#Nightfall Upon the Asylum

[gbhbl]

Album Review: Nightfall Upon the Asylum by Drama Noir (Floga Records)

Immerse yourself in the dark and atmospheric symphonic black metal world of Drama Noir as they unveil their highly anticipated third full-length album, Nightfall Upon The Asylum, set to be released on May 3rd, 2023, through Floga Records. Hailing from Greece, this talented band delivers a haunting and powerful experience for fans of Katavasia, Synteleia, Yoth Iria, and Kawir. Drama Noir formed in…

[rockattitudegr]

Αύριο! Οι Symphonic Blackened Death Metallers Drama Noir, λίγο μετά την κυκλοφορία του τρίτου τους άλμπουμ “Nightfall Upon The Asylum”, παρουσιάζουν για πρώτη φορά στο κοινό της Θεσσαλονίκης τα νέα τους τραγούδια. Μαζί τους συμπράττουν οι Temple of Katharsis (black metal) από την Καστοριά και οι End of Dawn (Symphonic/Gothic Black Metal) από την Θεσσαλονίκη, για μια πολύ ξεχωριστή και σημαντική μουσική συνάντηση!

[earlgreydream]

war.

| 1940s!bucky x reader | angst |

warnings: mentions of blood, violence, war, etc... general angst 

Your feet smacked the pavement as you ran. Your muscles felt like they were burning in fire, but you kept going, terrified. Bombs crashed all around you, buildings crumbled, and the ground shook as if it were going to open up and swallow you. You almost wished it would. 

Gunshots popped and bullets whizzed past your ears. You made it to a rocky staircase, and you tried to run down when you tripped. You tumbled down the stone stairs, smacking against the ground, blood rising to the surface of your hands and knees. You swore, and before you could stand up again, the soldiers surrounded you. 

You screamed as your ankles were grabbed, and you were flipped onto your back. 

“Stop! it’s a woman!” A soldier called as your cloak was ripped from your body. You were hyperventilating, panic seizing you as you stared up at the American soldiers. The dagger sheathed in your belt was confiscated, and the men stared down at you. 

“Please!” you begged for mercy, your accent thickening in your desperation. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” The soldiers looked to their leader, the man who had yelled for them to stop attacking you. 

“We are not going to kill her!” He sounded angry.

“What if she’s a spy?”

“I’m not, I swear. My home was bombed, I was running in fear!” You cried, pleading with him for mercy. 

“We cannot leave her in the streets-”

“Of course not.” The Sergeant spoke to his soldier, wearing a uniform different than the others. You winced at a sharp pain in your side, and you looked down to see blood soaking through your dress. You began to feel lightheaded, but you were terrified to black out and be left at the mercy of the likely sex-deprived soldiers that were invading your country.

Your eyes grew heavy and you moaned in pain, gripping the wound on your side from hitting a rock in your fall down the stairs. 

“We need to get her to the medbay, come on!” 

The words echoed in your head as you were lifted by the leader, carried in his arms. You wanted to struggle and try to make a run for it, but you were far too weak and you had nowhere to go. 

“You’re safe, doll, I’m going to protect you.”

Your head dropped as you slipped into unconsciousness, limp in his arms.

Bucky stood over your unconscious body as the best medic treated your wounds. She wrapped your hands and stitched the gash on your side, and Bucky winced as he watched. 

“Will she be alright?” he asked the medic anxiously.

“Yes, she’ll be fine. I think she’s asleep from the shock.” The medic nodded, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 

She wrapped the wound on your side and left Bucky with some morphine to give you when you needed it, instructing him to monitor you. 

“Do you think she’s a spy, or a soldier?”

“No, there’s nothing that would suggest that. I think she really was just a victim-- collateral damage.” 

Bucky was alone with you, then. He sat beside his bed that you were currently sleeping on, in his private chambers, away from the men who wouldn’t be able to keep their hands to themselves with a pretty young girl unconscious. 

Your eyes opened slowly, and you looked around, disoriented. You tried to sit up, but weakly sank back against the pillows. You noticed him sitting beside you, and you looked down. You were now wearing loose pants, and an oversized t shirt-- an army green, from a soldier. 

“Did you-?!” You cried in horror. 

“No, no. The medic cleaned your wounds and changed you. She said you’re going to be fine!” Bucky assured you quickly, and you relaxed a bit. 

“Are you going to kill me? Or keep me as a prisoner of war?” You asked, turning your head to look at him. 

“No. You’re not a captive, or a war criminal.” He shook his head. He handed you a glass of water, and a piece of buttered bread and some blackberries. You accepted them with a quiet thanks, and he sat back, giving you space.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

A small smile pulled at his lips, and you gazed down at your lap.

