#Fast Attack Craft Market Share

[vipinmishra]

Understanding the Global Fast Attack Craft Market Landscape

Fast Attack Craft Market - Geopolitical Tensions and Maritime Security, Increased Emphasis on Multi-Mission Capabilities, and Technological Advancements and Innovation are factors driving the market in the forecast period 2024-2028.

According to TechSci Research report, “Global Fast Attack Craft Market - Industry Size, Share, Trends, Competition Forecast & Opportunities, 2028”, the Global Fast Attack Craft Market stood at USD 4.5 billion in 2022 and is anticipated to grow with a CAGR of 6.19% in the forecast period, 2024-2028. Equipped with anti-ship missiles, torpedoes, and cannons, a fast attack craft (FAC) is a compact, maneuverable, swift, and attack-capable vessel. Rapid assault boats are employed in several missions, including anti-piracy, anti-surface, anti-air, and marine patrol. Since quick attack ships are less capable of defense, they are typically chosen in coastal areas as opposed to the middle of the ocean.

Their primary usage is in offensive roles. Even enormous capital ships can be seriously threatened by swift attack craft equipped with guided missiles. FAC becomes extremely successful when employed in tandem with new cutting-edge warfare systems like integrated security systems, underwater acoustic weapons, virtual fences, and multi-static antisubmarine warfare capability enhancements (MACE).

The global fast attack craft (FAC) market represents a critical segment within the defense industry, addressing the need for nimble and highly maneuverable naval vessels designed for rapid response and close-quarters combat scenarios. The global FAC market has experienced substantial growth in recent years, driven by evolving security challenges, maritime conflicts, and the need for versatile naval assets capable of swift and precise responses. These vessels are specifically designed to counter various threats, including piracy, smuggling, and asymmetric warfare, making them indispensable in today's complex security environment.

One of the primary drivers behind the growth of the global FAC market is the increasing demand for coastal defense and littoral warfare capabilities. Coastal regions have become focal points of global geopolitical tensions, with nations striving to protect their territorial waters, critical infrastructure, and offshore assets. In this context, FACs offer a cost-effective and flexible solution, as they can operate efficiently in shallow waters and congested sea lanes.

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Moreover, the market has seen substantial investment in the development of technologically advanced FACs. These vessels are equipped with cutting-edge systems, including advanced sensors, radar, sonar, and guided weapon systems, to enhance their situational awareness and offensive capabilities. The integration of advanced electronic warfare and stealth technologies enables FACs to operate covertly and engage hostile forces effectively. One prominent trend in the global FAC market is the emphasis on modularity and mission flexibility. Many FACs are designed with modular systems that can be easily configured for different mission profiles, such as anti-ship warfare, anti-submarine warfare, and mine countermeasures. This modularity enables naval forces to adapt quickly to changing operational requirements, providing a cost-effective solution for various tasks.

Additionally, FACs are increasingly incorporating unmanned systems, such as unmanned surface vessels (USVs) and unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs), to expand their operational reach and reconnaissance capabilities. These unmanned assets can enhance the FAC's surveillance and strike capabilities while minimizing risk to crew members in high-threat scenarios. The global FAC market also exhibits a growing focus on improving propulsion systems. Enhanced powerplants, such as waterjet propulsion and hybrid propulsion systems, are being adopted to provide greater speed and maneuverability. These systems allow FACs to operate in shallow waters and at high speeds, making them highly effective for interception and response operations.

Furthermore, international collaboration is becoming more prevalent in the global FAC market. Many nations are pooling resources, sharing technologies, and collaborating on joint projects to enhance their FAC capabilities and maintain a stronger presence in shared littoral regions. This collaboration extends to joint exercises, maritime security initiatives, and information sharing to foster regional stability and security.

The global FAC market plays a crucial role in addressing modern security challenges, including countering piracy and smuggling, safeguarding territorial waters, and responding to asymmetric threats. These vessels offer a cost-effective and agile solution for coastal defense, littoral warfare, and the protection of vital maritime interests. As geopolitical tensions continue to evolve, and the need for quick and precise naval responses persists, the global FAC market remains a dynamic and vital component of the defense industry.

The global fast attack craft (FAC) market is experiencing significant growth and evolution due to the increasing demand for coastal defense, the integration of advanced technologies, modularity, mission flexibility, unmanned systems, enhanced propulsion, international collaboration, and the development of shore-based anti-ship missile systems. These trends reflect the market's commitment to addressing contemporary security challenges, making FACs indispensable assets for littoral warfare and coastal defense. As the security environment continues to change, the global FAC market will remain a pivotal part of the naval and defense landscape, providing rapid and effective responses to maritime threats and conflicts.

Major companies operating in Global Fast Attack Craft Market are:

China Shipbuilding & Offshore International Co Ltd

Garden Reach Shipbuilders and Engineers

BAE Systems PLC

Hanjin Heavy Industries & Construction

CMN Group

Damen Shipyards Group

Navantia

Fincantieri – Cantieri Navaliltaliani SpA

Goa Shipyard Limited.

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“The global fast attack craft (FAC) market is a vital component of modern naval defense, catering to the need for agile, high-speed vessels capable of swift responses to maritime threats. This market is witnessing substantial growth due to evolving security challenges in coastal and littoral regions. FACs are crucial for countering piracy, smuggling, and asymmetric threats, making them essential assets for coastal defense. These vessels are equipped with advanced technologies, modularity, and mission flexibility, enabling them to adapt to changing operational requirements.

Additionally, the integration of unmanned systems and enhanced propulsion systems enhances their surveillance and strike capabilities. As nations collaborate and invest in FAC fleets, this market remains dynamic and indispensable for safeguarding maritime interests and territorial waters.” said Mr. Karan Chechi, Research Director with TechSci Research, a research-based management consulting firm.

“Fast Attack Craft Market – Global Industry Size, Share, Trends, Opportunity, and Forecast, Segmented By Application (Missile armed FAC, Non-missile armed FAC), By End User (National Defense, Fighting, Others), By Region, Competition, 2018-2028”, has evaluated the future growth potential of Global Fast Attack Craft Market and provides statistics & information on market size, structure and future market growth. The report intends to provide cutting-edge market intelligence and help decision makers take sound investment decisions. Besides, the report also identifies and analyzes the emerging trends along with essential drivers, challenges, and opportunities in Global Fast Attack Craft Market.

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In My Blood | Part One

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

The aftermath of the Schweinfurt-Regensburg mission floods the Belgian countryside with American fliers, including one very injured Curtis Biddick. On a regular supply run to a Resistance contact, you suddenly find him sharing your regular place of shelter for the night, a simple coincidence that very well may change the course of the rest of your life.

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Death, Injuries, Angst, Suffering, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4200

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

August 17, 1943

Pouring from the sky like a summer rain…you had never seen so many downed airmen in one day. It seemed the American Air Force had mounted some great attack. An attack that was met with what must have been every single Luftwaffe fighter plane that now infected your native Belgian soil. The majority were captured by Nazi soldiers, Gestapo, or collaborators the moment their boots hit the ground, keen eyes following the tracks of parachutes as they floated to the ground. But the lucky ones got away, stayed hidden, or were greeted by more friendly faces.

The efforts you had been putting in over the past three months on the exfiltration routes for downed airmen in Western Europe – helping to rebuild and reshape the Pat O’Leary Line into the Françoise Line after the arrest of its former chief, connecting the Belgian-run Comet Line with monetary and equipment-based support from MI9’s agent Jerome in Paris – the timing could not have been better for the sheer demand that the events of the day would put upon them. They were as strong as they could be and yet undoubtedly these numbers would overwhelm them.

Born the only child of a Belgian Jonkheer and the second daughter of the Marquess of Abergavenny, that you would end up as an agent of the Special Operations Executive had been as foreseeable as the Nazi invasion of Belgium. Unexpected and yet altogether unsurprising given circumstance and history.

Entirely too fond of fast cars, cigarettes, gin, and learning the fascinating operations of your father’s iron factories in Wallonia for your mother’s taste, you had been forced off to England in the spring of 1939 to support your cousin Philomena Nevill during her debut. It had been hoped, you supposed, that under the watchful eye of your grandmother, the Dowager Marchioness, that your ‘good breeding’ might suddenly become apparent. That the tomboy whom her father adoringly called mon petit monstre might be transformed into a lady under the onslaught of balls, polo matches, regattas, and horse races all whilst trussed up like some prized pony at a meat market. Never mind that you were three years older than the fresh flesh of the debutantes on display.

All that had been achieved was to put you in the same rooms as the likes of Lord Halifax, Prime Minister Chamberlain, and First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill. The only topic of discussion you had been interested in was the growing threat posed by Hitler with his growing Nazi empire and the fact that your parents remained in your home country right on his doorstep had weighed heavily upon you. There had been a tremendous argument in September, following the invasion of Poland and declaration of war by Britain and her allies. Your father had insisted he must remain to care for his business, his workers, his property. Your mother had insisted that she would remain to care for him. As one united front, all your relatives, including your uncle, the current Marquess, had insisted you remain in England where it was safe.

And so you had found yourself marooned on that unfamiliar island through the fall and winter of the phony war, dread heavy and sour in your stomach as military preparation took precedence over everything. With naught much else to do, you had volunteered with the Red Cross, fundraising as a member of the upper class, outspoken in your distaste for fascism. The watchful waiting came to an abrupt end on May 10, 1940, when the world awoke to the news that the Nazis had invaded the Netherlands, Luxembourg, France, and Belgium in one fell swoop.

Within eighteen days, Luxembourg, the Netherlands and Belgium had surrendered, France was on the verge, and you were orphaned. The hollow, inherited title of Jonkvrouw was all that remained of your parents after an unfortunate run in with a Stuka dive bomber on a bridge out of Brussels, so the letter from your father’s personal secretary read. The post-mark was from Marseilles, confirming that your father had sent everyone else to safety before trying to obtain the very same for himself. It had simply been too late.

Lest you fall to pieces over the loss of your home and family in such quick succession, to be caught grieving in unfamiliar formal homes amongst people you barely knew, you had sought refuge in purpose. Volunteering for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, you put your skills as a motorist to good use. Yet it never felt like enough. Driving lorries full of supplies across the English countryside while sailors and airmen risked their lives made you feel utterly impotent, particularly as the horrific bombing campaigns wore on. Mercifully, more meaningful opportunities found their way to you in the form of Vera Atkins and the SOE. Your social circles overlapped, on occasion, and she had proposed an altogether different use of your unique upbringing, for the four languages you spoke simply by virtue of traipsing across Belgium on your father’s coattails – for the country consisted of French, Dutch, and German speaking peoples and he had insisted you learn them all. While your mother had insisted you spoke only the King’s English with her.

The preliminary school had been difficult, filled with unexpected challenges and daring tasks such as crossing a rope strung between two trees high above the ground. Pure fury at the invasion of your homeland and murder of your parents had carried you through onto the paramilitary school, where you had learned how to master weapons, and hand-to-hand combat. It was then onto parachuting school, as the only way to return to now fully occupied Europe was by low-flying aircraft in the dead of night, and finally finishing school to hone your spy craft.

It was early 1943 by the time you were ready to be dropped into occupied territory, all under the auspices of a deployment to Scotland with the ATS, your extended family none the wiser as you plummeted into an empty field in Northern France to begin your work. By the time the heat of August came around you were proficient at cycling long distances with burdens of weapons and cash, sneaking across the border, making connections on both the French and Belgian side. Making one such delivery of fresh funds for the Françoise line contact brought you to the Flanders village of Beverst that warm summer day.

The small clinic of Doctor Legot, with his flat above, boasted a sizeable cellar, perfect for hosting resistance meetings or the occasional guest such as yourself. He was also a natural community figure for those from all walks of life to visit, obtaining more than just medical advice, though thus far the Gestapo had not caught wise. Letting yourself through the gate into the back garden, you concealed your bicycle amidst some conveniently overgrown shrubbery and slung your handbag over your shoulder before carrying your worn suitcase into the clinic which seemed rather empty for a Tuesday afternoon.

Greeting his receptionist Edda in Dutch, she gestured you down the hall to Dr. Legot’s office. Proceeding with a nod of thanks, you knocked on the door, quietly stepping in as he called out casually in Dutch.

 “Enter!”

As you swung the door open, his head, covered in the thin remainder of caramel hair, shorn close to control its obvious curl, lifted to regard you warmly before falling serious.

“You could not have come on a better day, Marie.” He spoke solemnly, addressing you by the cover name bestowed upon you by the SOE, snapping the patient file he had been reviewing shut.

Stepping fully into the office, you quietly shut the door behind you, setting the suitcase on his desk to deliver the promised funds.

“Indeed, it seems you have been blessed with quite a few visitors today, Doctor.”

You watched silently as he carefully took stack after stack of Belgian francs, tucking them into his safe under his desk.

“More than we have places for, honestly. If you are looking for a place for the night you will have to share accommodations.”

Tight as your grip was on your facial expressions, you still felt your eyebrows twitch in surprise as Dr. Legot rarely housed downed airmen as he himself was not able to speak English and found their behaviour wildly unpredictable, at best. He was a man who preferred things neat and orderly. It was only by respecting his preferences that you had earned repeated shelter under his roof.

“I know, Marie,” he continued, obviously having caught your micro expression, “but the man is in a bad way. Brought his plane down in Maes’ orchard – a feat the boys could not stop commenting upon as they carried him in, even as the pilot was bleeding all over my floor. No one has even asked him if he wants to surrender or explained what trying to evade capture entails.”

“Hm.” You intoned thoughtfully. “Does he need a hospital?”

The middle-aged man settled his broad frame into his worn wooden desk chair with a pronounced ‘creak,’ exhaling heavily in contemplation. “Not need, no. If he chooses to run, he will need maybe two months recovery, but I can manage I suppose.”

The furrow of his brow and the pinched lines around his mouth spoke to his distinct lack of enthusiasm at the prospect, but like so many involved in resistance, his hatred for the Nazis greatly outweighed any other personal preferences after three years of occupation.

“I will give him the speech then, he ought to make an informed decision. Would you mind covering his eyes for me in case his choice is surrender?”

Relief washed across the man’s features, and he nodded quickly, grabbing a roll of bandages.

“Come down in five minutes.”

You nodded in agreement, allowing yourself those five minutes of rest in the safety of Legot’s office, a place you could let your guard down for a little while, until the minute hand of your watch completed its fifth trip around the face. Making your way to the back of the clinic, you stepped into the storage room to the open trap door leading down to the cellar, descending the worn ladder carefully.

Turning in the space lit only by candles, you frowned slightly to see the wounded man, one leg protruding from beneath the sheets swathed in bandages – most likely covered in burns. Stepping closer to the cot that you realized had been carried down especially for this patient, your small twin bed untouched in its usual corner, you swallowed tightly to see more bandages wrapped around the man’s neck, his right arm in a plaster cast and sling. That truly must have been some landing.

“You are certain he does not need a hospital?” You were not usually one to question a doctor’s opinion, but the look of this man left you full of doubt.

Would you not be risking his life hiding him in this cellar in this condition?

You watched a smile tug at his chapped, pink lips.

“You brought a dame, doc?”

Despite the fact that his eyes were covered in bandages, for the sake of protecting your identity, you could definitely read the mischief in his expression.

“Quite certain.” Doctor Legot bristled and gestured sharply for you to get on with it.

