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edupunkn00b · 2 years ago

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French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution, Ch. 20: Happy Endings

Colorized version of Fighting at the Hotel de Ville, 28th July 1830 by Jean Victor Schnetz. (embedded image description)

Prev - Happy Endings - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Summer, 1830, Café Procope

Virgil leaned forward, elbows on the table, and he watched, eyes wide, as the bearded man took a long draw on his coffee. “Then what happened? Tell me, did Patton and Remus free them? Did they… did they go back for Logan’s body? Maybe… maybe he was really still alive?”

The bearded man’s eyes shot over to the bartender, but his back was turned to them.

“Patton didn't slept at all that night,” the bearded man shook his head. “Remus tried, if for no other reason than to mollify him. And to…" He lowered his voice. "Give him a little privacy while he grieved." The bartender faced the other side of the bar, studiously busy polishing a beer stein. The bearded man cleared his throat and nodded. "At first, Remus imagined making his way back to the palace, fighting and sneaking his way past the rebels, convincing the guards he was who he said he was, and breaking in to free his love and his brother.”

He drank more of his coffee. “But as the night wore on, the fires at Versailles grew brighter. And his hope dimmed.”

15 July 1789

Patton stirred at the first hint of pink along the horizon. “Your—Remus?” he whispered, moving closer and resting a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” his voice cracked. Patton was on his feet, stomping dirt into the embers. Remus scrambled up after him. “The horses stayed,” he murmured.

“Petit and Naif are good horses, aren’t you?” he cooed, scritching across the shorter one’s back before strapping down his saddle.

“So you’ll take Petit,” Remus copied his movements and buckled the other saddle. “And I’ll take Naif?”

Patton chuckled dryly. “Petit’s the taller one. You’ve got her now." He stroked Naif's mane and his voice went soft. "Logan used to pretend he didn't like that joke.” He dragged his hand across his face and watched the sun inch her way over the horizon. Remus lifted his hand, about to grip his shoulder or… Do something. Anything. Anything to cut through the blanket of grief wrapped around the other man.

But Patton straightened and pointed to the thinnest part of the trees. “We’ll head that way on foot, then see how the road looks.” He nodded and clicked his tongue. Both horses followed him. “With any luck, we can ride most of the way.”

~~~

The City of Light burned.

Black, oily smoke billowed from the Bastille and several of the larger estates along the far shore of the Seine. The tall, windowed doors of St. Germaine were barred with a crooked iron brace. There were scorch marks on the doors and more on the loose pages from the prayer books gathered in clumps along the gutters.

They walked the horses slowly, and Patton clucked soothingly when a loud bang sounded north of La Chapelle. “Welcome to Paris,” he murmured to Remus. The bright sunshine illuminated every cracked window, every pile of trash, every dirty puddle. Every beggar. Patton took them past du Foy, but Remy had boarded up the windows and was likely hunkered down inside, his stolen musket by his side, lead pipe in his hand. Remy had told him stories of the food riots in the '70s, and he was not the type to take chances after that.

A rumbly wave of voices spread out from the center of the city and they followed the noise. A large gallows had been assembled in the middle of Jardin Square. The air was thick and acrid with the fires dotting the city and July’s heat already rising up from the cobblestone streets. The memory of the forest's cool air and the babbling creek seemed unreal.

The gallows platform was empty save for a pair of rebels fastening nooses to the heavy beam. Either end was rough and splintered, probably plundered from one of the estates before the structure was torched. “Look,” Remus tugged at his sleeve and his eyes darted over to the floor of the gallows. It was built tall, with the stage higher than eye level. “There are trap doors.” Patton looked and under each rope was a jagged square. “If we can stop those from triggering, it could buy us time to cut them down.”

Patton nodded. “Let’s tie off the horses, then cover me while I get under there.”

Less than an hour later, Patton and Remus mingled with the crowd at either edge of the gallows, mere paces from the steps leading up to the stage. The moment the doors failed to open, they would rush up, clad in red scarves, and promise to help. They had to be fast, and cut the ropes before anyone else could reach them.

They had one shot.

Remus fidgeted, his curls, even dirty, bouncing as he shifted. He jumped when someone clapped his shoulder, laughing. He laughed along and said something Patton couldn’t decipher from the other end of the stage. A little boy beat out a steady rat-tat-tat on a dented drum and the crowd’s volume grew. The mass of people moved as one, breathless and faces bright with excitement. One of the Garde Royale emerged from the commandeered shop behind the gallows. His uniform was torn, epaulets ripped from the shoulders and a deep purple bruise covering one eye. The crowd jeered as he was led to the end closest to Patton and two students he recognized from the café tightened the noose around his neck.

More boos erupted from the men and women and children gathered around the stage. Janus stumbled out, eyes downcast and his hands tied in front of him, like the guard. He didn’t appear to be in as bad of shape, but he favored his left leg as he walked and he moved far too slowly. Remus’ eyes were fixed on him and he inched a little closer to the steps.

“Not too soon, Your Majesty,” Patton whispered under his breath, willing Remus to remember to wait.

Patton didn’t think the crowd could get louder but a flash of green drew a roar from the mob. A head taller than the men leading him, Prince Roman walked with shoulders squared and chin tilted up. If it weren’t for the split, bloodied lip and his blood-matted hair, he could have been making his entrance at a grand ball. He didn’t react when one of the men tried to trip him, catching himself before falling on his face, arms tied behind his back, one final loss of freedom they could inflict before at last taking away his life.

From where he stood, Patton could see the lever that was meant to open the hatches. Beneath the stage, he'd jammed thick cedar shims into the mechanisms, his sabotage invisible from the outside. The lever would work, but the hatched would remain closed just long enough for him and Remus to cut everyone down.

The drums intensified, riling up the crowd until there was a crack of gunpowder and the executioner pulled the lever. When the hatches didn’t open, panicked voices rose up from the students who’d squeezed through the crowd to get a better view of the hanging. They were now penned in, caught between the head-high hanging platform and the growing mob.

It was now or never.

Moving as one, Remus and Patton dashed onto the stage. Before Remus could reach his brother, the shim splintered and the hatch dropped beneath his feet. Remus shouted, a wordless, panicked cry, as he dragged Roman back up and began to hack at the rope. While that was going on, the guard had managed to wiggle one hand out from his ropes and freed himself before he abandoned his distinctive coat and jumped off the back of the execution stage. The crowd was stunned, and time seemed to stand still as Patton ran to Janus’ side.

With all eyes on the “King,” he sawed through Janus’ ropes and half ushered, half carried him to the other end of the stage. “Trust me,” he hissed at the twins, then ripped open Roman’s tattered green coat and shouted, “Everyone! Faites attention! He’s wearing red! The King’s a fraud, he’s just a guard." He pointed behind the stage, away from where the guard had escaped. "That man was the King!”

The mob roiled around them, a bubble waiting to pop. As they moved down the ladder, Remus spotted a familiar young woman dressed in rags, clutching her elderly grandfather’s arm. Her rough woven skirt and apron, stained and threadbare blouse looked like anyone else's but he knew that face. Relief flooded his heart and he almost smiled. Philomene! She’d gotten out and taken Maitre with her. She met Remus' eyes, bowed her head, then stepped in front of a rebel attempting to get to the stage. She grabbed his arm, speaking quickly and pointing to Maitre.

“Get to the horses while they’re distracted,” Patton ordered, pulling the princes along. He squirmed through the crowd as they pushed their way around the stage, hunting for the long-gone guard. Dirtied and bloodied, friend and foe, royalty and Jacobin all looked alike and they managed to get to the edge of the square where Petit and Naif nickered nervously.

“You found me,” Janus slurred once they’d stopped, hanging from Remus’ arm.

“Of course I found you, mon douceur,” he murmured and lifted Janus up into the saddle before climbing up behind him, one arm wrapped around his love’s waist, the other hand tight on the reins. “I promised you, ‘til my last breath and beyond.” He nuzzled gently against the side of his neck, shoulders trembling. After a moment, he straightened and turned toward the others. “Race you, brother,” he started to laugh, but it came out more like a sob at the sight his brother’s bruised and bloodied face.

“If you think I’m going to let you win merely because you saved my life,” Roman’s smile was weak but real as he mounted the other horse behind Patton. “You’re dreaming.”

Patton chuckled at the brothers’ banter and tugged on the taller man’s arms. “Hold on tight, Your Highness” he muttered.

“Mon héros petit,” he said quietly, both arms looped tightly around Patton’s waist. He looked over his shoulder when the sound of the mob changed. Someone in the crowd pointed their way, and the mob seethed, undulating toward them like some giant sea creature.

“We need to move,” Patton said, clicking his tongue at the horses. “Now!”

Urging Naif and Petit into a gallop, the four of them took off just ahead of the crowd, leaving the chaotic mob in their horses’ dust.

Summer, 1830, Café Procope

“Mon dieu,” Virgil murmured. “They made it?” Tears pouring freely down his cheeks, he accepted a handkerchief from the bearded man. He scrubbed his face dry and shook his head. “That was a beautiful story, monsieur. Thank you.” He swallowed hard and nodded. “Where are they now? The stories say they—”

“Last I heard, the four of them were still guests of King Fredrick in Berlin.” He shrugged and finished his coffee. “Exile beats death.”

Virgil tapped the sides of his cup and leaned forward, eyes drawn to the gun the bearded man still held. His gun. “Did Patton ever return to Paris to seek revenge? To find… um… Raúl?" He stared at his gun with hardened eyes before looking up at the bearded man. "Make him pay for killing Logan?”

Shaking his head, again the bearded man gazed out at the bartender working his way through his closing tasks. The bar counter gleamed in the lamplight, every glass shone, bright and glossy. Just like the bartender’s clear blue eyes. “Patton was never the type to hurt someone out of revenge.” He returned his attention to Virgil. “Besides, they all knew Logan wouldn’t’ve wanted that.”

The dark fire that had filled Virgil’s eyes faded, and the coffee had sobered him. He stared down at the table for a long time, rubbing his hands over the scarred but polished surface. Finally he looked up and jerked his chin toward the gun. “I listened to your story, monsieur.” He bowed his head and pulled the ring out from under his shirt. He kissed it, then left it out, hanging just over his heart. “May I have my gun back now?”

“How about…” Picking up the gun, he opened the chamber and knocked the three bullets it contained into his palm. “You keep your gun, and I keep your bullets.” He offered Virgil the revolver, handle first. “Fair?”

Virgil chewed on his lip then finally nodded. “Entendu. Fair.” His mouth regained a bit of the shaky smile he’d had at the end of the bearded man’s story. He accepted the gun and, after a moment, tucked it in his belt. “Good night, monsieur. Thank you for the coffee and… the story,” he said, uncertain, like he’d pushed and pushed and pushed at a door only to have it fling open when pulled. He gave the bartender a little two-fingered salute then slunk out into the night.

The bartender followed and locked the door behind him before lowering the shade. Smiling with a faraway look in his eyes, he filled the bearded man’s cup with the last of the coffee. “You gave ‘Patton’ a larger role in the rescue tale this time.” As he turned to extinguish the lamps at the next table, the flames cast golden light over the bartender's unruly mop of greying hair, momentarily restoring his formerly blond curls.

The bearded man smiled sadly at him.

“He deserves it. Roman was right. The little kitchen scullery was a hero that night.” He took a long drag of his coffee, relishing the way the hot, bitter brew scalded his throat. He set down the mug and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “Saved His Majesty’s life.”

The bartender nodded. “It’s too bad I couldn’t save you both. That I couldn't save you all.”

The bearded man rubbed the edge of Janus’ gold ring, back on his pinkie where it had been the night he’d given to him. “You did what we all did that night, Pat,” he shrugged, leaning over to extinguish the last light. The lamplight accentuated the bump in his nose from the decades-old fracture. He contemplated the light, then blew it out. Gas streetlights spilled into the suddenly darkened space from the transom, hiding the surrounding ghosts in long shadows. “You saved who you could.”

~~~

Side by side of the edited and original versions of Jean Victor Schnetz' Fighting At The Hotel De Ville (1830)

#French Kiss: Tale of the Revolution #final chapter #Chapter 20: Happy Endings #dukeceit #ts virgil #Virgil Gamin #ts remus #ts patton #ts janus #ts roman #Crown Prince Remus Capetian #Patton Cœur #Prince Roman Capetian #Janus Robespierre #demus #one-sided logicality #ambiguous ending #sanders sides fanfiction

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pghbabesonbikes · 11 months ago

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2024 Frigid Bitch Training Rides

Tryin to prep for FBXI? Need to bone up on your cuts around the city? Gotta practice layering up in various weather conditions? Hopin’ to meet some FB vets race crews you might be able to slide into?

Every Sunday til race day we’ll be holding training rides around the city. Each week will ride the route of a previous Frigid Bitch. Full routes will likely feature stairs, cobbles, long flats, and a few steep hills. We will have multiple groups:

- A pace: fast drop ride with longer mileage and more elevation. Will regroup at the tops of long/steep hills but generally will not wait long for stragglers. ~16+ mph avg - B pace: ‘fit commuter’ pace, semi-drop, mid-level mileage and elevation. Will regroup at various points but may not wait for extended times. ~12-15 mpg avg - C pace: conversational social pace, no-drop, shorter routes, relatively few big hills. ~10-12 mph avg

If you are interested in leading or sweeping a pace group, please check out the 2024 Training Ride spreadsheet (includes route links!) and drop your name/email on the slot you wanna nab!

Routes are posted below - cue sheets are set up for most rides to make almost any/all of the features skippable if you’re not feeling it. Choose a route and pace that is challenging to you, and have fun bopping around the city seeing who you catch & who catches you!

All routes will also be posted as events on our Ride w GPS Club & Strava Club page

Two Frays Brewing will have space for bikes on their patio, outside heaters, indoor bathrooms, and hot drinks for sale. They’ll also have a couple new non-alcoholic beers (including a FRIGID BITCH SPECIFIC collab fundraiser NA!) on tap as well as their regular rotation. Stick around after the ride to hang out and compare ride recaps!

BEWARE: These rides are run in full Pgh Winter, so weather may mean routes take us over ice and snow. We may need to re-route mid ride depending on the conditions! Be ready for an adventure.

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

ROLLING TIMES (please arrive at least 15 min early!) B-pace: 12:30pm A-pace: 1:00 pm C-pace: 1:30 pm

Sunday Feb 4th - Frigid Bitch 2021

Full A-pace route: Takes us into the North Hills, from the Highland Park Br over to the Millvale softball fields. A steep climb up Geyer Rd takes us across mainly rolling roads to the observatory, where we’ll drop back down Perrysville punctuated with a short climb up (and then very much down) Federal. A climb to Polish Hill is next, topped by a city step loop and the beloved blast down Gold Way into Oakland to the bullet descent down Fifth. Birmingham, then Hot Metal, then the Greenfield Ave climb into Schenley Park. The finish is a residential roll through the East End.

B-pace route: Cuts out the trek across the HP Br and the roady north hills chunk, but tacks on some mileage (and a staircase!) heading up into Riverview. This B route is similar mileage to the full route, but with slightly less climbing.

C-pace route: Piling on the mileage for C-pace this week but keeping the elevation down, the ride will head thru tried and true East End roads, a mild uphill pump on Wilkins/Beechwood, a lovely roll through Schenley Park before one of the best winding downhills around. Sneak through Oakland and onto the cyclists’ best friend back alley (Gold Way) to pop out at the Melwood staircase, before dropping down into the Strip and practicing your stop and starts along Spring Way. The 16th St Bridge takes you over the river to the North Shore trail where you can relax until the one final uphill along the bike lane on 40th. Finish @ Two Frays and catch B&A group rolling in behind you!

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Sunday Feb 11th - Frigid Bitch 2022

Full A-pace route: We'll head down the cemetery drop to the trail, roll some gravel and hike over some train tracks, take railroad to the strip before crossing the 16th St Bridge into the North Shore and up some gorgeous steps (feat a fancy wheel rail!). From there it's a back-street shimmy to the penitentiary trail, a double-bridge cross over the Point, another trail! before we start climbing up into the south slopes. Get ready because this climb gets harder as you go, and ends on cobbles. Naturally we'll bomb back down to the Hot Metal Bridge, get on yet another trail up the hollow, hit the Joncaire cobbles and a staircase, and take the golf course up through Squirrel Hill. The fancy new Fern Hollow Bridge pops us out on Braddock Ave where we'll roll some gravel through Frick Park before shooting back to the start via Shadyside.

B-pace route: Identical to the A-pace route, except it cuts out the killer climb into the South Side Slopes! B-pace will keep on the trail instead, straight from Station Square to Hot Metal.

C-pace route: Almost all trail (Strip District, Station Square, South Side, Panther Hollow) until the Joncaire staircase into Squirrel Hill, Shadyside and back!

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Previous weeks:

Sunday Jan 7th - Frigid Bitch 2017

Full A-pace route: 2017 was the only year that the FB featured split timed checkpoints, reflected on this route by the double loop we make around the East End. Start with a quick up-and-down to the Bud Harris Cycling track (we’ll do a lap cuz why not), then a relatively flat long rev-up on our first hit of the East End before dropping down 31st St Br for the first real challenge: Rialto St (the easiest of the Dirty Dozen hills!). Take a breather thru the North Side til a nice steady climb up Brighton, a fun descent down Woods Run where we’ll take the Penitentiary Trail over the Duq Br to the Point. Back on that inescapable Eliza Furnace Trail to hit Phipps, then one last swing out to the East End to the Highland Park Reservoir.

B-pace route: Cuts out the steady climb up Brighton and the long way back on the Penitentiary Trail, heading thru downtown instead to catch the Eliza Furnace. Optional end of ride cut: anyone done before the HP Res can swing left on Coral from Negley and head straight back to Two Frays.