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes.” 

You spent two weeks recovering in his quarters, while he slept on a cot, guarding you and making sure you slept and had plenty to eat and drink. He’d opened up to you in that time, telling you about growing up in Brooklyn, New York. He had been drafted into the war, not really wanting to go overseas and kill people, and hurt innocents in the process-- innocents like you. Bucky was consumed with guilt, and was growing fond of you. 

He wished that he could just leave, go back to America and take you with him.  He had learned that you weren’t any kind of enemy like others suspected. You were orphaned by the war, by your own people. Almost everyone you knew and loved had been lost in the bloodbath, and now you were alone, struggling for survival in what felt like an apocalypse. 

Bucky convinced you to get some fresh air, and go outside. You’d stayed hidden under his protection, feeling safer with him than you had in years, since the war started. 

“James...” 

“It will be fine.” 

You took a walk with him, holding his hand as you walked through the soft grass. You giggled as he picked a daisy, handing it to you with a smile. 

“Are you trying to impress me?” You asked, blushing as you looked into sweet grey eyes.

“Is it working?” He grinned boyishly at you, and you saw a glimpse of the real James, not the soldier. He leaned down and kissed you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. 

“I love you, Y/N” He smiled at the bright spot in the misery, the girl he began to wake up for. His gaze was filled with adoration as he looked at you, a rescue from the streets of a war-torn village.

“You’re not bringing that nazi bitch with us!” A soldier shouted, and Bucky was at his throat immediately. 

“Don’t ever speak about her that way!” Bucky yelled, pinning him to the wall by the throat, a gun pressed against his chest. 

“Stop!” You cried, trying to pull Bucky off, not wanting him to murder the soldier in front of you, and all his troops. 

“Sergeant Barnes, you cannot seriously think of bringing Y/N to the Danish border with us.” Steve, Bucky’s loyal friend asked, giving you a pathetic look.

“Shut up, of course she’s coming with us!” Bucky wrapped an arm around you, trying to calm your shaking.

“Sergeant, she’s a nazi.”

“She’s NOT!” Bucky fired off a shot, and you winced against him. The bullet sank into the wall, but you were sobbing with fear, memories of being shot at flooding your mind and taking over your ability to think. 

“Ever since she came, you’re not the leader you were. You’re not thinking clearly!” Steve argued with him as if you weren’t there. 

You already knew what everybody thought of you. There was no hiding it. To the Americans, you were just a nazi whore that Bucky kept around for sex, and nothing more. They didn’t know the way he kissed you, the way your eyes sparkled with joy at even the slightest bit of attention from him. When you had nightmares, Bucky read to you from one of his books, or sang a song softly from Ella Fitzgerald. 

There was no one else. Every day, every night, all Bucky could think about was you. Leaving the war, taking you back to America, and building a life with you. He thought of a brownstone in Brooklyn, buying you dresses and making a family with you. He wanted to spin you around and dance with you to records in your living room, and take you on dates to a drive-in-movie. He wanted you to be the last thing he saw at night and the first thing in the morning. He was in love with you. And you were in love with him.

But you couldn’t escape the slurs and hate of his colleagues, and dearest friends. You knew it would be nothing like what you would receive in Brooklyn, your accent and broken English giving you away. It would make Bucky an outcast too-- a former soldier who left the war for an enemy girl. He would be a disgrace. 

You knew you could receive asylum in Denmark, a country not plagued by the war like elsewhere. You’d be a refugee, but you could join their society safely, and build a real life there. You traveled with the soldiers, transported there safely. 

You laid in bed with Bucky, kissing him sweetly. He ran his fingers through your hair, your head on his chest. He talked about New York pizza, and you smiled, tracing shapes on his skin with your fingertips. His voice sounded so happy when he talked about a future with you, you felt like your heart was going to shatter. 

“I love you, James.” 

“I love you more than the stars, Y/N.”

You pretended to sleep, but fear and nausea kept you up all night. You didn’t stir as Bucky got up for an early meeting with an officer at the American Embassy in Denmark. 

As soon as he was gone, you were on your feet. You got dressed silently, slipping money and a knife into your clothes and pulling a coat on over it. Tears blinded you and made it more difficult, as well as struggling to be quiet in the dark so you didn’t catch the attention of Bucky’s soldiers. 

The sun had barely peaked above the horizon, the sky still mostly dark, and the world asleep. You broke into a run, escaping out the window in the back. You ran from the base, getting as far away as you could. Your heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, pain shooting through your chest. 