Clearing your throat, you summoned all the authority of your grandmother, as well as her haughty vowels, as you spoke. “Airman, listen carefully.”

The pilot’s head snapped slightly in your direction. “Hey there, gorgeous.” He grinned broadly.

The unexpected statement stole the wind from your sails, drawing an incredulous laugh from your throat. “You cannot even see me.”

“Can hear it in your voice.” He insisted smugly and you shook your head sharply – in part to clear it.

“Regardless, I am here you to offer you a choice. We can take you now to the local authorities for surrender, you will become a prisoner of war under the protection of the Geneva Convention and receive further medical care in a hospital. You will remain a prisoner for the rest of the war in relative safety. Or, you can remain here, rest and heal, and when you are ready, we will try and get you back to England. You would be dressed as a civilian and if caught, treated as a spy and shot without trial. Knowing all this, what is your choice? Turn yourself in or try and escape?”

“I will never turn myself into those Nazi fucks…pardon my French ma’am.” He smirked and you bit back another laugh at the preposterous expression.

“Very well. You will stay here and do everything Doctor Legot says. No argument, no trouble.”

“Whatever you say, gorgeous.”

Sighing at his incorrigible nature, you turned to the doctor and nodded.

“He will stay and try to escape.”

“Very well, I have one more appointment today and then I will bring you both some dinner later. Thank you, Marie.” He made his way up the ladder stiffly before securing the trapdoor shut, closing you both into your hiding place.

Reaching forward you gently began to unwind the bandages from his eyes, breath hitching in your throat at the brilliant blue that squinted back up at you.

“Knew you were gorgeous. Marie? I’m Curt.”

“Pleased to meet you.” You replied, doing your best to maintain some professional sense of formality. “You should rest.” Moving to the opposite side of the cellar, you sat onto the mattress that was about as exhausted as you, the springs groaning in protest.

“Yeah, probably right…hey did, did the Doc say if they pulled anyone else from the plane?” His expression was filled with a boyish hopefulness that made you long for a better answer.

“He didn’t, no, but I will ask around tomorrow.”

A soft smile graced his features. “Thanks gorgeous, you’re a gem.” He sighed drowsily and you watched as he was quickly pulled into sleep, so very fragile draped across the cot, swaddled in all those bandages.

In just eight weeks would he truly be ready to face tense train rides and a hike across the Pyrenees?

Your doubts were greatly eased the next time you laid your eyes upon him five weeks later, returning from a guiding run to Toulouse with several airmen who had been downed that day in August including a man named Claytor with a rather remarkable twang to his speech. You bore candles, medical supplies, and extra rations for Doctor Legot, knowing he was undoubtedly going through all at a prodigious rate with his unexpected long-term guest in the cellar. Your trusty suitcase also held an Agatha Christie murder mystery, an English book procured at great difficulty, and a selection of French comic books – while he may not speak the language, you were hoping the pictures would be sufficient entertainment in his subterranean dwelling.

As you climbed down the familiar ladder in the candlelit cellar, handbag swinging on your shoulder, you were startled to find Curt on his feet, looking prepared to try and catch you if you should fall, even with one arm still in a cast. Reaching for your suitcase as the doctor lowered it down for you, he cried your name in greeting.

“Marie! Thought you got lost or something up there.” His grin could only be described as cheeky, his charmingly blunt features only growing more handsome under the display of his playful side. He was dressed in clothes that had no doubt been obtained from a sympathetic local; brown woollen trousers held up by suspenders over a blue flannel shirt, a pair of worn leather boots on his feet.

“Curt.” You nodded politely, setting your case on the foot of your bed. “You are looking well.”

“Doc has performed a miracle, just waiting on this bone to finish healing, then I’ll be right as rain.” He nodded firmly, bandages replaced by a network of fresh red scars creeping up the left side of his neck into his dark brown hair.

Unlocking the latches on your luggage, you opened it carefully, retrieving the assortment of reading material you had collected. “Well, I thought since you might no longer be sleeping so much you might…appreciate something to read.”

Curt’s eyes, clearer than your last encounter, dropped to the comic books and novel you held out to him, eyes widening before he took them with a slow grin. “Been thinking about me out there on your travels?”

“Ensuring your stay with the good doctor remains without incident.” You replied nonchalantly, turning back to organizing your belongings before tucking the suitcase beneath the bed.

When you turned back to him, sinking down onto the mattress to rest your sore legs after your long cycle from Antwerp, he was watching you with a bemused expression.

“Appreciated all the same, Marie. Maybe I’ll learn a little French or something.”

“I thought…maybe the pictures?” You tilted your head and he nodded quickly.

“Definitely.” His grin was all too warm, showing his perfect American teeth and made you turn your attention to the small date book you kept in your shoulder bag, quickly looking over your coded appointments for the next few days.

There were several drops arranged for the area – weapons and radios directly flown from England, set to arrive over the next few nights. Most for the Belgian resistance, though two radios were earmarked for the Comet Line. Night drops were some of the most dangerous things you attempted, but when they were successful, the supplies, otherwise impossible to obtain under Nazi occupation, were invaluable.

“Sure look serious over there, gorgeous. Furrow those brows any harder and they’ll get stuck like that.” Curt’s voice cut through your concentration, your head jerking up to blink up at him as though you were startled he was still there.

The sound of the trap door scraping open saved you from trying to produce some reply. “That’ll be dinner.” You murmured, walking to the bottom of the ladder to accept one bowl and then another of thin vegetable soup followed by half a loaf of bread.

You nodded gratefully to Curt as he stepped forward to take one of the bowls with his good hand.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“See you in a few hours, Marie.”

Carefully setting your bowl on dusty brick floor, you tore the bread roughly in half, offering him the larger portion before retrieving your soup and retreating to your bed.

“He doesn’t cook too bad for a doctor.” Curt commented after swallowing a large sip of soup, taking from the rim of his bowl, and you could not help your small smile.

“I think he enjoys it? Talks about ingredients a lot – how hard some of them are to come by lately.” You shrugged and ate more slowly, savouring every bite as it had been a few days since you had been able to enjoy a warm meal, and Legot was indeed a skilled cook.

“How ‘bout you? You cook?”

You barely contained your wry laugh, shaking your head. Even if you’d had access to a kitchen these days, you certainly had not been raised anywhere near a stove. “My lifestyle isn’t really conducive to cooking, unfortunately.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “My Ma would probably skin me alive if I tried to get in her way in the kitchen. Sisters, too. My Pa and I knew better than to get involved in things we’re hopeless at.”

Licking your spoon clean of every last morsel of soup before moving to swipe a piece of bread through the bowl, you could not help your curiosity. “How many sisters do you have?”

“Two. The apartment back home isn’t big, but the five of us got along alright.” His smile was broad as he leaned back against the cinderblock wall, food long ingested. “What about you? Your family? Where are you from?”

His questions were numerous, bubbling out of him rapidly and making you swallow the half-chewed chunk of bread in your mouth roughly. “Belgium. Do not have one.” You replied evasively before taking another rough bite.

“Just fell out of the sky then? Like some kind of angel?” He teased and you choked a little on your next swallow before managing to get it down.

It would not do for him to know how oddly accurate his jest had been.

“I have to run an errand later tonight, so I’m going to catch a few hours of sleep.” You stood to dust the crumbs from your skirt, setting your empty bowl on the floor.

“An errand in the middle of the night…?”

“Mn.” You grunted in agreement as you toed off your shoes, pulling back the covers before sliding in between the sheets, laying with your back to him.

“Say, Marie?” He asked quietly and you slid your eyes back open.

“Yes?”

“Did you manage to ask around ‘bout…my crew?” There was a soft vulnerability to his tone, his playful bravado seeming to melt away, that made your heart drop.

You honestly had not been sure if he would have remembered that conversation weeks ago, barely conscious and in so much pain. You had of course done as promised, swinging by the Maes farm only to be told that he had was the sole survivor, the rest of the crew set to be buried in the local cemetery by the Nazis – with military honours. What an oddly cruel irony that seemed, to only afford your enemy honour in death.

“I’m sorry, Curt.” You shifted onto your side to face him. “There was no one else who survived.”

An impassive mask fell over his face, his animated expression going blank as he nodded before shifting to lay back on his cot, tucking his hands behind his head. “Thanks for checking.” He mumbled quietly.

“Of course.” You replied softly watching him turn his back to you before doing the same with a soft sigh, duty reminding you that you needed to sleep while you could, a long night ahead of you.

It felt as though you had barely fallen asleep when the scraping of the trap door woke you abruptly. Tossing the covers from your body, you grabbed your handbag, feeling the reassuring weight of your .25 calibre Wembley semi-automatic pistol and F-S knife contained within. Curt glanced back over his shoulder as you slid into your shoes, and you nodded to him.

“Go back to sleep, errand time.” You whispered, collecting both of your supper dishes to pass up to Doctor Legot before ascending the ladder yourself.

Cycling out to the appointed field, you waited hidden amongst the trees with several members of the resistance, the silence of the night unsettling. You knew the plane would fly in low to avoid radar, would cut the engine close to the target to throw off nearby soldiers, but it was a long way from the coast to here. The distant drone of a plane engine reaching your ears made your pulse jump and you forced your breathing to remain even and quiet, every muscle tensing as even the sound of the plane fell silent. Squinting through the trees into the night sky, you licked your lips in anticipation as you spotted the first of several crates falling towards the ground, suspended below parachutes to slow their descent.

Clutching your small spade tightly, you waited until the supplies began landing on the ground before the entire group emerged from the foliage to begin disconnecting the parachutes. Working in concert with others you dug a hole and quickly tossed the telltale silk in before covering it up with earth and tamping it down. Securing the two radios for the Comet Line, cleverly disguised as suitcases, you helped load the rest of the crates and spades into the waiting truck before everyone quickly dispersed into the night.

While your inclination was the cycle headlong towards the safety of the clinic, you forced yourself to maintain a reasonable speed, one that would not attract attention, while taking a rather circuitous route. The eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten as you returned to your hiding place, using the spare key to sneak in the back. Taking a moment to wash your hands in the small washroom for patients, you then carefully descended with the radios and closed the trapdoor. It made quite a racket as it slid home when pulled from the inside, startling Curt from his rest and you frowned apologetically.

“Sorry, everything is fine, go back to sleep.” You murmured, setting the newly procured radios off to the side.

“You’re just getting back now?” He scrubbed a hand down his face tiredly, glancing at his watching blearily.

“Don’t fret about me, rest up, regain your strength.” You smiled wearily and slid back into your bed gratefully.

“There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye, Marie…” A jaw-cracking yawn overtook his statement before he shimmied down beneath his blankets and succumb to sleep once more.

“You have no idea.” You whispered under your breath, settling in for a few hours more sleep before you had to begin your journey to deliver the newly acquired radios to the Comet Line before moving onto the next drop destination.

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

Read Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra

[themarketupdate]

Fast Attack Craft Market is Booming Worldwide | Gaining Revolution In Eyes of Global Exposure

A fast attack craft is a small, fast, agile and offensive warship armed with anti-ship missiles, guns or torpedoes. These warships usually operated in close proximity to land as they lack both the seakeeping and all-round defensive capabilities to survive in blue water. It is designed as a high-speed multi-role platform able to operate in both anti-air and surface combat situations. It incorporates advanced technologies to minimize infrared, radar, magnetic and noise signatures to reduce the chances of detection and enhance the operational effectiveness of the ship.

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Fast Attack Craft Market Size & Share | Analysis - 2030 - Fast Attack Craft (FAC) Market Trends, Opportunities & Forecast (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1418301938-fast-attack-craft-market-size-share-analysis

[sxlver-sweet]

Please i'm begging youu i want to see more fantasy au for tokrev and that pirate would be so good i even have some idess on me already 😩

–🎴

I HAD A FUCKING FIELD DAY WITH THIS I WANNA HEAR YOUR IDEAS PLS SHARE

i’m currently sleep-deprived, so some of these are probably really basic and there’s most likely errors somewhere in here skdkcmdksk

also, requests may be closed, but discussions and more ideas are absolutely welcome.

faerie!kokonoi, who preys on the heartbroken drunkards at upscale bars, listening with a secretive smile as they spill their life stories to the bartender. silver-tongued and clever, kokonoi purrs his condolences, slipping their name into the conversation with ease and feigning oblivion when they, cloudy-eyed and ignorant, hand over their precious bank information and the locations of their valuables.

tailor!mitsuya unable to concentrate on stitching up a torn dress with the incessant clanging in the background and snapping at blacksmith!pah-chin, who’s busy forging knight!baji a new sword. mitsuya chastises baji for being so careless, but all baji does is grumble and turn away, black oil and dirt smeared on his flushed cheeks and long hair clinging to his sweat-stained forehead from his previous sparring session.

wizard!mitsuya spinning golems out of clay and shooing them away with an order to find him more materials to craft matching cloaks for his newest apprentices, luna and mana.

leprechaun!nahoya luring unsuspecting villagers into the forest with the promise of gold coins, only to send branches crashing down onto their heads when they venture far enough. they shout irately and scramble after him as he tumbles, laughing, into the shadows… but it’s no use. he’s too fast.

mermaid!yuzuha punching the shit out of pirates and dragging them down from their ships when they disturb and/or hunt the peaceful merfolk

knight!draken pledging his life to princess!emma

werewolf!baji, who appears to casually laugh off questions about his sharp, prominent canines; when in reality, when he’s secretly sweating bullets. werewolf!baji, whom the others wrinkle their noses at and tease when he orders his steak rare. werewolf!baji, who can’t hide the particularly ferocious, almost predatory glint in his eye that only appears during brawls after the sun has fallen. everyone laughs it off, mistaking his bloodlust for adrenaline. it’s only baji, he’s just intense, they reason.

half-blood!takemichi, who leaps through time with the protective blood of a phoenix coursing through his veins. half-blood!takemichi, whose blood aids him in resisting the beckon of death that pries at the empty body he habitually leaves behind and enables him to keep rising back to his feet no matter who knocks him down.

dybbuk!shinichiro, whose rage inhabits mikey’s body, only flaring to aid in crushing kazutora beneath his little brother’s fist. dybbuk!shinichiro, who plucks away at mikey’s sanity day in and day out, demanding for his death to be avenged. dybbuk!shinichiro, who is the reason that mikey can no longer set foot in his bike shop, because no matter how hard he tries, mikey can’t seem to shut out the eerie groaning of forgotten bikes as they rust away or the crackling squelch of metal colliding with bone that he’s positive he’s never heard before—so why is he hearing it now?

executioner!kazutora, who has no problem with the unjust slaughters that tyrant!kisaki approves, because his unchecked guilt can only be satiated by “cleansing the kingdom of immoral souls.” executioner!kazutora, who hums a crude tavern song as he takes his sweet time lining up his blade with the neck of the shivering woman hunched before him—the shivering woman whose only crime is swiping some bread to feed her starving family. executioner!kazutora, who only finds retribution in the twisted cycle of playing the role of god’s “divine” axe.

knight!toman forming a wall in front of their king to square off against an approaching army, a measly one hundred men with fire in their eyes and swords dripping with blood—a measly one hundred men fully prepared to offer up their lives to protect king!mikey.

jester!hanma, who flirts with the women of the court and openly takes cheap shots at tyrant!kisaki, regardless of whether or not he’s in the vicinity. still, it doesn’t matter how humorous the joke is. no one dares to allow even a twitch of their lips. how hanma hasn’t been executed yet, they don’t know.