C-pace route: 10-mile no-drop loop through the East End, featuring 2 mild hills - short and punchy up Bunker Hill to the Highland Park Reservoir and a longer steady climb up Wilkins into Oakland.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 14th - Frigid Bitch 2018

Full A-pace route: Starts with some easy rolling hills through the East End before climbing up Stanton and descending to Butler St, where we’ll do a little back-roading before popping over to the rt 28 side of the Allegheny River and hoisting our bikes up the Troy Hill steps. Why stop there? More steps!: The West End Br pedestrian tunnel is next, taking us to the Station Square trail, to the South Side trail, across the Birmingham Br and up to the Hill District Water Tower. A final winding descent down Herron drops us at a final climb up Liberty and back to Two Frays.

B-pace route: Cuts out the West End Br and entire South Side chunk of the route. Instead, riders will take the 16th St Br and climb the backside of Polish Hill to the Water Tower. From there, the route drops down Blessing St to the Bloomfield Br - at the bottom of Blessing, hike your bike up the steps to the pedestrian over pass to access the Bloomfield Br sidewalk!

C-pace route: From Two Frays to the Wheel Mill via the Neighborway, Negley and the East Liberty Ave bike lanes. Swing back around for a steady climb up and then down Stanton Ave to the Button, then back up to Two Frays via the Allegheny Cemetery.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 21th - Frigid Bitch 2019

Full A-pace route: Features some fun winding roady sections and some long climbs to city overlooks with glorious downhills. Start with a secret cut thru the Allegheny Cemetery, to a short steep cobbled hill on the outskirts of Chatham University, a quick offroad dip into Frick Park and a long time trial down Beechwood Blvd. A super fun fast windy downhill thru Schenley takes us back to Oakland, where a super fun straight blast down Fifth Ave stops on a dime to hike up the Mohawk St steps, turn around and cross the Birmingham Br. The South Side trail pops us out at a sidewalk slog up PJ McArdle to the most famous overlook, then drop down one of the nicest Dirty Dozen hills (Sycamore) to cut through downtown and back up to another overlook. Oops we’re going down a Dirty Dozen hill again! Suffolk takes us to East St, the trail, a really lovely pedestrian bridge to Herrs Island where we’ll off-road a little bit to the park at the point (not The Point). Once more over 31st but instead of Liberty-ing it back just yet, we’ve got some back roads (pothole alert) swooping us under the Bloomfield Br before we cut across Bloomfield back to Two Frays.

B-pace route: Cuts out the cemetery jaunt, the off-roading in Frick Park, replaces the bomb down Fifth Ave with a less dramatic but still fun bomb down Swineburn, keeps the Grandview Overlook climb but cuts out the Fineview Overlook climb.

C-pace route: Hit 5 checkpoints this week by sneaking down the Neighborway and Negley Ave to a cobbled climb up Murray Hill, then a quick out-and-back for a Frick Park choose-your-own-adventure (on/off bike) on the trail. Cut through Shadyside and swoop under the Bloomfield Bridge for a backroad pothole wonderland, then a one-two punch of bridges (30th&31st). A nice interim of flat trail before oh, it’s another bridge (40th) and a zig zag cut up Lawrenceville takes us back towards Two Frays. Optional cemetery add-on to hit the Boob Tomb for the voyeuristic.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 28th - Frigid Bitch 2020

Full A-pace route: First, a descent - towards downtown, under the convention center, via the rainbow waterfall underpass. Then, a flat - to Bicycle Heaven, home of the Peewee Herman bike. Next, a climb - up the South Side slopes, to the St Michael’s Cemetery. From there, another descent! This time through a backway down to the park and back into the SS Flats. Hot Metal takes us back up thru the Hallow, clear across the East End, across the Highland Park bridge and up to the Aspinwall Firestation, at the foothills of another DD hill. Back across the river, a short steep climb to some city steps, then a long steady climb thru the cemetery brings us back to Two Frays.

B-pace route: Cuts out the Aspinwall Fire Station. Opts to climb Stanton instead, and drops down the hill to the take the Duncan St steps in reverse.

C-pace route: Dirty Jones returns for a short jaunt around the East End. Optional addition of the Highland Park loop.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

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parvanesh · 1 year ago

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Achieve Perfectly Defined Brows with Microblading Shading in Northshore Auckland

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creativeusart-svg · 1 year ago

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Hawaii Islands North Shore Haleiwa Vintage Style SVG PNG Cutting Printable Files

#Hawaiian_SVG Hawaii_Islands_North_Shore Haleiwa_Vintage_Style Digital_Cutting_Files_SVG Printable_Files_SVG_PNG

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dsandrvk · 1 year ago

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Sunday, August 13 - Prince Christian Sound (Prins Christian Sund)

Once again, yesterday was a sea day, with not a lot to show for it, although our team actually won trivia (there are about 10 teams, so we felt pretty good about it). We had continued on in a sea fog, which seems to be pretty common in the North Atlantic, and we have gotten used to the regular bleating of the fog horn (pretty subdued in our cabin).

Today, however, was entirely different. We woke up early to see our first view of Greenland and it was fairly clear outside, but were still out quite far off shore and not close enough to see anything. We were to go through Prins Christian Sund, which can either be the highlight of the cruise or a big disappointment. Our captain had slowed down our approach and was timing it to start later through the Sund, which is actually a fjord that links up to other fjords, creating a passage separating a little bit of Greenland (the Cape Farewell archipelago) from the mainland. We had a Zodiac trip scheduled, and they had moved the departure time a bit later, since we weren't rushing the approach.

Just as we got close enough to see Greenland, the sea fog rolled in and visibility dropped to near zero, but miraculously just as we entered the Sund at about 11AM, the fog lifted, and we had spectacular blue skies. We motored very slowly for about an hour and then stopped in front of a side fjord that terminated in a glacier that we got to explore by Zodiac. The air was cool (mid-40's) but the sun made it comfortable. We had waited until last to board a Zodiac, since that Zodiac was smaller and took less passengers, and on our way in to the glacier, the engine cut out a few times, but then restarted and we continued on.

There was some minor calving on the glacier, which was loud but inconsequential. We got to get quite close, and were able to spot a bearded seal on a floe, but in the pictures he (or she) is just a dark blob. The view was better through binoculars! We saw another one swimming in the water on our way back to the ship, and at that moment, our engine cut out again. Our guide tried all sorts of things, but eventually we had to be towed back to the ship. We really didn't mind, since it was lovely out there, and we got to see the seal a couple of more times in between its dives.

We finally moved on from this spot around 3 in the afternoon, and headed west. The Sund is about 66 miles long, and narrows to around 1500 feet, and is only navigable in the summer because of the ice. Not too many years ago, the glacier that we explored extended down into the fjord proper and out to sea the way we came. The glaciers we saw the rest of the day (and they were numerous) are the edges of the Greenland ice sheet, which covers 80% of the island and is second only to Antarctica in size.

While the eastern part of the fjord shows mainly rock rounded and polished by the ice sheet and glaciers, the western part has many, many jagged and rugged rocks that reflect the volcanic nature of this area. These are some of the oldest rocks visible on earth, and it is hard to comprehend the scale as we went past.

After a mostly straight shot of about 35-40 miles, we made several 90 degree turns, zigging, then zagging and zigging again and past the only signs of human habitation - the approximately 100 person village of Appilattoq, which is nestled beneath towering peaks on a little flat land with a small natural harbor. The eighth picture shows the peak behind - if you zoom in you can see tiny little houses near the water. The last photo also shows a small ship at the bottom of the peak - another example of the overwhelming scale of the place. By late afternoon we had mostly cloudy skies, but it only added to the drama of the place.

The captain slowed the vessel to a crawl after we had made the turn by the village, and despite the cold, we chose to sit at the patio restaurant for dinner and the duration of our voyage through the fjord. He had timed it so folks were finished with dinner and it was getting dark before we exited into the open sea again (and dense fog). It has truly been one of the most spectacular days we have had at sea, and we spent the entire day on the decks just soaking in the scenery (and taking lots of pictures).

We only have to go about 80 nautical miles to our port tomorrow, Nanortalik, which is why we were able to dawdle through the Sund. The forecast for tomorrow is cloudy and around 48 degrees, but no rain, so we are looking forward to bundling up and exploring.

0 notes

greenparkaus · 2 years ago

Text

Maybach Music

it seems I’m lost out on myself again

route 33, I hit a bean on the floor

I’m haul-ass on the interstate

switching lanes got me all out of sorts

cause I’ve been in my bag

like fucking stag, coming up short

been driving my maybach

along the connecticut shore

I’m docking my pay checks

keep my wits floating at bay

tide chases down that pigment

that I’m still washing away

black and white and tread all over

seems I just cut a russian corner

busted tail light,

antenna’s got your jag wire

caught in my range,

seems I can’t change the station

‘til I’m all rid of you

scan the neon meridian,

echelon the waves

the more I turn away,

the deeper it burns

so I’ll just let it play

‘til it no longer hurts

it’s getting cold cause it’s november now

I can see me by the beach

pouring my own midnight oil out

then rising to it like it’s steam

then I watch it as it all comes down

like grains of sand around my feet

but my polished, blood red pedicure

makes me feel stronger underneath

but when the silver tide kicks in

that great heel, ball, and change

I meekly take my sandals off

cause I’m ready to play again

black and white and tread all over

seems I just cut a russian corner

busted tail light,

antenna’s got your jag wire

caught in my range,

seems I can’t change the station

‘til I’m all rid of you

scan the neon meridian,

echelon the waves

the more I turn away,

the deeper it burns

so I’ll just let it play

‘til it no longer hurts

I’m tripping, tripping, tripping

on your wire again

you got me flying against the wind

and it’s so distracting

when I try to take control,

I see you standing in my way

and that ain’t nothing but the devil

city slicker from the ghetto

you repping north side but you’re down low

I’m cracking 6 packs along the coast

all those pretty little voices on the radio

they won’t stop telling me I’m wrong

black and white and tread all over

seems I just cut a russian corner

busted tail light,

antenna’s got your jag wire

caught in my range,

seems I can’t change the station

‘til I’m rid of everything

scan the neon meridian,

echelon the waves

the more I turn away,

the deeper it burns

so I’ll just let it play

‘til it no longer hurts

0 notes

soufcakmistress · 2 years ago

Text

Charleston Blues

Part III

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

The tide of the Cooper river rippled towards the sandbank—the water’s surface tension was barely breached. A large animal lurked under the water, its huge paws paddling through beds of lily pads and tall grass. Its massive jaws opened wide and clamped down on a good sized bass and climbed up to the shore. An overgrown jaguar with a drenched coat filled its mouth with fish guts, and easily ripped the spine from the flesh. The cat shook the excess water off and swallowed the rest of the bass whole.

Crickets and lightning bugs swarmed the early Charleston dawn. Frogs hopped around the beach, nursing their tadpoles. The Carolina sun started to peek over the horizon and the cat’s bones began to shift. The jaguar roared as its back elongated and its paws extended into tactile fingers.

Badoru gave Erik the power to shapeshift, which made sense. Erik was always capable of being mutable—he could blend in with any crowd. The jaguar was his father’s favorite animal—this was his way of honoring him and his memory.

It was difficult at first. The first few attempts, he would pass out before he could make the transition fully. Badoru’s explosive power intimidated and overpowered but Erik would always put up a brave face. Badoru pushed him to his limits to conquer this new skill. Badoru spoke of Erik possessing many qualities that could be harnessed, but he had to crawl before he could walk.

Months and months of training and Erik could finally shift on a whim with just a thought. Badoru trusted him enough to roam in public with the full use of his skill. Erik had plenty of laughs scaring white foreign tourists in the Hallasan mountain range when he would run for hours, free as he’d ever been. There wasn’t a Black man alive who could do what he did and live to see another day. He didn’t take it for granted.

Today was opening day for Erik. He’d hired Jerry Brown, an old country sailor from Georgia he ran with overseas to be a full time sales associate. It was a scorcher that day, the temperature amounting to 87 degrees before noon. The store was pristine with navy shag carpet, beige walls with polished wooden shelving, perfectly folded military paraphernalia and jet black mannequins with various Navy and Army sweatsuits. Erik put a sign in his window saying “Coloreds Allowed”, to let the public know where he stood.

Being from Oakland and having his formative years in the North, he wasn’t sure how it would go down in the Jim Crow south. More people seemed to be leaving the South than coming to start a new life. But everybody didn’t have a vicious God protecting their every step.

“All right, J, how do I look?”

Erik fixed his collar in the small mirror in his office and smoothed down his mustache. He wore a navy and white gaucho shirt with the top two buttons loosened, and a white undershirt underneath. There was a solid gold chain that lay right on his pecs, matching the gold watch on his left wrist and the gold tooth in his mouth. The slacks he wore were impeccably pressed with a crease that could cut diamonds. His loafers were shined to perfection, with bright white socks and a tapered haircut slicked down.

“You a bad man, boss!” Jerry teases Erik and he inspected the floor for the last time. He turned the sign over from Closed to Open, and cracked the door open to let in the salty breeze.

“We’re open for business!”

The day was extremely busy and Erik was eternally grateful for Badoru making it happen. The naval base wasn’t far from downtown and he was thankful for the sailors who had the weekend off. Several connections were made with enlisted men and officers looking for rare paraphernalia. Even more, there were several civilian Black men who found their way inside and expressed their interest in purchasing what Erik had to offer in the back. He appreciated that the men of Charleston wanted to protect their families and communities at all costs. Most of all, he encountered people who were held in high esteem in the colored community and welcomed him to the lowcountry with open arms.

Lot of those men also had pretty little wives accompanying them with eyes that wandered. Jerry and Erik were almost overwhelmed with offers of pies and cakes to be brought over to properly welcome the Yankee to Charleston. He couldn’t help it; he was so magnetizing. One woman in particular was the wife of the barber on Meeting Street. She saw Erik’s skin dotted with keloids, and gasped aloud when she caught sight of them. Mrs. Warner had already been gazing at Erik’s broad chest, away from her husband’s watchful eyes. A wink and a flash of those stunning white teeth and Mrs. Warner was a goner.

Chantilly was getting the hang of her new life. She indeed thought differently and utilized parts of her brain that hadn’t been used before. She was cunning now. Drunk with a bloodlust. A bloodlust for vengeance.

She was expected at the Jenkins Institute in an hour and she wanted to get there early. Ursilene revealed to her that this was the time of the month Pastor Dunne dropped off canned goods from Second Presbyterian’s food drive. Tilly planned to volunteer on a regular basis and kill two birds with one stone—support Marla as best as she could and erase Pastor Dunne from all existence. She got her gloves and hat together when the phone in the hall rang.

“Hello, Davenport Residence.”

“Now cousin, the whole Lowcountry been buzzing about you and you ain’t had nan sense to call me and tell me about your newfound wealth! You my blood!”

Chantilly couldn’t do anything but throw her head back in laughter. Her favorite big cousin, Frieda Davenport-Foster, always knew how to brighten her mood. They were inseparable until Frieda’s parents moved them from the island across the bridge. Frieda graduated high school two years before Tilly and she was married to her high school sweetheart, Sammy Foster. Over a decade and four kids later, Tilly and her were finally getting close again.

“Whew lord knows y’all Geechies be nosy! I just blessed to be a soldier fighting in the army of the Lord, cousin! I hope you and Sammy and the chirren are faring well!”

Nothing but babies crying and the clang of a skillet could be heard in Frieda’s background as usual. “I tell you, I been bout tired of these chirren. They run me ragged, I ain’t lie! But that’s not what I called about! It’s about the CNWL. Missy told me to ask you again about you joining us.”

Tilly immediately rolled her eyes. The Club for Negro Women of the Lowcountry had three chapters across Charleston and Dorchester counties of single and married women over the age of 18. They were a civic group focused on empowering colored women in the Lowcountry by culture enrichment, engaging in charity, and uplifting the next generation of colored women. The Greater Charleston chapter of the CNWL was ran by Melissa Owens, Tilly’s childhood archenemy.

“Now Free, I tell you that I don’t fit in with that crowd. They all men obsessed with half a brain cell between them!”

“I gonna ignore that comment since I am the secretary! Listen, you would be a shoo-in. We need some new blood. Badly. With your amazing baking skills, hell we could start a couple initiatives with that alone! It would be good for you! Being around some people your own age, you can’t just give up on life, Tilly.”

Tilly looked at her watch and almost fell out at the time. “Look, I’m running late for an errand Free. I will come to one meeting. If I hate it, I will not return, you hear?”

Frieda squealed like a pig and told Tilly she would let the board know. Their next meeting was in a few days and she would be calling soon to give more details.

“And this is Pastor Dunne. Pastor Dunne, I’d like you to meet Chantilly Davenport.”

Pastor Dunne was tightlipped and very hasty with introducing himself to Tilly. He shook her hand and immediately started barking orders to his outreach volunteers. Not very friendly. Tilly came prepared however. Frieda’s mother, Tilly’s aunt Eunetta, worked roots and taught Frieda everything she knew. In turn, Frieda taught Chantilly. Rose, chamomile, licorice root, damiana, poppy seed, and a pinch of Black pepper ground up in a black sachet, sitting cozy in her left sweater pocket. With the right prayers and incantations, that powder could place anyone under the influence of the worker.

Mrs. Charles, headmistress of the Jenkins Institute was a cantankerous old woman with an incredibly short temper. However, she was one of the most educated colored people in town, and well respected by the white community as well. Her girls were known for being exceptionally well mannered, and if they weren’t adopted before 18, they would go into society as proper young ladies. Tilly saw Marla studying in the common room next to Sheila, whispering secrets and giggling like young girls do. How could that monster want to take away that beautiful light from that girl?

Tilly assisted the volunteers from Second Presbyterian by setting out silverware and plates. Today, the volunteers cooked a hearty lunch for the children, which Mrs. Charles insisted that the children thank Pastor Dunne and the volunteers aloud for their kindness.

Pastor Dunne asked everyone to circle up and stand for prayer. He strolled right to Marla, and Tilly wanted to explode. His clammy sausage fingers enclosed Marla’s delicate hand, and squeezed tightly. The child was clearly perturbed and nervous. And yet, none of the other adults could sense anything was out of the ordinary. The pastor’s prayer was longwinded and hollow. Tilly felt Ursilene’s presence nearby. It was almost time.

