards the floor. Her hands grasp the zipper of her jacket and unzip it, before rolling up the bottom of her shirt. The jagged scar was on full display, a stark contrast against the skin of her abdomen. Edmund eyed it guiltily; he knew the exact pain she had to go through to get that scar. She had to go through that pain because of him. His own hands found the bottom seam of his own clothes and pulled it up to reveal a matching mark. 

“I can explain but you won’t believe me,” His honey-brown eyes met hers. 

“Try me, Pevensie.” 

He led her to sit on her bed and sat next to her. Y/N hastily kicked off her shoes so she could sit with her legs crossed on her bed. Her shoes tumbled to the ground with two thuds. Edmund, on the other hand, just bent one leg and let the other hang off the edge. He took her hands in his. 

“You have to promise me to listen to it all before you ask questions,” Edmund fidgeted nervously with a ring on Y/N’s fingers as they spoke. Y/N didn’t know if this was on purpose or a subconscious action, but it comforted her all the same.  

“Well, when I was young my parents sent my siblings and me to live away from home. When we were there, my little sister Lucy discovered a wardrobe in one of the spare rooms. Well, inside the wardrobe was this beautiful land called Narnia. It was gorgeous and huge! And when I say huge, I mean HUGE!” He caught himself rambling excitedly and reeled it back in. “Well, uh, anyway, there was this woman, we called her the White Witch and she manipulated me into basically selling my siblings out. The entire nation of Narnia got into a huge battle and the White Witch stabbed me.” 

“Did she lock you up somewhere cold?” Y/N asked, disregarding her promise to stay quiet. 

“Um, yeah. She locked me in this big ice cell. It wasn’t fun. I’m pretty sure I almost got frostbite but my body rejected it because I started warming up randomly.”

Y/N smiled. The paper towel. 

“But that scar on your stomach,” He took his hand away from yours and gently touched your stomach. “Is because she stabbed me. But again, my sister Lucy had this special liquid that could heal any injury.” 

Edmund seemed to smile at the memory. “Long story short, my siblings and I got crowned Kings and Queens of Narnia and ruled for a number of years. We then got sent back-”

“Wait, wait, wait, Kings, and Queens? Who are you? Alexander the Great?” Her tone was teasing and unbelieving. 

“Edmund the Just, actually. And I told you to listen!” His smile reached his eyes this time. “Well we came back to earth through the wardrobe and we were kids again! About a year later, we returned to Narnia and met our good friend Caspian. We had to fight Caspian’s home country. In the end, Aslan helped us and Caspian became a king as well.”

“Who’s Aslan?” Y/N was doing her best to keep up and believe the information, but it was quite hard. 

“He’s a big lion, he’s kind of like the ruler of Narnia. I guess you could say a God? I guess…”

“A big lion god? Edmund…”

“I know it sounds crazy, Y/N. I know but you have to believe me! I went one more time with Lucy and my cousin. We were on a big Naval ship with Caspian and we had to find a bunch of swords-”

“Edmund, love, just tell me the truth.” Y/N was sad that right off the bat her soulmate was lying to her. Edmund’s eyes seemed to lose their sparkle. 

“I would never lie to you, Y/N. Here, look.” He took off Y/N’s scarf and gently placed it on the bed before pulling his vest and shirt over his head. On his rips was a beautifully drawn tattoo of a lion that appeared to be roaring. And on his collarbone was a sword. Y/N delicately reached her hand out and ran her fingertips against the drawing of the weapon. It had insane detail and the way it was drawn made it look sharp. Y/N retracted her hand and sat back. 

“That’s one of the swords we found during my third trip. It was gifted to Caspian by the lord who owned it. And this is Aslan. His roar was the most powerful magic in all of Narnia.” Edmund searched Y/N’s face for any emotion she was feeling. Right now, she was staring at the sword with a pondering look on her face. 

“Okay, say you were a king-”

“I am a king.”

“Fine, you’re a king. What exactly did you do, ya know, as a ruler?”

“Well, me and my brother Peter ran the army and trained them for battle. Along with other things like managing trade and creating political policies.”

“So, fighting? You fight?”

“Yeah, I fought in many battles, big and small. I got stabbed, remember.” His smile was cheeky and he pulled his long sleeve back on. “Once I got good, I didn’t even use a shield. I fought with two swords.”

“TWO? Aren’t those things heavy?”

“Well, yes, but when you went through all of the training I did, it gets easier.” Edmund could tell he was starting to believe him. 

“Tell me more.”

~

The two spent the next few hours discussing the ins and outs of Narnia down to the floor plan of Cair Paravel. Y/N had decided that Edmund had way too much detail to be making it up, and even if he did, it was so magical that she wouldn’t even be mad. 

“Okay, vesty, I believe you.” Y/N says after Edmund gave a lengthy explanation about all the gifts his siblings received and what they do. He stopped mid-word and stared at her. 

“You believe me? Really?” 

Y/N smiled and nodded. “Yes, Edmund. I’m going to be spending my life with you, your highness, so I may as well get familiar with it.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Edmund scooted closer to her. “I hated it even when people in Narnia called me that. I don’t need people outside of Narnia calling me it. Especially not you.” 

She turned her head so she was staring right at him. “Why not me?” Y/N’s speech came out as a whisper. They were so close that she didn’t need to speak loudly. 

“Because if I really was your highness, it would be kind of weird for me to do this.”

Edmund placed a hand on Y/N’s jaw and leaned in. His lips barely brushed her lips before pressing firmly against them. Y/N’s eyes closed shut and she happily kissed back. 

When people described kissing their soulmate for the first time, they always explain it as an electric spark igniting throughout their entire body. They explain it as a firework show full of magnificent colors. Kissing Edmund didn’t feel like that. Kissing Edmund felt like home. She felt safe, secure, and loved as if kissing this boy was what she was meant to do for her entire life. The way he tasted, like peppermint and candy, was the best thing she had ever tasted. And they way he held her, one hand on her jaw and the other holding her close to him by her waist, felt like the warmth of a favorite blanket. The way he moved made her knees feel like jelly. 

As their lip lock continued, his fingertips danced across her back until it landed on the other side of her jaw. He pulled away from their kiss, pressing a quick peck against her nose and jaw before leaning against his headboard. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for my entire life,” Y/N said, her voice gentle and soft. 

“Me too. The thought of kissing you, Y/N L/N, was the only thing that got me through some tough times. I had to make it to be able to feel what it was like.”

Y/N was silent for a long moment. 

“Edmund, love, do you think I will ever go to Narnia?”

Edmund looked at her for a long moment then smiled with half of his mouth. 

“I don’t know, darling, but anything is possible. Especially when it comes to Narnia.” 

[adinathinternationalindia]

Bottle Crown Capping Machine

Bottle Crown Capping Machine or crown capper machine uses for crown capping of glass bottles in food & beverages industry for its proven performance. Adinath International provides top-notch equipment to numerous industries worldwide in a range of sectors. Depending on the model, our crown capping machines can capping between 20 and 200 bottles per minute. With the capacity to create up to 120 bottles per minute, Adinath International’s six head crown corking machine is perfect for capping a variety of bottle types, including glass, plastic, PET, LDPE, and HDPE. A single head bottle crown capping machine, on the other hand, has a maximum production rate of 40 bottles per minute. Additionally, we provide a four head bottle capping machine that can produce eighty bottles in a minute. There is variety of optional features can be incorporated in machine as per specific user requirements. Adinath is considered as one of the leading bottle crown capping machine manufacturers in India.

[hyunsoolgc]

taeha

( ... ) "Hello! What can I get you?" She tugs a small notebook from her apron pocket, and notes each customer's order with a cheerful grin. "Coming right up!" she shuffles back to Hyunsoo, orders in hand, careful not to touch anything. "Here you go! Two macchiatos, black coffee - gross - and vanilla latte! …Oh, shoot! I forgot to get names again…" She huffs, giving a small shrug before tacking up the orders on the cork board by the espresso machine. Hopefully, Hyunsoo would be able to decipher her frantic scribbles. "Are you sure I can't help? Maybe I could just put the lids on? I can't mess that up!"

"I swear, Taeha. You haven't managed to grow a single centimeter since we were children, hm? I think the difference between us is approximately 23cm by now." His head snapped down to look at her, triggering a sharp twinge in the base of his neck. He slapped his hand against the spot, biting back a visible grimace with a half-hearted smile. Alright — perhaps it was an exaggeration; an act, so to speak. Teasing his childhood friend came as second nature. Had he known better, he would have sworn they were separated after his birth. Even now, the universe claimed them as rather inseparable, reminding him down to the similar mole dotting their left cheeks.