pirate!nahoya, who cackles like a madman and jeers at an opposing ship from his place perched atop the crow’s nest

apothecary!souya meeting his future s/o in a field of lavender while he’s searching for fresh herbs. apothecary!souya, who’s mortified by the chalky powder spattered on his overalls and runs a hand through his hair, accidentally smearing a yellow dust through his blue curls. apothecary!souya, who blushes when you kindly offer to brush the powder from his hair. apothecary!souya, who offers you one of the dandelions peeking from his pocket as a gesture of gratitude.

ladies-in-waiting!emma and hina scurrying off to deliver empty dishes to cook!mitsuya, who leans forward expectantly to hear the latest gossip when they approach him with sparkling eyes and poorly concealed smiles.

adviser!draken storming into king!mikey’s private chambers without an invitation to shout at him for neglecting his duties and drag him by the ankle out of bed

sorceress!hina enchanting a four-leaf clover necklace with a spell to keep knight!takemichi safe in battle

spymaster!sanzu scaring the shit out of his scribe!s/o whenever he pops up in the windows of the library in all black with no prior warning

doll-maker!izana, who lives in a secluded area of the woods with his apprentice kakucho and obsessively lines his shelves with replicas of the older brother he wishes he had

knight-in-training!chifuyu working extra hard to impress knight!baji, who had recruited him and taken him under his wing

steampunk inventor!chifuyu, who’s never seen without his trademark goggles that kazutora always pokes fun at and threadbare overalls splattered with oil stains. inventor!chifuyu, who nearly has a heart attack when baji hobbles in on one leg, grinning at him with a face swollen with bruises while waving his detached prosthetic leg in greeting. inventor!chifuyu, who keeps wrenches on his belt specifically to hurl at his idiot friends whenever they come into his shop all beat-up with their bronze prosthetics severely damaged

steampunk!hanma, who has a glass eye with the word “pain” engraved on the iris. steampunk!hanma, who asks kisaki to hold something for him. when the latter holds his hand out with an exasperated sigh, hanma sets his replacement eye in his palm and cackles hysterically when kisaki promptly jolts with disgust and chucks it across the room

cyberpunk!sanzu, who’s already inebriated but continues to drown deeper in the neon lights of the club as he pops an array of glowing pills into his mouth, body numb to the robotic assistants that hum around him and intermingle with the equally delirious crowd in case someone were to collapse from overdosing

masquerade!mitsuya, who smiles at you with such kindness and respect as he guides you onto the marble floor that you immediately resolve to discover his identity at a later date

masquerade!kakucho, who does everything in his power to prevent you from uncovering his identity. masquerade!kakucho, who fears that you’ll be disgusted with his deformed appearance once you see his scar.

samurai!yuzuha, who rescues you from a band of thieves but is perplexed when you insist on repaying her goodwill. samurai!yuzuha, who eventually starts coming to you whenever she needs her wounds bandaged or a home-cooked meal. samurai!yuzuha, who refuses to let you touch her sword with your pure, unsullied hands.

potion-maker!ran, who always despises when rindou barges into his workspace for nothing else than to tip over a couple jars and poke fun at his craft. potion-maker!ran, whose skin and hair have been permanently imprinted with the scent of clove and allspice berries. potion-maker!ran, who concocts love spells and perfumes that grant increased intimacy for the lovesick women who visit him when their own assets aren’t working. potion-maker!ran, who smiles charmingly and calls his female customers “darling.” potion-maker!ran, who has no problem with allowing them to test his products on him in order to guarantee their potency—but only if they’re attractive and have a pretty penny to spare :)

gunslinger!mikey, who almost shoots his big toe off trying to impress the beautiful barmaid across the room

servant!baji, who isn’t the slyest but always makes sure he leaves out a saucer of cream for the stray cats that wander through the town during the night, regardless of how much trouble he gets in. servant!baji, who develops a forbidden bond with his royal!s/o due to their shared love of animals. servant!baji, who is ignorant of the ways of courtship but does his best to flirt with you, however flustered and awkward he may be. servant!baji, who sheepishly seeks advice from his mother about how to impress royalty despite him being unable to offer you any material items.

necromancer!takemichi who doesn’t know wtf is going on and is literally only a necromancer because he fucked up reading a recipe for garlic bread that was written in cursive

vampire!kokonoi, who looks wistfully upon his collection of dusty, old perfume bottles as he recalls how they’d been the most expensive items on the market centuries ago. vampire!kokonoi, who possesses splintered, wooden chests overflowing with outdated currency that will never again be utilized. vampire!kokonoi, who sits for hours and stares at the photo of the young woman that he’s preserved in mint condition for countless years, wondering why he can’t remember who she is

half-blood!mikey, who wonders why his legs are so much stronger than the rest of his body, why he’s always been so much faster than his peers, and why they’re always chock-full of energy. half-blood!mikey, who’s blissfully unaware that the blood of his ancestors is not as it seems. half-blood!mikey, who has zero clue that his lineage marks him a descendant of the minotaur.

farmer!chifuyu, who’s too shy to approach the seamstress’s daughter, so he resigns himself to only admiring her from afar until she makes a move herself. farmer!chifuyu, who’s beyond embarrassed when he accidentally bumps into her, the dirt and grime on his clothing soiling her pristine outfit. farmer!chifuyu, who tries to brush it off, only to panic when the dust on his hands stains the fabric. farmer!chifuyu, who shows up at your mother’s shop the next day to apologize and is nearly chased out due to his kind “not belonging there,” only for you to object and invite him in, claiming that he’s your friend.

jack the ripper!sanzu, who leans up against a dirty brick building with his head low, tongue clicking in rhythm with the slim hands on his golden pocket watch as he decides on his next victim. jack the ripper!sanzu, who dons a simple, shapeless white mask that contrasts sharply with the elaborate feather woven into his top hat. jack the ripper!sanzu, whom others eye skeptically when he skillfully, easily slices his steak into cross-sections with nothing more than a butter knife. jack the ripper!sanzu, who smiles so charmingly at women, basking in their ignorance as he lures them into a sense of false security with a few sweet words. jack the ripper!sanzu, who seals all of his letters documenting his crimes with a lipstick-stained kiss and giggles manically when it smears onto his cheek. jack the ripper!sanzu, who is taken aback when one of his targets whirls on him with anger in their eyes and a knife gripped in their hands, fully prepared to give him a dose of his own medicine.

achilles!izana and patroclus!kakucho. that’s all i have to say. y’all know what’s up👀

soothsayer!takemichi, who’s looked down upon by his fellow prophets because of his frenetic efforts to change the future. while the rest lounge beneath the shade of trees, sweet-smelling smoke curling from their ornate pipes and hazy eyes trailing after people who they know are supposed to die tomorrow, takemichi is doing his best to track them down to warn them of their fate. “he’s just a boy,” the others chuckle, “he won’t make a difference.”

victorian era painter!s/o, who finds seishu inui snoozing beneath a tree and resolves to capture his beauty on a canvas. seishu, who’s well-aware of what you’re doing but decides to let you have your fun. painter s/o, who’s mortified when seishu happens to “wake up” as soon as they sigh with satisfaction and requests to see the picture.

barista!izana, who mixes drugs into his drinks for certain customers while they discreetly slide a handsome wad of cash across the counter

archer!chifuyu, who accidentally spears his superior through the leg while struggling with his bow. archer!chifuyu, who meets kazutora in the dungeons and befriends him during the one night he spends there. archer!chifuyu, who is confused and hesitant when he is abruptly assigned to join the ranks of the prince’s bodyguards. archer!chifuyu, who is white with shock when he sees kazutora stroll into the room, a golden crown balanced atop his head and a wide smile blooming upon his lips when he spots his new friend.

ROBIN HOOD!CHIFUYU

potion-maker!souya, whose face always softens whenever you stop by his shop during your daily mail delivery route. potion-maker!souya, who’s ashamed of himself for having considered exploiting your trust in him and slipping a love potion into your drink. potion-maker!souya, who always offers to make you something befitting the occasion whenever you’re running low on energy, not feeling well, or are nervous about something. potion-maker!souya, who’s too shy to confess his feelings for you.

town crier!nahoya, who sometimes slips a swear word or two into his announcements and prefers to storm the town on horseback, disregarding his elaborate attire. town crier!nahoya, who has definitely snatched you off the street during his routes, leaving you to cling to his sweat-dampened clothes and shout at him for being such an imbecile.

shapeshifter!nahoya, who diligently keeps his eyes closed because he can change everything about his appearance, except for his distinctive eye color.

[suniastrology]

How does Mercury in Aries current transit is going to affect you?

 For all 12 zodiac signs…

On Sunday 4th April, Mercury the planet of communication, mind and intellect is entering Aries, the sign of action, initiation and leadership. This is a very important and dynamic combination which increases our communication activities, sharpens our mind, and energising thinking and intellectual pursues in our lives. 

The transit lasts for couple of weeks where we are going to experience an increase in our communication abilities, a courage when it comes to expression opinion or simply speaking up our truth in a brave manner. Thus, you may find yourself more talkative, enthusiastic to share new ides or taking action towards learning new things -study, taking course, teaching, writing, speaking, etc. You may have an energy boost to initiate or undertake many ventures at the same time but you may find difficulties to accomplishes all of them, therefore slow down from time to time and prioritise.

 This is a great time to insert your ideas, to influence others with your speech/writing/presenting and to show or enhance your leadership abilities. Therefore, motivation speaking, marketing, advertising, publishing and lecturing, etc. could bring desirable results in short space of time.. Gathering and sharing data, information, learning new skills, undertaking short course, qualifications, exams, etc, could be very much the case with this transit. 

Both Mercury and Aries are fast/youthful energies and things regarding intellectual and communication activities will unfold in speedy manner. Excellent results could be achieved when it comes to business ventures where sales, money transactions and promoting products/attracting clients could go very well in short space of time, especially, when your use a good strategic thinking. Mercury in Aries also suggest that you might be physically active, during this period. Sports and practical activities could take place. Short distance travels, social connections – in person or online are also very likely. 

Although, Mercury transiting Aries could be very productive period but we should be mindful not to slip into other spectrum of this dynamic energy because it could bring some not so pleasant experiences in some areas in our lives. This is due to the nature of Aries which along with all the great features what this sign represents, it’s also an expression of anger, aggressiveness and irrational behaviours.

Therefore, Mercury in Aries could bring conflicts, quarrelsome situation, verbal attacks and actions before thoughts. Your ‘sharp- tongue’ could offend someone or you could become easily offended from others. You may become very opinionated and not to listen or accept other’s opinion. Challenges in any type of communication and social connections could occur and consequences may be dramatic. Overthinking, nervousness, overreacting and an impulsive/ irrational decision could be the case too. This could lead to ruined relationships, disagreements with partners -personal or business, upsetting clients, students/teachers, loved ones, etc. You can become very judgemental or critical towards others without checking facts or having a clarity in such instances. Be careful with spending too. Quarrelsome situations with siblings, neighbours or your close environment can occur. Cautions with driving speed should also be in mind. Health wise, watch out for lung problems (people with Asthma should be careful), inflammations, allergies; cuts, burns and injuries, especially, with hands.      

The best outlet for preventing negative manifestations of Mercury – Aries transit is to involve yourself in physical/sport activities. Crafting, gardening, cooking, handmade things, etc (Mercury-rules hands, shoulders) could ease the pressure of such restless energy.  Reading, breading (Mercury – rules lungs and nervous system) exercise or spiritual practices can also calm you down.

Areas of life where Mercury in Aries transit is making you the most active and productive (or where some caution is needs), according to your zodiac sign are: ARIES – your physical body, appearance and it could influence all areas in your life 

TAURUS – your spiritual life, secrets, private life, past events/people/relatives resurfaced 

GEMINI – social life, friendship, business, humanitarian matters

CANCER – career, long term goals, social status matters, interaction with authorities/bosses

 LEO – higher education, legal matters, foreign connections, philosophy/religion, travel

VIRGO – mutual resources, taxes, insurances, loans; psychology, esoteric knowledge

LIBRA – relationship, partnership (personal or business), contracts, agreements, sales

SCORPIO – work life, daily duties, service, health and wellbeing

SAGITTARIUS – love and romans, children, hobbies/interests/sport and entertainment  

CAPRICORN – family life, home, properties, place of living, emotional state 

AQUARIUS – communication, studying, intellectual ventures, ecommerce, siblings, local community

 PISCES - financial matters, resources, spending, income and possessions

I hope this info helps you to understand the energy of this astrological event and to navigate it in the most beneficial way into your life. Keep in mind this is a general outlook and how exactly will influence you it’s depending on your personal horoscope, but most definitely you will feel this energy in one way or another in some areas in your life.

 Best wishes

suni astrology

[ceruleanmusings]

Kai and Crystal get together by accident.

That is, neither of them intentionally seeked the other out. Sure, they both have things the other begrudgingly finds attractive (have you seen Kai’s arms? and she could probably bench press him if she wanted) but it’s nothing either speaks aloud or acts on. Intentionally.

When you’re surrounded by loud, crazy, insane energetic teammates, sometimes peace and quiet is a necessity rather than a need or a want. Kai doesn’t talk much and Crystal knows when to speak and when it’s best to stay quiet. So it only made sense for them to eventually occupy the same space as refuge from all that. (Not that she’s immune to Tyson’s adventure-laden charisma; he can sway her with the right words or bribes (i.e. the promise of something sweet), but even she needs time to regroup, rebalance, and decompress.)

With the peace and quiet came an ease they didn’t expect: how to move around one another, how to occupy the space without taking up space, how to communicate without speaking. Plenty of times Kai would be broken from a spell of reading, studying, or looking over forms to find her holding out a mug of tea (prepared the way he liked it) or a small plate of food (sometimes he forgot to eat). And he could tell from the particular way her eyebrows puckered if she stalled on a hard homework assignment or couldn’t understand a passage in a book.

Then they started their walks. Which, again, was unintentional but people needed a break from studying and to get some fresh air. Plus, Kai had to walk Hana anyway so it was killing two birds with one stone. There was no idle chatter, no small talk, and they liked it that way (Kai especially). And if they did speak, it was brief—”Hold on”, “Wait a second”, “Hurry up”, “Hana, stop licking that!”—until it divulged into safer topics such as beyblading, the BBA, work, school, or ragging on Tyson (they were friends, it was fine, he didn’t mind.)

Added onto the walks were Starbucks meetups (her after school and him on his lunch break from work), going to the markets in the morning (the Granger dojo constantly needed food with Tyson’s big appetite), yoga sessions (he balked at first only to give in when she mentioned, very bluntly might he add, that it would help work the stick out of his tightly clenched ass), card games, volunteering at the restructured BBA, volunteering at the local animal shelter (when she found out he visited she had to swear up and down, left and right, on her head, she wouldn’t tell a soul. And she wouldn’t, even if it was endearing and adorable and world-shaking to see Kai being gentle with the kittens and puppies) and of course the occasional beybattle (he always won).