After the prayer, Tilly and the other volunteers served the children until everyone was seated. Tilly sat alone at a table not far from some high school aged girls. She didn’t pay them any mind until one of them mentioned Pastor Dunne in their conversation.

“I can’t stand Pastor Dunne. He hands always clammy and nasty. And he always play with my hair. Do he do that to y’all?”

“Yes girl, he try to get me to pray with him alone one time. I told him I feeling ill. I ain’t like how he looked at me.”

Tilly had heard enough. She finished her food and made sure to clear her tray. Pastor Dunne had began hauling some of the heavier catering trays to the church van. Surely, a man of God can appreciate some assistance from a Good Samaritan .

“Pastor Dunne. Let me help you there!” Tilly gathered a box and filled it with napkins, flatware and plates. It was easily over 50 pounds and Tilly didn’t struggle at all, thanks to her powers. Her little feet scampered behind the pastor, while the first streetlight of the evening began to flicker on in the parking lot.

Pastor Dunne had been hot and cold with Tilly all day. At first she wasn’t sure if she would get the chance to be alone with him; he was very cozy with a female volunteer who waited on his every word. Wonder what his wife thought about that.

(This is your chance, Chantilly. Use your power.)

Tilly dropped the box into the back of the van, and tapped the pastor on his shoulder.

“Theodore…”

“Now Miss Davenport, I need to let you know that I am a married man. You colored women are beautiful but you’re so…..aggressive—“

Chantilly blew the compelling powder into Dunne’s face. His eyes immediately rolled back and then dazedly focused on Tilly. The power of suggestion. The power of persuasion. Ursilene knew Tilly’s strengths and weaknesses; one look into her big chestnut eyes, and no one could resist her. This time would be no different.

“Oh Theo. If there’s anything you white boys have, it’s audacity. I wouldn’t let you fuck me with another man’s dick. As a matter of fact…..slap yourself.”

Dunne slapped himself hard, leaving his cheek beet red.

“Again.”

*SLAP*

“Again.”

*SLAP*

“Ahahahahahahaha! You’re pathetic. Get in the van. Drive to Johns Island. Park on Sullivan Avenue, and walk past Ol’ Ravenel’s store. Meet me at 357 Cannonborough. Do not stop for a red light. Do not stop for a stop sign. Exactly 15 minutes. Use the key under the mat and sit in the cellar until I get there. You hear me, boy?”

The pastor nodded like a dunce; any trace of what he was had gone. He was totally under her spell and influence. Her own personal puppet. Theodore’s eyes were aloof and glazed over, and Tilly pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket to wipe the drool from his mouth. She closed up the back of the van, and sent him on his way.

Fuck those racist tramps, they can find their own way home. Tilly got in her car and drove at a leisurely pace.

Her victim would get there before her. She had to prepare herself. Ursilene required blood to sustain her power. However, she had no physical form and would need a conduit for her power to grow. That was where Tilly came in.

A banshee. When Ursilene inhabits her avatar’s bodies, they turn into banshees. A raging woman with death in her mouth and a blood curdling scream to signify the beginning of the end for her victim. Tilly crossed the bridge onto the island, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles.

Her mama brought her up to be a good church girl. They believed in the Lord at 357 Cannonborough. However, she wasn’t always under her mama’s thumb. Her daddy’s side kept their abilities and beliefs very close to the chest. A rootworker, at worst, could be arrested and charged for fraud on account that the South Carolina government found no merit in these ancient African traditions that had been retained by the Geechie people. At the least, they could be cast out of the community, labeled as a pariah.

She wasn’t afraid anymore. Her mama was dear to her heart and a newly cherished ancestor. But she had to live her own life, and as a Black woman in this country, she was done taking orders from mere mortals who didn’t live as they preached.

Driving past Ravenel’s convenience store, she saw the van parked very badly around the corner on Sullivan. Pulling up to the property, she kissed Pepper, and poured out some food for her for the night. “You stay in the doghouse for a while, k? Mommy has to go kill a man.”

Tilly walked into her home, and pulled her coat and gloves off. There was a record player in the drawing room and she put on her favorite, Miss Ella Fitzgerald. She turned it up loud. Deafeningly loud. The bop of her scatting followed Tilly to the cellar. Her stacked heels clack down the rickety basement stairs, and who else does she find but the pastor sitting there like a bump on a log.

“Stand up.”

He damn near fell over himself complying with her command. He was like a giant puppy, red faced and eager.

“I’m bored with you. Theodore. Snap out of it.” Tilly snapped and Theodore came to. Those hazel eyes grew big as saucers once he realized where he was. Oblivious to how he got there and what this Black woman was up to, he called her everything but a child of God. Which was true. Ursilene was her mother now.

“Oh Theo, such colorful language. Such a shame that red face of yours aint gon see another day. I know what you did. What you do. You sick fuck. They’re CHILDREN.”

“You black bitch! You’ll be swinging from Angel Oak once I’m through with you! You’re gonna wish you were dead!” Tilly rushed the man and picked him up by his throat. Her strength was off the charts and the man was quickly losing air.

(Focus, Chantilly. It’s time. Open yourself up. We shall be one.)

Tilly dropped the sad excuse for a man to the ground, gasping and hacking for air. Tilly breathed deep and closed her eyes. The light green smoke entered the basement and swirled around Tilly. The pastor cowered and hid behind the furnace and Tilly began to rise. Her eyes rolled back and the green smoke infiltrated her mouth and nose, winding down her throat.

Another set of eyes formed under her brow bone, the whites of them disappearing completely. Her hair stood straight up on its ends, her back bent unnaturally and she let out a howl that shattered every window and mirror in the basement. She was bare now, naked as the day she was born. Tilly, possessed by Ursilene, landed gently on the floor and spotted her prey.

(Come here, you scum.)

The pastor screamed for his life as he was forcibly floating towards her. Chantilly’s voice combined with Ursilene’s terrified the pastor, causing him to soil himself.

(I relish in your terror. There is no greater joy for me knowing that your life will end in pain and suffering. Look into my eyes. For the last time, witness the terror you’ve caused and accept your fate.)

The pastor was babbling like an idiot for his life. His pleas went unanswered. Ursilene showed Dunne the atrocities he wreaked on Marla. And just as Tilly suspected, it wasn’t just her. It was multiple girls throughout the years. And not just at the orphanage. Members of his congregation……..even his twelve year old daughter. Death was almost a mercy for him. But with an ego as large as his, this would hurt him most.

Ursilene had Tilly unhinge her jaw, showing her newly serrated teeth more than an inch long. She ripped his throat out, and what was left of his esophagus bled profusely down her chest and stomach. Chantilly was no longer present. Ursilene’s true nature was revealed. She lapped at his spurting throat, grunting and groaning at the flow of power. Her eyes were crazed, only focusing on sustenance.

Her first kill. The blood flow slowed. Pastor Dunne finally croaked. The seafoam green smoke belted out of her mouth, causing Tilly to stumble on her feet. The extra set of eyes disappeared and her skin no longer felt overheated. Her head wouldn’t stop spinning and her mouth and nose had the distinct taste and scent of metal.

(Justice has been served tonight. Rest, child. You have done wonderfully. I will take care of this. Go, go. Your slumber awaits.)

Tilly looked down at herself. She looked as if she’d bathed in blood. She should have been terrified. At what she’s done. At what she’s capable of. But she wasn’t. Maybe that’s what scared her the most.

“Yes, Ursilene.”

Three weeks later..

“Hey suga. It’s your fav big cousin. Yes it is.” Chantilly cooed over Frieda’s new baby boy Dalzell, named after her favorite uncle. They finally got up together and walked all around downtown. Chantilly assured her that no one would mess with them, and it was true. They showed Dalzell the Battery and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Rainbow Row with all the colorful houses. Market Street with the open air market and former slave market that their ancestors were brought through. Their heritage and history. Fellowshipping with family in peace.

“Let’s go on King. I put my last layaway payment on this dress at Boston’s and that thang coming home with mama!” Frieda exclaimed.

Jewelry stores, pawn shops, convenience stores, old Geechie woman weaving sweet grass, and sweet sweet sunshine. A beautiful summer afternoon. Chantilly’s A line dress was made of linen, and perfect for the scorching day. Her cat eye sunglasses matched perfectly. At the end of the block was that new military surplus store. There was talk that it was supposed to be owned by a colored man. That didn’t happen often.

“Let’s get some ice cream, cuz.” Tilly suggested. It was right next door to the store and there was outside seating. Tilly and her cousin were made to wait after every white person was served before they could get some assistance. Tilly almost said something before Frieda restrained her.

“Tilly…..I got the baby with us. Let it alone.” She was right of course.

Vanilla bean for Frieda and Rocky Road for Tilly. Baby Dalzell was finally drifting off and a bell caught Tilly’s attention.

“Jerry, I’m getting me some ice cream, you want any?”

“I’m good boss!”

Erik closed the front door of his business and swaggered to the ice cream parlor entrance. The sight of him made Frieda halt her sentence completely.

“So Tilly, I was thinking—“

They both stopped and stared. How could they not? This Black man walked like a king and looked like a bodybuilder. He was gorgeous, and the scent of his cologne made Tilly tingle. There were white people inside already waiting to be served and he walked right up to the counter. The worker seemingly took his order and he was taken care of right away! Who was this man???

He strolled out of the parlor, and adjusted the tight shirt on that wide chest of his. The man cradled two large scoops of strawberry ice cream, and lapped at it with the biggest tongue she had ever seen. Tilly had never seen skin like his. Tiny bumps all along his arms and forearms. The outlines of bumps on his pecs formed through his shirt. Apparently the man was a gentleman. He felt two sets of eyes on him, and he tipped his hat to Frieda. But when he looked at Tilly……..sparks flew without her knowing. He scanned her up and down—enticed and intrigued. She sat cross legged, her round thighs warranting a long look.

She pushed her sunglasses down, and he winked at her, and smiled. A ray of sunlight reflected off his gold tooth and nearly blinded her. She gulped as she watched him enter his store and close the door behind him.

Frieda’s ice cream damn near melted away through her fingers. “Goddamn. That’s him?”

Tilly pushed her sunglasses up and resumed eating her ice cream cone. “I reckon so.”

“I saw that, you know. You ain’t slick.”

“What?! What foolishness you caterwauling about now?” Chantilly loudly denied and ate at the waffle cone.

“Admit it, you think he’s handsome! You’re blushing like a damn school girl!”

“My name is Wes and I ain’t in the mess, now leave me alone Free!” She held her laugh in while her cousin teased her. Wasn’t no harm in looking, right?

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#soufcakmistress #black panther #charleston blues #black panther fanfiction #erik stevens #erik stevens x oc #Killmonger #killmonger smut #erik killmonger

101 notes · View notes

bktynes-writes · 4 years ago

Photo

As per the fantastic advice of the wonderful and amazing Mallory, @valleydean, I made some graphics for my fic, The Blood Of The Covenant. It’s a long, slow burn, Mafia AU, and I have no idea where it’s gonna end up, but I hope you’ll all reblog and join me for the ride. Here is the summary, and the first chapter is under the cut. Read on Ao3.

The Blood Of The Covenant The Winchester Dynasty will never fall.

At least, that’s what John and Mary, heads of the most powerful crime family in the city believe. They have built their empire from nothing, and are willing to do whatever it takes to maintain their control.

When a new family, the Novaks, threaten the delicate balance of power they have maintained for years, the eldest son, Dean, is tasked with infiltrating the ranks of the Novak’s organization to destroy them from the inside.

Dean has always been a soldier in his parent’s wars, never questioning where his loyalties lie, but when he comes face to face with Castiel Novak, one of the sons of the family threatening to destroy his own, he wonders if maybe there could be more to life than he believed. Maybe this blue-eyed stranger can offer him the ticket out he never knew he wanted.

They say that the blood of the covenant runs thicker than the water of the womb, but how do you turn your back on family? Will Dean choose love over loyalty? Will he leave behind all he’s ever known? Or are he and Castiel destined to just be pawns in the war for power that rules the city’s underworld?

Chapter 1: Dinner

The city at night always had a certain charm about it that Dean couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the way everything lit up a bit more or the fact that the darkness hid the grime that clung to every surface like a second skin, but the alleyways and culverts of the buildings seemed more inviting when they were filled with shadow.

He loved this city. Every dirty stairwell, every seedy bar, every doorway that led to nowhere, Dean knew them all. He had grown up on these streets, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

The sound of a car horn brought him back to reality, pulling him out of his nostalgic reverie and into the moment. He looked down at his dress shoes, sparkling in the neon lights against the damp pavement, and smiled. If there was one thing Dean Winchester knew how to do, it was dress to impress. His father had instilled in him that first impressions were important at a very young age, and how a man looks could change the direction of any transaction.

Tonight was the first Sunday of the month, which meant dinner with the Family at Cain’s. Dean never looked forward to these dinners - he found them to be mundane - but as the eldest son of the most powerful crime family in the city, he knew his mother and father expected him to attend.

Thus, he found himself in his best suit, pulling open the restaurant’s glass door and striding past the host stand like he owned the place. The young woman there gave him a nervous look, and he shot her his most charming smile, causing her to duck her head as a deep red blush crept up her cheeks. He passed by the other tables and made his way to the back of the restaurant, pointedly ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him from the other patrons. He was used to this behaviour. Anyone who was anyone in the city recognized the Winchesters, and their reputation preceded them.

He made his way past the kitchen, stopping briefly to say hello to Cain, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Dean!” Cain exclaimed, turning around and pulling him into a rib-crushing hug. “I didn’t think you were gonna show! Everyone else is already here.”

Dean laughed. In another life, he would have called him a friend.

But Winchesters didn’t have friends.

“Yeah, I figured they would be.” He said. “What can I say? Fashionably late is kinda my style.” He shrugged and smiled.

“That’s my boy, always gotta make an entrance.” Cain beamed at him. “They’re in the back room. I’ll get your usual added to the order. Hurry up before your dad tears a strip off you!”

“Thanks, Cain,” Dean said. He ducked past him and headed to the very back of the dining room.

Dean could now see the usual suspects gathered around their regular table. He spotted Bobby gruffly speaking to Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo. The Harvelles were powerful associates who owned many of the bars and rest stops along the freeway into the city, and Dean’s father liked to keep them close because he had been friends with Ellen’s late husband, Bill.

Ellen was a good source of information for the family. People let information slip that they shouldn’t after a few rounds of shots at one of Ellen’s roadhouses, and she and Jo had ears like bats. Dean was pretty sure the main reason she was included in these clandestine meetings of the family, though, is that his parents, despite their vehement claims otherwise, were a little bit afraid of her. He couldn’t blame them. He had grown up with Jo and, despite being six years older, had had his ass handed to him more times than he could count by the feisty blonde.

Dean chuckled to himself at the memory as he slid quietly into the seat next to his younger brother, Sam.

“You’re late,” stated the younger of the Winchester brothers, his arm draped lazily across his girlfriend Jessica’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I was over at the mill. Gordon owes us and is being…difficult.” He reached for the bottle of wine that sat on the table and filled his glass. He wasn’t usually a fan of wine, but Cain always brought out the good bottles for these meetings, and when he didn’t have to pay, it would be rude to refuse.

“Dad is gonna be pissed.” Said Sam, finishing his own glass and holding it out for Dean to refill.

“No, he won’t,” Dean replied, pouring too much wine into his brother’s glass. “He knows how Gordon is. He’ll just be glad I didn’t break too many of his fingers to get him to agree to pay his dues.”

“Whatever you say, Dean,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. He ran his fingers through his absurdly long hair, and Dean found himself itching to strap his brother into a barber’s chair and order a buzz cut.

A clink of cutlery against glass brought the assembly to silence and drew everyone’s attention to the man standing at the head of the table. John Winchester was an imposing figure at the best of times, and his broad shoulders, clad in the threads of his fine Italian suit, added to his commanding demeanour. His neatly trimmed beard was flecked with grey, as was the perfectly slicked hair on his head. He stood with pride and demanded the respect of those around him with ease.

“Now that my son has finally decided to grace us with his presence, we can call this meeting to order,” John spoke with an air of distaste directed solely at Dean.

“Ah, you know me pops, better late than never,” Dean said nonchalantly. Sam was right; John was pissed.

“Indeed,” said his father coolly.

Dean tuned out most of the ensuing conversations. It was the typical discussion of territory, who was responsible for handling the gang activity on the west side, who was collecting from which businesses for protection owed and whether or not they had paid (Dean received a small nod of approval from John when he informed the table that Gordon would no longer be causing issues).

When the food came, Dean was treated to the most delicious looking plate of carbonara he had ever seen. Cain truly did know the way to his heart. Before he had the chance to dig in, a noise from the opposite end of the table drew everyone’s attention.

A beautiful woman with wavy brown hair rose from the table, and Dean rolled his eyes, huffing dramatically into his chair. Bela Talbot was always trying to draw attention to herself at these meetings, and tonight would be no exception. She wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of the Family, but she was part of a necessary evil alliance that the Winchesters had forged years ago to have hands in the art trade, and Dean had found her to be nothing but a nuisance ever since.

Her words dripped with a caramel sweetness, and despite his intense dislike of the woman, Dean couldn’t help but stare at her as she spoke.

“John. Mary. Dear Winchester Family. It has come to my attention that there appears to be a new family on the North shore. They arrived from New Jersey about six weeks ago and have been a thorn in my side ever since.” She scowled.

“Why hasn’t it been dealt with, Bela?” Asked Sam. “The North shore is your territory, isn’t it?” Sam was flexing his powers a little bit, addressing Bela that way. Usually, it would be up to John to chastise her for not taking care of a threat to their operations, but Dean could see the look of pride in his father’s eyes at Sam stepping in so willingly.

Bela’s face tinged pink slightly at the admonishing tone in Sam’s voice, and she puffed her cheeks out before speaking out again. “Under regular circumstances, Samuel, I would, but it seems that these Novaks are a bit better at playing cat and mouse than I would have anticipated.”