Hyunsoo grabbed for a paper cup lid and carefully balanced it on the crown of Taeha's head. For what reason was beyond him and all other omniscient forces. He was halfway into a full grin when the voice of the barista helping them out echoed off the inner walls of the truck. She peeked her head in, waving. "Don't worry about making the rest of the drinks, kids. It's time for you to sign off the shift for the day."

"Oh. Thank you." He bent himself at the waist as far as he could in such a small space, turning toward Taeha to tug on her sleeve. "We are free. Wait—" Before she could make a move, he held up his hand. "Walk slowly. I want to see if you can keep the lid on your head."

[iam93percentstardust]

2020 Fic Recs Part 1

Hello everyone! If you saw @ad1thi‘s recent fic rec post going around, you know she got the idea from me. I had the idea a few months ago of doing a roundup of my favorite fics from 2020 at the end of the year because, let’s be honest with ourselves, I read a lot over the last twelve months, partially because this year, I really started settling into my own in fandom but mostly because this year was an absolute shitshow and I needed a distraction from everything going on outside my tiny apartment. I know it’s been a hard year for everyone and while there’s hope that next year might be a little better, there’s no guarantee so here are some of the fics that helped me get through this year. I hope you all like them as well.

Fics are organized by month and range over a variety of fandoms and ships. Since some of these are multi-chapters, I’ve organized them according to what date the last chapter posted. This got a little long so I’ve broken this up into 4 parts to be reblogged over the next two weeks.

January

Hope for the Holidays by @aurumacadicus (Winteriron)

Tony never expected to share Christmas with the man who killed his parents, but he's here now, so they should make the best of it.

Woodash and iron and leather by LokelaniRose (Geraskier)

Jaskier is the only person Geralt's ever been around who doesn't smell of fear

Happiness: A Song in Three Parts by @newtypeshadow (Stuckony)

Tony's just a kid when he first hears the music. He's human, no one knows werewolves exist yet, and there's no sexy beefcake couple Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes coming out as werewolves and giving interviews to the press to explain the melody Tony heard sporadically during childhood is what werewolves—and the human mates of werewolves—hear when their soulmate is within a few miles of them.

By the time he finds out what the music means, he hasn't heard a note in years.

And when he finally hears it again, he's busy running for his life.

Heart in Hand by janonny (Stevetony)

Steve had been thinking — that was all he was doing, thinking, not moping, as Bucky described it — about the best way to make his feelings clear to Tony. He wanted it to be perfect. He needed it to be the best demonstration of sincere interest that Tony had ever received.

Bucky called it procrastinating, but Steve called it strategizing.

And this Courting Ceremony? It was perfect.

Now he just needed to figure out what to get Tony as a Courting gift. And what to wear. And what to say. And what to do.

-

Or the story where Tony, an Omega, holds a much belated Courting Ceremony. Steve joins up and loses his mind a little.

something i can treasure by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes (Geraskier)

Jaskier would not call himself a thief. But, well- he is elbow-deep in someone’s saddlebags, pulling up handfuls of pretty little bottles. They’re all filled up with jewel-bright potions, corked delicately, and they almost seem to hum in his hands.

Then, suddenly-

There’s the sharp point of a sword at his neck.

Lock & Key by sablier_bloque (Geraskier)

“Geralt, it’s not what it looks like.”

“Really?” he asked. He clenched his jaw before offering a sharp, mirthless smile. “Because it looks like you got caught fucking the mayor’s wife, and now I’m not getting paid!”

“Well,” he laughed nervously, looking anywhere but up. “When you put it that way.”

In which Jaskier suggests a chastity device to prove himself a worthy travel companion, and of course, gives Geralt the key.

February

A hard curl of satisfaction by LokelaniRose (Geraskier & Yenalt in V-shaped polyamory)

Geralt was taught that a witcher is only good for one thing

Half Agony, Half Hope by @no-gorms (Stevetony)

Following the Battle of New York, the Avengers Initiative kicks into high gear under the leadership of Steve Rogers, i.e. Captain America. Tony didn’t mean to become part of this initiative, but it makes sense to sign on due to his experience with SHIELD and Rhodey’s War Machine suits.

The upside: Tony’s tech can be used in a widespread and meaningful way to help protect people. The downside: the last time Tony saw Steve, he’d rejected Steve’s proposal of marriage and broke his heart, leading to almost ten years of the two having no contact whatsoever. Until now.

when the bones are good by SummerFrost (Geraskier)

Julian is six when he realizes that he's got an astounding capacity for being an annoying bastard. He's seventeen when he finally decides to lean in.

Where There’s a Witcher by ghostinthelibrary (Geraskier)

Jaskier is a twentysomething recently unemployed journalist and amateur musician looking for his big break. So when he’s saved from the jaws of a wyvern by the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia, he comes up with a brilliant idea: he’ll follow the Witcher around and sing about their exploits. He’ll gain fame and fortune and Geralt will get a much needed image rehab. Everyone wins.

Unless Jaskier goes and falls in love like an idiot.

my body bruises at your touch by brawlite (Geraskier)

To lure a monster out, Geralt ties Jaskier up, making him look like easy prey. Surprisingly, Jaskier finds himself enjoying his time as bait a bit more than expected.

Do it Again by thisgirlsays22 (Geraskier)

By the twentieth time Geralt has gone through the loop, he decides to just throw himself off the cliff’s edge after Borch.

He wakes up to his twenty-first attempt.

“Fuck.”

The Song of the White Wolf by sospes (Geraskier)

“It’s a wolf, not a dog,” Geralt says flatly.

“It’s hurt.”

“It’s a wolf.”

“I’m helping it,” Ciri says, ignoring him, and turns back to the wolf.

But when is a wolf not a wolf? When it's everyone's favourite humble bard, of course!

March

Even Steel Blades Need Fire by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Geraskier)

Jaskier's given a lot to Geralt over the years, but there's one tiny, insignificant, minor molehill of a thing he's kept back from him.

Namely that Jaskier isn't human.

Mission Accomplished by @riotwritesthings (Winteriron)

Tony has had a terrible, rotten, no good day. Fortunately, he knows exactly what he needs to feel better.

With a Conquering Air by inexplicifics (Geraskier)

From the kinkmeme: AU Warlord!Geralt receives Tribute!Jaskier as a sacrifice to appease him in every way possible. Jaskier has no choice on the matter and he’s fully aware of the awful rumours that have spread about Geralt and his ruthless conquests. (But we all know those aren’t legit.) A classic angst with a happy ending please! A dash of smut to heal those scars and a sprinkle of new found love!

Jaskier arrives at Kaer Morhen knowing his family gave him up without a second thought, and absolutely sure that the dreaded Warlord of the North will value him even less than his own blood did. But the White Wolf and his pack are not what Jaskier expected...and if he's unreasonably lucky, Kaer Morhen might become far more of a home than Lettenhove ever was.

play out a spell in your sequence of chords (to inspire and sharpen our rusted swords) by AceSailorKoshkaRayn

Geralt cocked his head to the side curiously to regard the chittering fox caught in the hunter's trap. The beast had deep chestnut fur and eerily bright blue eyes. He knelt, and the creature hissed at him, baring his teeth in fear.

"I mean you no harm," he rumbled, hands palm-up. His swords were at his campsite, regardless. He reached forward slowly, and the fox didn't move, though it's teeth remained bared. It was a simple matter to pry open the trap, and the fox leapt away, chattering its teeth at him. Their eyes met for a long moment, amber to fantastical blue, and the fox dashed off.

Sighing faintly, hands resting on his knees, Geralt bowed his head tiredly. He rolled his neck to crack it, and rose to his feet to shuffle his way back to his camp.

Set out neatly next to his bedroll were three cleanly gutted rabbits, and Geralt paused in surprise. Roach whinnied softly, and stamped a hoof. A crown of golden wheat rested primly between her ears.

Ah. Fae, then. Services paid for services rendered. Hopefully the fae would consider them even, now, but something in him doubted it.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Accidental “I Love You” (3/13/2021)

That awkward moment when you accidentally say “I love you” before your boyfriend is ready.