It was when she’d made an offhand jokey comment once about her childhood, or lack thereof, that Kai asked her about it, crossed an invisible line, stepped into her world. He wondered how she managed to survive so long when she was banished from the White Tiger Village at such a young age, what got her to this point, with dreams of attending school and becoming a pediatrician. She hemmed and hawed at first but, when it dawned on her that someone else finally got it—having their childhood taken away, needing to fight to see the next day, needing to be one-step ahead of everyone else, having to grow up fast—she shared it all, unflinching, a little bitter, and very honest. He sat, he listened, and he apologized. Why, she wasn’t sure, but she accepted it. And when she asked him about his childhood, he only shared bits and pieces but she held onto them and held them to her chest; getting glimpses into Kai’s life was like getting a peek at the rarest, most precious gem in the world.

It wasn’t until Ray—so smug after weeks of observation—pointed out they were practically dating, did it occur to them that, somehow, they were. And it wasn’t terrible for two emotionally stunted and scarred people.

Maybe Kai didn’t share his emotions a lot, but she knew what he felt and what he needed from reading his body language and he was much more attentive than she would have pegged. And maybe Crystal wasn’t the most well-read person in the world and had an immaturity streak exacerbated by self-doubt, but, as he put it, he wouldn’t waste his time with or on someone who had potential and could do something with it. (His tactless pep-talks were a blessing and a curse.)

Maybe it took longer for them to breach basic physical forms of intimacy (Kai nearly had a heart attack straining through the sudden urge to hold her hand), and maybe outwardly they weren’t the most affectionate people (well, she was, but she wouldn’t dare try to touch him let alone hug him in public out of the blue despite being the more openly forward of the two), but behind closed doors and in their specially crafted world, she was his Kitten and he was her Sourpuss, and they worked and it was all they could ask for; for one good thing in their lives to work.

[tanadrin]

The first part of our voyage west was to be by sea. The greater part of Altuum lies between the Windlands and Nebressa, and where the long arc of the former meets the continent, the high mountains and deep God-Forests of Dap Ngara and Dap Mbeki form a barrier that is all but impassable, except to the people of those countries, or those on whom they bestow certain favors. It is said the greatest of the God-Trees are as high as mountains, and beneath their boughs are spaces that are vast and dark, and filled with strange creatures unknown to the world at large. Otherwise, many would no doubt choose the overland route, for the route by sea is filled with danger. In the autumn, typhoons arise in the southeastern part of the sea, and rise north toward the equator; year-round there is the risk of pirates. And, of course, in the deeper parts of the ocean, sailors say there are terrible monsters that dwell under the waves and devour ships from time to time; and this is why most vessels prefer to go along the coast. But I do not consider such tales entirely reliable.

When the Sea Kuthra came to the Windlands, they founded many towns along the coast. The greatest of these, which became the entrepot for the middle part of the peninsula, was the port of Kaklune. We tarried there for four months until we found a ship traveling to Presh, whose captain seemed capable, and whose pilot knew the route well. Have you heard the tales of Ctarra, the hero of the Gelar Isles? They say there are a thousand tales of him, though I never heard above two dozen. I believe few of them, but if you had told me that the crew of this ship had once sailed under that mighty mariner, I might have believed you. They knew their craft well, and their ship, though weathered, was in fine condition.

We hoped at first for an uneventful journey. For two weeks we sailed northward along the coast, stopping briefly at Yamakul and Harone, where the crew unloaded timber from the south, and took on cloth and dyes to carry westward. The captain explained to me that the wood was good only to fill the hold for a short distance, and would be of no special value in Nebressa, where better timber is had from the Oethar hills anyway. But the cloth of the northern Windlands is of good quality, and could be traded for supplies anywhere between Harone and Presh; and sold for a handsome profit in Velannu or Nebressa. The ship seemed lighter and swifter after that (though perhaps that was simply my imagination), and the weather was fair when we departed Harone.

We went around the outer isles of the Ngaran Bay, and so caught no glimpse, even from a distance, of the God-Trees; I was certainly saddened by this. After that, we were beyond the Windlands for good. The country between the Windlands and southeastern Oethiam has little in it. To the north, on the great Conn plain, there are large towns, but the lack of good harbors on the coast and a history of vicious warfare, the captain told me, means that there are few places worth a stop, at least for the sake of commerce. For the next few weeks, she said, we should expect only to go ashore to take on water or to collect provisions. Was this not the land of the Tiger-People, in the tales of Ctarra? I asked; and the captain laughed. Yes, she said; once it was, perhaps, but they are long gone.

Alas, one danger that has not changed since those days is the risk of pirates. Our ship was fast, her crew experienced, and none of them shrank from danger; but the ruin of that region, owing to the wickedness of its princes, had made many of the people desperate, and we were but a few days past Tibray Head when we spotted pale sails behind us. At this sight, the captain fell silent and seemed to be deep in thought, but the pilot told us there was little to fear: that the pirates often watched ships from a distance, but rarely attacked unless they had very great numbers, or thought their target unusually ill-prepared. For two days, I glanced occasionally aft, and did my best to share the pilot's nonchalance. On the third, midmorning, we spotted sails ahead of us, as well, and more joined our companions to the rear. Now the pilot himself fell silent, and the crew began to work swiftly, steering us out toward the open sea where there would be more room to maneuver. There was little talk among them, and that made me really afraid.

I will pass briefly over the next part of the tale, because you know the outcome. Despite the crew's efforts, it was clear after a few hours we would soon be overtaken. The captain took us back toward the coast, hoping to lose our pursuers among the islands there; but this plan failed. The pirates grappled the ship, and there was a terrible battle. A good part of the crew was killed, and the ship was badly damaged by cannon-shot. I was wounded, but only lightly. But the pirates suffered enough that they decided in the end our cargo was not worth the price they would pay, and withdrew. In the aftermath the captain put us to work at once clearing the bodies; we needed to find safe harbor, if we could, before they returned.

That was my first experience of real violence, and though it was not my last, it remains in some ways the worst. These were not soldiers; they were but sailors, united under a common bond of friendship and many trials weathered together, and the pain of the wounds on the bodies of those who survived was not half the pain of the grief they endured at the loss of their friends.

By a stroke of great fortune, there was a small town just up the coast, nestled in a narrow inlet. The captain went ashore, and after some quick negotiations with the headman of the town, we were assured of safety so long as we remained. A small gift of cloth, spices, and southern metalwork expanded the hospitality of the inhabitants considerably. They offered aid in repairing the ship, and gave over an empty house for our use.

But our misfortunes only increased from there. In the morning, we woke to find the captain feverish and disoriented; a local fever, perhaps inflamed by grief. It was only after several days that she began to recover slowly, but by this point it was apparent that it could be many weeks before the ship was ready to sail again, and even then it would have to return to the Windlands first, to hire the additional crew necessary to make the trip to Presh. In this time, my sister and I had been in close consultation with the town's leaders, who were of the opinion that for the time being the overland route, which would at least take us as far as one of the small ports on the inland sea, was safer by far. A new king of the Conn had driven the bandits on the roads away, so while the number of pirates was greater than ever, and the season of typhoons was not far off, we could be reasonably assured of our safety, especially if we traveled in a caravan. Some of the townsfolk were going north to market soon; from there, no doubt, we should find a larger group headed west, for the people of the eastern plane often made the trip in late summer.

So we went north. It was five days' travel to the market-town--whose name, alas, I could never pronounce--and nine more days of waiting there. An ill-tempered merchant took us on reluctantly, because, he said, the gods would be sour with him if he let two such utter fools as us come to harm on the road. But he made us purchase some of his horses, and I do not think the price was very good.

And so in this way, after another three weeks of travel, we came to the country called Vadue. Now, the small states and the free cities of this region had for the most part been unremarkable to us. Despite the tales of the Windlands, none of the people here dressed in tiger-skins, or had four eyes, or had their feet on backwards; they were for the most part ordinary folk such as might have been found in the lowlands of our own country, though they ate more root vegetables, and grew more grain. But the people of Vadue are very different from all the people around them.

Vadue is located on a small plateau that rises from the surrounding lowland quite steeply on three sides; the steepest is the eastern side, which was, alas, the road we had to take. It is ringed with high, wooded hills, and the interior is a little lower; and there a swift river rises, flowing westward through a narrow gorge. Once, it must have been a very populous country. There are great ruins of stone to be found nearly on every hilltop and in every valley, but now it is much reduced. Its people live in only a handful of small cities, surrounded by terraced farms that stretch down the slopes of the hills. They shun the large inner valley, for reasons they refuse to discuss with outsiders. And in Vadue, children are kings.

So the saying goes. I did not appreciate its meaning, and thought it perhaps metaphorical, or a legend like that of the four-eyed northmen, when I first heard it. The Vadueans have a reputation for honorable hospitality, so when we came into that country we immediately sought out a village to rest in for the evening. The first one we came to was a small collection of houses, built in the middle of a larger ruin of stone, with many of the materials obviously taken from the surrounding pile. The village square appeared to be the former hall of some great palace, which was now open to the sky. We were met there by three village elders, who form the customary greeting party for travelers, and taken to a place of rest. I looked around us as we walked through the village, and noted nothing unusual about the families therein. Except the ruins, nothing worth remarking upon presented itself to me.

We ate the evening meal with our hosts about half an hour before sunset. As I spoke nothing of the language, I relied on those of the party who could interpret for us to ask questions about the country and its history. Vadue was old, they said; the ruins in which they built their houses had been built by the Vadueans themselves, long ago. In those days, they were a more numerous and wealthier people; and though their number and their fortune had declined since then, their written history was continuous since that time, and the rites of their ancestors preserved. I thought that this was a remarkable claim, as it was difficult to see how such an ingenous people as the ruin-builders could give way to such unremarkable descendants. But our translators were tired from the day's journey, so I enquired no further.

It took us two more days to reach the largest town in eastern Vadue, which is Oqelans. If the account of Vaduean history was accurate, Oquelans must have once been a very great city indeed. Overgrown streets stretched high up into the hills around it, and the broken ruins of towers crowned some of the hilltops. Now the town was confined to a valley between two hills, that at the bottom dropped into a deep ravine, through which a swift, narrow river raced. The town was at the top of the ravine, on either side; narrow stone bridges, as old as the ruins but in better condition, criss-crossed it in many places. Oqelans was accustomed to a greater number of travelers, and so their greeting-party was institutional: three delegates stand in the square, and greet travelers both in the tongue of Vadue and the tongues of the nearby lowlands.

Now, the caravan was to stay in Oqelans longer, and I was footsore and extremely glad of the opportunity for a few days' rest. My curiosity about the country had also been piqued, so instead of staying in the merchant-house, we took lodgings in a smaller guesthouse which overlooked the ravine, and which was on the main street of a quieter neighborhood. The proprietor of the guesthouse and her husband spoke the lowland tongues passingly well, and I had picked up a little of them since joining the caraven; and together with some other linguistic odds and ends we managed to converse. Yes, the husband said, it was true that the present-day Vadueans were the sons and daughters of the ancient ruin-builders. Astonish you, it may, he said; but the techniques of our ancestors are not entirely unknown to us. We could perhaps rebuild the ruins, if we wished.

I asked why they did not. Why should we? said the proprietor. We have no need of enormous cities; we are not so numerous as we once were. But they were grand in their day, I said. Yes, they were, the proprietor agreed; but cloth needs weaving and fields need sowing. This is a Vaduean expression, for the ordinary work of life which must be done by all. We spoke also of religion; the Vadueans' beliefs are not very systematic, though they are not especially superstitious. Most of their rites are concerned with paying respect to their ancestors, and honoring their dead heroes. And what, I said eventually, of your governors? Have you kings or princes here in Vadue? No, they said; there are the local assemblies, and the town elders, and the magistrates before which criminals, oathbreakers, and faithless merchants are sometimes brought. But we have no kings, and no hereditary princes. I have heard in Vadue that children are kings, I said. They laughed at this. They called over their son, a boy of about seven or eight, and asked him if he was a king. No, he replied; today I am a bear. And he went off growling in what was indeed a rather bearlike fashion.

It is not unusual when collecting stories of other lands to find that they disagree with one another, or with the world. Unless the collector is very well-traveled indeed, and can verify by personal experience each account they hear from another land, even the most careful one will occasionally find sour lies in the basket of sweet truths. Some lies are so improbably we can discard them at once, like fruit rotted all the way through, while some appear true but are false; the rot is hidden, so to speak. And the careful historian will note that there are occasionally stories which are on their face preposterous, but which turn out to be entirely accurate: a bruised skin, hiding good flesh within. And there are many such truths, for the world is wide and inevitably full of stranger things than even the wisest can imagine.

I took a walk in the city the next day; and I returned to the guesthouse before noon, and sat on the steps watching the people pass to and fro down the street. I would like to say I was an assiduous chronicler, observing the subjects of his chronicle carefully. In fact, I was merely tired, and impatient for lunch. But I noticed a curious thing, as I sat. There were not many children in Vadue. In the lowlands, I had heard an expression: the one poor in wealth may be rich in sons and daughters. At home, in the Windlands, we had a similar saying: count not the prince fortunate, nor the rich man happy, unless he have many sons. Why was Vadue, not poor in any other measure, poor in this one?

After we had eaten lunch, I asked the proprietor about this. She did not understand the question at first. I used the wrong word, and took me to be asking why few families had children. But she knew many families, they said; all had at least child. I searched for different words; why, I asked, was the quantity of children I saw in the street so low? Is it? she replied. It is, I said. The farmers just to the east have five or more children as a rule. She frowned; were they so cursed, that their children died so young? No, I said; I do not know how many of their children die. I mean, the number who live. At this, she seemed disbelieving.

The confusion between us was not slight, but after much back and forth, I gathered this: that the people of Vadue generally have between one and three children. Two is most common. Four is uncommon. Five or more is exceedingly rare. Children die more rarely in infancy, and the Vadueans attribute this to the religious rites they have around the collection of water and the quality of their medicines, of which I cannot speak directly because I had no occasion to observe them. And the Vadueans do not refrain from having more children because children are hated; they are loved no less in Vadue than elsewhere. But by special preparations, and avoiding the inseminating act when lying together, most husbands and wives prefer to limit the number of offspring. And this, I thought, perhaps explained the mystery of the great ruins. The Vadueans, I concluded, had impoverished themselves: for if they had on average only two children, or a little more, only a small amount of accident or disease, or simply failure to have children of their own, would mean that the size of each generation was a little less than the size of the former. And very gradually--perhaps so gradually they did not notice--the population of the country must have declined, until it inhabited great cities it could no longer afford to maintain. Woe to the people of Vadue! I said to myself. A sorry tale, although one with blessedly little bloodshed.

The night before we were to depart, the proprietor's grown son and daughter came to visit their parents. As was the custom, every two weeks they dined with them; and they brought their children with them. So I had occasion to observe three generations together, and what I saw caused me to question the tale as I had understood it earlier.

The grandchildren were doted upon by all, even their parents. And like many families, they told me, they lived together in a common house with other parents of young children; together they shared the labor of raising them. And that labor was considerable indeed. For though they were only of modest means, these children were educated in letters and sums, and apparently also in the history and poetry of the country; and in song and had even scraps of astronomy and knew a few words of foreign tongues, though they had never left Oqelans. And this was not considered an unusual thing. So I enquired further after the practices of childrearing in Vadue; and they said that every child, even those of the meanest peasant, was afforded some kind of education. And they explained the methods of education in that country, which were gentle and patient; and when I asked how children were punished when they disobeyed, I was astonished to find they were never punished at all.