“Novak?” Dean snorted. “What is that, Polish?”

Bela glared at him. “I believe it’s Serbian, actually.”

Dean shrugged and twisted his fork idly in his pasta, hoping she would get to the point before it got cold. Sam continued to address her. “What’s the problem, Bela?”

“They’ve taken out three of my warehouses since their arrival, and the attendance at both the craps game and the pool hall is down by thirty-two percent.” She sighed, and Dean perked up. He almost wanted to shake the hand of anyone who could cause Bela this much distress, but this was clearly an attack on the family’s assets. “Half the shops on Arthur Street aren’t paying their fees because the Novaks have started charging them, and when I sent Ruby over to persuade them, she came back bloody and threatening to skip town.”

Dean’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. Ruby was savage in the art of ‘persuasion,’ and he could hardly imagine anyone getting the better of her. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. A new family trying to start a war with the Winchesters? The last time that had happened, Dean was a teenager, and, much to his dismay, his parents had insisted he not be involved. He had watched helplessly from inside the Catholic boy’s school his father had shipped him to, as his people were shot in the street.

But Dean was in his thirties now, and the prospect of war looming on the horizon made him giddy with anticipation.

Mary Winchester, who had been quietly observing her husband and sons until this point, suddenly cleared her throat, which made all the men at the table sit up a little straighter. She was a fierce-looking woman with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and deep eyes, all framed by locks of cascading blonde curls. It was easy to see where her sons had gotten their charming good looks from.

She sat forward and touched her husband’s forearm gently. “Bela. While I’m sure the loss of your warehouses is devastating, no one would be foolish enough to start a war with our family.” She smiled. “And if Ruby and the girls from Rowena’s can’t handle what is being asked of them, then perhaps it is time to remind them who it is they work for. I’m sure Sam and Dean would be happy to deal with the Novaks, right boys?”

Sam nodded at his mother, and Dean could feel his excitement bubbling. He looked to his brother and saw a dark glint in his eye. The two of them together were unstoppable.

“Anything for you, mother,” Dean said, and he basked in her pride.

“Wonderful,” John said, clapping his hands together, dispelling the tension surrounding the table, and causing Bela to sink back into her seat as her concerns were dismissed. “Now, let’s eat before the food goes cold.”

The rest of the evening dissolved into easy conversation amongst the members of the meeting. Sam laughed wildly at Bobby’s account of a man who he had once held over a woodchipper for his disrespect, even though he had told the story a hundred times. Mary and John spoke quietly with Jessica about her parents and how thrilled they were that her contacts on Broadway would benefit the Winchester dynasty. Dean occupied himself by kicking Jo under the table and watching her face go from mildly irritated to genuinely annoyed as she tried to maintain a discussion with her mother about liquor importing.

When the food and wine had been consumed, John stood again and waited patiently for the conversations to cease. “Thank you all for joining us this evening.” He spoke warmly to everyone. “I trust to see you all again next month.” A chorus of murmured agreement rippled through those assembled. John raised his glass, and everyone else followed suit. “To the family.” He toasted and drained the remaining wine from his glass.

The sound of chairs scraping back from the table filled the small dining room as the Winchesters and their associates made to leave. They passed the other patrons, enjoying their meals and trying obviously not to stare as the finely dressed men and women filed out the front door, thanking Cain with handshakes and smiles as they left.

Dean stepped into the street and stretched, breathing the exhaust soaked air deeply into his lungs and once again being reminded of just how much he loved this city. A large hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder, and he turned to find his gargantuan little brother towering next to him.

“You wanna come over for a beer?” Sam asked casually.

“Nah, man, I was thinking about heading over to Lee’s,” Dean said. His head was foggy from the wine, and he needed some real liquor to bring his senses back.

Sam scowled. “You know, Dad doesn’t like you going out without protection.”

“Always keep a condom in my wallet, Sammy.” Dean winked, and Sam rolled his eyes dramatically.

“That’s not what I mean.” He said. “If Bela is right and the Novaks are looking to start a war, none of us should be going anywhere alone.”

“Oh, is Sam freaking Winchester scared of a few Jersey boys?” Dean snarked at his brother, punching him in the arm playfully. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s Lee’s bar. I’m basically royalty there.”

Jessica appeared at Sam’s side and snaked her arm around his waist. She really was beautiful, far too good for his brother. Dean sometimes wished he had met her first, but he shook the thoughts from his mind. Sam was happy with Jess, and that’s what he deserved.

“Your parents invited us over to look over the blueprints of the new hotel, honey.” She said. “Dean, will you be joining us?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart, but hey, tell 'em to put one of those fancy water features in like they’ve got in Vegas,” Dean replied sarcastically.

Jess smiled at him. “You ready, Sam?”

“Uh, yeah, one second. Why don’t you go ahead with Mom and Dad? I’ll meet you at the car.” Sam said. He rubbed his hand across her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her sweetly. Jess cast one more smile at Dean before turning back down the sidewalk to where Mary and John stood waiting.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean asked. He knew there was a reason his brother was holding him back.

Sam stepped closer to Dean and quickly looked over his shoulder before shoving his hand into his pocket and producing a small black velvet box. “I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I can’t help myself.” He said, opening the box. Inside was a beautiful diamond engagement ring. The center stone was massive and cut into the shape of a teardrop. On each side were two smaller diamonds, surrounded by a cluster of sparkling rubies. “I’m gonna ask Jess to marry me.”

Dean laughed out loud. “Holy shit, Sam!” He blurted out loudly and pulled his brother into a hug.

“Shhh!” Sam warned. “Keep your voice down! I don’t even know if she’ll say yes.”

Dean scoffed. “Of course she’ll say yes! You two have been together, what, forever?” He grinned. “Although, if she does say no, you can tell her I’m available.”

Sam smacked him around the head, and Dean laughed. “Alright, have fun at Lee’s. Call Benny if there’s any trouble.”

Dean waved over Sam’s shoulder at John, Mary, and Jess, and gave his brother a nod before turning and heading down the dark sidewalk in the direction of Lee Webb’s bar.

Swayze’s was more than a few blocks from Cain’s place, but Dean didn’t mind the walk. He’d left his car at home after visiting Gordon this afternoon, and he enjoyed the refreshing night air against his face. The downtown lights glared into the sky through the ever-present smog rising from the city, and Dean hummed a little to himself as he walked. This was his city. The Winchesters owned these streets. He knew one day, the empire his mother and father had built would fall to him and Sam to manage, but that time was a long way off. John would never relinquish control of the family assets to his sons while he still drew breath, and without any heirs of their own to ensure the continuation of the dynasty, that was even less likely.

Dean smiled to himself, thinking of the ring currently sitting in Sam’s pocket. Jess would be an excellent addition to the family. Her parents were both high profile talent agents on Broadway with a lot of influence there and in Hollywood. There had never been a reason for the Winchesters to get into theatre, but he knew they wouldn’t turn down the opportunity if Jess said yes to Sam tonight. His smile faltered slightly. It had been a long time since Dean had been as happy as Sam was now. His last relationship had been with Lisa Braeden, and that had only lasted a few months. She had a young son, Ben, who Dean still saw on occasion, but he had left when things had started to get really serious. He wasn’t going to drag someone else’s kid into this mafioso life. It wasn’t his place.

The truth was, Dean didn’t even know if he wanted kids. He’d thought about it, sure, and his mother had been pressuring him since his mid-twenties to find a nice girl to make babies with, but Dean liked his hang-up free lifestyle. He was happy to carry out orders for his father, help the family, and maybe hustle a few out of town suckers at pool when the mood struck him. Sam was business-minded, and Dean was more than happy to allow his not-so-little little brother to take over for their father when the time came.

Dean had been so deep in his own head that he barely registered when he had arrived at Lee’s. He sat down on a barstool and scanned around the room. Dean sighed contentedly. As he had expected, the bar was devoid of anyone immediately recognizable save for Lee himself.

Dean rapped his knuckles on the bar top to get Lee’s attention. “Who do I gotta gank to get a drink around here, hey buddy?” He said as Lee tossed the towel he had been using to clean a pint glass over his shoulder and turned to Dean. His expression changed from annoyed to ecstatic when he registered who was speaking.

“Dean freaking Winchester.” Lee drawled. “It’s been a while. You too good to come see me anymore?”

Dean grinned. “Never too good for you, Lee.”

“What’ll it be? On the house.” Lee spread his arms, gesturing at the impressive selection of alcohol arranged along the wall behind him.

“Whiskey. Neat.” Dean replied. Lee nodded approvingly, selecting a bottle from the top shelf and pouring a heavy-handed three ounces into a glass. He slid it across the bar to Dean, and he took a sip, letting the liquid burn deliciously in his throat and warm him from the inside out.

“That’s good stuff.” Dean smiled as a low rasp crept into his voice.

“Only the best for you.” Lee matched his tone. “So, what brings you out tonight?”

“Dinner with the family,” Dean replied noncommittally.

“Yeah, you always did hate those.” Lee whipped the towel off his shoulder and picked up another glass, wiping the water from around the rim. “Anything exciting?”

“No, just business as usual. Bela is being a bitch, Bobby’s still telling the same stories he has for the past 20 years…” He paused before taking another sip of his drink. “Oh, and uh, Sammy’s gonna ask Jess to marry him.”

“No shit!” Lee said, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. “I’d say that’s pretty exciting.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time coming.” Dean chuckled into his glass. “Never seen anybody as happy as those two. Kind of a miracle she hasn’t killed him yet with what a pain in the ass he can be.”

“Ah, you’re only saying that cuz he’s your brother.” Lee laughed.

“Yeah, well, brother or not, he’s still a giant pain.” Dean downed the rest of his drink and tapped the rim for a refill. Lee shook his head but complied.

“You feeling a little jealous there, buddy?” Lee smiled devilishly at him as he set the bottle down on the bar top.

Dean chuckled darkly. “Nothing to be jealous of. I’ve got my life, my health, my family,” he grinned at Lee over the rim of his glass. “And a buddy with a bar. What more could a guy need?”

Lee shook his head but said nothing. Dean appreciated the silence that fell immensely.

The sudden clatter of a barstool hitting the floor drew Dean’s attention to the opposite end of the bar. Two men stood chest to chest, shoving each other back and forth.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?!” One of them exclaimed.

“What’s my problem? What the hell is your problem?!” The other responded, punctuating his words with a shove to the man’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Lee shouted. “Take it outside, boys.”

“Yeah, some of us just wanna drink in peace,” Dean said.

“What the fuck did you just say?” One of the men said to Dean. Having found a common enemy in him, the two men turned towards Dean’s seat and advanced. He drew in a breath, immediately regretting his decision to speak up. They were both much larger than him by a wide margin, and Dean couldn’t help but think to himself ruefully that maybe Sam was right about needing protection.

As he balled his fists, ready to start swinging, he felt someone step into the space at his side.

“I believe both of these fine gentlemen just politely told you inbred walnuts to get lost.” The voice that spoke was low and gravelly, and Dean felt his stomach flip a little at the sound of it. He turned his head to identify the stranger and was met by a tan trenchcoat.

His eyes travelled upwards to the man’s face, and Dean felt his stomach do another small flip. A strong jawline covered in light stubble, slightly chapped pink lips, and tousled black hair were Dean’s first indications that the man suddenly standing next to him was unfamiliar. When the man cocked his head slightly, Dean caught his eye and felt his breath hitch in his chest. Framed by thick, dark eyelashes were a pair of icy blue eyes that Dean very quickly found himself staring at. He looked away as soon as he realized because, as much as he would have loved to stare, the two aggressively drunk men in front of him posed a much more immediate problem.

Returning his attention to them, Dean rose from his seat and drained the remaining liquid from his glass, vaguely registering that Lee had also rounded the bar and was standing behind him.

“Well, fellas. Looks like it’s two against three.” Dean said, gesturing at Lee and the stranger. “Not that I don’t like those odds being in my favour and all, but I’ll give you a chance to walk away before this gets too outta hand.” He heard Lee crack his knuckles and grinned. There was no one in this world Dean would rather have in his corner for a fight than Lee Webb, except maybe Sam.

The two men in front of him hesitated slightly before one of them let out a yell and charged towards Dean.

He reacted in an instant, ducking below the man’s outstretched arms and coming up under his knees to flip him over his back towards Lee. He heard the man hit the ground with a thud as Lee reached down and heaved him back up into the edge of the bar. Dean turned just in time to see the other man following his partner towards him, arms reaching out like some great ape. He didn’t have the forewarning or space to execute the same move, and so he simply ducked out of reach. As the man’s arms closed above his head, he heard the unmistakable sound of a fist colliding with a nose as the cartilage and bone crunched under the force. Glancing to his right, he saw the trenchcoated stranger land a blow directly into the second assailant’s face and smiled to himself. Not bad, he thought.

As the ape staggered back, clutching his now broken nose, blood streaming down between his fingers, Dean stood up and grabbed the man by his shirt. Together, he and Lee shoved the two towards the bar’s door and unceremoniously tossed them into the street.

“Don’t let me catch you goons in here again,” Lee shouted as they took off quickly down the alley.

Dean watched them go and shook his head ruefully. Even at Lee’s, trouble managed to find him. He looked to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Lee said, brushing him off. “Guys like that aren’t a problem. You and I both know I’ve fought worse.”

Dean laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” They turned to go back inside, and Dean spied the mysterious stranger as he picked up a stool that had fallen over in the scuffle, cradling his right hand against his chest.

“Hey,” Dean called out to him. The man looked up at Dean, and he was pierced by the full intensity of his stare. Those blue eyes, which before had been icy and cold with adrenaline, were now pools of deep ocean blue, and Dean once again felt himself beginning to drown in them. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that was quickly forming there. “Um, thanks. For that. You, uh, you didn’t have to get involved. Lee and I could have handled it.”

Way to sound ungrateful, Winchester, he kicked himself internally.

The stranger cocked his head to the side as he stared at Dean, his eyebrows knitted together in the most perplexing stare Dean had ever seen. Lee walked up next to him. “Lemme get you some ice for your hand. If that dude’s skull is as thick as it looked, you’re probably hurting pretty bad.” He walked behind the bar and began filling a small bag with ice. “Oh, and your next drink is on me. Dean may not know how to actually say thank you but, we aren’t all as uncivilized.”

Dean felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he sat back in his seat, and Lee refilled his glass, adding a second one for their new friend. “Thank you.” The man said, taking the bag of ice and placing it over his knuckles. He took a small sip of his drink and set it back on the bar top.

Dean shook himself and realized the man was still staring at him, and being under his scrutinizing eyes made Dean fidget uncomfortably. He cleared his throat again. “So, uh, you got a name?” He asked. Then, because Dean was not one to relinquish the upper hand, he plastered on his charming Winchester smile and said, “Or am I just supposed to call you handsome?”

A small smile lifted the corners of the man’s lips as he extended his uninjured hand for Dean to shake.

“Novak.” He said, and Dean felt the colour immediately drain from his face.

“My name is Castiel Novak.”

#supernatural au #supernatural fic #destiel #deancas #dean x castiel #mafia au #deancas fic #supernatural #spn fic #tag: tbotc #tw: blood #tw: alcohol #tw: violence

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claudiosuenaga · 3 years ago

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The Cyclopean Walls of Osaka Castle, by Claudio Suenaga | Megalithic Japan

When visiting one of Japan's most famous castles, Ōsaka-jō or Osaka Castle, in the Chūō-ku district, the most central here in Osaka, in the south of the island of Honshu (capital of the Empire in the 5th century and today the thirdlargest Japanese city after Tokyo and Yokohama), I came across something unusual, not only because I was at the opposite end of the world but also because I expected to find only historical relics typical of the end of the Azuchi-Momoyama Period (1573-1603) and the beginning of theEdo (1603-1868), the Japanese Feudal Era.

Amazed, I saw that I was facing the same perfect masonry work present in the Inca forts of Sacsayhuaman, Ollantaytambo and Machu Picchu, in Peru; in Tiahuanaco, near the southeastern shore of Lake Titicaca, in Bolivia; in the pyramids and tombs of Ancient Egypt; on the walls just above the line of statues prior to the Ahu Period (1200-1680) in Anakena and at the other end of Easter Island, in Vinapu; on the Baalbek terrace, north of Damascus, Lebanon; in the temples of Milandu, an island in the Maldives archipelago, in the Indian Ocean, southwest of Sri Lanka and India; and in so many other places, attesting to the existence in the remote past of an advanced civilization capable of handling, transporting, cutting and polishing large stones and uniting them without mortar, a culture of Sun worshipers - among the Incas, according to several chroniclers, Manco Capac, the founder of the Inca Empire and first governor Cusco (1200-1230) was the one who instituted it in the 13th century - which spread throughout the world and was present even in Japan (the land of the rising sun!), Taking with it an old and improved technology that has been lost. Cultural links extend everywhere.

The largest megalith, the Tako-ishi or Octopus Stone, also called Drum Rock, which measures 11.7 meters in length by 5.5 meters in height, occupies an area of 59.43 square meters and weighs about 108 tons.Located at the end of the Sakuramon Gate courtyard, the main entrance to the inner courtyard (hommaru), the Octopus Stone, whose name derives from its octopus shape in the lower left corner, as well as the others that make up the wall, were built in 1624, at the beginning of the Edo Period, by Tadao Ikeda (a feudal lord from Okayama ordered to take control of this region by the Tokugawa shogunate) to protect the front entrance.

In addition to the Octopus Stone, the wall surrounding the Castle also includes four colossal stones over 100 tons and fifteen stones over 50 tons!How were these gigantic stones cut, transported and assembled in the middle of the Japanese Feudal Era? The magnitude of the constructions - in contrast to the apparent and supposed lack of technology of the time - makes us soon come up with fantastic theories.

Location: 1-1 Osakajo, Chuo Ward, Osaka, 540-0002 Latitude: 34° 41' 8.39" N Longitude: 135° 31' 19.79" E.

Learn more about Osaka Castle and other megalithic monuments in Japan on the Hidden Japan page of my website.