That awkward moment when you accidentally say “I love you” and your boyfriend LITERALLY BOLTS OUT OF THE ROOM.

thoughts & prayers 4 sir pentious @usedhearts

Sir Pentious

It was a normal morning on the airship. Alastor had made breakfast, they'd eaten breakfast, they'd cleaned up and gotten dressed, and now Alastor was about to leave for his rehearsals, per the usual.

Telly leaned down to give him a kiss goodbye, also per the usual, when something not per the usual slipped from his mouth.

Three little innocuous words. Followed by a few more words that aren't as important.

"I love you, have a good day."

He'd already turned to slither down the hall to work on the airship repairs when he realized what he said. Eyes wide, he spun around, hands slapped comically over his mouth.

Alastor

Alastor was already preparing himself to walk from the room when the words registered; and instead he tripped on his feet and stumbled to a stop in the doorway, eyes just as wide, looking at Telly in shock, heart freezing in his chest.

Oh no. He had to say it back now. But he couldn’t even pry his jaws apart. He tried to access the words and dead air hissed in his throat, no signal coming in from this station, just white noise. He couldn’t say it. Maybe he could force the words out if he tried but they would sound forced. He couldn’t do that to Telly.

So he was silent. Was that worse? Did it ruin everything?

Sir Pentious

Telly stood equally as still and equally as quiet, his mind replaying the moment like someone rewinding the same but of a movie over and over again. When he finally found his voice, he just barely was able to squeak out: "I'm sorry."

But once that was out, the cork was pulled and the torrent began.

"I'm so sorry, I've been trying to hold off on saying it, because I didn't want you to feel pressured to say it back! I know you wanted to take things slow from here! You don't have to say it back, it's okay!"

He slapped his hands back over his mouth. Shut up, Pentell, that's QUITE ENOUGH.

Alastor

“I’M sorry.“ He tried. He couldn’t say it. He wished he hadn’t had such a large breakfast, it was turning in his stomach now.

He couldn’t meet Telly’s gaze.

Sir Pentious

Telly started to slither forward, reaching his hand out towards Alastor.

"No, don't be, it's alright, really..."

Alastor

“I should—“ He turned away. “Rehearsal. Shouldn’t be late.”

Sir Pentious

"No, o-of course..." Telly nodded and turned away, too. Well, it seemed like his plans for the day had changed-- swap out 'work' for 'sulk in the tub.'

Alastor

"You have a good day too!" And then he was gone through a portal, as far as he could go.

Like a deer bounding off through the woods, tail flagging in terror.

Like a coward.

Sir Pentious

Telly ran the bath extra hot, to make sure it would stay warmer until becoming tepid. And then he slunk into it, sinking down to the bottom, letting his gills do the work of breathing.

How stupid he was! He couldn't even hold it in this long? How could he just let it slip out like that? Now who knows what Alastor was thinking-- he probably sent him into a spiral of some sort! He screamed under the water, the bubbles boiling the surface momentarily. He couldn't _believe_ himself.

Alastor

He was, in fact, in a spiral of some sort—mostly focused on how he was a coward and an idiot and he'd just pulled the most emotionally immature reaction in history.

Second most emotionally immature. With MOST immature going to "blow everything up and run away forever."

Well, he wasn't going to be quite that stupid this time. As soon as he got home he was making it up to Telly tenfold.

Sir Pentious

When Telly was done being angry with himself, he swam back up to the surface of the tub, laying his arms and head on the side. It was officially sulking time. He wasn't going to move from this tub for a good while.

Alastor

Which gave Alastor time to come back with The Works.

He had a huge bouquet. He had the traditional heart-shaped bow-bedecked box of chocolates. He had a fancy five course dinner, waiting in the kitchen. He had three rented movies. He had his internal jukebox queued up with all the romantic slow dance songs he could think of. He’d fancied up his hair and clothing and spritzed on some very nice perfume. He’d stolen a pile of jewelry, including an entire crown.

And he may have royally failed at saying the words, but by God, before the night was up, he was going to demonstrate them a hundred other ways.

“Telly?” Where was he, he wasn’t working. In his room? “Telly~”

Sir Pentious

He may have fallen asleep leaning against the edge of the tub. In fact, he certainly had as when he woke, it was to Alastor's voice calling his name, and his tub having turned room temperature. Which felt, well, not the best. He shivered a bit, tail reaching to turn the tap for hot water back on, giving a little warmth back to the tub.

"In the bathroom," He called, settling himself and trying to not look _too_ much like he'd been sulking the entire day away.

Alastor

“TELLY! Hello—!” Alastor stopped in the doorway. Here he was with a giant bouquet and candy box, dressed like he was about to hit the red carpet, and there in front of him was a soggy groggy snake. How long had he been there? Alastor was afraid to ask.

Only one thing to do.

He set aside the flowers and candy, took off his shoes, and slid into the tub with Telly. Fancy clothes and all.

Sir Pentious

At the sight of Alastor in those fancy clothes, with a bouquet and chocolates, Telly sat up a little more. Oh. Oh, that was....so sweet of him. He nearly teared up-- until Alastor set the things aside and started for the tub.

"Oh, darling, no, your clothes--" Too late, Alastor was getting in. Telly couldn't help a soft laugh, hand covering his mouth.

"Oh, Alastor...."

Alastor

There was a laugh! So far, so good. “Pah! If the clothes can’t take this, who needs ‘em?” He slid an arm around the edge of the tub—not quite touching Telly’s shoulders, but surrounding them. Smile small and self-conscious, he asked, “Is it alright if I kiss you?”

Sir Pentious

His own smile softened further, and his hand moved to cup Alastor's cheek, stroking his thumb there. "Of course you can."

Alastor

Has he been forgiven, then? All the same, after he kissed Telly, he pressed their foreheads together, shut his eyes, and said, “I’m sorry.”

Sir Pentious

"Why are you sorry? _I'm_ the one who screwed up. I didn't want to pressure you, and it just slipped out. _I'm_ sorry." His hand slid back, cupping the back of Alastor's head.

Alastor

“Because I bolted like a scared deer?” He laughed nervously. “The only way I could’ve handled that worse would be by blowing up the airship as I left. Thank goodness I already got *that* out of my system, right?”

Sir Pentious

Telly choked on his own breath trying not laugh at that-- he shouldn't laugh at that! But he is, he's laughing at that, ending with a soft little whine.

"I thought I'd ruined everything. I thought I'd scared you off. But I'm very glad you didn't blow up the airship, even if it _is_ still only half repaired..."

Alastor

“No no no! Oh, I don’t think you could scare me off if you *tried.*” He caught Telly’s hand and pressed his cheek harder into it. “But I shouldn’t have run.” He kissed the palm. “I’m best at expressing myself through words everywhere else—except here. This is one place where words fail me. That word is...” Broken, like glass shards in his lungs, and trying to say it was like trying to force the shards back up through his throat. He had broken it. “... difficult. If you need to hear it, I’ll figure out how to say it. But—in the meantime, I’ll show you other ways. All right?”

Sir Pentious

His face softened again-- as this point, he was positively mushy-- and he leaned in to kiss Alastor again.

"I don't need to hear it-- but, you won't mind if _I_ say it now, yes? Now that the cat's out of the bag, metaphorically, and all. I just....I _like_ saying it. I want to say it, and I want you to hear it. But you don't have to say it back. Showing me that you do in other ways is fine for me, Alastor."

Alastor

“I like hearing it.” And it made him feel ashamed—made him feel like a hypocrite, that he wanted to hear it but couldn’t say it. But if he wanted to hear it and Telly wanted to say it, what sense was there in saying no?

Sir Pentious

"Then, may I say it now? I'd like to say it now." He wrapped his arms around Alastor's waist, pulling him closer in the cooling water.

Alastor

“Please.” He wrapped his arms around Telly (and was suddenly reminded of the layers of wet clothes in between them) and settled his chin on Telly’s shoulder, his ear up next to Telly’s cheek, ready to listen as if these were the most important words he’d ever hear.

Sir Pentious

"Alastor, I love you," He said, the words soft and sweet. Telly followed it with a purr, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I love you so much that I feel fit to burst sometimes."

Alastor

And what do you know, they *were* the most important words he’d ever heard. How strange.

He pulled Telly closer, so Alastor could feel the rumbling in Telly’s chest and perhaps Telly could feel the hissing and clicking in Alastor’s. “Like all you can do is inhale more and you’ve forgotten how to exhale?”

Sir Pentious

He _could_ feel it, and it was breathtaking. What a thing to be able to feel...