Nightfall, you made it to a home for female refugees, women left alone by the war. You were dirty and exhausted, and barely able to breathe. You had sobbed the entire day as you traveled, making it nearly to Århus. 

“Welcome. You’re safe now.” A danish woman said, embracing you as you were taken inside the safehouse. You broke down in her arms, screams of heartache ripping through your chest.

“Y/N! I’m home, doll!” Bucky called, opening the door. His brow furrowed in confusion upon finding an empty room. He went to the bathroom, checking to see if you were in the shower. He couldn’t find you, and he walked through the halls. 

“Has anyone seen Y/N?” He asked every soldier desperately, all of them shaking their heads. 

He went back to his room, finding a note written inside of the book cover on his bedside, left open. 

I love you. more than the stars. I hope you understand.

He screamed your name, dropping down to his knees, his head falling into his hands as he rocked back and forth. Steve ran in, dropping down and wrapping his arms around Bucky as he fell apart. Sobs wracked his body, his dreams falling apart, his lover slipping through his fingers. He had just gotten news that he could be honorably discharged in three months, to start a family with you. He came home to tell you that you just had to stick it out a little longer. The flowers he brought were discarded and littered amongst the floorboards. 

[loladebelgique]

Wednesday, 21st of July 2021, 18:00

Since their last reported appearance at the Laeken Castle gardens, the Belgian Royals, with the aid of the Crown Princes of South Korea and Germany, have been granted asylum in Germany. The German and the South Korean crowns, respectively, have been powerful allies of Belgium since 2020; both have sent over reinforcements to aid in Belgium’s fight against France.  

No specific details about the conditions concerning Crown Princess Louise, Princess Araya, Princess Éloïse or that of Crown Prince San and Crown Prince Aurel have been shared, however, an inside source close to the royals insists that all parties are currently receiving treatment and have been safe upon their arrival in Germany. 

Back in Belgium, while the Duke of Flanders stayed back to fight alongside his countrymen to protect Laeken Castle, Queen Mother Wilhelmina and her daughter, Princess Geneviève, have been reported to have thwarted French attempts at captivity and made their way out of Brussels. Opting to stay in Belgium, the mother and daughter safely arrived in Antwerp by nightfall and are currently in the presence and protection of the VSSE (State Security Service).

[ruinousrealms]

Flayer

It was half past nightfall when we crossed the Rio Nuevo into Las Verdantes. Our outfit was fifteen men strong, pushing half a thousand cattle for Erlen Baymer, one of the state's lesser cattlemen. In truth he was a hard boss, a hard man who had captained a company of border raiders during the war and never tired of bragging about his service. 

A favorite story of his was the time he and his men came across a family of free black farmers in southern Kansas. Baymer had approached on horseback, riding through the fields with the self-confident swagger of a plantation overlord surveying his property. He asked the father whose plantation he had run away from, and for response the black said he had been born free. 

Now, Erlen Baymer was a devout Christian, and he knew the black race were descendants of Ham, son of Noah, and that for his transgression against God, he and his descendants were evermore cursed to servitude, to hew wood and draw water and be servants unto servants. He did of course explain this position to the black, as he ordered his men to strip him naked to find the truth of his claims. No man is born into slavery but he feels the whip, and so if he were born free, his back should be free from blemish. 

Indeed, the man's back was smooth, free from the lumpy scars of the lash. A novelty, many of his company had come up to gawk and ask questions. How did the negro know what to plant and when without any white man to tell him? How did he work the fields without a lash to urge his lazy, indolent soul? 

At length Captain Baymer ended this game and pronounced the sentence. The man was to be hung for his crimes against the Confederate States of America, those crimes being largely related to the color of his skin and the manner of his livelihood. It was understood that, if he were truly a born freeman, then surely his father and mother were somebody’s escaped property. Thus his very existence constituted the crime of theft. The children were brought back to Tennessee and dispersed among the slave markets.

The freeman’s remarkable back, Erlen Baymer had a leathersmith tan it and stitch it into a saddle. He rode that very saddle, decked out in silver dollar conchos and a rebel flag tied round the post, when we crossed the river that night in 1868.

Now, the facts of that night - I’m going to relate them to you here, plain and simple and just as they happened, like I’m some fancy New York journalist-reporter type. I grant you some of what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t got any proof, any evidence beyond what I saw that night with my own two eyes. The way Erlen Baymer died, and the things that happened to us in his trail crew before and after… I tell you boy, it’s a curse, the things I seen with these eyes. It’s what drives a man to whiskey.

The country there was flat as flapjacks, and the only place we could find to camp out of the wind was in a dried up riverbank. There we laid out our beds, cocooning ourselves in canvas sheets and wool blankets and shivering in the chill night air. The southwestern desert is hotter than a griddle all day long, but come nightfall and it’s as cold as the north pole.