#osaka castle #cyclopean #walls #megalithic #japan #archaeology #history #ancientaliens

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capricecarvalet · 4 months ago

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Enhance Your Vehicle with Premier Services in North Shore

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#Car detailing in North Shore #Car window tinting in North Shore #Cut and polish services in North Shore

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dreadwulf · 4 years ago

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after every plan had failed and there was nothing more to tell

(pt. 1 is here)

It seems she will live after all.

Her body is stubborn. For all the damage done to it, it clings robustly to life. It does not require any desire on her part to live, it just goes on doing it. Her wounds close and bones mend, and day by day there is less pain than before.

Even after days without food, she does not simply fade away. She lingers, she feels, she sees. There is not much to see in her darkened tent where she is staked to the ground, but she sees things anyway. She thinks of the white beaches of Tarth and the waves breaking on the shore, and they are as real to her as her hand before her face. She can hear the roaring of the surf and smell the salt in the air. Remember, her mind is telling her. Tarth is still there. You can see it again.

In time she is hungry. It does not rouse her right away, but grows slowly and steadily until it seems to consume her entire being, slowly tormenting her awake until she eats the food they have brought her simply to be rid of the feeling.

Again her body has made her choices for her, and she will have to go along with it. After that, she eats whatever’s offered her, even if a bit sullenly. It makes her feel more herself, and she will need her strength if she is going to go on being alive.

Then they bring her heart back to her.

Two soldiers, heavy-handed, not knowing what riches they carry, lift the flap of her tent. They call out to her and when Brienne looks up she sees in silhouette a small figure, a boy, held between them.

“Pod!” The name escapes her lips like a bark of pain. Pod is dead. It cannot be. This is a cruel trick.

“My lady ser!” The boy squirms in the guards’ grasp, kicking at the air. They jerk him this way and that and finally release him; the boy hits the ground running and rushes straight for Brienne.

Podrick falls on her weeping so she can barely make out what he is saying. “My lady Ser, after that night I thought you were surely dead. When I learned the Lannisters had you I came to help.”

Over them the soldiers frown. “He was trying to rescue you. He managed to injure two of us. Not very badly - he isn’t much with a blade.”

Brienne holds him at arm’s length and looks him over, trembling. “You are unhurt? How is this possible?”

The boy hiccups, tears and snot running down his face. “I was playing dead, my lady. When the fighting started I took a blow to the head and fell down, but it seemed sensible to stay there. I saw milord Jaime hit you with his dagger and you went down too. I laid still amongst the bodies until the shouting stopped and the soldiers rode away. Next morning I looked and looked for you and you weren’t anywhere. I thought you must have burnt up, with the Dread Lady.”

He sniffles and looks utterly miserable. Brienne wipes at his face with her sleeve.

“I am well, Pod,” she lies. “What about Ser Hyle?”

He shakes his head no. She does not inquire further.

“The Brotherhood is gone. The soldiers killed many of them and the rest scattered. The Red Priest ran off into the woods. I was too scared to go very far at first and then I couldn’t find where they had gone, but I saw Lannister banners at Pennytree and I followed them back here. I’m sorry Ser, I meant to rescue you but I failed.”

She holds onto the lad tightly. “Thank you,” she tells him over and over. At least he tried.

The guards shift restlessly as they embrace, until at last they seem to lose patience. “You will come now and join the other boys, squire. There are several lads your age we are keeping in this camp, and you will sleep with them.”

A fierceness that Brienne does not recognize rises up suddenly within her. “You keep children as prisoners? Have you no honor? Let the boy go. He is no danger to you.”

They are unmoved. “We’ll take good care of him. Come on now.”

“Please, at least allow him to stay with me!” she pleads with them. Here, she can protect him, even if she cannot set him free.

Too many hands grab at him, drag him up and away from her. “He will stay with the others. Come now.”

Brienne snarls at them like an angry mongrel, but she cannot prevent the soldiers taking Pod away. Not while she is chained to the ground, and weakened by injury.

She recovers herself in earnest after that. Podrick needs her; she must be strong, alert. If indeed she is given the opportunity to leave, or even if she is not, she must escape. Wherever Pod and these other children are imprisoned, she will free them. They will return to the road, find somewhere safe to ride out the winter.

The next morning they march. Well, Brienne does not march - she rides in a wagon with the army provisions, her hands bound. Around her the Lannister army is on the move, men on foot and horseback with arms and provisions, moving slowly but steadily from morning to night. It is a monotonous journey but the ride is almost pleasant -- the chilly air and dim sunshine are refreshing after so long in a darkened tent, and they return her strength to her rapidly. She still winces at every jolt, the wagon bumping over the snowy terrain reminding her of every wound she carries. But it is less and less, and day by day she is stronger.

This will heal, he had said.

When Brienne has strength enough, she might leap from the wagon and make a run for it. But she does not know where they are keeping Podrick, and so she will wait. She does not know what she is waiting for, but she will know the moment when it arrives.

When you escape the villainous Kingslayer in the Riverlands you can safely journey North, or wherever decent people go now.

Jaime Lannister rides at the front of the army on his destrier Glory, a magnificent grey stallion dressed in the crimson of his house. His golden hair shimmers with flakes of snow when she catches sight of him, and his mien is grim and serious. He does not look upon her.

Perhaps he means her to take the initiative, and get herself out of his sight. Part of her wants to do it, to run away and away and never come back. Another part of her simply wants him to look on her again, just once more. Let her tell him again how she had agonized over her choice, so that he might despise her just a little bit less. One ounce of forgiveness, and she will ask for nothing more in all her life.

Jaime does not come back to her. While they are stopped at the end of each day Brienne stares at the tent flap well into the night but he does not appear. Only her meals come to her, and she finishes them. She stands, cautiously, so much as her chains will allow, and moves her body experimentally, testing her limits.

She must be strong for Pod.

After several days of marching, when the sun is dipping in the sky and they stop to make camp, Brienne is left behind in the wagon to contemplate the sunset until they have put up her tent and prepared her shackles. But this time the guards who have staked her into the ground each night and left her, they instead bring her to the Commander’s tent and bid her stand between them, her hands bound together.

She is filthy, her hair caked with dirt, and her own blood is dried on her clothing, on her skin. Amongst the finery of the Lord Commander’s tent, where everything is clean and polished and fine, she feels even more unkempt and ungainly. She stands between her guards and slumps, her chin nearly resting on her collarbone.

The Lord Commander takes no note of her, seemingly. His armor is gleaming, his crimson cloak spotless at the edge of her vision. He stands behind a fine desk that they have seemingly carried across the Riverlands for him. All around him is crimson and gold, the ghastly colors of House Lannister. In the torchlight the billowing walls look bloody and foreboding.

He scrawls orders and hands them to men who run eagerly out of the room. He takes messages from other men who come running in. Something is happening of great import, she gathers, and it must have to do with where they are headed to. She hears fleet and Golden Company, and references to someone called Aegon. Named for the dead prince? There is an invasion, it seems, by some other forces who march under the Targaryen banner. Brienne hadn’t thought there were any Targaryens left. Regardless, someone is marching on King’s Landing, and the Lannister forces are racing back to the capital to aid in its defense.

After a time of quiet conference with his men, Lord Lannister raises his voice just loud enough for her to hear.

“We camp at Maidenpool tomorrow, and then to King’s Landing. Set camp just south of the hills, a good distance from the hamlet - there are Tully supporters sheltering there, and we should not court skirmishes at this time. We will have battles enough ahead of us when we reach the capital.”

Brienne listens carefully. Tully supporters. Might she reach them there, and travel with them North? If she tells them she has escaped from the Lannister camp, will they believe her? She does not know what news has traveled of the Brotherhood’s demise, whether she is denounced a traitor or praised an ally of that grim fellowship. The Brotherhood had hung her, but would anyone still living know that?

Again Jaime’s voice cuts into her whirling thoughts. “The Riverlands are riled after we dispersed the Brotherhood, but we left few survivors to tell the tale and none would know what precisely occurred. We should not antagonize them, but I do not expect any trouble.”

Though he does not look at her, she knows for certain this last is aimed precisely at her. He may stand surrounded by his men, and speaks to them, the words are meant for her ears.

Brienne’s eyes widen. He has summoned her here to seemingly no purpose other than to overhear this information. Why is he doing this?

His eyes flickering to her capture this reaction, and as quickly shut it down. With a dismissive gesture he addresses the guards at her elbows. “Take the oathbreaker back to her cell. I can’t stand to look on her a moment longer.”

Tomorrow, she thinks again. Tomorrow I must escape. And then Jaime will march on and I will never see him again.

“My lord,” she speaks up as her guards take her by the arm, “don’t you wish to interrogate me? There is much that I can tell you.”

Let me explain. I’ll tell you everything. Only give me a chance.

He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “I know all I need to.”

“At least free the boy,” she suddenly pleads, and at her plaintive tone her captors slow and stop. “He has raised no arms against you.”

Jaime hands a new missive over, and several of his lieutenants rush from the tent.

Desperately, she raises her voice. “Please, Ser. He had no part in my actions. He was a prisoner of the Brotherhood just as you were. He is a cousin to your Ser Illyn, is he not? His name is Podrick Payne.”

“I know,” the Lord Commander responds, finally, without looking up from his missive. “I know very well who I have taken into this camp. Ser Illyn has little use for a squire and less for a child, so he is staying with the other boys. I spoke to the lad myself and he seems in good health.”

He interrogated poor Podrick? Brienne is incensed. Her hands form fists at her sides, at least partly in frustration that even now he will not look at her, and she draws herself up straight and tall.

“You would imprison and question a child? How many children have you taken from their homes, that they have their own jailers?”

Several unpleasant expressions pass across his face in succession. The last is harder, and angrier. The letter falls to his desk forgotten, as Jaime comes around his desk and approaches her in sharp strides.

“The boy,” he tells her firmly, stopping just before her, “is comfortable. We had a perfectly pleasant conversation, no tortures involved. You can ask him of it yourself.”

He holds her gaze firmly now, his green eyes steely and sharp. Though she wants to falter, she stands her ground. Looks right back, and does not blink.

“Did he tell you what happened with the Brotherhood?”

“He tells me you were forced to betray me to save his life.”

For the first time, Brienne feels a spark of hope. Surely he must believe Podrick’s tale, he is only a boy, and too frightened to lie. “Then you believe us?”

His smile is cutting. “I’ve decided that your actions were more in stupidity than malice, yes.”

“Stupidity, Ser?” She gapes at him, shocked. “I had no other choice!”

“You might have asked me for help.”

Brienne is thunderstruck by the simplicity of the idea, which she had so quickly dismissed at the time.

“Ask you to willingly make yourself a hostage? To save two people you had never met? I had assumed you would say no.”

His eye twitches subtly, almost invisibly. His voice sounds dispassionate, but he is not.

“Did it not occur to you there were other solutions? I have an army, we might have simply invaded their camp.”

She falters. It sounds so reasonable now. “They would have killed Pod and Ser Hyle the second they saw your soldiers.”

“And you wouldn’t risk them.”

“No.”

“But you could risk me.” He lands on the last word like a blow, and there, there it is, the hurt. His face tightens, and he swallows. The wound her betrayal opened bleeds still, though he covers it well.

There’s no way to respond to his accusation, because obviously she could take that risk. She did. She hadn’t thought of it that way because she had no intention of letting any harm come to him. She had some idea that if she played along, followed their rules, honor would show her the way to get them all clear of it alive. She would have risked any kind of harm to herself to make that happen.

Maybe it was stupidity, after all.

She bites her lip hard, and then tries to explain. “They told me there were spies in your camp, loyal to the Brotherhood, and if I tried to warn you they would kill us all.”

He scoffs, stepping back from her. “What would they need you for then? Why not have these ‘spies’ murder me themselves? There is no sense to your story.”

She hangs her head again, has to look away. “I know it makes little sense, Ser. I think they meant only to be as cruel as possible. They wanted to take you alive, for their sport.”

Jaime laughs. “I gathered that. I saw enough of their sport before my men came to my rescue.”

He had. The Brotherhood had put him in stocks, kicked him, spat on him. And Lady Stark had-- but it wasn’t really Lady Stark. It was a monster.

His cruel smile tightens; he is remembering the same scene, she knows it. How it must have looked from his position. How nightmarish. And her the cause of it, leading him blithely to his doom.

Accusingly, he goes on. “If Ser Ilyn hadn’t followed us your Brotherhood would have roasted me on a spit. Or worse.”

As earnestly as she can, she tells him: “I would never have allowed that.”

“Forgive me if I don’t find that especially comforting,” he snaps. “I don’t fault you for trading a Kingslayer’s life for that of an innocent child. But you cannot expect me to trust in you after that. Not ever again.”

“But you can,” Brienne says breathlessly. “I swear to you that you can.”

“Swear it on what? Your honor?”

She flinches.

Brienne takes a deep breath, fighting to keep her voice from quavering like a child’s. “You march to battle at the capital, I heard you say. Return the sword to me and I will aid you.”

Jaime takes no time to consider her offer.

“No. I will find another to wield Oathkeeper. You are not worthy of it.”

Her vision blurs. She closes her eyes over the tears but it can’t stop them trickling down her face. The best she can do is stay silent and not break out sobbing, though the sobs are there, caught in her chest like an animal in a trap.

“Take her back over the hillside,” she hears Jaime say, and she allows the guards to lead her away.

********************************************

The hillside is not a convenient way back to her shackles. It requires that she be led outside the camp and a little way up an incline, so that she can see against the setting sun the entirety of the camp spread out before her, and to the other side a grassy valley dusted with a layer of snow.

She sees them over the rise now, through the tears still shimmering in her eyes. A small crowd of boys running together freely over the valley, playing some sort of game. Sliding in the snow, crashing into one another purposefully. Their laughter and shouting reaches her on the wind, and she thinks she can hear Pod’s amongst them, where he races towards their shared goal.

These boys don’t look like prisoners. They look more like wards of the camp, and well cared-for. They aren’t locked up anywhere. They look happy.

“Call them back for supper,” one of her jailers says to the other, “and take this one back to the holding tent.”

***********************************************************

Brienne lies on her back in the holding tent and her tears dry on her face.

She had it wrong about the children, clearly. And he wanted her to know it. It seems it bothered Jaime that she would think so little of him. Her opinion of him still matters at least this much.

He cannot entirely hate her, if that is so.

But Oathkeeper… she opens and closes her hand at her side and she can still feel the place where the lion’s head pressed against her palm, feel the weight of it in her muscles, the perfect balance of it as the blade cut through the air. Her magic sword. She will never hold such a blade again.

He is right; she is not worthy of a valyrian sword. What has she ever done but fail? Fail repeatedly and worse, and become ever more ragged and battered in the process. She has been a poor knight; she has broken all her oaths and lost her honor.

Maybe Pod would be better off here. With boys his own age, safe and well fed and out of danger.

She might believe that, except that they are marching into some kind of battle at King’s Landing. Surely the Crown forces, added to House Lannister banners, can handle any sort of attack with ease, but the thought of Podrick squiring for some stranger fills her with frustration and worry.

Podrick came to help her; she has to be worthy of that. She will have to find her way back to honor, and bring Pod with her. Perhaps someday, with great striving, she will accomplish something deserving of the faith that has been placed in her, and in so doing earn it back.

Maybe then Jaime will forgive her.

************************************************

The boys are dumping snow over each other when she sees them next, in the morning, when she has been allowed to relieve herself outside. Two smaller ones had filled a bucket with snow and overturned it on an older boy when he stopped to fix his boot. Then they had all shrieked and run, gathering snow midstride and forming hurried snowballs to fling at one another. She stops to look at them, fixing her trousers between the guards perpetually at her elbow.

She hears laughter, so familiar it makes her ache.

Brienne turns to look for him, could not have stopped herself turning to him if she had tried. She finds Jaime standing not far away. He looks like he has just risen from his bed, not yet fully dressed in his commander’s gear. His golden hair is slightly wet and in disarray, as though he has just splashed water across his face. He must have been passing by and, like her, stopped to watch their antics.

When he notices her his laughter dies. For a moment he just looks at her, and she looks at him.

Then he gestures after the shouting boys.

“Noble sons of the Riverlands. They’re intended to be hostages, but I have more or less forgotten to imprison them, and they have more or less forgotten to escape. I suppose we will have to leave them behind soon, when we march to King’s Landing. I think the men will miss their adventures, when they are gone.”

She speaks up quickly. “I mistook you Ser. My apologies.”

He nods shortly, and visibly relaxes.

“My squire has neglected me,” Jaime says, gesturing to his disheveled state. He sounds far better humored than the day prior. “He has been running about with the boys, supposedly monitoring your young Podrick. Well, I won’t begrudge Peck a few more months of playing in the snow. One can’t do it forever, and he will be of age soon, and I’ll have to knight him. No more snowballs after that.”

He stops himself. Turns his head away. It seems he must remind himself to be angry with her, and not to fall back into the kind of easy rapport they once had.

Before her guards can react, she breaks out into a run - painful and listing, ungraceful - the twenty feet to reach his side and grasps Jaime by the arm so that he will turn his face back to her. She has to see his face. Today they will reach Maidenpool.

He lifts his hand to the guards, to keep them at bay, and glares at her challengingly. His beloved face, beautiful and cruel, turns back to her.

Her heart pounds in her ears, drowning out all else. She must try again. What can she do? What can she possibly say to make up for what she has done?

It pains him, though not so much as it pains her. This double-edged blade they are both gripping onto, when perhaps they should let it go.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks in a low voice, so that no one can overhear. “I know you have not forgiven me. Would you really help me now? You would release me to your enemies, where I could do any amount of damage to you?”

Jaime laughs. It is a mirthless laugh, one she has heard him give many times before she understood how much it concealed behind it.

“I don’t know why. I suppose…” he trails off. His green eyes appear uncertain, and then he is slipping out of her grasp. “I suppose I’m a great golden fool.”

Before she can reply, he turns and disappears into his tent.