"Yes, that's it exactly. Feel like if someone took a pin to me, I'd pop like a balloon."

Alastor

He wondered at how it all worked. The chemical reactions, the hormones, the Rube Goldberg machines in their bodies that triggered the same strange reactions in almost all of the human race but made them feel so unique. “Even if I don’t show it the same way, I want you to know—there’s nothing you feel for me that I don’t feel for you.”

Sir Pentious

"I do. I know." He pulled back, just enough to be able to kiss Alastor again, soft, slow, and tender. Telly put all the love he could into that kiss, wanting it to suffuse the whole thing.

Alastor

“*Good.*” And he returned the kiss. Crisis over. Next time, he’d do better.

After a moment, as his thoughts started to wander—weird romance chemical reactions, the word, the apology—he remembered the dinner he’d left a couple shadows in charge of heating in the kitchen and sat back with a gasp. “Oh! I planned a whole date night for us! Dinner, music, movies—you saw the flowers, right—?”

Sir Pentious

"Yes, I did see the flowers, I think I saw those before you even got fully in the room." He laughed and stroked Alastor's cheek again.

"A date night? Oh, I feel underdressed now!" Telly smirked, gesturing to himself and the fact he was completely nude.

Alastor

“Well, we can certainly fix that!” He slid his arms behind Telly’s back and tail and scooped him up (with a heaping helping of magical assistance) and carried him out of the tub, to set him down on a towel and start drying him off. “I’m not going to make you go rent a tux at this hour, but I want you to *feel* fancy!”

Sir Pentious

Telly couldn't help the yelp that left him at being lifted-- so _that_ was what that felt like! He'd have to remember the next time he decided to sweep Alastor into his arms. His own wrapped around said Radio Demon, holding on for dear life. He sighed in relief when lowered onto the towel, humming a bit and raising a brow.

"Oh? How are you going to make me feel fancy?" Cue a teasing flick of his tongue. "Tell me, Alassstor~"

Alastor

His heart leaped into his throat. "Careful with that hiss. But I think I'm developing a theory about what those French girls were so into." (Never mind the fact that the thought of the entire population of England incorporating a hiss into their accents was hilarious.)

"I've got a couple of ideas, but..." He dried off his clothing with a snap, then opened his suit jacket like a trench coat-wearing watch salesman to show off the jewelry inside. Crown included, somehow. "You tell me what will make you feel fancy."

Sir Pentious

"Oh, you mean thisssss hissssss?" He exagreated the sound a bit more, letting his tongue flick out longer as he did, a smarmy smile on his face. And then his eyes widened at the sight of all that jewelry.

"Oh my...." His eyes raked over all of it. "That'sss been there thiss whole time? How in the world did you not ssink to the bottom of the tub."

Telly laughed and narrowed his eyes a bit, grin widening. "How much do you think we can fit on me?"

Alastor

Alastor let out an exaggerated sigh like a lovelorn starlet. “Oh, that *very* one—although it sounds even better when you’re saying my name.”

His grin widened as Telly’s eyes popped open. “Oh, I’ve got a trick or two.” (Magic, probably.) He glanced at the array of jewels consideringly—all gold chains and gaudy stones, and as many nautical-themed pieces as he could get his hands on—and then at Telly’s arms, shoulders, and neck. “Why don’t you go pick something you think would look nice underneath all this, and we’ll see just how much of it we can fit on you?”

Sir Pentious

Telly smirked at him, eyes half lidded as he 'stood'. He slithered close, his hand reaching to grab at Alastor's waist, dragging slowly across his chest and then over his shoulder and down his arm as he moved. He took Alastor's arm with him for a brief moment, leaving a kiss dusted on his knuckles before letting go completely.

"Alright, Alasssstor, give me a few minutes, I'll find ssomenting nice." Out of the bathroom and to his closet he went. He dug through and around and then stumbled on just the thing. Slipping it on, he hummed, returning to his bedroom proper.

"Oh, Alassssstor~" He called, smoothing out the skirt of his dress. The pretty red one he'd worn the day after the masquerade, it was perfect. Silky and off the shoulder, dipping low enough in the chest to see the eye there, and fitting wonderfully to his curves, he knew Alastor would like it.

Alastor

And just like that Alastor was reduced from smug jewelry dealer to starstruck twitterpatted admirer. Oh, the grace of him, the *look* he got in his eyes when he was as confident as he should be... “Sure!” His voice cracked a little. Ahem. “I’ll be here.”

He tugged on his shoes as he waited. And grabbed up the bouquet and chocolate. Damn, look at this bouquet. He was *killing* it at being romantic today—

And there was his sibilant cue. He entered the bedroom—and stopped dead. Two different love songs and a wolf whistle sound effect tried to play at the same time. “That looks even better on you in person.”

Sir Pentious

And oh, the smug look on this snake just grew three sizes at that. His chest puffed and he preened a bit, clawed hands pulling his hood over his shoulder to stroke.

"Yess, I thought you might like to ssee it in persson ssince you never got to when I wore it lasst! And, after all, it _iss_ your colour! It'ss rather perfect for tonight, don't you think, Alasssstor?" He gave Alastor the bedroom eyes as he slithered closer. He held himself tall, just so he could lean himself down, oh so seductively. His hand held Alastor by the jaw, stroking it idly as he spoke next.

"I feel like I sshould be wearing ssome make up, don't you? Mind helping a ssnake out, there, Alassssstor?"

Alastor

“I think it’s your color, now.” He leaned just *slightly* further in with each stroke to his jaw. Please rip his throat out. But gently and slowly. “It would be my unparalleled pleasure.”

Sir Pentious

"Good." He let his hand slide to cup Alastor's chin, thumb nail stroking over his lower lip, and then down his chin as his hand slid down to drag that claw slowly down Alastor's neck. He released him and straightened, slithering over to the vanity and seating himself.

"I think that lipstick you've been wearing would be a good shade to match this dress. Where is it, love?"

Alastor

Alastor kept perfectly still, silent but for the static hissing around him, interlaced with crackles and murmurs each time Sir Pentious brushed something that set of fireworks in Alastor’s mind—his lip, the tip of his chin, his throat.

Oh, confidence looked *so* good on him.

He ghosted through the shadows to Telly’s side, lipstick already held out in one hand.

Sir Pentious

He smirked at how quickly Alastor obeyed his command-- and at how quiet he was being, nothing but the soft static. He reached out to take the lipstick, popping open the tub. He made a show of rolling it up and slowly applying it. Telly was careful to keep it nice-- he knew it wouldn't last, not with how they both were, but it would look good for the time being. He smacked his lips together, capping it and setting it aside, as he took a tissue to gently dab and fix it.

Once that was done, he turned just a bit, smiling at Alastor. "What do you think? Should we bother with matching eyeshadow, or is this good?"

Alastor

“Well! Quite honestly, my good Sir?” Alastor smiled brightly at him. Utterly smitten. “I can’t imagine any eyeshadow that could compare to your beautiful eyes.”

Sir Pentious

Oh, Alastor gets the Shy Snake look now. And a batting of eyes. "Well, then, I think I'm ready for dinner...And perhaps the jewelry we can put on me after? Or during. But well...."

He looked absolutely bashful now. "I haven't really eaten all day-- I'm starving."

Alastor

The poor thing really *had* been in the tub all day. And all Alastor’s fault. But he was determined to make sure that when Telly thought back on this day, that wouldn’t be the part he remembered.

Alastor bent down to kiss Telly’s cheek and whisper seductively, “I got a five course dinner.” Was there anything sexier than a five course dinner? By now Alastor had performed enough sex acts that he was confident in saying no, there wasn’t. “But if I might recommend *one* accessory for your dinner ensemble...” He pulled aside the corner of his jacket, displaying that crown again.

Sir Pentious

Telly smiled and nodded. "Yes, I think that one would go wonderfully."

He lowered his head to allow Alastor to put it on him. "Please, do the honors."

Alastor

He took it out and closed his jacket—yeah, it really shouldn’t have fit under there—and then carefully set it on Telly’s head. Don’t mind him if he also plays a couple lines of “God Save the Queen” to go with this faux coronation.

Sir Pentious

Telly smiled at Alastor as he lifted his head, and then turned to look at himself in the vanity mirror. Oh, yes, that looked _lovely_.

"I _do_ like myself in a crown," He murmured, before turning to beam at Alastor.