I asked again, with different words, thinking I had misunderstood; but my interlocutors were stern and clear. No child in Vadue was ever hit or whipped. Even the stupidest, meanest, most recalcitrant child could expect to be met with patience in tutors, parents, and strangers alike. Even to raise one's voice to a child was considered a failure, worthy of a small amount of disapproval from one's neighbors. Disobedient children were simply re-instructed in the behavior they ought to show. And if a child did poorly at their lessons, it was the tutor that was considered to have erred!

I was so surprised at this, that I was asked about my own childhood, and I found myself reflecting on things I had not concerned myself with for many years. I thought on how my parents, whom I loved, and even now consider kind and wise, had beaten us when we misbehaved. I thought on learning my letters in the rectory school, and the blows of the switch on the wrists or ankles intended to sharpen my attention when I made a mistake. I thought of the children in the village I saw, who worked alongside their parents, whose labors were as great, given their capacities, as those of the grown men and women around them. My hosts were greatly saddened by these accounts, though I consider my childhood and that of my friends to have been happy. And then I understood what it was meant, when travelers said of Vadue, that in that place children are kings. If you are accustomed to raising children with the stick as well as with love, this seems like a land where parents cringe and simper before their children, where the righteous order is inverted.

For you see, Vadue is a land I believe to be unusually peaceful. Its mountainous character shields it from invasion; and it has little in the way of wealth that cannot be got more easily from surrounding countries. For all that, it is relatively prosperous: after all, it need produce little, to feed a population that does not grow. And because of their peace, and because of their prosperity, the Vadueans have little need for, and a great loathing of, violence and killing. They whip no slanderers, and brand no thieves, just as they slap no children, nor condemn even the most unrepentant murderer to die. And because of the care and labor undertaken on their behalf, and the sanctity of their person, travelers who have seen only this most obvious feature of their country--the few children, who run free, and have an education that would befit a noble in any other land--the only state which most visitors can name, which approaches that of a Vaduean child, is the state of royalty. And this I at last understand is what the sages mean when they say we shall all be kings in Paradise: not that we shall command and have license to be capricious, but that we shall be free from the caprice and cruelty of others.

I believe that once, Vadue was not like this. That long ago, the people that lived in that country were like their neighbors. By some stroke of fortune, their civilization rose to a very great height, and they were prosperous for a long time; and for love of their children, as all parents have, they doted on them more and more; and consequently, they had fewer, so they could give more to the children that they did have. The offices of state withered away, and they abolished them. That which they prized changed. They prized the family more, and the day-to-day life more; and they spent less time consumed in the fear of vengeful gods, or with carrying out the policies of the tyrants they no longer had. And without need of an ever-growing population to sustain, and without fear of an invasion that might destroy their customs and habits, they permitted the monuments and towers of their ancestors to gently decay. For these were ultimately in the service of vanity: vain princes and vain legacies, vain glories that flattered the nation, but fed not a single starving soul, nor sheltered a single head from the rain.

So they no longer build great monuments. They have their arts and their sciences, but these are pursued either for the joy in themselves, or for the joy they bring one another, rather than to serve as instruments of greater powers. When they have surpluses, some of it is stored, and some distributed according to need, and some sold; and the exact manner of division and distribution differs from town to town, depending on custom and circumstance. So though they have their poor citizens (and their rich), they have no beggars, and no one ever starves. And though they inflict no punishments on the bodies of their criminals (and they assured me that they have criminals, and laws, and courts, like any other country), you may still travel the length and breadth of the land without a bandit slitting your throat for the clothes on your back. For, they believe, it is only when you treat a man as a beast that he becomes one. That bloodshed cannot answer bloodshed, if it is one's aim to forestall it further. They raise their children in the manner that they do, for their most ancient priests long ago said that authority cannot teach alone, and pain is the least useful lesson of all, but patience is the road to wisdom, and love its crown. Despite their laxness, their country is peaceful and their children well-behaved. I cannot say how all these marvels are accomplished, for we did not remain in Vadue long, but nothing I saw in my time there gives me any reason to doubt them.

From beyond its borders, Vadue looks like a poor nation dwelling in its own corpse. But this is perhaps true only if you think that a nation is it princes, that its greatness and its wealth is measured only by the greatness and the wealth of its mightiest inhabitants, rather than its lowliest. If you are of the opposite opinion, Vadue is something of a rarity in this world: a truly happy place.

But of all my tales, I have found, this is the one most widely disbelieved. Yet I have seen it; though I would perhaps doubt it otherwise. In Vadue, children--and men, and women, the lowliest and the highest alike--are kings.

–Tâw Ras, yab Arah; Journals of the Long Pilgrimage, 2663 oE.

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 34 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 34 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

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New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

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Chapter 11: Selection

Captain Mord, Kurin and a delegation of the Longin’s Craft Masters set out for the Council Pavilion several hours after sunrise.  Their large gig was overtaken by Captain Sula and Captain Huld in a long, narrow, very fast rowing boat.  Sula was pulling her own oars, and Huld was steering.

In a disgustingly cheerful voice, she called out to them, “What ho, Longin!  Have you decided what to do?  Is there aught that I can do for you?”

“Be with us as a voice of reason,” replied Captain Mord.  “At least you have been able to talk the Council into sanity.”

“Will do!” she answered cheerily, and bent her back to the oars.  Her boat quickly disappeared into the throng about the market platforms.

Shortly, the Longin’s delegation was standing before a packed Council, Sula and Huld at their side.  The news that the Longin might be opening up Ship’s Business had spread.  There was a loud babble of voices that slowly settled down, when Captain Mord raised his hand for attention.

“Yesterday, I said that I would counsel my crew to open up some of our Ship’s Business.  They have agreed to do so.”

There was a loud murmur of delight among the assembled Captains.

Mord held up his hands for silence again.  “We find the fish by means of special charts, prepared by the Dragon’s Daughter, in connection with our past fishing catch records.  She will make charts for your waters, too.”  He was interrupted by a loud rumble of approval. Once again he sought silence so that he could proceed.  “Her skilled services are not instant, nor are they free.  You may inquire of the Craft Masters with me about the cost.”  This was met with outright hostility.

“Your charts didn’t cost you anything!  Why should we pay?” was about the gentlest reaction.  Some were much ruder.

Captain Sula raised her hands for silence, and when she didn’t get it, she picked up a Council bench, dumping Captain Barad unceremoniously to the floor.  She ripped a leg off the stool and smashed it against the seat with a loud report.  Seeing what she had done, and knowing that few of them had the strength to do it, the rambunctious Captains quieted.  

“Their charts were most certainly not free!” she exclaimed.  “What would you charge for the completely dedicated use of any of your ships, from one full Wohan to the next?  Come, come, give me a reasonable figure.  Assume that your ship does nothing in all those weeks but sail under the direction of the cartographer?”

That put a different light on things, and gave them something actual to work with.  They began figuring.  Discussion ran rampant, and Sula let it.  This was constructive work going on.

They answered at last, through Sarfin, Captain of the Dorton, and present leader of the Council, “We are agreed on the value of such a voyage.  It comes to 2,600 Strong Skins.”

“Now,” smiled Sula, “you yourselves have set the value of such charts for three home waters.  That is how long it took the Longin to make her charts.  Expensive?  Yes.  Paid off?  In the Longin’s case, nearly, and in only half a Gathering.  Some may take longer, some may be quicker.  It will depend on what the charts reveal.  I would call it a good risk.  Talk to the Longin’s Masters.  They have more to say.”

Mord took over again, with a serious face.  “We intend to reveal the next part, which is connected to the charts and the exploiting of them.  It is a skill of accurate dead reckoning navigation that works in fog or cloudy weather, day or night.  This will require an act of the Council.  We mean to set up a school for such navigation and certify the navigators through the Council.

“Before any Captain offers debate, we will give a demonstration.  Take Bron, one of our cabin boys, and a good pupil, by Kurin’s account, one day’s sail in a small boat, in any direction from here.  Let him be blindfolded from before he leaves here, until he gets back.  To be sure, follow him in another boat and observe him at all times.”

The demonstration was agreed to.  Bron was taken out and put adrift in a small boat, with rations and water, and followed by another small boat, also under sail.  At some points, Bron took turnings that mystified his followers until they got caught in the tidal currents that he was avoiding or taking advantage of.  He brought both boats unerringly back to the Gathering.

Kurin spent that night and all of the free time that she could staying with Captain Sula aboard the Dark Dragon.  Together they visited and talked with many of the Dark Dragon’s Craft Masters in their shops. Everywhere that Kurin looked she saw the vertical lines of what she now realized were a form of writing.  Aboard the ship, almost no person went unhooded and those few were all newly recruited and being educated in the Dark Dragon’s ways.  Everyone communicated with a sign language unless they had both hands full or there was some other reason.

She even saw the ship’s children, all hooded like their parents carrying daggers and axes.  When they sat, using big cushions instead of chairs, they often read from books with the same odd writing in them. Many of the children’s books also had pictures.

The Dark Dragon’s many shops held Kurin spellbound.

The next morning, Barad descended the gang-way to the temporary floating dock beside the Grandalor.  He smiled to Tanlin and said, “First Officer Tanlin, on the shelf in our quarters is a sail-sewing kit. We have done with assessing the changes to it.  Would you take care of it, please?”

“At once, Ca’tain,” she replied, glad of the duty to destroy the noxious thing.

Barad went to the Captain’s Council.  Now I can begin to splice the cables between Grandalor and Longin, he thought as he was rowed to the rafts of the Gathering.

Tanlin descended the companion-ladder near the cabin that she shared with Barad.  In the passageway, she met Silor.

“‘Ello, Lad.  Oi ‘ope t’at ye donnae mind t’ muckle t’at ye are an errand boy, for now,” she said pleasantly.

“No Ma’am, I don’t mind doing errands,” he answered seriously.  “It gives me the chance to meet the Masters and officers as well as learn the layout of the Grandalor.  Also, I know that I have to be kept out of sight for the present.”

“T’at’s good.  Ca’tain Barad wa’ right about ye bein’ quick.  Many wad chafe at t’e necessity.  W’at errand are ye about, now?”  Silor visibly stood straighter at her praise.

“Mister Morgu sent for me.  I’ve an errand for his office.  It’s just down here, isn’t it?”  He pointed further down the passage.

“Tis, t’ird door t’ t’e left.  Oi’ll nae hold ye, t’en.  Good morning t’ ye.”

“And to you, Lady Tanlin.”

She slid aside her door and went into the Captain’s cabin.  As she got the kit, she noticed, Barad must ‘ave been lookin’ at ‘t. Tis nae square on t’e shelf.  Tucking it under her arm, she went the familiar way to the sickbay.

Doctor Corin was busy at the apothecary cabinet when she arrived.  The sickbay was otherwise empty, so Tanlin raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

The Doctor gestured at the dozen parchment packages that he was preparing and explained, “Stomach cures for the crew who over do it at the food booths.”

“Oi see.  Just bein’ prepared.  Wise.  Take care o’ t’is for us, will ye?”  She handed him the kit.

“Is the spine that the Captain mentioned in the Standing Orders in here?” he asked.

“We t’ink t'is, Doctor.  We just found ‘t,” she said easily.

“I’ll dispose of it properly as soon as I have these powders done,” he said, relieved to see the kit unused.  “That thing is a danger to us all, so long as it exists.”

“Oi leave ‘t t’ ye, Doctor.  M’ t’anks — — for evert’ing. Oi’ll be in t’e mess.  ‘Elmsmon’s meeting.  Let m’ know w’en tis dune.”

“I’ll do that,” he replied, turning back to his powders.

In the mess, Tanlin handed out tallow-slates and copies of a small book to the assembled helmsmen.  It appeared to have been hastily produced.

“What’s this?” asked Kreul.

“Ye’re ‘elmsmon, Secund Day Wotch, Kreul, aren’t ye?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well, Kreul,” she said in the tone of a lecturer, “yer quest’n’s a valid ane.  Tis an intellectual exercise.  T’e Forst Officers are going t’ study t’is manual as well.  Ye all know t’at t’e Ca’tain ‘as an interest in t’e Boren Current Wars.  We got t’is manual from t’e Soaring Bird’s boot’.  T’ey an’ t’e Dark Dragon fought in t’ose wars.  T'is knowledge t’at naebody else in t’e Naral fleet ‘as ever studied.  Wit’ luck, nane will ever need ‘t ‘ere.  So, wye study ‘t?  T’e Ca’tain wants us t’. Good enow?”

It was.  The four helmsmen and two helmswomen bent over the book and read the title page.

The Strategy and Tactics of War

by

Sula Corin Dark Dragon

Commissioned by order of the Combined

Councils of Captains and Masters of the Corliss fleet.

“Ma’am, I’m Darkistry, Third Night Watch.  We’ll study this if the Captain wants us to but Dragons grant that we never need something like this.”

“Darkistry, ye are curiously close t’ t’e opening paragraph o’ t’is book.”  Tanlin picked it up and opened it, reading aloud.

“T’e necessity o’ t’e knowledge t’at t’e Councils ‘ave ordered m’ t’ write ‘as been proven by t’e attacks o’ t’e Boren fleet upon us.  Dragons grant t’at t’is, o’ all knowledge, be left on dry land for lack o’ necessity in t’e future.”  

She laid the book aside and said seriously, “T’e date places t’is book at t’e end o’ t’e Forst Boren Current War.  T’e knowledge ‘ere,” she laid her hand on the book, “preserved t’e Corliss fleet in t’e next twa wars.”

“Did ye know,” her eyes swept the six, “t’at t’ere are times wen t’e ‘elmsmon’s orders override anybody but t’e Ca’tain ‘imsel’?  We’ll skip t’e strategy section.  Read ‘t on yer ane, i’ ye find ‘t interesting.

“Macoul, read t’ us from t’e start o’ part twa, Tactical Considerations.”

Macoul picked up his copy and leafed through to the place indicated.  He began, “The helmsman’s duty is defined by the Maximum/Minimum Rule.  Cause Maximum damage to enemy craft while allowing Minimum damage to his own ship.  This may be accomplished by …”

Doctor Corin interrupted, “I’m sorry, Lady Tanlin.  I must speak to you privately.”

“O’ course, Doctor.”  Turning to her left, she handed her underlined copy of Strategy and Tactics of War and her tallow-slates of notes to the startled woman there.  “Darkistry, will ye take over t’e meeting for m’?  Somet’ing ‘as come up t’at demands m’ attention elsew’ere.”

After her initial surprise, Darkistry simply said, “Continue, Macoul.”

Macoul’s soft voice followed the Doctor and Tanlin into the passage way.  As soon as they were private, she asked urgently, “W’at’s t’e alarm, Doctor?” though she had a sinking feeling that she knew.

Wordless, he held out the awl from the kit that she had given him.  The red test paste on its shaft reveled that it was not Ord.

“T’e case?” she asked quietly.

“Also uncontaminated,” he replied grimly.

“T’ey’ve been switched!”  She exclaimed in outrage.  Putting her hand to her forehead, she thought, Silor in t’e passage by t’e Ca’tain’s door.  Morgu … She looked up, terrible in her rage.  “Tis mutiny!  Bot’ Standin’ an’ General Orders’re bein’ violated!

TO BE CONTINUED

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𝐓𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: The industry is witnessing breakthroughs in technology, with a focus on stealth, automation, and enhanced surveillance capabilities. Cutting-edge navigation systems are reshaping the landscape of FACs.

𝐈𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐬: Designers are pushing boundaries, creating sleek and versatile FACs that can adapt to diverse mission requirements. The emphasis on lightweight materials and efficient propulsion systems is reshaping the traditional concept of naval warfare.