***********************************************************

The ride to Maidenpool is uneventful, and she dozes through much of it as she rocks back and forth in the provisions wagon. As they reach the edges of the Riverlands the rood becomes smoother, and in contrast the snow falls heavier. The horizon turns white, and a terrible quiet falls over the countryside.

She wakes with a jolt when they begin to unpack the wagon. Dazed, she climbs out from the back, sees in the distance the smoke and movement of the hamlet in the fading afternoon light, and shivers in the icy breeze.

Maidenpool. Where Tully sympathizers might receive her. Jaime told her she would escape, and this is where she will do it. Perhaps in the night, when everyone is asleep. Perhaps right now, while they are unpacking the wagon. She stands and stares at a puff of smoke lazily lifting into and merging with the cloudy sky.

“You stink,” today’s guard tells her, when he grabs her by the arm. She could throw him to the ground if she wanted, but she does not.

In her tent she sits and thinks, and watches the tent flap all night long.

In the morning they bypass the breakfast cookfire and the ditch where the soldiers have done their business. “We’re taking you to bathe in the brook while the others strike camp.”

You must want me to freeze to death, she thinks. No stream would be bearable in this cold.

But she does not think on it much at all as she walks between their armored shoulders, their blonde heads bobbing several inches below hers. She only walks, and watches her breath cloud the air. Inside she is quiet and blank as untouched snow.

Behind a stand of trees, her companions prod her forwards. They will remain here. She is to keep walking.

There before her, through the trees, is the brook. Unfrozen as yet, though no doubt as cold as ice, and babbling merrily.

Waiting beside it is Jaime, in his fine commander’s armor, and nearby him nibbling at a spare patch of grass stands a pretty chestnut mare.

For a moment she cannot move.

Of course he kept his word. He had not even really given it, but somehow she had never doubted him.

She walks to him like a sleepwalker, slowly. He does not hear her at first, over the sound of water. Not until she is close enough that she could easily overpower him, if she had wanted to. They are alone here together, and she is at his back, and he is unguarded. Relaxed, unconcerned. It is in a way an accusation, and an admission.

“This is where you escape,” he tells her, turning.

Here? Now? But Jaime is riding straight to King’s Landing to defend it, and she will have no more plausible opportunities to run away.

“I cannot leave without Pod,” she protests, and he smiles.

“I know.” Jaime gestures behind her, into the trees.

When Podrick appears through the trees, he is breathless with laughter, his cheeks ruddy, and she almost doesn’t recognize the quiet, downcast boy who had followed her from King’s Landing. Beside him is an older boy, taller and skinnier, with just the beginnings of a beard. He grabs Pod around the shoulders affectionately and rubs his head, mussing his hair in all directions. They look more like brothers than a chaperone and a captive.

Her heart grows even heavier, seeing that.

“It was the worst thing I have ever done,” she says suddenly, very aware of Jaime standing at her side. “Lying to you. I hated it, and I hated myself for doing it. If there had been any other way --”

“You did the right thing,” he says, solemn, still watching Podrick and Peck. “The right thing is often the worst thing, I can tell you that better than anyone.”

She wonders then what he is thinking - is this why he is helping her now? Is he comparing her to his younger self, her soiled reputation like his own? But then, who is her Aerys Targaryen?

“Peck,” Jaime says to the older boy. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course, Ser.” The older boy takes something out from under his arm. “The boys were quite impressed with it, like you said. I had to fight to keep them from running off with it themselves, once we snuck it out of the armory.”

“Good work.” Jaime takes the linen-wrapped item from his squire. “I assume you took the opportunity to try it out yourself?”

The skinny lad looks abashed, and Jaime claps him on the shoulder. “Of course you did.”

Podrick, grinning, ambles to Brienne’s side and squeezes her arm. He looks like he’s had a fine time. “Ready to go?” he asks her.

Still, she hesitates. “But I -- I don’t have --”

“You do.” Jaime hands her the wrapped bundle. “This is how you got away. Your squire snuck away from his games and attacked Peck here, and he found you bathing in the brook. Or something like that, I’ll work out the details.”

She knows the weight of it immediately. Oathkeeper. He’s giving it back to her. “But you said --”

He cuts her off. “You won’t get far in the Riverlands without a blade.”

“Not this blade.” She tries to meet his eyes. “I cannot wield this sword and call it Oathkeeper when I betrayed you with it.”

He keeps his grass-green eyes on their hands, where he pushes the sword at her. “You can. You swore me no oath, so no oaths were broken.”

I could swear new oaths, she thinks. I could swear them to you. I would fight with you in King’s Landing, I would fight for your son. For you.

It strikes her that there is nearly nothing she would not do for him, if he only asked. In that moment she knows herself better than perhaps she ever has, knows that all she has ever wanted was for someone to rely on her, to have complete faith in her. Jaime had that once, and now it is gone. He will not ask.

“Thank you,” she whispers. How do you thank someone for your life, and for being in it, even if only briefly? Words seem insufficient.

She wanted it to be him. She wanted to restore him to honor and to have his admiration for it, wanted that as much as she had ever wanted Renly’s regard. More, if she is honest.

If he says something, she tells herself. If he says anything, even one word, I will stay. I will pledge him my sword, and fight for him.

But Jaime says nothing more. Not to her. He and his squire help Pod to mount the chestnut mare, and he is advising the boy to keep working on his swordplay, if his rescue attempt was any indication he is going to need a lot more practice.

Brienne straps Oathkeeper to the fine leather saddle and watches Jaime for any sign. But he’s not even looking at her. If he’s not looking at Pod or Peck he’s looking up at the treetops, at the sky. Anywhere but her.

It seems there is nothing left for either of them to say.

So she mounts the chestnut horse with Podrick and rides away.

#ring of fire #the worst-case scenario fic continues!#this is really rough but I'm working on not taking months to fix every little thing so here #tumblr fic

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pghbabesonbikes · 2 years ago

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2023 Frigid Bitch Training Rides

Tryin to prep for FBX? Need to bone up on your cuts around the city? Gotta practice layering up in various weather conditions? Hopin’ to meet some FB vets race crews you might be able to slide into?

- A pace: fast drop ride with longer mileage and more elevation. Will regroup at the tops of long/steep hills but generally will not wait for stragglers. ~16+ mph avg - B pace: ‘fit commuter’ pace, semi-drop, mid-level mileage and elevation. Will regroup at various points but may not wait for extended times. ~12-15 mpg avg - C pace: conversational social pace, no-drop, shorter routes, relatively few big hills. ~10-12 mph avg

If you are interested in leading or sweeping a pace group, please email us @ [email protected]!

All routes will also be posted as events on our Ride w GPS Club & Strava Club page

Two Frays Brewing will have space for bikes on their patio, outside heaters, indoor bathrooms, and coffee for sale. They’ll also have a couple new non-alcoholic beers on tap as well as their regular rotation. Stick around after the ride to hang out and compare ride recaps!

BEWARE: These rides are run in full Pgh Winter, so weather may mean routes take us over ice and snow. We may need to re-route mid ride depending on the conditions! Be ready for an adventure.

Sunday Feb 5th - Frigid Bitch 2021

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Previous routes:

Sunday Jan 1st - Frigid Bitch 2016

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

Full A-pace route: We’ll warm up by climbing Negley Ave (just a little big city hill), swing down Panther Hollow to hit the most obvious Pgh cobbles, take a dip into S Oakland and run the dead end of Romeo St staircase before climbing back up through Schenley Park for the pleasant commuter downhill of Pocusset St. Remember when the Greenfield Bridge was just rubble? From here we’ve got easy peasy double trail time from the Eliza Furnace, a quick jaunt thru the North Side, and back to the East End via the 3 Rivers Heritage Trail to 31st St Br. One more slog as we finish with a cobbled climb up McCandless and a fast downhill on Stanton back to Two Frays.

B-pace route: Cuts out the Romeo staircase and the North Side roads, keeping steady from the Eliza Furnace to the 3 Rivers trail. Optional end of ride cut: anyone who doesn’t fancy the cobbled climb up McCandless can stay on Penn after the 31st St Br and head back to Two Frays.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 8th - Frigid Bitch 2017

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

C-pace route: 10-mile no-drop loop through the East End, featuring 2 mild hills - short and punchy up Bunker Hill to the Highland Park Reservoir and a longer steady climb up Wilkins into Oakland.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 15th - Frigid Bitch 2018

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 22th - Frigid Bitch 2019

Start: Corner of Penn & Winebiddle

Fnish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

Sunday Jan 29th - Frigid Bitch 2020

Start/finish: Two Frays Brewing - 5113 Penn Ave in Garfield

Meet at 1pm, leave at 1:30pm!

B-pace route: Cuts out the Aspinwall Fire Station. Opts to climb Stanton instead, and drops down the hill to the take the Duncan St steps in reverse.

C-pace route: Dirty Jones returns for a short jaunt around the East End. Optional addition of the Highland Park loop.

A-pace route here

B-pace route here

C-pace route here

Full route cue sheet here

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europetraveltips · 3 years ago

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Anticipating how travel will glance in 2021 is a waste of time. However, what's without a doubt is that this year has hit the delight business hard: the meaningful ventures, the mother and-pop organizations, individuals doing things right. So going in 2021 will not simply be an opportunity to reconnect with ourselves and feel the buzz of showing up in another spot and another headspace, alive to additional opportunities. As it were, it will be our opportunity to decide in favor of the sort of world we need to live in: one of maintainable organizations, environments and networks, instead of people gazing into the seductively empty bereft of a cell phone screen. It will likewise be an opportunity for a considerable lot of us to recall that we live in a mainland that is one of the extraordinary interwoven designs mankind and topography. Here's the place where we'll be going in Europe in 2021, and it feels progressively basic that we as a whole get out and do likewise – and make a decision in favor of euphoria. For more future motivation, look at our manual for the best occasion objections for 2021 and the best UK objections to visit in 2021.

6. THE AZORES

With the conceivable exemption of Iceland, no place in Europe does land dramatization very like the Azores – the Hawaii of the mid-Atlantic, with thickly forested islands bordered by rough precipices that appear to emerge from the nothingness like goliath green knees from an early stage shower. The archipelago, 950 miles from the bank of parent country Portugal, is a position of volcanic cavities, sulphuric natural aquifers, penetrating whales and surf breaks ignored by epic stacks. The archipelago of biospheres and marine stores has likewise been a calm paragon of practical the travel industry, a kind of European response to Costa Rica.

There are ships and little planes to islands like Faial, Pico and São Jorge, yet the majority of the activity occurs on Sao Miguel, which is all around loaded with great spots to remain. The exemplary twofold header is to put in a couple of evenings each at two sister inns: the Azor, with fresh mod-store calculation and a roof pool ignoring the harbor in the principle town of Ponta Delgada; and the Furnas Boutique Hotel up in the mud-percolating volcanic focal point of the island, where the superstar is the dark stone, Japanese-style warm pool.

In Vila Franca do Campo, the whale-watching and plunging area of interest thirty minutes along the south coast from Ponta Delgada, Convento de São Francisco is a 10-room shop in an exquisitely stark seventeenth century religious circle. Different features incorporate the Sete Cidades Lake Lodge, a progression of wood lodges on a kayak prepared lake in the wild north-west; and the Santa Bárbara Eco-Beach resort , a position of low-threw substantial innovation ignoring a long surf sea shore on the north coast.

By need, the food is consistently locavore, from the islands' popular cheeses to uncommon however delightful fish, for example, wreckfish and blue-mouth rockfish, and cozido das Furnas, a seven-meat stew slow-prepared in Furnas' volcanic earth. This is an immortal kind of spot; a profound nature escape, which feels about directly in 2021.

5. DUBROVNIK AND ITS SURROUNDS, CROATIA

Dubrovnik might be a little overwhelmed with Game Of Thrones sightseers, yet there's constantly been a sure wizardry to this limestone fortification on the Adriatic. Also, what's regularly neglected is the thing that an extraordinary beginning stage it is intended for a legitimate experience. Toward the south, it's not exactly an hour's drive past the languid harbor towns of the Dubrovnik Riviera to Montenegro – a country which has step by step been rediscovering its post-war magic, particularly with the impending appearance of a biophilic-innovator inn from Janu, Aman's new more youthful sister brand. Toward the north, it's under three hours to Mostar, an impeccable Bosnian town of fairylit millhouse cafés and Ottoman stone scaffolds, not a long way from the Kravice cascades, with a turquoise swimmable tidal pond encompassed by Niagara-like falls.

Yet, the alternate approach is offshore, towards the vehicle free, tumbledown Elaphiti islands of Koločep, Sipan and Lopud, handily came to by neighborhood ships. The one to visit in 2021 is Lopud, an island of Renaissance-time stone houses, outlandish gardens and demolished fortifications. Its Franciscan religious community is presently open as the five-suite Lopud 1483, following a meticulous 20-year redesign by Swiss workmanship supporter and donor Francesca Thyssen-Bornemisza. She and her family have filled the 5,000-square-meter religious community with Renaissance and contemporary workmanship, a Franciscan drug store and a reflection garden planned by an Arctic shaman, while protecting the unpleasant plasterwork and patina of the antiquated cloister.

4. SKÅNE, SWEDEN

Sweden's southernmost region infrequently gets the inclusion it merits – in huge part in light of the fact that such a lot of buzz is drawn across the Øresund Bridge from Malmö to Copenhagen. Yet, Skåne is certainly worth investigating, from the interwoven appeal of the city to the lakes, wineries and Nantucket-esque clapboard waterfront towns of the rich open country, frequently alluded to as Sweden's larder.

Malmö has large numbers of the things making it work that have put Copenhagen and Amsterdam on each most-liveable rundown going: youthful, bikeable, streaked with trenches and substantial espresso joints, yet additionally home to a wonderfully saved Dutch-Renaissance old town. However it stays more blended than the disobediently elegant Danish city across the water, particularly in regions like Möllevången, a refined, multicultural piece of town referred to local people as Falafel City. Furthermore, Sweden's generally loosened up Covid-19 guidelines have implied that hip locavore frequents, for example, Bastard, Vollmers and the Höganäs Saluhall food corridor, just as zero-squander lunch most loved Restaurang Spill, have clutched their magic heading into 2021.

A sample of Skåne produce is a decent antecedent to an excursion to the open country: regardless of whether south to the sea shore hovels and marram-grass rises of the Skanör-Falsterbo promontory, or north to the clapboard coastline town of Mölle, where the Grand Hôtel Mölle remarkably investigates the stone sea shore and the wild Kullaberg Nature Reserve, with its porpoises and beacon climbs. Past Mölle, Båstad is another exemplary coastline town, with a customary kallbadhus (cold washing house) spa toward the finish of a wooden dock, having a place with the legacy splashed Hotel Skansen. All over the area, which is by and large calmer than the Stockholm archipelago, there's a relaxed feeling of provenance at spots, for example, at the zero-squander Hörte Brygga in the south-west, with its superb water-side nursery in the mid year. Like an European response to New England, this is the most polished of breaks.

3. SALENTO, ITALY

For a genuine Italian break in 2021, we'll head right to the lower part of its heel. Habitually under-staffed as the nation's response to Cornwall, on its own hot recurrence, the Salento district offers an unpleasant cut rendition of the best of Italy – from the nearly Caribbean west coast to the plunging bluffs of the west coast; from Brindisi down to southernmost Santa Maria di Leuca through the florid dream of Lecce, all beasts and limestone sections. This is a dry, ochre-toned place where there is olive forests and precipice hopping kids, too drowsy to even consider having a very remarkable scene. The cucina povera will in general be plain and unfussy: take the shockingly awesome gnummareddi, or sheep offal rolls, served in the walled garden at A Casa Tu Martinu in Taviano; or the barbecued bream at Lo Scalo, incorporated into the bluffs at Marina di Novaglie, and run by the Longo family for 50 years.

In any case, a progression of little savvy stays have increased the game here as of late. For example, the nine-room Palazzo Daniele in Gagliano del Capo, a nineteenth century apartment given a rich mod-devout makeover by hotelier Gabriele Salini – where travel disruptor Thierry Teyssier dispatched his 700,000 Heures 'fleeting inn' idea. Or on the other hand Masseria Canali, a low-threw, seven-room estate of curves and collectibles west of Brindisi, which opened for takeovers this late spring with a pool deserving of A Bigger Splash.

2. TIMIȘOARA, ROMANIA

This western Romanian city is regularly alluded to as Little Vienna, with its stupendous Habsburg Secessionist structures and roundabout downtown area. In truth, it's not as glossily refined as the Austrian capital, however that is the point. Indeed, even in its stupendous focus, the primary spot in Europe to have electric streetlamps, Timișoara doesn't feel like a scam. Also, as other Romanian urban communities, including Cluj-Napoca and Sibiu, there's a discernible feeling of energetic good faith in this understudy town. A large number of the city's foundations have the vibe of somebody's parlor – like Scârț Loc Lejer, a bric-a-brac bar possessed by a craftsman's group, with a congested nursery, a bordering theater and a gallery of Communist commercialization in the cellar. Somewhere else, there are hopping club evenings at underground Database and practices at the graffiti'd Aethernativ Café, with faint echoes of early Noughties Berlin.

There are celebrations in Timișoara for everything from world music to film, Romany workmanship and jazz, the last of which has consistently been enormous here, in any event, when Ceaușescu pushed it underground. The National Opera House has drama and expressive dance works of art, with tickets at the cost of an IPA in London, and the craftsmanship goes from a road workmanship display in a street passage to the Muzeul de Arta's assortment of wry pictures by Corneliu Baba. All of which drove it to be named European Capital of Culture for 2021, an assignment which might get pushed back a couple of years in the wake of Covid-19. Name or not, this is a legitimate city of culture, and definitely worth a city break.

1. CHANIA, CRETE, GREECE

While its Ottoman-affected harbor and spaghetti bowl of cobble-stoned roads are gently delightful, Chania is sneaking up all of a sudden with regards to its food. From basic ocean side bistros to lovely Cretan high end food, this city on the north-west shore of the Greek island has a select yet rapidly growing scene that is tricking in master palates.