"Well, my gentleman suitor, shall we adjourn to the dinning room?"

Alastor

“I like you in a crown, too. You should wear one more often.” A wink. “Maybe get a day job that requires one in the uniform, I don’t know.”

He stepped back and bowed, offering his hand. “I would be *delighted* to escort you to dinner.”

Sir Pentious

Telly took Alastor's arm, slithering toward the kitchen, and the meal that awaited, floating on air. Today was certainly ending much better than it began, and he was glad for it.

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 6.2

Events

Congress agreed to support American glass manufacturing, largely to improve the supply of beer bottles (1790)

1st U.S. alcohol prohibition law enacted, as Maine voted to prohibit the sale & manufacture of alcohol (1851)

9th U.S. Brewers Association convention held (1869)

15 U.S. Brewers Association convention held (1875)

U.S. Brewers Association chartered a new constitution & elected Henry H. Reuter president (1875)

20th U.S. Brewers Association convention held (1880)

U.S. Brewers Association announced their intention to form a brewing school (1869)

Charles Engel died (1900)

John Bieniek patented a Racking-Machine (1914)

Velveeta invented (1928)

Karl Mauser patented a Double-Walled Vessel (1933)

Crown Cork & Seal patented a Filling System (1959)

Kobanyai Sorgyar patented a Process for Controlling the Germination of Malting Barley (1987)

John Mitchell died (2019)

Brewery Openings

Stegmaier Brewery (Pennsylvania; 1857)

Blue Ridge Brewing / Starr Hills Brewing (Virginia; 1987)

Massachusetts Bay Brewing / Harpoon (Mass.; 1987)

Fort Spokane Brewery (Washington; 1989)

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[warsofasoiaf]

The Celtic Tiger: A Kaiserreich Ireland AAR Chapter 7: Let Slip the Dogs

14 May 1941 - Dublin Airport, Presidential Tarmac

Michael Collins was eager to return home to Ireland. The nationalist crowd were not going to be happy to hear that Canadian soldiers would be permitted to use Irish soil to help them take back the British Home Isles, but Collins was prepared to tolerate a lot more to end Union aggression. Collins had suggested that the North be used primarily for the Canadian forces, the people of the northern Six Counties were much more supportive of King Albert and the British Exiles. Collins doubled plainclothes G-2 operatives within the area; the last thing he needed were Unionist agitators seeking a return to British crown rule and making inroads to that effect. He trusted the Canadians to fight to retake the British Home Isles, but he simply didn’t trust them to stop there. 

It hadn’t been even three hours before the President had touched down before he was summoned to an emergency meeting. G-2 had discovered a foreign asset operating on Irish soil, attempting to infiltrate the Irish government. The Comité des Renseignements Généraux had sent Patrice Boulanger. No records of such a man had ever entered Ireland, and even now G-2 had an army of immigration officials combing through records to see how he had slipped the grid. They had speculated that he had been sent to make contact among sympathetic Irish socialists to support the syndicalist cause, and now that Ireland had joined the Reichspakt and Entente in coordinating their efforts, drastic action needed to be taken before Canadian soldiers could use Ireland as a staging point for attacks across the Irish Sea. Intelligence had yielded codebooks after a relatively brief interrogation, but the bigger prize had come when Boulanger’s hotel room had been searched and a microscope found in his possession. 

Richard Hayes, section chief of G-2’s cryptology division, had used the microscope to examine Boulanger’s correspondence and had found microdots, containing details of defensive postures and fortifications within Ireland and a detailed exposure of McKenna’s phantom army. Boulanger had been turned over to counter-intelligence for interrogation, but everything that he had seen had demonstrated that French intelligence had not sent only one operative to Ireland, but they had no leads on who it could be. If both operatives had been dropped into Ireland at different times, there could be no telling where he or she could be hiding. 

This had been what he wanted. Hayes had lobbied extensively for a permanent cryptography department to be added to G-2, and had consistently been forced to justify his department’s existence and expenditure. The An tArm had advocated that it had been soldiers and equipment that had defended Ireland’s shores, and the HUMINT operators within G-2 itself had argued that it had been their infiltration of the Union’s army that had given the soldiers the critical intelligence edge that they had needed, not the codebreakers. It had been a fight to continually devote more resources to acquire more and more electronic rotor machines even as Ireland attempted to devote money to building its civilian industries and churning out war materiel for the fight against the Union. Now that Ireland would need to take the fight to the shores of Britain, France, and northwestern Italy, there was need for even more production. Amtracs and landing craft to storm the beaches, more naval vessels to help provide amphibious bombardment and naval supremacy to storm the beaches, there had even been talk of designing an amphibious tank to help provide firepower to the Muirshaighduiri. But with the capture of Boulanger, Hayes had a chance to ensure that his craft would receive the respect it was owed. The enemy was a puzzle, and Hayes knew that the cypher contained the corner piece.

“I want full monitoring of all comms channels. The war will be won or lost in this room, I guarantee it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to pick my daughter up from school.”

6 June 1941 - Western Approaches, Atlantic Ocean

While the threat of war had never left, Ireland had been relatively unscathed after the Internationale, Reichspakt, and Entente all went to war. 

The Union’s Republican Air Force, which had devoted much of its attention to the European mainland since the expansion of the Irish-Internationale War into the Second Weltkrieg had broken out in 1939, had begun to fly again over the territory of Ireland to resume their bombing . Yet even in just a couple of years, the difference between British incursions into Irish airspace was noticeable. Irish radar stations had been installed from Cork to Donegal, and had been improved to centimetric bands, giving the Irish air defense guns greater spotting distance, and the pilots of the An tAerchór had been more experienced than the young recruits gallantly flying in an attempt to clear the skies of Union bombers. 

Where the war never ended was on the high seas. The An tSeirbhís Chabhlaigh had the difficult duty of escorting Irish trade convoys. Given the disparity in size against the surface fleet of the Union’s Republican Navy, the admirals had elected not to engage in direct ship-to-ship combat, and had relied heavily on the Fenian Ram submarines to ambush Union trade, only electing to attack when it was possible to attack ships without destroyer escort. In the early segments of the war, this had happened on occasion, with the Union Navy stretched thin in its need to help provide naval support in the Mediterranean and off the South American coast. The Union had learned quickly, and had religiously adopted convoy systems and invested heavily in screens of destroyers and light cruisers. The Irish had retaliated by modifying their submarines to take over the primary minelaying duties, and laying mines as close to the British naval lanes as they dared. It had caused extensive damage to Union shipping, both in supply and naval personnel, and it had forced an extensive minesweeping campaign which poached ships from other duties. 

Rear Admiral Griffin, commanding the 3rd Task Group made up of destroyers and submarines, had been tasked with helping to escort American and Canadian naval vessels to Irish soil. The mission had been one of critical importance, as only the Irish navy knew of the paths through the naval mines and the Entente had opted to use several military bases in the north to house and base their troops while they prepared for the invasion. It had been a monumental logistical operation, and the first transport ships contained not troops but the resources needed to feed them. As they reached the Western Approaches, the danger was about to increase. The Union Republican Navy had consolidated their battlegroups in the middle Atlantic as not to be caught off-guard by the sizable American and Canadian fleets. However, this had left their trade convoys badly exposed, especially the convoys to Chile carrying vital resources needed to maintain their war economy, frequently captured or sunk by the Armada de la República Argentina. The Communard navy, much smaller than the Union’s, had been confined to facing the French and Italian ships in the Mediterranean to protect the southern flank in Marseilles. If there was going to be an engagement, it would be here, outside the range of Ireland’s air cover. 

The patrol patterns were simple, recon floatplanes could spot from a good distance away, and both the Americans and the Irish had a healthy number of submarines in the convoy. The Canadians had opted to sail with their battlecruisers in the line, to better maintain speed with the faster destroyers. The Viscount Cunningham had been chosen as the fleet leader for this sortie, due to his superior rank. Not that Griffin could argue, one battlecruiser was probably worth fifteen destroyers, but it stuck in the craw of a proud Irishman to take orders from an admiral in service to the British crown. But that had been the deal negotiated by his President, and it was an admiral’s duty to obey.

At 0715 hours, with the fleet going at full steam, a scoutplane radioed in that they had spotted a Union capital ship at distance. Fleet Leader Cunningham had opted to alter course and intercept the hostile craft. The Irish destroyers, trained submarine hunters, took on the role of screening for U-Boats while the American destroyers sought to fall in with the line and provide light cannon support fire for surface ships. The Canadian battlecruisers, designed for high-speed interception of capital ships, sped to attack the battleship, hoping to pounce upon it before it could join a larger attack fleet.