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: Collaborations between countries and defense contractors are fostering a global exchange of expertise. This not only promotes innovation but also strengthens international security ties.

𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭: The fast-evolving geopolitical landscape is a key driver in shaping the future of the FAC market. Nations are reevaluating their naval capabilities to ensure a robust presence in strategically important regions.

The FAC market is poised for significant growth, with analysts predicting a surge in demand over the coming years. This presents exciting opportunities for both established players and new entrants in the defense industry.

Various market players operating in the fast attack craft industry include FINCANTIERI, BAE Systems, Navantia, S.A., S.M.E, Garden Reach Shipbuilders & Engineers Ltd., Goa Shipyard Limited, Damen, CHINA SHIPBUILDING & OFFSHORE INTERNATIONAL CO (INCORPORATED IN CHINA), among others.

𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬: While advancements are remarkable, it's crucial to address evolving security challenges. Cybersecurity threats and the need for adaptable countermeasures are key considerations in FAC development.

Share your insights and let's engage in a meaningful discussion about the evolving dynamics of naval warfare.

#defenseindustry #navalinnovation #fastattackcraft #securitytrends #maritimeinnovation

[fheythfully]

“Paint a picture for me, please.” Between arriving at Top Rung and heading to Mt. Gulg, The Warrior of Light and Emet-Selch have a chat about Amaurot. [big Shadowbringers spoilers, theory-crafting, and WoL/Emet-Selch if you squint real hard don’t worry next one you won’t need to squint haaaah]

She finds him skulking around the gates of the Tower, shoulders hunched low as is his wont and eyes squinting even in the restored sunlight. Hesitation holds her steps, though she knows there is no possibility of him not having noticed her approach. She feels his eyes on her at all times, lately, ever since he deigned to join them for the foray into the Greatwood. Even when he is absent she feels the weight of his gaze on her back: pressing and expectant.

Her stomach turns. She does not want the expectation of one such as him. An Ascian, of all people, with his back turned so casually towards her—not in trust but in dismissal, in the assurance that she will do nothing to him that he cannot do to her tenfold in return. A hundredfold, a thousandfold, if he is to be believed.  She will shoulder the burden of expectation from the Scions, and now from all of the First, but from him?

Never. Not after all that he and his kind have done.

Emet-Selch appears to be picking at the crystalline walls with a finger. The light hits his hair and the pauldrons of the immense, heavy Garlean coat he insists on wearing; in the sunlight, large figure hunched over, he looks as much of a suspicious figure as he truly is. The Exarch’s guard is giving him the side-eye from near the doors, one hand inching towards his sword and Lia does not blame him. She wishes to do the same, though perhaps not as often as before—not after his suspiciously kind retrieval of Shtola from the Lifestream.

She knows why she has sought him out, for once, and not the other way around. Sure, there had been her burning questions and his willingness to answer, but never had it been just the two of them alone and not sequestered with the other Scions and the Exarch in a convenient time and place for questioning. The words they’d shared in Kholusia while waiting for the Ladder burn at her, tumble through her head to the point of giving nightmares. She has woken up more than once throughout the night to find Ardbert’s ghostly form within reach, one hand on her forehead as he told her, quietly, that she had been crying.

She does not remember why she cries at night, or the depths of her dreams. Only the voice of the godsdamn Ascian.

“…and then there was Amaurot…”

He had looked so wistful then, gazing up at the sky. So appropriately ancient and burdened, even more so than she.

“Never was a city more magnificent. From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed…”

Despite herself, she had tried to imagine it: towers stretching to the sky, shades of white and grey; wide streets made for an eternal population and perhaps greenery, carefully placed by its citizens.

Amaurot.

Amaurot.

She wants, despite herself, to know more.

“Well,” Emet-Selch snaps before her, all annoyance. “Will you keep staring at my back for precious eons, or ask whatever it is you came here for?”

It is a fight to keep the scowl from her lips as he turns towards her, his own mouth down-turned as he takes her in. It is hard to reconcile him with the man at the Bottom Rung, who had appeared almost soft when caught in his memory of a better world. It is unfair, she thinks suddenly and passionately, to see a villain made so human.

“Would you walk with me?” She asks instead of giving voice to her thoughts. Her palms feel clammy, although she does not know why, and so she presses them together behind her back. The straight line of her spine gives her strength to look at him without fear, without worry; she does not fear him, or worry for her life when with him. He has had many chances to kill her or to kill them all, and she does not doubt that a great and terrible power lies within the body he has manifested for himself. Yet still her fingers tremble, her heartbeat erratic to her own ears.

Something within her fears something within him, and she does not know why nor what. She only knows the tremors in her heart giving rise to nightmares and tears she does not understand.

Emet-Selch squints at her now, one finger to his chin. “Alone with you, Warrior? Have you decided to pull more of your heroic duties and attempt to dispose of me? I assure you, there is no perch high enough to throw my body off of here. You would be dead before you thought to try.” The frown on his face turns into a familiar smile, making a mockery of her in time with his words. “And there would be so many witnesses. We would need a truly desolate place for you to attempt your murder.”  

She loses the fight against scowling. The guard eavesdropping on their conversation (not his fault, of course, they are right there) sends her a concerned look, not doubting her but rather the man in front of her—she dismisses him with a hand, all her attention focused on Emet-Selch. He is like a godsdamned magnet to it; she cannot, for the life of her, relax when he is present. And he has promised to be watching always, and unlike Ardbert’s now familiar and comforting promise to remain with her, the idea of Emet-Selch judging her every move makes her skin itch. She cannot focus on anything but the Ascian when he deigns to manifest himself, eyes constantly drawn to his face and the motions of his hands, waiting for the hint of a coming attack.

“Oh,” his voice comes again, lines forming in the corners of his eyes as his smile widens. “I do believe I’ve made you angry.”

Lia pulls back her lips in her own mockery of a smile. “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I will be flinging no bodies over walkways today, so if it pleases you: a walk?”

Emet-Selch is silent. There is bird-song in the air, curious wildlife coming out to inspect the light of the sun. At last he drops his finger from his chin and gazes levelly at her. The mockery of his smile softens to curiosity in the corners, just a touch but enough for her to notice—familiar enough for her to pick up on.

She hates that she does, has known him now long enough to see the tells he allows her to see.

“You must truly want to know of something, then.” He shrugs a grandiose motion, the same as everything about him: the clothes, the speech, the near-rapport she has developed with him. “Let us away then, Warrior, and you may have all of my attention.”

She makes a derisive noise. “Better me than the Exarch, Ascian. Leave the busy man alone, would you?” She does not look back to see if he follows her, so assured that he will: she has piqued his curiosity now, for once seeking him out instead of the other way around. For once, she wants something only he can give; it is him that she comes to, not Urianger or Y’Shtola or the Exarch.

Many people want many things of her. It is atypical for her to want something of them. She wonders if he knows this; wonders how closely he has followed her journey from adventurer to vaunted Warrior.

And indeed his footsteps fall heavy beside her. “Ascian?” He scoffs, a pout she glimpses from the corners of her eyes. “Are we still not on first-name basis? Not that you deserve such an honour, as lowly as your kind are. But me? I think I deserve more than Ascian at this point.”

She sets to lead him up to the Rotunda overlooking the markets, purely because he made the remark about high places. She knows he recognizes the pettiness of her move by the way his shoulders straighten for the briefest of moments, repressed laughter shaking them into motion. Truly, she would believe his claims to being ancient by his posture alone. How did the Garleans ever decide make Emperor of a man with such bad manners?

Few people mill about this high up. It affords them the privacy she had sought, out of respect for the hint of genuine pain she believes to have glimpsed from him that day at Bottom Rung.

“Very well, Emet-Selch, which, by the by, is not even your name.” He sends her an un-amused look as she stops short, turning to properly look at him. Even hunched as he is, she still has to peer up, up—nearly as bad as an Elezen or a Viera, the Garleans. She wonders what his race had looked like when they had been alive. What traits do they share now, with the races which had evolved and flourished in the wake of their demise?

“The tales of your diplomacy fall short of the reality,” the man drawls. “But ask away anyway, Warrior, and perhaps I will even give you an answer.”

One of her eyebrows raises, incredulous. “After following me all the way here, you still think I do not believe you interested in chatting? Do not take me for such a fool, please.” She continues on before he can open his mouth in reply. “Yes, yes, we are all fools and beneath you, I have heard it all before. But, regardless—“ and here she catches her breath, the hesitation creeping back in, the tremor in her hands suddenly felt again.

She pushes on, puts on the Warrior persona, the expectations of all those around her making her brave, making her false. “You spoke of your ancient city some days ago at Bottom Rung. Of Amaurot. I would like to know more of it, if you would speak.”

Amaurot. Staring at him as she is now, the name tastes strangely of ash and her own shed tears. She nearly misses the flinch of his body at her request, the minute widening of his eyes. But he recovers quickly, and he recovers well—and for one as ancient as he, she knows, control must be as easy as breathing.

The constant smile on his face is back once more, almost too many teeth as he laughs quietly. “You ask to hear of what I’ve lost? Truly, Warrior? Have you no shame?”

“Not when it comes to you,” her response comes rapid-fire fast, chin raised in stubbornness. “If you did not wish for me to question you, then you would not have spoken so freely to me that day. And did you not promise me a talk, on a more pleasurable occasion?” She spreads her arms around her, indicating the scene: the Crystarium at peace, the crystalline ceiling above them bright and blue from the midday sun. “And we are unlikely to get a time more pleasurable than this, Emet-Selch.”

His golden eyes narrow at her words, assessing as always. A moment of silence passes, filled only with the chatter of the markets below. “Very well,” he says at last. “What would you have me tell you?”

Well—she hadn’t truly expected to get this far. He had been forthcoming with his answers on matters whenever she asked in the past, but there had always been a thread of secrecy left, a patronizing gleam in his eyes as he talked as if to a child—nay, one he did not even consider alive. She had expected more resistance, at least, before being offered even a glimpse of his past.

She wets her suddenly dry lips. “Everything. Paint a picture for me, please.”

His gaze is piercing, weighing; will he find her wanting? Or will he find enough—enough to give him a captive audience as he shares a world once whole and brilliant, and forever perfect in his memories?

Her heart beats out a nervous drum within her breast. The thought of unexplored lands, of ancient cities buried to time—those have always given her the adrenaline rush she seeks, but this feels—heavier. This is a time before time itself; before Hydaelyn and Zodiark. Before death. Before the first true Calamity.

Emet-Selch opens his mouth and speaks. His past tone of whining and complaining, of snobbery, falls away and she glimpses the Emperor of Garlemald he had once been—or perhaps even long before that, in that time before time itself. He orates himself eloquently and assuredly, the rise and fall of his voice painting the picture she had so desired in her mind. At some point she closes her eyes, lulled into the fantasy he weaves for her: a city of alien structures stretching high towards a brilliant sky, shining white and unblemished in the light of a different sun. Wide city streets of similar stone are busied by robed figures, laughing and speaking and debating and basking in the feeling of their perfect society. They have not known war, or conflict; there is only contentment in the air. Children play and run from their parents and make flowers burst out of thin air; a figure watches them go, and suddenly the material she had been working on between her hands falters and changes, much to her amusement and annoyance. She gathers it into her arms and begins anew, magic shimmering and weaving around her as natural as breathing.

Birds alight on blooming trees, the likes of which she had never seen before—both bird and tree. Yet still she sees them clearly in her mind for the briefest of moments; vibrant violet blooms and eagles with too long wings and beaks, sparrows with strange colour patterns and a trill so beautiful it aches the heart. Emet-Selch speaks and she sees intricately crafted arches and entire city districts, buildings where citizens gather purely to debate or discuss creation. She does not think she fully understands what he means when he speaks of this strange magic, of breathing existence into a thought as easily as one exhales, but she can see it. Can see the magic in the air, the flow of aether as it winds throughout the city and touches upon everything within: the Ancients are made of aether themselves and everything they make is imbued with it, shines with it.

Her body shakes with the idea of it, of being so in tune with the aether of the world. For the briefest of moments she imagines that she can do it, too—that she can will entire ideas into existence, one careful thought at a time. What wonders would she make, with a power like that?

And at the center of it all, she sees it: The Capitol, grandiose yet modest. Inside sits the Convocation of Fourteen in their dark robes, a sturdy bench warm under her weight and voices familiar as they rise and fall around the topics of the day. Emet-Selch stifles a sigh beside her, the shifting of his crossed arms sending an elbow into her side and she hopes he can feel her amused sympathy. Lahabrea is the Speaker for a reason, but even for her there are some days where she wishes the meetings did not stretch on for as long as they did. She reaches up to adjust the mask on her face, its material as comfortable as second skin, and casts her eyes about the room. Every one of them is near and dear to her, even if they do not always agree on all topics. But that is the perfection of their society; they have an eternity to discuss, to learn, to grow.

Her attention falls back to Lahabrea, who is gesturing with his arms in a familiar performance. The light in the room shifts with the passing of the sun outside and the shadows under his hood change, and—

—and Thancred’s face is staring out at her, twisted with fury and agony, a voice not his screaming at her—

She snaps open her eyes and chokes on air, big gasping breaths as if she had not been breathing this entire time. Wildly she reaches for her throat as if the familiar weight of her fingers will help the airflow, and for a second she’s too big for her body—

A hand reaches out and touches her cheek, sweeping under her eye and the tears she had not realized that had gathered there. The Crystarium blooms into existence back around her: the trees bright and otherworldly pink, its citizens below her loud and at once familiar and so very not. This isn’t right, she thinks for half a second, still trapped in the spell of Emet-Selch’s dream. They’re not right. They’re not—they’re not—

She looks up towards the figure before her. She had not realized Emet-Selch had stopped speaking, or had stepped close to her at some point during it all. For once he stands at full height and still she has the crazy thought that it was wrong, that everything around them was empty and bereft of—

Of—

She opens her mouth to speak but it all escapes her. The emptiness within her has vanished, leaving only an echo of the wrongness and a heart threatening to burst from her chest. Blinking, she stares up at Emet-Selch, still gathering her wits about her.

He makes a tsking sound with his tongue. “Come now, none of that.” Quickly, before she can move away, he reaches out once more and brushes aside the tears falling over her cheeks. “This was not a tale meant to make you weep. Here I am, abiding by your most ardent request, and all you do is cry in response? I don’t know why I bother.”

He steps away from her then and she watches him go, still caught in a stupor. “Forgive me,” she says automatically, voice catching in her throat. The echo of wrongness remains, demanding—something. Reaching up she presses her knuckles into her eyes, and—and she thinks, of all things, of Ascians masks, of what one would feel like her against her face.

How long did you live for? She thinks, staring at Emet-Selch now looking at the markets below. How long did you live for before your Calamity?

“Thank you for your time,” she says at last, once she has composed herself enough. Her hands have not stopped shaking and now also burn with a desire to move and shape things with magic she does not have. It makes her sick to her stomach to think of how deeply she had fallen under his spell. Was that, too, a power of the Ascians? Did he use his magic on her?

She’s floating off again, caught in a thought she does not feel herself enough to follow. She feels too full and too empty all at once, sick and bursting without knowing what she wants. It is a feeling almost like the one she awakens with after Hydaelyn calls her, but something about this makes her yearn in a way she never has before; an ache she does not have a name for, a cause for.