#europe #europe travel #europe trip

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the-last-cuddlebender · 4 years ago

Note

You've probably gotten so many of these already but 👀 #9 Aang @ Katara pls 👉👈 as a treat? I'd like to see what your galaxy brain comes up with 😖❤

Aw shucks☺️❤️Just for u I'll do it!

(Kataang + #9: “You look sad.” + galaxy)

(You said “galaxy” my brain created a “galaxyfae!AU”😂)

Aurora Anniversary

Words: 943

Rating: G

ArchiveOfOurOwn

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Katara barricaded the once opened door, like open arms, in her mind, cutting off any communication, but the Sky’s concern and pleading leaked through their hearts’ link and into what felt like her soul.

Aang was looking for her.

The Moon didn’t want to be found.

Her love’s voice was normally a rolling laugh—like a trembling in a human’s chest—but Aang’s thunder boomed and roared across his sky like a wolf’s mourning howl.

It was raining and cloudy. Momo was on the loose again, looking for her, patting the Earth with a million wet paws. Appa was dark, larger than normal, and chasing him from overhead.

Katara sat in a cave as her Other-Self. She overlooked the Ocean and her moon beyond. Aang couldn’t find her if she was surrounded by stone. Toph didn’t approve. The Mountain huffed a sound that shook the earth, threatening the village with a landslide, and stood aside as still and stoic as she ever was.

Aang and her brother were trying to drag her out. Sokka’s pull was iron, and Aang’s winds lent his waves extra strength.

Katara pushed the Sky and Ocean away.

It was winter and the anniversary of when a comet, aimed for the Moon, killed a Star in Katara’s stead.

Katara wore the chipped pieces of her mother’s necklace on her ribbon of velvet-black. The chip of light on her necklace that was the North was bright and nearly blinding. Katara pulled her knees to her chest and touched the South—her Polar, the shadow that was once her mother, her semblance of a home. It was faint on her velvet necklace, but it twinkled under her hand.

Aang grew desperate when even her brother couldn't find her. The Ocean threw little boats around like Sokka was checking in and under every one for her.

Aang called ever louder. Sokka raged all the more.

Suki rustled the canopies of her every Forest but came up to Aang empty-handed.

Aang used all but one of his winds—off the mountains, the water, and the pluming volcanos—in his desperation to find her.

Her love’s trembling cries were as hurt as his last fight with Azula—the latest clash of her attempt to steal his sky. Her lightning had been relentless. Aang was struck down—thunder made quiet—and Azula ruled his sky upon Appa’s back for a time, her lightning not touching the ground as she set her sights on Katara next.

He cried again for her, and Katara amended her thoughts.

Aang was far more hurt than then.

Zuko was just as furious as the ocean he bled his lava into. The branches of his heat steamed the waters and flowed freely, covering the earth in wrinkled black scars. Katara could tell that his anger was restrained. Otherwise, the Volcano near the Sun Warriors would have trembled with his rage.

...Aang found her with a loophole.

It was more than a little unfair.

He was on the earth as his Other-Self—wide-eyed, desperate, and crying.

He wrote on his hand, and Katara felt it on hers.

The Moon was crescent, but it curled upsidedown.

-You look sad.-

Katara stood. Momo touched her.

Aang found her immediately. The sky shook as he yelled her name, and his Other-Self was rushing to meet her.

Zuko threw his hands up, and his plumes of ash flew before his magma curled away to boil and sulk. The ocean pulled back and smacked against the shore like a fist hitting a table and about to lecture her. Appa and Momo dragged Sokka’s anger further out to his sea, though he struggled and fought all the way.

Then it was quiet, and Aang’s thunder, now a dull rumble, was distant and content.

His Other-Self was before her when next Katara opened her eyes. He smiled at her with a purr that would have shaken his sky, the earth, and everything beyond.

He kissed both her cheeks and then twice between her eyes, and Katara un-barricaded the door, like closed arms, in her mind, to renew their hearts’ connection.

His joy hit her first, his love hit her next, and his voice wrapped around her like a hug.

“There you are.”

Katara, only then, felt safe enough to cry.

Aang dried away Katara’s tears just as easily as the Sky burned away the Moon’s asteroids.

Aang’s sky was as clear and pure as the love in his Other-Self’s eyes. He dusted off the lingering of Appa’s trail, and, once he cleared the dance floor, he extended a hand to her.

Katara hesitated, but he waited. He had waited a hundred eternities for her to cradle his sky. He would always wait.

She touched his palm, he kissed her hand, and their dance felt familiar and safe. He normally guided her toward the North where the chip of her mother’s necklace was brightest, but, on this day, he twirled her towards the South, to where her mother once was. He had known her an eternity ago.

His laugh shook all Katara knew, and his smile became her entire world.

The Moon’s crescent slipped upwards into a grin just as the Sky spun her into a twirl.

Aang smiled even wider than she did, and he called, finally, on his solar winds. They were warm and lazy from traveling through deep space. They brushed over her moon just as his fingers brushed through her hair.

Their dance painted the sky with every color and feeling, and when he kissed her, holding the moment for yet another small eternity, the scattered pieces of her mother’s necklace glowed like they were each whole and never broken.

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This was very, very, very hard to write. I really want to clean this up right now because it realllly needs more polish, but I’m using these asks as a challenge/practice with only 1-2 edit read-throughs and with a 800-1,000 word-count cap. (I’ll probably clean this up later and make it not so damn abstract since I love the concept...and since this didn't have nearly enough hurt/comfort as I would like😤😤😤)

Hurt/comfort dialogue prompt ask: Send me a number with a ship and any other details you want❤️

#aang #katara #zuko #Sokka #avatar the last airbender #kataang #zukka #Toph #suki #galaxyfae!AU #hurt/comfort ask #thanks for the ask!#myfanfictiontag #post #yall can send another ask for this number and get a different scenario though lmao like maybe a normal AU😂

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thesundropfalls · 5 years ago

Text

Unprepared, untrained, and fatally unskilled (Poe Dameron x Reader)

Word count: 6.5K

Setting: PreTFA (The Force Awakens)

Summary: You've lived a quiet life so far in Naboo, coming from the Naberrie household. When a deadly mistake turns you into an informant for the Resistance, you're forced to go into hiding. As if that weren't enough, a particular Pilot's interest in you is piqued. Navigating an affair with a hot-headed flyboy and an Empire's downfall, you learn that no one is truly on your side.

Warnings: 18+ This is a violent, smut heavy series. It features Punishment, Dubious consent, Non-consensual sex, Mentions of rape, Masturbation, Oral sex, Praise kink, Slight Yandere, Violence, Gore, Drugs, Character Death, and way too much personification of nature. If you are uncomfortable with any of those, please DO NOT start this series. They will be featured in the next few chapters.

"Shuttle stop... eight thousand paces... Entry borders..." You mutter, repeating your Master's directions. It has to be here. It has to. What else were you to do?

"You will make it to the resistance base." You hype to yourself, lifting your chin. "You won't die a sweaty death on this Maker-forsaken planet." You weren't sure whether saying it aloud was an attempt to self-soothe or to boost your determination, either way, you didn't buy it.

The pilot droid had informed you that a mile of jungle separated the base from the shuttle stop. Was it joking? Can droids joke? It must have been. You could cross a mile in fifteen minutes, yet you've been maneuvering through forestry for half a day.

This steamy muck maze was loud. Distractingly loud. The low humming and chirping of critters drone in your ears, warning you of their presence. Every living thing could sting, poison, or kill you if they wished. Vastly different from your calm shores of crystal in Naboo. You came knowing that, but just how different they were, your Master never could prepare you for.

Your toes ached from being bashed into roots, the soles of your once new shoes had worn through hours ago. However, tripping and not falling flat on your face was an achievement you let yourself be proud of.

You couldn't even walk on this planet, let alone breathe. A blanket of moist air engulfs your body, filling your lungs with a dense humidity. It was sickening. Yet, onward you trudge. Maybe there was a path just behind that brush, or that clearing, or that tree. Maybe.

Looking up, you try searching overhead for the suns, attempting to find a navigation point. Still, all you were met with was a high canopy of thick vines and branches. It stretched for miles, sunlight only peaking through cracks the vegetation left vulnerable.

A buzzing grew loud in your ear, making your stomach drop like a stone.

"Mother of moons-" A surge of adrenaline shoots through your body as a mosquito lands on your bare shoulder. It was huge-at least the size of a small Voorpak.

You barely have a chance to squeak before it sinks its proboscis deep into your muscle tissue. With a smack of your palm, you burst it's engorged stomach sack on your skin, spewing its juices over your collar.

You gag and scrape the fluid off of your hand onto the bark of a poor nearby tree. The liquid is thickly viscous for some reason, but you weren't about to investigate and find out why. Now you regret discarding the D'qar environmental manual on your shuttle from Naboo. At least it was dead. The proof was on your shoulder.

You reach into your satchel and slip on a patterned kaftan of your own design. You couldn't have insect guts smeared all over yourself when you meet with General Organa, could you? If you ever did make it there.

As you walked, you allowed your conscious to amble backward through your memories. It showed you a glimpse of the mistake that brought you to the jungle in the first place.

....

You scurried down the hall, skirts balled in your fist as not to trip over them. You've never been late. In all eleven years of working for The General, your Master, you've never been late. There was a chance, though. That he wasn't already in his quarters, you could work at triple speed to clean all of the surfaces before he arrived.

You prayed you wouldn't find him there as you turned the corner and pressed the door's opening hatch. Sure enough, the room was empty.

"Thank the Maker." You sighed in relief, shoulders slumping. You got to work as quick as lightning. Cloth in hand, you scrubbed the woodwork, decorations, counter surfaces, and wiped off anything with a coating of dust.

Despite your daily efforts, all your Master ever noticed was if the rooms smelled cleaner than he left it. You made a mental note to hide a different vial of herbs in his wardrobe each morning. The last task was to replace it, and then you could scoot away without penalty. Lady luck was on your side this morning, you thought. Being much too short to reach their designated place on the upper shelf, you stepped into the closet and shut the doors behind you.

That's when you heard it. The sound of the door's hatch flying open. Your Master.

Dread melted a pit in your stomach. You wanted to shrink out of existence, to dig a hole and crawl in to die. You contemplated revealing yourself. But what would you say to him then? You'd have no excuse for it. Surely he'd send you away. It would cost you your job, and you'd be back begging on the streets. So you stilled, the force of fear stopped your hand from pushing open doors.

Your Master began to speak, and a static voice replied.

"General Pyrus. They've taken over my cruiser. I haven't much time--"

"Quickly now. Tell me."

"Eighteen point two thousand-- two hundred and eight degrees north, sixty-six point five thousand nine hundred and one degrees west. Star system collective--" The static voice cut in and out. "Passkey--Saint Alchemy."

"And the code?"

"--Digits MC-32809. I can't hold them off-- I failed her."

" You haven't. You followed orders. You did everything right."

"The base is on D'qar, find Leia-- Find the resi--" Blaster fire overtook the static intercom. The line ended.

The gasp that escaped your lips was less suppressed than you realized.

Did you just hear someone die? Was the man on the intercom shot? What was your Master talking about? Who shot him?

Your head swirled with unanswered questions, distracting you from the volume of your stunted breathing. Your second mistake.

A gloved hand shot through the crack of the door and yanked you from your hideaway. With a shriek, you spilled out onto the floor of the office. You made a feeble attempt to scramble to your knees, but your Master held you down by the neck of your collar.

"Traitorous bitch!" He spat on you.

You shook your head rapidly in denial, eyes wet. "Please, Sir I-"

"Who do you work for? Shadow collective? The First Order? Imperial commandos? Speak!" He ordered.

Shock shot up your veins and froze your system. You stared at him, agape and quivering. You forced the words to pass around the stone in your throat. "I-I... I do- I don't know-know. I don't know... Master, please plea- please." You choked.

Your Master grew impatient with you and tightened his constricting grasp, "Tell me at once, spy!"

"I work for you!" You finally shouted, eyes screwed shut for protection. "I have for eleven cycles, Master." You put your hands up in defense, who betrayed you with how vigorously they trembled.

"And I'm- I'm no... I'm not a spy, please, Master. I-I... I overslept and came to work late. I didn't mean to intrude. I was cleaning your quarters, and then you- you came home." Your lungs cried for a gulp of air, spent on stuttering.

He stared down at you, seething. You couldn't read his expression as it was teetering between sincere regret and anger. You didn't know which one you least preferred, either way, it was mortifying to be cast such a look. You prayed for him to recognize you, to see past the vulnerability, and identify you as you were-one of his handmaidens, his best.

"I was going to come out and apologize, I swear it!" You begged him. "But, you started to speak to someone..." You hesitated, wondering if you should admit to what you heard. You decided upon it against your better judgment. "...Someone that was killed, Sir."

Watching his eyes fill with slight sorrow, you bit back tears and pipped up again, "But I am no spy, I am no traitor! I swear it on my mother's name."

"Of course you aren't," Pyrus released his grip, letting you fall back to the floor. Your hands shot up to your neck and held the strangled area as a sweet breath of air filled your lungs.

"Much too stupid to be a spy. Do you have any idea what you've just done?" He boomed, his spit rained over your red face.

"It was nothing I heard, nothing at all!" You defended, holding your hands up to him for grace.

"You dare lie to me, that message was highly classified, higher than your comprehension, you foolish girl." He hovered tall above you, "I should have to kill you. I cannot risk the possibility of having you captured by the First Order."

"Please, please..." You fell on your chest, face smashed against the abrasive carpeting. Tears streamed hotly down the sides of your face, burning your skin.

You wept for a long time. Minutes passed, and still, Pryus looked down upon you pitifully. He gave no response to your cries, weighing his options grievously. All the while, you prepared to be shot.

"Get up," He commanded, breaking his silence.

"Master?" You croaked, peeling your cheek from the floor.

Pyrus stamped the heel of his boot, "I said, get up."

You wasted not another second to scramble to your feet, yet you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze, tears steadily trickling down your flushed face.

"No more blood will be spilled over the safe delivery of this code. I have a task for you." Pyrus said and stalked across the room to his desk. He leaned over its polished surface and shifted weight upon his knuckles.

"Originally, I was to deliver the code to General Leia Organa via intercom. However, I haven't been able to reach her." He raked a hand through his scalp, "I can only assume that they've been working underground to evade the First Order. We must pray that they've been successful."

You stared at your shoes, still sniffling and wiping the damp mess from your face with the frill of your sleeve. The First Order, The Resistance, General Organa, all those which you heard about through heated debates or hushed rumors. Up until this point, you never honestly considered them to be real things and not the gossip of the serving class.

Pyrus turned to face you, "It appears that I need a new messenger. And now that you've heard the code, I can't let you go. You're sure to be captured."

You cradled your opposite forearm, "I swear it, Master. I can't remember any such code. I wasn't trying to listen." Besides that, it didn't make sense as to how anyone could find out your attachment to this, this code thing. Whatever it was.

"It's not what you can remember. It's what they can pull out of you." He corrected, folding his arms across his chest. "The First Order possess the power of the dark side, the power to reach into your mind and pluck any information they need."

Dark side. Power. These things shouldn't be spoken of in such a setting. You were wary of believing in them, but for argument's sake, you didn't question it. "Master, if that is the case, you are no more safe than I. They could capture you too. What makes it so that you could not deliver it yourself?"

"I am a General of the national court. I have a battalion to command. The importance of your life is but a grain of sand compared to mine." He snapped. "You can be spared, the people of Naboo depend on my lead." He held no emotion in his voice. There was truth in his statement, irrefutably there was truth. It made his words sting no less.

Pryus sighed and crossed the room to you, "Howbeit, the burden of this information gives you more substance than yourself alone. An informant you will be. You have no such skill to have been granted such a task, but as fate would have it, you have been."

"Am I still... I still have a job here?"

"If you cooperate." He nods, "Now, repeat to me what you heard."

"Coordinates, yes. It sounded like coordinates, Was it?" You suggest, seeking his approval. He stared at you simply, his silence beckons you to reach farther.

"Also... Maybe a-a pass-... um... a passkey of some kind. Saint..." You begin to rack your brain, the flutters of your heartbeat picking up into a pound. Nothing else in your memory, nothing but the static sound of blaster fire. Giving up, your chest fell, "Master, I just don't remember."

Pryus bid you closer, "Listen carefully now. I"m going to give you the rest of the code, but you'll need to do exactly as I say."

Your heart sank deeper, "I have to comply, I can't refuse?"

"You're certainly allowed to refuse." He clenched his jaw, "But, I would deem it most unwise."

...

It pulls you from your thoughts, and at first, you think you imagine it-faint sounds of machinery that fill your ears. And then you see it, hints of civilization sparkling in the distance. Filled with delight and newfound faith, your pace quickens. You're almost weightless as you speed to what must be the borders of the base.

You, unknowingly, were about to be smacked with the reality of the universe. Merrily skipping into a stark ambiance of war and battlefront lines that you were strictly unprepared for. Of course, you understood the circumstance. Warfare massacred the outskirts of your own homeworld. You spent a portion of your youth hearing about the slaughter of millions and the depopulation of planets. You understood the urgency.

Maybe a call to action or perhaps a way to pull yourself from poverty, your intentions were muddled. The very moment you became of age, You took the position to serve a General of the political guard, Master Ranrat Pyrus. Acting as a servant to his beck and call, you were made a Handmaiden. From your impoverished point of view, it was an occupation of luxury, easy money with a decent prospect of living.

And that's what it was, at first. Your Master was decent to you, so you remained in his staff.

Despite the direness of war, the way of life on your mother world had bound itself to your soul and engraved clearly into your features. Your skin had memorized the way the Naboo suns kissed you, replicating the glow for others to covet. Your feet grew up wading in cool liquid crystal and traveling naked across cushy sandbars. Every cycle, the renewed sky sent her gusts of wind to tussle and play with your hair.

Your fingertips knew the intricately woven fabrics of lakeside merchants. Who's real craft was haggling prices. Their wrinkled faces used to light up at the sight of their oldest customer combing shelves for a bargain of delicate satin. Lakeside lifestyle proudly shone on your body, and it's culture woven into your hair like ribbons on royalty.