At 0800, the large deck guns of the RMS Liberation sang out, firing at the Irish and Entente task group. Hurriedly, orders on both sides were to converge as the ships began to escalate. Shortly after the battle had been joined, the RMS Liberation had sustained severe damage after a curtain of battlecruiser fire had given the Irish submarines the opportunity to close to torpedo range and sink the vessel, but the Liberation’s message had been received. The Republican Navy began to converge on the Free ships within the Canadian and American navies were to converge toward the Western Approaches. From the east, Admiral Seamus O’Muiris ordered his cruiser fleet to speed onwards to a potential serious conflict.

Over the course of the day, more ships began to converge toward the Western Approaches to fight a piecemeal battle. Officially dubbed the battle of the Atlantic, it was better thought of as a series of small encounter battles between naval vessels, with typically no more than five to seven capital ships engaged. The Union’s Republican Navy was able to sail north near Iceland, surprising the small Entente detachment and forcing them into port as they steamed east toward the Faroe Islands. Admiral O’Muiris fought a fierce cruiser engagement against the RMS Rebecca. When the ship was almost feared lost, the aircraft aboard relied on overwhelming the anti-aircraft guns of the task group, even flying when out of ammunition to give their comrades greater cover in the air, securing a tactically inconclusive resolution as the Rebecca was able to rejoin the larger Republican Navy without incident.

While not an overwhelming victory, the Entente proudly proclaimed the results of the battle as a sign of buoying victory and a palpable success of the Halifax Conference. The coordination between the Entente and Irish navies meant that Reclamation Day could go forward as planned, and the retaking of the Home Isles was in their grasp. 

Michael Collins was certain of their success, he was just less certain about what would come after

***

As the Entente and the Reichspakt were celebrating success in the west, a new federation had been celebrating their own successes. The Chongminq government of Cheng Jionming had taken advantage of the Zhii-Fengtian war to secure themselves in Yunnan, Sichuan, and Hunan, befriended the Ma Clique and secured peace with the Tibetan plateau, and successfully appealed to the United States and the Danubian Federation secretly through diplomats within the Legation Cities for funding and support due to their goal of a United Federated Provinces of China. As Wu Peifu and Zhang Zuolin continued to bloody themselves in the fronts around Beijing, Cheng had successfully navigated his ship of state through the shoals and had been able to secure the loyalty of Song Qing-ling, the widow of Sun Yat-Sen and through her, the beating heart of the Kuomintang. 

When Germany and Japan had gone to war over the Southeast Asian peninsula, the Federalists had seen their opportunity, and had continued to amass support and arms in preparation for their move. As Japan devoted attention to Savinkov in Transamur, and Germany began to have their trade cut off and Hellmuth von Mucke requiring to cede more autonomy to Bao Dai, the Federalists made their move. Declaring open war against Fengtian and Nanjing, Chen Jionming successfully marched from the western regions of China with a massive army. Nanjing had fallen quickly, unable to successfully the southwest in Guangdong and Guangxi. Fengtian took longer, but after their troops were encircled at the Heilong River, the Fengtian government had surrendered. As neither the German nor Japanese armies were officially in China, the loss of their proxies came as a shock. Savinkov’s eastern forces in Omsk were also not idle, seizing upon the disaster to push against Japan further, uprooting Japanese civilians that had settled in Transamur. 

Upon his ascension, Chen remained humble, and drafted a constitution with a surprisingly weak central government, ceding much power to the provinces. “We have accomplished much, but we have much more to do. It is our saying that the empire, long united, must divide, and the empire, long divided, must unite. Our federated model shall be the great solution to the Chinese puzzle. We are divided and united, separate but whole.” 

The same opinions were not shared by Germany and Japan, who had lost their respective puppet clique within China with remarkable speed. The AOG had been able to manage their concessions, but Japan had relied on unofficial connections with Fengtian to advance their interests without the notice of the Legation Council. Hellmuth von Mucke had suggested to the newly-coronated Kaiser Wilhelm III a peace deal with Japan, establishing a ceasefire and their own respective spheres of interest, lest Savinkov do to them what Jionming had done to their proxies in China. The hardliners in the Japanese military fiercely protested, but the Emperor had accepted the need to hammer out a deal, demanding their resignations and an immediate end to the conflict with Deutsche-Ostasia and the Dominion of India. Sir Atul Chandra Chatterjee had difficulty dealing with Hellmuth von Mucke, who had been gruff and direct, charged with handling German affairs in Southeast Asia but trained as an admiral, not as a diplomat. The threat of the Bharatiya Commune, who’s Totalist adherents had been attempting to join the Internationale and the Totalists in Europe, had forced the Japan-supported Princely Federation and the Entente-backed Dominion of India into a corner. A hastily-arranged peace was formed and signed by the three parties, recognizing status quo borders and an immediate swap of prisoners of war. None of the three major powers would be forced to abandon their suzerain relationships with the governments in their respective territories. 

Ernst Junger attended the conference for the Reichspakt, and shortly after, the noted author disappeared into his home for four months in a sleepless mania, writing the science fiction novel In Zungen. The novel detailed three futuristic diplomats, who had relied upon technology to handle all matters of protocol to include translation, non-verbal gestures, and etiquette even as it related to food and drink being served, had their technology fail, and what calamity fell after. When asked whether it was a metaphor for the Halifax Conference or the smaller Siamese Conference, the author shook his head, and said that it was a shoe that fit many feet.

30 August, 1941 - Brittany, France

The French countryside was a beautiful place, a pity to mar it with war.

In a coordinated landing effort, new fronts were opened up against the Communards. The French exiles successfully landed west of Marseilles, successfully breaching the French defenses after the Sardinians had successfully destroyed the last Jacobin outpost on Corsica. A renewed push on the Italian front by the Sicilians in the south and the Italian Republicans in the east had tied up the French forces in Italy, preventing them from reinforcing Marseilles. In the north, German, Belgian, and Dutch forces launched an all-out assault on French border positions. Argentine and Brazilian forces from the Reichspakt, along with Canadian, Mexican, and West Indies Federation forces from the Entente, had sought to attack in Brittany, where aerial reconnaissance had shown lighter defenses. The Commune had instituted emergency conscription rates, if intelligence reports were to be believed. Military planners believed that the green troops would be interspersed within the regular troops to not leave weak points within the line where a breakthrough could be easily achieved. 

Irish forces under Tom Barry had elected to fight in Brittany, as it was close to Ireland and didn’t run the risk of sailing through the heavily-mined English Channel. The An tArm had, since the successful repulse of the Internationale’s landing in Connacht, spent a considerable amount of time reforming its army to follow a new doctrine of speed and mobility. The Irish design bureaus led by Rory O’Connor in conjunction with Irish-Daimler, had pioneered a new type of vehicle to support this new Irish method of warfare, Motorizing the infantry had always been a goal, since foot infantry were too slow to respond to changing battlefield conditions, but truck infantry had experienced significant difficulty when in combat. The thin-skinned trucks could not stand up to sustained combat, and the armored cars that had been employed in scouting and military police duties weren’t capable of providing enough firepower. The solution had been the IV-1, nicknamed the “Ivy,” a half-track designed to protect the soldiers inside while providing autocannon fire to give the vehicle more firepower as opposed to being a simple armored personnel carrier primarily equipped for self defense with small anti-infantry weapons and firing ports. The IV-1 was equipped primarily with an autocannon, but could be modified to be a mortar carrier or high-caliber gun, or stripped down for more carrying capacity. It was held as a true infantry fighting vehicle, not a mere armored personnel carrier. The vehicle itself was a fighting platform as much as it was a tool to convey troops. The An tArm, never large compared to the armies of the superpowers, had to make up in quality what they could not produce in quantity. 

The IV-1 had performed adequately in field tests, but Barry knew it was no substitute for actual combat. Completely refitting the army had taken its time and toll, and transporting the vehicles had been a nightmare, but they had arrived in Brittany after the Argentine forces had already landed and the fighting line had been established. The Communards, either through good generalship or intelligence, had been able to stabilize the front after the landings, calling up reserves from the interior of the country and fortifying their fallback lines. The front line commanders, supported by local ground intelligence and air reconnaissance, were exceptional at finding salients and attacking an exposed position. Upon their retreat, the Communards had destroyed major roads and bridges in an attempt to slow the enemy advance, and it made exploiting breakthroughs difficult. Tom Barry, with the IV-1 and a full complement of field engineers, had been tasked with solving this problem.