I didn’t want this, she thinks. I didn’t, I swear.

She lies. Lies, lies, lies, because within that dream she was herself enough to recognize the truth: her world was ugly, incomplete, when compared to the past Emet-Selch had so wonderfully described.

And it matters little now, of course; his world is long dead and buried and she is the here and now, the one to stop his Rejoining. She will not rebuild a past on corpses and bones.

“If I knew my words alone would affect you so,” Emet-Selch is speaking again, his stare all too amused and focused for her liking. She feels like burning under his gaze, feels the imprint of his skin at her side for that one brief moment in the strange dream. “Perhaps I should have merely created the city for you, and let you wander at your own leisure. I’m sure there would be no tears were I not to be present.”

She bursts into laughter against her will. It catches him as off guard as it does her; she has not laughed around him before, if ever on the First thus far. She does not remember the last time she laughed this freely. When did she start finding his off-colour comments so amusing and not so irritating?

She laughs to hide the remnants of her tears, of how her face still sparks from his touch, of the things she saw within her dream. She laughs in the hope that now she will not awaken to Ardbert’s concerned and all too understanding face as he brings her back from the grasp of nightmares. Now that she has seen this city as best she can for herself, now—

Now, perhaps, she will stop dreaming of it and forgetting the details come waking. She will make do with this painted image of a civilization long gone and forgotten, known only now to her alone. Perhaps she’ll think of it at times and mourn the ones who came before, who did everything they could for the ones who came after; and not for the Ascians, who work so hard to undo all that time and history have wrought.

When she finally stops laughing, Emet-Selch is still gazing at her. There is an unreadable look on his face, and she does not dare contemplate it further. There is the first sense of—not quite peace, but of armistice between them. She finds she does not want to break it, and asking further questions, seeking out his company even further—

It is not a path she wishes to take. After everything his kind have done to her and hers, she will not follow him further down into his hole of despair and desire. The Warrior of Light, joining hands with the Ascians to reclaim and rebuild their perfect, everlasting world?

The smile still lingering on her face trembles.

No, she thinks. That is not a story written of heroes.

And she is, always, for others—

A hero.

[xx4353]

So I have wrritten some fansty ideas stuff, its pretty fun to make a world you know. Anyway gonna put the stuff underneath a *read more* 

Werewolves: Werewolves were created when a group of humans wanted to create the perfect hunters, It did succeed in some ways. Werewolves now do hunt but are more focused on fighting each other. Werewolves villages are just huge mess halls where the drinks and food are plentiful.  Arm Wrestling, wrestling, fighting, and other competition are common past time. They are loud and love a fighting spirit. But werewolves have a strong sense of community since anyone can become a werewolf they are very focused on making sure newcomers are welcomed and it feels like you are joining a new family, a family of werewolves who love wrestling each other. Racism and disputes are very very unlikely when it comes to werewolves since they pride in being accepting. How to become a werewolf is very simple, you can drink the blood of a werewolf, or simply get bitten by one. The first news of a newcomer to the werewolf life will find that it can be stressful and hard, to not let into primal urges. But one can restain themselves and control the beast within, then they can be a functioning member of their new werewolf communities. Though much more feral werewolves can be seen out deep in the wild, the ones who couldn’t control the beast. Different species will have different versions of a werewolf, a human werewolf is average but an elf werewolf will be tall and lanky with very point ears, there are books and people who study werewolves for a living. Along with that, common side effects of becoming a werewolf is being more hunger, getting into fights, and growing hair everywhere, even for females. If a werewolf wants to marry another werewolf what they will do is have a kiss before they transform for the night, and then still kissing while they are transforming, to symbolize how their love is for both them and their wolf version. While many races do hate werewolves, they hardly hold grudges but will protect each other in times of need. 

Werewolves hunters: While most werewolves do not attack other races and eat them, they are a few who let their wild side take control of them, giving the werewolves a bad name. Werewolves hunters typically believe that werewolves are a deranged monster of nature, that something should not exist and must be eliminated, to keep the world pure. There are some hunters who hunt because they want to hunt the best creatures around and werewolves fit that challenge. Most werewolves hunters will wear the dead fur of werewolves or carry around necklaces of werewolf teeth.

Vampires: Vampires are much like the opposite of werewolves, they are reserved and do not like mixing with outsiders. IN truth vampires believe themselves to be a higher race than most, and see other races as just mere food. With that you will not just see a random vampire around, no they live in castles like kings and queens. The family line is what is important, do not mingle and make the family tree too wide they say. There is always the Head of the family, who controls and acts as the ruler. Each race has one vampire family, this is because even with other vampires, vampires think its best to stay in your own race as well, just to make sure they don’t spoil the blood. But that has lead to constant fights between families overpower. Vampires don’t believe that showing emotions is good, so love is never a concern of theirs. Marrying is just a tool to gain power, you don’t marry because you love that person, you marry because they have land or a resource you want. Vampires despise werewolves, they hate how they just accept anyone into their ranks, they are a strong race, why should those werewolves just mingle around? In truth, most vampires can’t understand the concept of being equal with others. Most families have deals with local governments that prisoners on death row get sent to the families to feed on. They have the ability to change into a big bat version of themselves, which is more resistant to the sun and damage, but it’s common for most vampires to stay out of this form. They find it insulting to race and high standing to look so beastly. 

The Cave bats: These are large bloodthirsty bat people who live in caves, they do not like the sun as it hurts their eyes so they mainly stay in their caves till night. Which when they do go flying out, they tend to grab unprotected livestock from local farms, and they suck the blood out of them. They are one of the worst creatures to find in caves since they will tend to swoop people away from their groups and there is alot of them since they breed so fast. They are not natural-appearing creatures, what happens is a vampire will attempt to make another person a vampire and in some very very rare cases, the person will turn into one of these feral bloodthirsty bat people who loses all their previous identity. The transformation is quick and sudden and there is no way to reverse it. They will naturally go into caves and try to find others like them to create a new colony of bats. Vampires hate these animals because to them they are mistakes and should not be alive, they often fight with each other. Cave Bats also can not transform other people into vampires or into cave bats. 

Vampire hunters: Much like werewolf hunters. Vampire hunters think vampires are a blight on the world. A spot that needs to eradicate. Vampire hunting is tricky because of its like staging war on a big family, a big family who drink blood. Vampire hunters when they do kill a vampire, they will rub the ashes of a vampire into their skin

Elves: Elves are the race that believes the best way to live is to live with nature. Thats why they live in the trees of great forests and live off the land.  They mostly stick to themselves. But beware, if you start polluting their forest they will protect their land with their lives. Their clothing reflects this by being mostly made out of what they have in the woods

Dark Elves: Much like their kin the Elves. The dark elves believe in being with nature. Their skins have multiple tones grey. With big red eyes with black pupils. But the way they go about doing is by being nomadic. The dark elf motto is "why not explore the world and its beauty?". Dark elves live in nomadic groups will set down in a place for a long time and then move. Their clothing is heavily inspired by Mongolians. Master at riding animals and living off any land. They prefer colder climates. Their main values are one should never waste anything if you can still use it. Then why not keep using it? The other value is sharing and showing kindness to strangers. Because we are nothing if we are too scared to show compassion to people we don’t know

Sea people: At the coast and in the sea there is a race that can breathe both in the sea and on the ground. Sea people is a general term since there are many different variations, from octopus to sharks, to lobsters.  These humanoid sea creatures who have evolved far away from people but yet have made similar choices as humans.No god created them.  There are plenty of deep cities that most races can’t get too because of a lack of oxygen but if a sea person wants to, there are ways to lead them into the cities. Most cities are market-based, meaning that the center is a huge square for trading goods.  Most other races tend to only see these creatures as pirates, and these creatures are some of the most dangerous of pirates. Their ships can swim and glide through the water and raise up and lay like a normal ship. Giving most races a fear of the sea, and the thought of maybe there a pirate there. The deeper you go into the wilder, the odder sea people you will encounter, like blobfish and anglerfishes.  For the sea people, the land races are just things to trade with or take stuff from, basically just a source of income.

Dwarves: Dwarves are a race that mainly lives in the mines and caves. They are master of the furnace and instead of lights dwarfs create aqueducts of molten lava to light up their cites. To the point where dwarfs had lava to a part of their culture, bathing in lava is considered a social activity, since dwarfs skin can withstand lava. Often they try to get their fellow races to join them since they don’t realize other races can’t handle lava. This causes lots of issues with the sea people. Dwarves of community and think it’s important to be with other races, to gain more knowledge. Drinking is also a very social activity, but most other races can’t handle the drinks. This has caused drinking parties between the werewolves and the dwarfs. Their amour is made out of this hard stone that no other races seem to know how to craft, most weapons break when hitting this amour, causing this to be very sought out.

Humans: What are humans in this world in fantasy? Some ways they are the weakest of the races, they have no special powers, no deep connection to the forests, to gods. But yet, what makes a human special? They are born with a fiery determination, a determination to grab ahold of the world and bend it’s to their whim. Sometimes this is for the betterment of the world, they can create cures to diseases that are hurting the other races, save others, create food, art, and music. Sometimes this determination has lead to wars and famine and diseases, sometimes the humans can have a greed that devours all the good in them. Humans are special like that. They have no main home, they are everywhere. In the forests, in the cities, in the mountains, and near coasts. Humans are to some a plague and to others a special flowers. Humans, in the end, are just an odd spot in this world. And they know this, humans know they are dealing with creatures higher in power than them. But that will not stop them from continuing with progress. One such group of humans even try to become the perfect hunters but ended up making werewolves we know today

Sirens: The creature of the water, these seductresses of the deep pry on people who get a bit close to their lairs. They do not eat or drink or need any sort of energy to keep them going. No, there only purpose is to watch others drown as they bring them down into the deep dark sea. Their bodies are made out of pure water. They will fill the mind of people with thoughts of their deepest desires and make it seem if they come with them, that their thoughts will be granted. There are a few races who can resistant the song. Sea people can since they have evolved too and dwarfs since their mines are filled with thoughts of mining, and the singing of a siren never sounds good to them, dwarfs much prefer the type of music that fills an entire mountain

[etherealwaifgoddess]

A Twenty-First Century Halloween

Main Characters: Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes

Summary: Bucky learns what Halloween is all about in the twenty-first century. Steve & Bucky have very different ideas on what festive Halloween treats are. And Steve thinks he has a perfect costume but learns he didn’t think it all the way through. 

Warnings/ Content: Light swearing but mostly just our sweet Brooklyn boys being complete and utter dorks. 

Word Count: 2773

Author’s Note: As I was daydreaming of Halloween this morning (it’s my favorite day of the year), it dawned on me that back in the 20′s and 30′s they didn’t have trick or treating like we do now. It wasn’t a thing until the 50′s at which point Steve was in the ice and Bucky was in and out of Cryo. This lead me down a rabbit hole of thinking about what Bucky would think of a modern Halloween and blindly ignoring MCU cannon while I writing this fic. I hope you all enjoy this little bit of fluff in honor of the upcoming holiday. 

XOXO - Ash

A Twenty-First Century Halloween

“But why?” Bucky asks a third time, still confused.

Steve groans, scrubbing a hand over his face in exasperation. “Because it makes people happy, Buck. Look, you don’t have to participate. I know crowds can be a little hard on you. You can just hang out upstairs until I’m done.” 

Bucky thinks hard for a few beats, considering his options. Trick or treating wasn’t a thing when they were growing up. There were parades and parties, sometimes kids would get apples or small things from their neighbors, but it was never kids dressed up in elaborate costumes getting mass quantities of candy from every available house. 

It’s the costume that really seals the deal. Bucky considers if he dresses up as someone else he’s less likely to scare anyone, and it would be nice to get smiles from people for a change instead of the concerned, or blatantly afraid, looks he’s been getting since he arrived. He thinks he could even find one that disguises his metal arm, even further hiding his identity. “Okay, I’m in.” he tells Steve who had gone back to reading his newspaper. Steve looks up with his warm, proud smile and Bucky ducks his head, nodding once. It’s hard to accept that level of emotion from anyone, let alone his best friend, but he tries to at least acknowledge it. It doesn’t help that Steve has been giving him that look for everything lately; from when he remembered the neighbor lady’s name from their tennatment back in 1934, to when he decided he liked pizza with pepperoni on it the best. 

Steve was serious when he told Bucky that Halloween was one of his favorite days. It’s not even two hours later that Steve is handing Bucky the Starkpad for him to look up costume ideas. “We only have a week, Buck. You need to order something soon so it gets here in time.” he tells him with a hopeful expression. Bucky knows Steve isn’t trying to be pushy, he’s just genuinely excited to share the holiday with him. It takes some time and a lot of Pinterest searches but he finally decides on Buck Rogers. He loved the comics back in the day and it’s a pretty simple outfit. He doesn’t expect anyone will recognize it but that doesn’t matter to him, he mainly just wants to look like someone who isn’t the winter soldier for a day. The irony of the name makes him secretly pleased as well and he can’t wait to see Steve’s reaction. 

Bucky finds a costume on Etsy with ease and though the price gives him a momentary heart attack, he reminds himself that money isn’t an issue anymore. He checks his email confirmation and lets Steve know his costume will arrive two days before Halloween. This seems to appease him, though he looks disappointed when Bucky won’t tell him what costumed he picked. Steve already had his costume picked out and it is set to arrive over the weekend. He’s going as Paul Bunyan and will be all kitted out with flannel and an axe. Bucky thinks it’s just another excuse to not shave the beard he’d grown but has to admit the costume is a good fit for Steve. 

Bucky can’t put his boots on fast enough when Steve tells him they are going shopping for Halloween candy. He has an incomparable sweet tooth and has been dreaming of endless bags of sugary goodness for Halloween with no judgement from Steve - eat your vegetables - Rogers. Bucky is sorely disappointed by Steve’s interpretation of Halloween candy when they get to Whole Foods. 

“This isn’t the point of the holiday!” Bucky whines as Steve loads yet another flat of mini water bottles to their cart. 

“You…. you didn’t even know what the holiday was about until three days ago!” Steve sputters back in protest. 

“But now I do, and water bottles and gluten free pretzels are NOT it.” Bucky points at the cart like it’s a rabid animal and Steve just rolls his eyes.

“Kids get thirsty and so do the parents, so yes, water bottles are needed. The gluten free pretzels are for the kids with allergies because they should be included too. I even got the pumpkin shaped ones so they’re festive! And I have the fruit leathers so they get something sweet too. I just want to give the kids something good instead of the crap they can get everywhere else. Besides, we can afford to give out better things; so we should.” 

“But you said we would get Halloween candy.” Bucky is unabashedly pouting, it doesn’t matter he is a grown man in the middle of Whole Foods; he wants brightly wrapped, sugar laden, twenty first century Halloween candy, damnit. 

Steve pinches the bridge of nose, clearly exasperated. “I said we’d get Halloween treats, Buck. I never promised you candy. Now, do you need anything while we’re here? They might have that cheese you liked a few weeks ago back in stock.” 

Bucky sighs heavily, “Yes, of course I want the cheese. Let’s go to look.” his voice is heavy with defeat which Steve pointedly ignores. But he should have known Bucky doesn’t give up that easily.

They are barely out of the Whole Foods parking lot when Bucky holds up his phone to show Steve a shopping list, “Damn. I forgot to get more hand soap.”