You would miss that life dearly, once you realized it was gone.

Passing the border, you stepped into a clearing of roaring engines and the working of machines. Beeping droids busy with their tasks hustled past you. Mission alarms rang out overhead as X-wing pilots wrestled the motors of old beasts alive. Gusts of wind exploded in your ears, and Welders sent sparks of fire outward in a show of skill. All the while, tubes of engine fuel decorated the floor, pumping the metal to life.

The sight of it took your breath away. Absently, you stepped backward, overwhelmed by it all. You've never seen so many machines in one place, all working furiously for their created purpose.

Is this where you've been sent? Among pilots for weapons of destruction? Masters of war? Decorated soldiers with bravery and-

Metal rammed into your calves, knocking you off your feet. The ground swiftly rose up to collide with your backside.

"Oh," You were on the floor.

Shifting your gaze, you sucked in a startled breath, coming face to face with a droid. It chirped at you. You must've run into it.

It whirred and blinked once more, rolling forward and bumping your kneecap accusedly.

Should you apologize? Would it understand you? You didn't understand binary, let alone speak it.

The shock of the situation began to roll off your shoulders, staring at it wouldn't do you any good.

"I uh, I'm sorry. Are you alright?" You inquired slowly, testing its comprehension.

It circled you, chirping at you frustratedly.

It wasn't alright.

"Hey!" You heard a shout over the working of machinery. Your attention snapped to an orange figure charging towards you.

Yeah, that was definitely directed at you.

You promptly stood and dusted off your pants. Thinking the figure to be a superior, your tongue hastily began to gather apologies, preparing to spit them out in your defense.

Kriffing hell, were you really about to get reprimanded? You hadn't even finished walking to your destination, how useless were you?

"What's your problem?" The man barks, not sparing you a glance and bending down to search the droid of any injuries.

"I'm sorry! Sir, please. I apologize, I just- I didn't see it." You stammer, embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

Maybe if you bat your pretty little eyelashes, he wouldn't stick you on the first shuttle to Mustafar before you had a chance to meet with the General.

He whips his head back around, fully prepared to chew you out for all you were worth. His eyes, full of annoyance, lock with yours.

"I'm sure you di-" He hesitates, the anger he once held seems to vacate his expression. He let his eyes drift down your body, if only for a second. They come back up briskly, connecting with yours once again.

"I, uh, I don't..." The droid beeps and whirrs to him. He shrugs at the droid and then shifts his focus back to you as he gathers himself.

"Are you okay, miss? M'sorry, my buddy here can be somewhat of a rustbucket sometimes." He encouragingly rubs the side of his droid and stands, extending his hand to you. "My name's Poe, Poe Dameron. Black Leader, Commander of Rapier Squadron."

His tone was relaxed; he wasn't going to reprimand you. Your shoulders drop in relief. His eyes strike you, the intensity of his stare was almost uncomfortable. Almost. You step back out of respect and secret intimidation.

"Well met, Poe Dameron. Y/n Naberrie." You swallow stones. Your palm opens to accept, and his calloused hand envelops yours in a gentle squeeze as you tell him your name.

Poe seems to focus on you as if he'd never been introduced to someone before. You watch his lips repeat your name no louder than a whisper, playing with the sound on his tongue.

Growing impatient, the droid below him started to whirr and rolls straight into his shin.

"Shit! Calm down, BB." He nudges the bottom of the droid with the heel of his boot, silently communicating with his droid to stop shaking his game. "This is BB-8, astromerch unit. For a piston head, his circuit board must be cross-wired over the moons today. So much for ninety-eight suit programmings. I just..." Poe trails off with a laugh, his mouth seals when he recognizes confusion in your eyes.

Sod it. He knows you didn't understand him.

You cough a short laugh, praying that he'd take it as a delayed response. "Oh yeah, totally. I just, I'm new." You explain, "I'm uh, actually not supposed to be out here, I don't think."

Your eyes dart around the courtyard, debating whether to explain your situation to him. Poe seemed kind for a Commanding Officer, maybe a little hyper-fixated, but kind. You could trust him in pointing you in the right direction.

"I'm looking for the Control Center," You breathe, "I have business General Organa." You'd let him know that much.

"Oh yeah, that's in the Eastern Sector over..." He pauses to think it over, "Why don't I show you?"

"You aren't terribly busy, are you?" You shift your gaze down to BB-8, who was silent but beginning to vibrate out of frustration.

"I was assessing some damage on a processing unit, but BB'll take care of it, won't you bud?" Poe makes an expression to the droid that you couldn't explain, and with a whirr, BB-8 scooted away.

You'd never seen a droid of that model before, not that you had seen many before. This one was just a ball of steel with an attitude.

"He's kinda cute, your droid." You muse after he rolls around the corner out of earshot.

"He's adorable," Poe corrects. "But don't tell him that," the corner of his mouth tugs up into a smirk. It rests so comfortably on his face, and you could only imagine how many hours of the day he spent wearing it.

"Shall we?" He holds his arm out for yours to slip into. To that, you stifle a laugh, waiting for his lead. He waited too.

Oh, he's serious.

"Maker, I'm sorry." You hesitate, then slip your arm into his. This is awful cordial for a military fort, was it not? His grip is soft but firm. The padding of his jumpsuit acts as a barrier between his skin and yours. For a moment, you imagine what it would feel like bare, probably the same as his grip.

He pays no mind and leads you out of the yard and down to a concrete runway. A neverending lane of battleships, a full fleet of them were parked in several rows. They stood so tall, taller than you ever would've guessed. These couldn't be the same ones that passed through your village. They seemed so tiny in the sky. Every few cycles, you would see an armada of spacecraft torpedo through the air. They were pilots of the republic, and they were right in front of you.

They weren't new, though. As beautiful as the beasts were, they ran half as well as they did in their prime. Ladies of war now in their sunset years, called to action one last time. Leave it to you to think rustbuckets to be poetic.

Poe noticed your taken expression with each passing ship, "Never seen an x-wing fleet before?"

"I can't say I have. Where I'm from, we don't get many fleets of anything, let alone pilots. It's a bit of a nowhere." You say, trying your best not to get whistful.

"A nowhere, is that where this is from?" He gestured to your brightly colored Kaftan, "Because I gotta find out where I can get me one of these things."

A giggle slips past your filter. Pupils mooning, you bring your hand impulsively over your mouth.

You giggled. In front of a Commanding officer, no less. Not that Poe acted very commanding.

He turns his head to squint at you, "What's the matter, you don't like your laugh?"

You shook your head quickly and smiled, "No, I'm fine with my laugh. That one was just- I dunno, it wasn't my normal one."

"I think you're lying." Poe unlinks your arms and shifts his weight against the side of the Hanger bay. "I think you're trying to spare me of how weird your laugh is." He beamed.

Did he just-

You stare at him, amazed by how brazen he is. "Wow." You scoff, deciding to join his banter. "You accuse me of lying, and you call my laugh weird? You're making an enemy with the wrong person here, Commander." You warn.

He huffs a laugh, "You gonna trip over my droid again? Threatening."

You gasp, "That's too soon."

"Did I offend you?" He asks.

"Oh, greatly, Commander. Y'know you're the first person I've met so far, and I already don't like you." You smile sadly.

Feigning offense, he places a hand over his heart, "You don't like me? Oh, you're breakin' my heart, Princess. Maybe if you just got--"

"Am I interrupting something?" Her voice rips Poe's attention from you as she enters the room. You only then realize that you had stopped walking. Corridor walls surrounded you with panels of directory projections, the Control room.

The Commander stiffens like a board, greeting his superior, "General Organa."

Leia dressed in blue tactical robes you gape at. The material was exported from Alderaan, a planet destroyed not forty cycles ago. You've scoured fabric shops in the markets of your city every chance you got. Seldom did you ever come across material procured in Alderaan.

You bit your tongue to keep from expressing your excitement. Another time, not now.

"Commander." She addresses Poe, waiting for an explanation.

"I have someone here to see you." He steps aside, uncovering you for her to behold. You scrounge up your courage and approach her, "General Organa, my name is-"

"Stop." She cuts you off, a wary look in her eyes. "I know who you are."

"Oh." Your gaze nervously flickers between Poe and her. "You do?"

She gives no reply and turns to Poe, "Dameron, leave us."

"General." Poe gives a curt nod to his superior and flashes you a quiet smile before slipping out of the corridor. His reassuring glance eases your nerves only slightly.

"Come, Naberrie." The General pivots on her heel and strides down the hall. You follow closely; anticipation sits heavily on your chest. She doesn't take your arm as she leads you, it must be a Poe thing. You pass through narrow vestibules with stark white luster. She doesn't say a word the entire way.

Stopping at the room's opening hatch so abruptly you almost ram into her, She grabs the cuff of your sleeve and pulls you inside. It was a small space, only equipped with an empty bunk, a table, and two chairs-no lights, no windows, only the iridescent glow that spills in from the hall.

You begin to make your statement, "General-"

"Call me Leia. We're much past that now." She asserts and closes the hatch.

"Right," You start over, "Leia. I have something to-"

"Please, do hold on. I must make you aware of the gravity of this situation. Sit." Leia gestures to a chair, you comply. This woman loved to interrupt people, you could barely get a word in. You could tell that she was less than thrilled to be meeting with you, and you were more than prepared to deliver the code and take the first Port Shuttle to Naboo.

Leia sat across from you and garnered your attention. "Now, what you carry with you is a code, one of three. It was made by the original crafters of the SSI-U vehicles. That includes X-wings, TIE fighters, boarding craft, land assault units, hyperspace probes, and Star-destroyers. Are you familiar?"

"Not really, no." You answer, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Why did she bother explaining? You were oblivious to the origins of the code, and you preferred it that way. It wasn't your assignment nor something you wanted to get further tangled up in. The faster you could rid yourself of it, the faster you could come home. Being hesitant to listen, but much too terrified to interrupt, you remain quiet.

She waves her hand in dismissal, "It's not that critical, but the maker's code is. When entered into a central command board, which all fleets have, it overrides the system to self-destruct. All of it obliterated."

"That's- That's why you need it? To destroy the First Order's fleet?" You inquire.

She shakes her index, "So they don't destroy ours. See, the code applies to the Resistance, as well as the republic. If the Order had gotten their hands on it, it would've cost us greatly. They would have terminated our fleet, and we would have no resources to fight against them. The war would end."

"So why, um... Why not use the code to like- destroy their fleet instead?" You cautiously suggest, your nerves audibly slip into your tone. "You can do that, right?"

"Their central command board is in the middle of the Starkiller base. As skilled as we are, we could never infiltrate their ranks. That's not to say we aren't working on it. Someday we'll be able to, but until then we cant use the--" Leia trails off, her eyebrows scrunch with concern.

"Stay with me, Naberrie." She orders.

Her voice is distant. You pull yourself from your fixation to the spinning room, which was much darker than it was before. She must've noticed your gaunt expression. Your eyes snap up to meet hers, and after a breath, you nod for her to continue.

"Again," Leia restates, "We can't use the code, but we can protect it. And it's best protected with very few people knowing. Which is where you come in." She gestures to you.

"So, keep it under wraps." You pat your hands flat over your lap. "I can do that."

She lowers her chin to her chest and looks at you sternly, "It's a little more complicated. But before we come to that, I need you to agree to some terms."

"Anything." You nod.

"It's easier if you remain calm for this part. Yes and No answers are acceptable. Hold your questions until the end." She began, sealing the confidentiality of the conversation. "What you say to me now cannot leave this room. The content of the information you carry has the capabilities of genocide to the trillions. Should this information fall into the wrong hands, that is exactly what will happen. Do you understand?"

You nod again.

"I need a verbal response."

"Yes, I understand."

"At any point, did you reveal the code shared with you by General Pyrus to a third party?"

"No."

"At any point were you bribed to reveal the code?"

"No."

"Are you aware of anyone besides yourself, General Pyrus, or his informant sharing the code?"

"No."

"Are you aware that there could be any number of bounties on your head as a means to get to this information?" Leia deadpans the question like it was similar to the ones she had asked previously.

Your heart stops beating, and you blink at her, "What? What bounties? Like bounty hunter bounties or-"

"Yes or no, Naberrie." She stresses frustratedly.

You exhale in defeat, "I am now, yes."

Maker, she must be disappointed. You could almost hear her blood pressure rise as she tightened her jaw and began the next question. "Are you willing to accept the Resistance's protection for yourself as an informant?"

"What does that-" You stop yourself, hands raised apologetically, "Yes, I am."

"Good." Leia shuffles to the edge of her seat, "Now tell me the code."

There it is. She asked for it. The code. You knew this. A long-anticipated shiver crawls up your spine, and you clear your throat. "I was sent with the coordinates to eighteen point two thousand two hundred and eight degrees north, sixty-six point five thousand nine hundred and one degrees west. Star system collective, passkey Saint Alchemy. Digits MC-32809." You breathe, an immense weight expels itself from your chest, you breathe deeper.

Leia casts her stare through your person, to the end of the room. "Say it one more time."

You didn't register her command, "What?"

"Just say it one more time."

You nod and repeat yourself. "Coordinates eighteen point two thousand two hundred and eight degrees north, sixty-six point five thousand nine hundred and one degrees west. Star system collective." You took another painful breath of air. "Passkey Saint Alchemy. Digits MC-32809."

The General's eyes were empty, she sat deathly still. You witness her silently burn the information in her memory.

"Shouldn't you write this down?" You break her stare, immediate regret started to prick your fingertips.

Her gaze fell to the floor, "It isn't worth the risk." Meeting your eyes again, she asks, "You're sure it's correct? There hasn't been an opportunity for it to have become tainted on your behalf?"

You shake your head, "I've memorized it for months and told no one, It's valid."

"I realize you're not an official informant for the Resistance, I wish to apologize for the burden that has been placed on you. I understand more than most." Leia pauses, train of thought halted. You wait.

She breaks it and sighs, continuing. "I want to thank you for your sacrifice. You've served the Resistance and your people more than you could know. You've sacrificed a normal life to live in hiding until the course of war ends in our favor."

Her flattery warmed your center. No one ever thanked you for this, putting your life on hold someone else's war. Going into hiding-- Wait. "In hiding? General, I don't understand, I'm not in hiding." You smile faintly and tilt your head, "Unless I am?" The thoughtful expression disintegrates from your face.

"You weren't told much, I know. It was agreed on by both parties that explaining this aspect of the assignment could affect your willingness to comply." Leia explains.

Both parties... Comply...

Slowly it came to you. "I can't go home, can I?" You search her face for an explanation, praying she'd deny it, but she never did.

"No," For the first time, Leia didn't meet your eyes. "You must remain with the Resistance. Our ownership of that information is one that was paid for in blood, and we will remain to do so if necessary. Even yours."

"I don't- That's not what... I'm supposed to go home after this, I have a shuttle to- General, this... Leia, I need to go home. I can't stay here." The words caught in your throat as you rushed them, desperate.

"For your sake and mine, please remain compliant. We will keep you protected as long as you stay with us. And if not," She falters, "We will send out a bounty for your head."

Your heart sank to the floor, "You'd kill me?"

"You'd be killed anyway." She counters, appealing to your rationale. "If the First Order found you, they would torture you within an inch of your life, take the code, and then kill you."

You stammer and point an accusing finger at her, "You'd kill me."

"It doesn't have to come to that," Leia took your hand in hers earnestly, "Only you can make that choice. Be wise now, child. Let us keep you safe."

Staring at her dejectedly, any semblance of trust in The Resistance General had fled. "But I don't have a choice, I can't go home ever?"

"No one's said that. During the war, you must remain with us. That is all." Leia held your hands comfortingly, the creases of her eyes showed you mercy with each kind gaze. For all you knew, Leia could've had the exact same 'confidential conversation' to any number of informants. And if that was the case, her threats held no substance. If it was a hoax, you could walk out of here with your freedom, scotch free.

It was admirable in a sense. This woman had sugar-coated her intentions to kill you, and you just, What? Accepted it. You understood. Agreed, even. It would have been all too easy for a Rebellion General to have you killed. Your little life didn't count at all. There was a war to be won, and you were a liability. You were a threat.

These woes battle in your head so torturously that you don't recognize your airways constrict. You don't notice the sheen of sweat that coats your brow or the fingernails that cut into your fleshy palm and turn your knuckles white.

You only notice how suddenly they go away.

A wave of calm washes over your shoulders, it's warmth begins to melt away the icy dread sitting painfully across your chest. It shallows your stunted breath and spreads heat in vines down your spine and out to your fingers. The unknown force softens every muscle, every bone, and every tendon that connects you together. It's overwhelming peace. You can't help but close your eyes and release a tired exhale as the wave floods down to your toes.

"We all get to go home when this is over." Leia's gentle voice draws you back to reality only slightly. You couldn't make out her face. The human shapes had blended into a grey fog, yet you thought nothing of it. The fear you once held was nowhere inside of you, doubt had completely expelled itself from your thoughts. All was well, all was right.

"I suggest you law low as an apprentice and keep out of trouble. Best to be discreet, be careful of what you say." She spoke through the mist.

You have the most intelligent fleet and crew in the galaxy, I can't compete with them. Wouldn't it be easier to tell them the truth about why I'm here?

You were almost positive you hadn't said it aloud. Be that as it may, your inner thoughts no longer discerned themselves with spoken words as Leia replied to you, unbothered.

"They mustn't find out, it puts a target on their backs. I entrust you solely. No room for error." She speaks.

But what if they ask?

"That's enough, young one. Don't tell me you've never had to lie to a man. Now report to the main hanger in the morning. Settle in for now."

Yes ma'am.

"Make some friends, you're in good company. But, place your trust wisely. As of now, that information is your life."

You hum in response

"Rest now."

The fog fades to darkness, and your mind goes blank

#star wars #star wars imagine #star wars x reader #x reader #self insert #naberrie #Naberrie!reader #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader

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