Well, it was cold that night, like I said, and the wind was howling and kicking up a whole storm of dust. Me and some of the boys, those being Joe Merwin and Caul Bretton and Micah Sanchez, we took turns digging a hole in the side of the riverbank. It wasn’t like a cave, just a dirt overhang a few feet deep, with the excavated dirt piled up to protect our side from the wind.

I wouldn’t say it was the hole we dug that saved us. It sure didn’t save poor Caul, and from what I hear Micah’s still out of his mind up at one of those New England asylums. I’d say it kept us from getting noticed long enough to save our lives, for whatever that's worth.

Now we’d been seeing the makings of a dust storm in the distance for most of the afternoon. They’re common enough out here and we didn’t make much of it beyond what we’d have to do to keep the cattle from scattering. A herd of dumb heifers can scatter to the four winds during a dust-up if you’re not careful with where you lay them down.

The cows stretched out for more than a mile down the riverbed, but they wouldn’t bed down quietly. Whips of dust kept kicking up and no sooner had they sat down than they were on their hooves again, bellowing out loud.

Erlen Baymer kept riding up and down the line cursing to high heaven, kicking the sentries when he came upon them and telling them to get off their lazy god damned bean-eating asses and put the god damned cows to god damned sleep. The only effect that had was making it impossible for any of us to get sleep - But that probably saved us.

It was so dusty at that point that when dark fell there wasn’t a moon nor a star to be seen. A man could just see the dots of cattle guards’ lanterns like the windows of distant farmsteads. Weren’t no use keeping your eyes open, the wind kept kicking the stinging dust up and there weren’t anything to see anyways. I pulled my bandana up over my nose and pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes and tried to get some shuteye.

I might even have caught a wink of sleep. The cattle down at the far end of the line were getting riled up, bellowing and braying into the night, and that got the whole herd nervous. A nervous longhorner is a dangerous longhorner, and a whole herd of nervous longhorners is a stampede waiting to happen. Joe Merwin went out to see what was the matter and lend a hand if need be. That left just the three of us.

The screaming started soon after. I think it was Tadd Murfree, but from the sound it was hard to tell whose voice it was. There are sounds and intonations particular to men and sounds and intonations particular to animals, and only in the extremity of fear, agony or ecstasy can one make the sounds of another. I don’t think poor Tadd was in ecstasy that night.

More screams started up, and the horses neighing, and the braying and bellowing filled the night air with a mad cacophony. I wager nobody’s ever heard a sound like that before, that of half a thousand screaming and panicking cattle. The hoofbeats were like thunder, like cannonfire, like a thousand drummers pounding madly out of time.

The three of us huddled at the back of our shallow hole in the edge of the riverbank, wishing we’d dug in even deeper and almost thankful Joe Merwin wasn’t here, because he was a big man and there wouldn’t have been room to hide.

I had a small trail lantern whose flickering light we used to play cards. It took five tries to get a match lit, my hands were shaking so much. It lit up our little hole just fine; I saw Micah had his revolver out, and his knuckles were white around the oakwood grip.

“Put that thing away, Micah, do you mean to shoot something?”

“I intend to be ready,” He said, which was reasonable enough.

I crawled to the entrance of the hole. As we were digging we piled the dirt up at the entrance to serve as a wind-break while we slept. I crawled up to it like a trench’s parapet and peered over with my little lamp. It didn’t illuminate much, but in its glow I could see a rush of cattle, a torrent of bovinity running full-tilt down the length of the riverbed. A lot of the animals had raw bloody wounds, some so flayed they appeared to be covered in red patches like a hellishly perverse Holstein.

These animals were panicking for a reason, fleeing some unknown predator, but what on God’s earth it could be I had no idea. Suddenly a cow fell headlong into the side of the embankment near us, sending a shower of dirt down from the roof of our little dugout. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t; And when it rolled over I could see one whole side of its hip had been laid open and the bloody pink bone was visible. Well, I put the poor bellowing beast out of its misery and hurled my dinner over the side of the dirt heap.

And you see, that’s when Erlen Baymer rode past us. God, if the sight don’t haunt me. I once seen a drawing of the Third Horseman, Famine, a rotting man riding atop a rotting stallion. That’s what I saw. That’s the scene I’ve got to describe to you, to make you understand why I can’t sleep at night no more.

The horse looked like it had been dead and rotting for a week. It had hardly a hair of fur left on its body, and the skin… It looked like somebody had taken a cheese grater to the poor beast. Through flapping bits of flesh I saw muscles moving like an accursed anatomical flipbook. The horse’s jaw was hanging on by a thread of tendon and it was screaming, just screaming with that stump of a tongue hanging out.