The Argentinians and Brazilians had taken the east front and push toward the German and Belgians lines, while the Canadians and Irish had elected to march west to western Brittany from Cherbourg and stay near the coast and threaten the French heartland and prevent an encirclement. Barry found the Canadians to be a slow army, focused first on establishing a strong set of field fortifications and then on infiltration tactics. The Canadians were fond of night tactics and avoiding head-on confrontations with enemy strongpoints, isolating them. The bulk of the Canadian Army would bypass the enemy stronghold while leaving a small battlegroup to continually engage the enemy in attritional containment. They continually derived contingency plans for D+1 and D+2, identifying places to attack and bypass. 

Their opponent, however, perhaps demanded a degree of caution and apprehension. Georgiy Zhukov was the colossus staring at them across the field, and he was not a man to be taken lightly. He had been invited by the Jacobins as a general for the Communard army, but had been active in fighting in the Patagonian Worker’s Front and as a volunteer in the Second American Civil War. If Barry had been well-seasoned by war since the Irish invasion in 1938, Zhukov had been marinating in modern war. He was unflappable in the face of superior odds, adept at flanking and sudden attack. He perfected ambushes in the high mountain passes between Chile and Argentina, and those techniques lended himself well to the forests of France. He could move quickly and fight aggressively, engaging in small-scale probes to not expose his troops to counter-battery fire, and favored infantry divisions due to his experiences fighting with the impoverished Patagonian army. It was Zhukov who ordered the roads torn up to prevent the Entente advance. Zhukov, upon taking command, had successfully ambushed troops out of Limoges, and his bushwhacking techniques had left the Canadians with an ample abundance of caution.

Barry had suggested bringing up the tactical bombers and siege artillery to cover a Canadian infiltration at night, while the Irish IV-1’s would exploit the breakthrough and complete an encirclement. It depended on the Canadians moving quickly to reinforce the Irish spearhead before Zhukov could counter. The Argentians had voiced their support for the plan, committing an infantry division and a mountaineer squad to seize the heights. The Canadians provided their sixth and seventh Quebec infantry divisions along with naval bombardment support from their fleet off the coast, while Barry provided the mobility element, committing the 1st “Light Armor” medium tank division and the 3rd Mechanized.

The push had started quite successfully, but Zhukov had developed an ingenious set of fortifications, setting up killzones networked by tunnels wired to collapse. The Communards could attack, provide quick fire, then retreat before destroying the tunnels, which prevented air and ground recon from tracking his troops. He used telegraph lines covered in dazzle camouflage to give the illusion of field guns which served as ambush points, disguised spike strips to shred the front tires of the Irish halftracks, and drained fuel reserves in his area. The IV-1’s suffered considerably under the strain, with over 20% experiencing some form of catastrophic failure and another 35% suffering non-combat inflicted damages that required field repair. 

Gradually, however, the superior number began to take their toll on Zhukov. For every division the Jacobin general could field, his enemy could field three, and his defensive works were gradually eroded under Tom Barry’s siege artillery barrage. Irish close air support worked wonders at striking light targets, while the bomb bays of the Canadian tactical bombers helped destroy Zhukov’s fortifications and redoubts. The Entente was making ground, but slowly, and at considerable cost. Zhukov’s talent had significantly delayed the Entente advance, and as he withdrew to Toulouse, he continued to pressure the Entente forces. The exiled Russian lamented “I have no illusions, it is a lost war. I can only pray the order to end hostility and restore honor comes swiftly for the sake of the soldiers under my command.”

***

16 September 1941 -  Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

At Belfast, the atmosphere had been tense. There had been several altercations between Irish civilians and Canadian soldiers on town leave, typically under the influence of alcohol. If Collins had his way, the Canadians would have been confined to their training camps, but that had never been in the cards. The Irish tension had been easy to understand, but even the Canadians were under significant stress. Their home lands were within their grasp, but they instead were planning their assault and waiting for the Belgian and German forces to secure Caen on the French territory to prevent bombardment from both sides of the channel. New airfields in the countryside had housed Canadian Halifax strategic bombers, who had made periodic sorties across the Irish Sea. Initially, these forays were costly, as the Union Republican Air Force enjoyed air superiority over their own territory, and contrary to the stated wisdom of the Royal Air Force, the bomber did not always get through. While loathe to do so, Collins eventually relented to the use of Irish fighters to help support British bombing raids, and devoted aircraft to bomber escort missions. For the first time, the shoe was on the other foot, it was now Irish soldiers going across the sea to attack targets within the British Home Islands.

This did not go over well in Ireland, and demonstrations regularly gathered to protest the war. Gatherings were quickly dispersed by police as they could be attacked, which caused Gearoid O’Cuinnegain and his Ailtirí na hAiséirghe party to openly proclaim that the Irish nation was actively repressing the people at the behest of the British crown. Collins wanted to slug it out with the bastard, or go on 2RN and mock the very notion of it, but he settled on a different tactic. Kitty Kiernan, the First Lady of Ireland, had opted to make weekly radio addresses to the Irish public, encouraging them to calm. Her simple delivery, in plain Gaelic and often with common euphemisms absent in typical government communications, spoke to the Irish people as one person to another. Kitty had volunteered for the task after reading Collins’s prepared speech, thinking that she could better deliver a speech and that Collins had more important matters of state to consider than spending three days preparing a simple radio address. Her address was popular even among Unionists in the North, and especially among women. The first address, dealing with preventing large assemblies in order to protect them from bombings, had the desired effect. Her most notable speech, however, dealt with Anglo-Irish tensions, where she encouraged Irish women to “not to take any drunkenness from anyone.” The girlfriends of Irish workers or soldiers would often defuse conflicts between the Canadians and the Irish in Belfast. The Cumann na mBan seized on this messaging, encouraging women to join the workplace and pressuring the Irish Armed Forces to accept more women in their ranks.

Tensions had been solved, but they still remained bubbling under the surface, but it was Richard Hayes who had provided the key that they needed to launch their attack. His idea had come from his daughter’s school workbooks, when he began enciphering and deciphering keywords that he had been using to help her with her vocabulary on pure whim at dinner. When he took the concepts to the intercepted Union communications, he used “break the chains” and other syndicalist turns of phrase to help produce more results. The extra manpower and equipment he had received from the Canadian and German governments had heightened his team’s ability to use machine decryption to supplement their human efforts, and that had made the final difference. The high-level Union ciphers had been broken. With that, they had been able to track Union bombers in real time. If they had exploited the information gained by the cracking of the cipher, however, it would not be long before the Union got wind and destroyed it, establishing an entirely new set of encryption. With the plans set, the invasion of Britain had to be launched early, before the southern shores of the Channel were placed under control of the Sixth Republic. 

It couldn’t come soon enough for the Canadians, who had planned to invade toward Wales, while the Irish Muirsaighdiúirí invaded near Cornwall where it could be supplied by troops coming over from Entente-controlled France. They had been supported by troops from the Dominion of India, who had been to send critically needed manpower to help crack Fortress Britain. Most of Germany’s forces were either tied up in the western or eastern front, but two divisions to “represent the Reichspakt” could be spared from the French front. The Kaiser had volunteered to provide ships to provide naval bombardment within the English Channel, along with air cover over the Union, as the ships were less useful in the ice-choked White Sea. The German long-range heavy bombers had opted to bombard the beach fortress zones. The French government, grateful that the English had come to support the retaking of their homeland, reorganized their forces to send an army to support the English effort. To camouflage their efforts, the Entente and Reichspakt executed an all-out bombing campaign, but in the days before the battle, heavily concentrated on potential landing zones in Galloway, Merseyside, and Dover, hoping to threaten principal cities and the Straits of Dover with the fear of a fast invasion meant to secure key nexus points in the Union and prevent a coordinated response.

The Irish invasion was to be led by Dan McKenna. The Muirsaighdiúirí would be the first to lead the attack, equipped with amphibious tanks and landing vehicles to support their assault with armor. The landing craft had been a joint venture between Daniel Roebling of the United States and Landsverk Inneal, under the auspices of the ESIC American Partnership program that sponsored joint research between the United States and Ireland. Following would be the 2nd Irish Army headed by the legendary 1st Thunderbolts. McKenna was happy to be chosen for the task, to be back in the thick of it just like he was in the Second American Civil War, with an entire army at his command. The invasion would begin just before dawn, so the air support could provide bombardment with a reduced risk of friendly fire. 