“Just use the bottle from the guest bathroom. We can pick some up next time we’re out.” Steve tells him as he navigates their way onto the main highway. 

Bucky shakes his head, “No, because then we’ll forget and then what happens when we have guests? There’s a Target on our way back, stop there and I can get the good kind we both like.” 

Steve wants to protest, he really does. But then Bucky plays the only card he has left. “Please? I’m having a really good brain-day and I want to stop while I know I’ll be okay.” he looks so earnest and pleading that even Captain America doesn’t stand a chance against him.

“Okay, we’ll stop. I’m glad you’re doing good today. I’m proud of you, pal.” 

Bucky grins and tries not bounce in his seat in anticipation. He knows full well what he is doing and it has been far too long since he’s gotten one over on Steve. The car is barely in park when Bucky is jumping out of his seat. “It’s okay, I’ll be quick. Don’t worry about me.” He calls over his shoulder as he bolts.

Steve makes a small huff of agreement but Bucky is already off. As he sits waiting in the car he realizes Bucky had been a little too excited at the prospect of buying hand soap. It’s rare for him to venture into a store solo, too. Steve is trying to figure out what he is missing when a mother strolls past with a small cart filled with candy and three smiling kids in tow. It clicks into place;  Bucky doesn’t want soap, he wants candy. 

The Halloween shop is in the very back corner of the store, far from the soap aisle and not somewhere Bucky could easily wander into by mistake. But that’s where Steve finds him. The former deadly assassin is hastily scooping value sized bags of candy into a shopping cart, his eyes lit up with excitement. 

“I didn’t know they made Twix scented soap.” Steve deadpans. 

Bucky drops a bag and lets out a very small squeak in surprise. “Uh…” he stammers, desperately thinking of an excuse, “It’s new?” 

Steve laughs, loud and deep. He can’t be mad at Bucky for this. It’s his first Halloween in modern times and he should be enjoying it. Steve’s therapist had talked to him at length about letting Bucky decide who he is now and not imposing his own ideas on him. This, Steve supposes, is one of those times. 

Steve crosses the aisle and takes a bag of mixed lollipops out of the cart, placing it back on the shelf in its designated spot. Bucky watches, frozen in place, as Steve picks up a bag of Reese’s pumpkins and drops them in the cart instead. “Jeez, Buck, at least get the good stuff.” he says giving Bucky the same shitty little grin that hasn’t changed since 1925.

It’s Bucky’s turn to laugh and he pulls Steve in for a long hug as he calms. Together they finished raiding the Halloween candy, getting Bucky everything he could possibly want to try. They even remember to stop by the soap aisle on the way to the registers, Bucky insisting they really do need soap. 

In the three days leading up to Halloween Bucky spends an inordinate amount of time sampling the wide array of candy from Target. Steve isn’t sure which stresses him out more, the sheer quantity of sugar and processed junk Bucky is inhaling, or the never ending trail of tiny candy wrappers he finds all over the house. He takes both in stride, letting Bucky get this candy exploration out of his system. It’s only a few days of the year and Bucky does seem to be in better spirits with something to celebrate on the horizon. He even goes to the local farmers market to pick up pumpkins for them to carve (a complete disaster) and handmade crafts to decorate the house (actually pretty cute). 

The day of Halloween, Steve has everything lined up in their foyer and ready to hand out well before dinner. It’s tradition for him to get everything ready mid afternoon so he isn’t rushing through dinner and trying to hand out candy at the same time. Bucky is amused by the seriousness in which Steve takes his preparation but helps out as much as Steve lets him. Satisfied everything is in place, Steve places an order for Tex-Mex delivery and heads upstairs to get changed into his costume. Bucky doesn’t need much prep time but follows in Steve’s footsteps, figuring he might as well do the same.

The all white costume is a little uncomfortable but it will only be on for a few hours and Bucky figures it could be worse. He straps the multi-colored band around his bicep and attaches the faux futuristic weapons to his silver belt. The overall effect is pretty spot on, though Bucky muses if he still had his pre-war hairstyle it would be even better. He doesn’t let it bother him too much as he pulls his shoulder length hair back into a low bun. He’s become too attached to his longer hair to ever get it cut short again. It had grown out a little while he was living in Romania, and he found he enjoyed caring for it as well as the gentle weight of it laying on his shoulders. It serves as another reminder that he is a person now, no longer just a weapon. 

Bucky stops a few steps shy of the bottom of the stairs when he catches sight of Steve standing in their living room in his costume. He’s wearing a red and black flannel shirt with a pair of blue jeans and tan work boots. It’s perfect, even down to the prop axe he’s holding loosely at his side. There’s a nagging feeling in Bucky’s mind though and he thinks he’s missing something. He’s almost got it when Steve calls out and distracts him from his thoughts.

“Look at you, Buck!” Steve exclaims as he joins him in the living room, “Didn’t want to change your name even for a night, huh?” 

“Yeah, I couldn’t resist.” Bucky says with a laugh.

“You look great. You sure you’re ready for this, though?”

“Yes ma. It’s just a bunch of kids, I’m gonna be fine, promise.” 

Steve claps a large hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He looks like he wants to say more but is interrupted by a pinging sound from his phone, announcing the arrival of their dinner delivery.

The first set of trick or treaters arrive just as the sun is starting to set and Steve is absolutely gushing at the two little girls in bumblebee costumes. They can’t be more than a year and a half, and they both wobble on their little legs while Steve places treats in their plastic pumpkins. Bucky smiles and greets the parents while Steve fawns over the kids, handing them each a water bottle and offering them granola bars from the adult snack bowl. They fall into an easy pattern after a few rounds of families come through; Steve being completely over the top to the kids about their costumes (“You’re the scariest Zombie ever!” and also, “Are you a princess in real life?”), and Bucky making small talk with the parents. It isn’t until two women crack up at the sight of Steve that Bucky finally realizes what he was missing earlier. Steve’s costume might have intended to be Paul Bunyan but there was another famous woodsman he failed to consider when putting his costume together.

“Ohmygawd you’re the Brawny Man!” the one woman shrieks in between giggles. 

Bucky wants to facepalm, of course that’s where he’s seen the flannel/jeans/boots combo before! It’s on the wrapper of the paper towel rolls that he walks past almost daily in their pantry. Bucky snorts before he can help himself but he stifles his laughter the best he can and leans away from Steve when he fails. 

Steve blushes as brightly as only a pale skinned Irishman can and plasters on his formal Captain America smile. “Paul Bunyan, actually, but thanks.” he tells the women. 

Both women apologize profusely through more giggles and Bucky finally gets himself under wraps by the time they leave. Steve shoots him a glare, still blushing fiercely, and Bucky just shrugs innocently at his best friend. 

The tips of Steve’s ears are still tinged crimson when the next person giggles over his “Brawny Man” costume. Bucky fails even more at stifling his laughter and covers it, although transparently, with a coughing fit. 

Steve might be a hundred years old but he is sulking like he did when he was a teenager after a dozen people mis-guess his costume. Bucky tries to rally Steve’s spirits but only gets a long suffering eye roll in response. 

The trick or treaters steadily flow through until a little after nine and then things trickled down to a full stop by nine thirty. They are almost out of snacks and water bottles so it’s good timing that it stopped when it did. Steve turns off their porch light and locks the door behind him before leaning against it, yawning deeply. 

“You okay there, Brawny Man?” Bucky teases as he grabs two water bottles from the bucket. 

Steve catches the water bottle Bucky tosses to him and groans at the joke, “Not you too.”

“You have to admit, it does kind of look like him.”

“I will do no such thing. But at least people had heard of Paul Bunyan.”

“Hey, one person recognized my costume. That was better than I expected.”

“She was ninety three years old. Your costume is only relevant to the aged. Mine is still a beloved children’s story.”

“Or a useful household cleaning item.”

Steve huffs and throws his bottle at Bucky’s head but Bucky snatches it mid-air and sticks his tongue out at Steve defiantly. “Next year I’m gonna dress up as robot, I think. It might be fun to make the rest of me match the arm instead of trying to make it blend in. I saw a robot makeup tutorial on Pinterest and I think I could pull it off. What do you think?”

Steve smiles, shaking his head. “You really enjoyed this, huh?”

“Hell yes, I did. We did a good thing tonight for the neighborhood kids. And it was a lot of fun too.”

“Yeah, we did. I’m glad you enjoyed this as much as I do.” 

“And next year we’re gonna hand out some real candy too.”

“Buck, no.”

“Buck, yes.” Bucky grins broadly and Steve can’t help but laugh at his antics. 

“We’ll talk about it in exactly 358 days.” He assures him.

Bucky points a finger at Steve, “I’m holding you to that, Rogers.”

The pair finish cleaning up the buckets of leftover treats in the foyer, and Bucky even talks Steve into a single Reese’s pumpkin while they watch “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”. It was a perfect first Halloween for Bucky and he already can’t wait for next October. 

[ginnyzero]

Meeting & Subverting a Reader’s Expectations

A murder mystery needs to open with a murder!

Whenever a reader chooses something to read dictated by their own tastes and preferences they come to that story with expectations and preconceived notions in mind. A writer that managed to both fulfill and at the same time subvert those expectations and notions is going to be more successful than a writer who ignores them completely.

When you go to an action movie, you expect to see a big fight and hopefully some explosions. The faster you get to a fight scene the happier you're probably going to be. That's what you came for. And if the movie manages like The Expendables or Furious 7 to have a story that hangs on by more than a thread, then you're going to remember that movie more than a movie that doesn't. As a viewer, you got what you came for, fights, explosions, funny quips and then some, a meaningful story that made you think or tugged at the heart strings.

Every genre has conventions.

That's why they're genres. Authors ignore them at their peril. In a murder mystery, a writer needs to have a murder in the beginning of the book. If they're a detective, someone might bring them a case. If they're a bumbling amateur that is actually the town baker with an interest in history and crime then somehow they're going to stumble across this body and mystery one way or another. Or maybe they're a columnist for the local paper but aren't assigned to crime, but art or sports. Then there is another set of expectations added. The reader expects to learn something about baking or to learn something about whatever column the newspaper man is researching.

In a romance novel, the two main characters need to meet and find each other attractive. In an adventure novel, the characters are most likely going somewhere else and delivering at least one punch to the gut. In a thriller, the character needs to be escaping a deadly situation. In a mystery, a stolen item, a missing person, a dreadful secret, it all needs to be solved. In a fantasy novel... okay, that honestly depends on the fantasy novel. Speculative Fiction has gotten so fractured.

Think about the article about the "worst way to open a book from literary agents" that I linked the other day. In there two agents gave contradictory advice on how to open a book in the same genre. One said not to open with exposition and prose (such as describing the scenery or someone bringing you the mail, I suppose.) The other said not to open in the middle of a fight or an action scene. Which leaves a writer wondering what's left?

Here is the thing, it's conventional in the speculative fiction genre (fantasy and science fiction) for there to be lots of descriptions of the scenery and aliens, especially if it is harder scifi and high fantasy. The readers of those genres expect to read paragraphs about odd or magnificent landscapes. This was set in stone by writers such as Asimov, Tolkien and Burroughs. If you don't have those type of scenes in your speculative fiction novel the reader that loves that type of novel will be cheated of their expectations.

On the other hand, low fantasy, soft science fiction and most urban fantasy novels are expected to open with some sort of "action" to kick off the plot whether it's a fight or not. (Though many also go the exposition route.) In these genres, the readers care less about the scenery and the technology and the culture, they want to get to the action and to the characters as fast as possible. If there were long paragraphs about chewing the scenery, they'd be put off and go read something else.

Writers who meet the expectations of their genre in a believable way are more likely to be successful than writers that aren't.

In Shrek, the writers set up a bunch of expectations. This was a fantasy realm filled with characters we know out of fairy tales. Somewhere, there is a Princess in a tower waiting for her true love (no doubt a Prince) to rescue her. They set up a classic tale of a damsel in distress waiting for her hero. Then they made the local Lord the villain and sent an ogre to rescue her instead. Subverting all the expectations of the viewer. In fact, they built their entire marketing campaign around this. Then, in Shrek 2, they were able to do whatever they wanted because they'd already simultaneously fulfilled and subverted what the viewers of Shrek wanted to see. They wanted to see the Princess get rescued and live happily ever after. Except, she did it with an ogre. The writers didn't need to continue and write another fairy tale based story. They'd done that. They could move on to something different and potentially new. That's what made both Shrek and Shrek 2 so successful. By the end of Shrek, we wanted Shrek to win the day because he'd spent so much time talking with Donkey like they were both teenagers. And well, Shrek had done all these awesome things (without slaying the Dragon) in order to prove he was worthy of the girl. (Then found out he had some things in common with the girl. Still, two day romance, cringe.)

Of course, you don't have to be a parody to meet and subvert your reader's expectations.

Like, with the Expendables, you can write a story that caters to your readers needs and still include a message that is profound and meaningful. Or, you can choose a slightly different ending that is still plausible and then poke mild fun at what the expected ending would have been.

Going against the readers expectations are what writers and readers call twists. And as long as they are supported somehow in the story and don't come out of nowhere, then they can be surprising and feel natural. If they aren't foreshadowed in any way or feel like the writer reached into a hat of random ideas and pulled them out, then that's an unsuccessful twist. Even highly lauded writers have done bad endings and twists. And they've been called out on them, loudly and repeatedly.

Crime procedural are full of twists. Some stories have more than others over the course of the season. The writers of an episode set up several plausible suspects among the victims family, friends and coworkers. Then they'll knock them out leaving at least two as potentials and then go "ah hah, no it was really this third person all along!"

Shows like Criminal Minds also add a thriller element to their episodes. The perpetrator is still out there, committing crimes. Can they stop him before he kills another victim? (This is why I can't watch Criminal Minds, my nerves just can't take it.) The viewer expects the team to be able to find and apprehend the killer before they strike again. If they don't succeed they'd actually be subverting the viewers expectations and if it isn't made apparent that they didn't succeed this time because it's a bigger story arc, the viewers will feel cheated. They expected the heroes to win. (Because shows  like Criminal Minds aren't actually reality.) If it is made apparent that they're going to try and catch the criminal another day, then the viewer will more likely feel intrigued that this is a new story arc and will continue to watch.

Timothy Zahn wrote a science fiction trilogy about humans conquering space and meeting aliens. In science fiction, you have the Star Trek types where seek out new life forms and try to be friendly. And then you have the alien invasion types like Starship Troopers, Ender's Game or Star Craft (though it's debatable on who is really doing the invading.) In the invasion types, the aliens can't or won't communicate with humans and in the Star Trek types, at least the aliens and humans share enough similar technology that they can talk to each other. Timothy Zahn took a Star Trek type situation where the humans wanted to be friendly and subverted it by making the aliens unable or unwilling to communicate. Both sides thought they other started the fight first. And it took 3 books to sort it out.

He set up an expectation, the aliens were obviously intelligent beings, but then instead of helping the humans, they in turn destroyed them and tried to attack them without explanation. As a subversion of genre expectations, it worked well. The readers still got what they came for, humans exploring space, aliens, pseudo science!

You can subvert a reader's expectations in a variety of ways, character roles, plot, a twist ending, and even setting. Star Trek was essentially "Horatio Hornblower in SPACE!" That's in a way, how urban fantasy came to be. "Fantasy creatures in the modern world!" It's okay to subvert your reader's expectations, as long as you do it consistently and still give them what they came for. Because if you don't, they may not read you ever again.

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