First, a ferocious air bombardment from Canadian and German strategic bombers attempted to weaken the fortifications and prevent any reinforcement from reserve units within the theater. Afterward, naval bombardment at dug-in positions began just as the sun began to shine, aiming for artillery pieces and machine gun nests. Then, as the sun rose, the first landing craft began to ride ominously toward the island nation. The Republican Navy attempted to intercede, but the combined naval power of the Canadian and French navies with support from the Fenian Rams had made surface engagement difficult. The Republican naval bombers had better luck, neither side were able to fully control the skies above the Union, but anti-aircraft guns onboard Irish light cruisers were able to shoot down the less armored naval bombers as they began their dives against the aircraft.

Despite the losses, the invasion was able to make landfall. The Muirsaighdiúirí had been able to land, using their amphibious tanks as protection against the Union’s dogged machine gunners. The amtracs disgorged their cargo, and the military engineer company went to work, advancing under cover fire to breach the fortifications. Pillboxes were frequently fired into with flamethrowers or bypassed after throwing two grenades in and holding the door shut. The advanced engineering designs of the Irish amphibious equipment had worked remarkably well, thanks in large part to their maintenance companies, recommended by Tom Barry, who had been critical of equipment breakdowns. The Irish made remarkable success in their advance on Cornwall, after the 2nd Irish Army landed in southern England, they pressed on their half-tracks to surround the city. While the Canadians were still attempting to push toward Liverpool, Dan McKenna reported successfully. “Tell His Uppity Highness that I’ve taken Cornwall. Minimal Losses.”

1 November 1941 - Cornwall, United Kingdom

The day after McKenna had taken Cornwall, the French front was met with greater news. The French had sent General de Gaulle with a selection of hand-picked elite units to join in the attack on Paris. The Germans and the Belgians had begrudgingly agreed to delay the attack on Paris until de Gaulle got there, issuing an ultimatum to surrender, but had ordered artillery and aerial bombardment of Communard positions. When de Gaulle had made it, the Reichspakt and the Republican French forces ordered an all-out general assault. The German forces had left the southern route toward what little territory the Jacobins controlled, to bait them into fleeing, but this had been a ruse. When they saw a large column of troops fleeing the city, they ordered their batteries to open fire, massacring the Jacobin soldiers attempting to flee the battle. The Germans and French repeated their demands, only unconditional surrender would do.

After Barry had taken Toulouse and his army had met with the French forces fighting west from Marseilles, he had reported back that the war was over in the west. Michael Collins had ordered a general withdrawal of Irish forces from the French front to be transferred to the Union of Britain, where the war had still been intense. The Irish didn’t need to be present for the eventual surrender of the Communard government. It had been Mosley who had started the war when he had invaded Ireland, and so the Union had always been the most hated foe in this Second Weltkrieg. McKenna had already begun to move east, to link up with French and Danubian forces that had crossed the Channel. 

The writing was on the wall for Mosley, but he had been defiant, ordering the workers to fight to the last, to never betray the revolution. According to G-2 operatives within the Union, however, more bodies of suspected deserters had been seen hanged from the lamposts as the Totalist commissars began to crack down on dissenters and malcontents. Stating that “every worker is a revolutionary and every revolutionary is prepared to fight for the revolution,” Mosley had instituted mass conscription, and ordered the creation of the Torchbearers, a militia unit that conscripted anyone between the ages of 16-60 not in a military unit, to make up for the losses that they had suffered over the course of the long war. 

McKenna had seen a blistering advance in his push through Cornwall. Not heavily defended, and where it was defended it was often done by poorly-trained soldiers who could not operate mortars effectively. They would often wait until the very last moment, hiding under the hulks of cars or in the remnants of burned out buildings, before firing wildly with their rifles, hoping to wound as many soldiers as possible. The IV-1’s were effective in shielding the Irish soldiers from enemy fire, and the poorly-armed troops were no match for experienced IRA soldiers, made hard by the fires of war.

McKenna remembered back to that cold morning in New York when he discovered Welfare Island, and felt sick to his stomach. These weren’t soldiers he was shooting, they were kids and greybeards. They were either too brainwashed, too frightened, or too dead inside to do anything but hope for an end to their suffering; McKenna wasn’t sure which he hated more. In his dispatch, he asked Collins to allow him to push toward London as hard as they could manage. They were going to wait for the Canadians to advance through the Midlands, but every day was taking it’s toll. “We need this war to end, sir. It’s glory has long since faded. The righteousness of our defense is strong, but now we are fighting someone too weak to even hold their arms.”

***

7 January 1942 - London, Restored Government of Britain

It was over. The Third Internationale had fallen.

With Collins’s blessing, McKenna had made rapid progress, running into stiff resistance only near London, where Mosley’s elite had been maintaining order. McKenna’s troops were the first into the city, annoying the Canadian troops who had assumed that they would receive the same honor that de Gaulle was afforded by the Reichspakt. Irish troops had successfully broken through the Union’s defenses on the Thames, and had scattered the troops now fighting in isolated pockets within the streets. Other members of the Irish Army took to burning hammer and torch banners wherever they could find them, and three members even took to waving the Irish tricolor over Westminster Hall, though they quickly took it down after snapping a photograph for their own personal enjoyment.

Mosley had committed suicide in his command bunker when the Irish had broken through. In his private memoirs, he had vacillated between moments of extreme despair and anger, lashing out furiously at those he was certain to have betrayed him, including Marcel Deat, Eric Blair, and each of his generals. Without their leader, the Totalists within the Union fell into small bands. Mosley had offered no clear succession even up to the end. Eric Blair ended up ordering a general surrender, but this hadn’t been accepted wholly. More than one fireteam had feigned surrender to the Canadians, only to drop two grenades at their feet. Nervous Entente soldiers often fired on surrendering troops fearing that they would be the next to fall prey to Mosley’s farewell.

It had taken King Albert to issue a general amnesty by radio, for soldiers to enact proper procedure to take individuals into custody and return some semblance of normalcy in government. Eric Blair publicly surrendered himself and the Totalist War Cabinet to Marshal Alan Brooke in a public ceremony in London, still ravaged by the bombings and shellings.

For the Internationale, both Deat and Brooke were flown to Scapa Flow to formalize the final end of hostilities. The Totalists were forced to acknowledge that their governments were illegitimate, and as such the decrees they made in rulership could be voided by the returning, rightful governments of the British and French governments. Michael Collins had also made sure to attend, and King Albert ensured that a specific clause mentioning the atrocities in Connacht and Mosley’s war of aggression were identified as crimes against humanity and crimes against peace. Mosley had amassed a small fortune of gold bouillon hidden in his command bunker. While most had been reserved for the reconstruction of Britain and France, King Albert ensured that a portion went to the victims of Connacht.

It was a long war, and there was still more to come. Savinkov still fought with the Reichspakt and the Co-Prosperity Sphere, though without the Internationale to draw the attention of the Reichspakt he was unlikely to secure overwhelming victory. But for a moment, the victorious delegation had a moment of peace. How long it could last was anyone’s guess.

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Images

The Second Weltkrieg

Capturing an Operative

Lancaster Bombers

Sneaky Submarine Attack

Sinking a Capital Ship with Overwhelming Firepower

French Countryside Being Bombed

Barry vs. Zhukov

Kitty Kiernan’s Fireside Chat

Dan McKenna and his Mechanized Infantry

The Irish Take London

Next chapter done. I honestly felt a little tired writing this, not because I don’t like the chapter, but I had some more writing done about some of the terrible things that happened in the war and it just made me feel depressed. 

I absolutely had to make certain that Zhukov got his due here. Part of it was due to his reputation in-game, you can see the massive number of medals he has and he’s a skill 6 general, but also I wanted to ensure that the Totalists weren’t all a bunch of loons like Mosley. Zhukov fit the bill, I’d say, but you’ll get to see what happens to him next chapter.

There’s only one more to go, plus the appendix where I’m going to detail my units and really go ham on worldbuilding. I’m actually super looking forward to that appendix, but I’m excited to write about the peace process and the aftermath. I promise there will be notes of melancholy and notes of sweet, other than that you’ll have to wait and see.

-SLAL