The poor girl had been beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, with a black coat that shone like oil in the sunlight. Thinking back on it now I wish I’d have drawn my pistol and put an end to the poor thing, but at the time I was too shocked to do anything but watch as it thundered past, carrying its shrieking, flailing load.

Erlen Baymer was naked as Adam in Eden, and it was plain whatever was happening to the horse was occurring to him as well. He was flailing like a man possessed, slapping at himself as if desperately beating out flames; There were no flames, just raw red meat that spurted every time he touched it. He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of the frayed ends of muscles poking through a bicep.

Something fell with a wet thud near our little hollow, and leaning over just slightly with the lantern, I saw a withered human leg severed at the knee, as if the joint had been so weakened it simply fell off. It seemed to be writhing as if covered by a hundred thousand ravenous little insects, methodically stripping it down to the bone before my very eyes. It was wearing one of Erlen Baymer’s fancy gatorskin ropers. Once the flesh was gone, the carnivorous beasties went to work eating the leather of the boot, anything fleshy enough to be consumed, till all that remained were bones and a silver spur.

I crawled back in the hole, barely able to process what I had just seen. “Alright, boys, what in the hell do we do?” I asked, and Micah Sanchez said what we three all were thinking - Make a run for the horses.

Well, you didn’t have to tell us twice. We three all crawled up to the opening, and Micah and Caul took off at a full tilt. I stayed behind a second - I’d just glanced at the body of the cow beside our dugout. It had been picked to the bone.

Just as I scrambled to my feet, Caul fell and started screaming.

“No! God, no!” Caul frantically started beating at the lower hem of his pant-legs. We didn’t know what in the hell was happening; Micah rushed over with the lamp and pulled up his trouser leg. Micah screamed and dropped the lantern, bringing the infernal night down around us once more. Caul let out a kind of a long drawn-out moan, with notes of fear, sadness and resignation. At the time what it reminded me of, more than anything, was a deer that’s gotten itself trapped in some crevasse it can’t get out, and the more it struggles the more stuck it gets, till it’s exhausted itself and all it can do is bray and wait to die.

A gunshot lit up the darkness for a moment, and the afterimage stayed in my eyes for a long time, like looking too long into a fire. Caul’s body slumped down almost casually, but the upper part of his head sprayed across the sand. I heard Micah’s running footsteps and his heavy gasping breath, and he thudded down next to me and skittered like a rat into our little safe haven.

“Flies!” Micah’s fingertips dug into my shoulders like blades, his dirty breath blowing in my face, “It’s flies! Must be millions of them! They were eating him right up! Cleaned his ankles down to the bone, I’m telling you!”

I told him to shut up.

“That’s why he fell, there weren’t nothing holding his foot bones to his leg!”

Maybe the reader will judge me for what I did next. I hope you’ll take into account the things I’d seen, and the stress I was under at the time. Micah was raving mad, clenching me for dear life like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a broken mast. I’d just seen him blow a man’s brains out - Though thinking back to it, he may have been right. It would have been cruel to leave him to be eaten alive, and if Micah had tried dragging him back, he’d have brought the carnivorous flies with him. He put him out of his misery as you would an old cow. But at that time I was still in shock, and the only thought that came to mind was of Caul Bretten, whom I hardly knew, but with whom I’d shared campfires and kettles of coffee, and whose brains were steaming in the cool desert night.

Thinking only of justice, I reached for my lantern and brought it down on Micah’s head, extinguishing the light and silencing his ramblings. I didn’t know whether or not I’d killed him. He was quiet. We lay there together a long time. I must have nodded off and woken several times. At one point, I woke to see Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address in the corner of our cave. Again I woke, this time to see a skinless and eyeless cow wandering blind in the dim pre-dawn light. It walked past absolutely silently.

When morning came, the desert was still and not a thing moved. The sun was well up in the sky before I dared move. I was caked in dust from head to toe, cracking and falling as I stirred.

Micah’s face was red and my first thought, as the events of the night came rushing back to me, was that he too was being consumed alive by those unstoppably ravenous insects. But no; My lantern blow had split his scalp and dry blood painted his face red as an Apache warrior. He was still breathing softly, so I left him there and took a gander outside.

The dry riverbed at first seemed to be decorated with a vast elaborate network of ice sculptures, gleaming a blinding white in the sun. These were the bones of cattle and cattlemen, five hundred dead heifers stripped of skin and meat and life. A lot of them had broken and ran, and their bones shone white in the distant desert sand. Clambering up the slope, the impression one got was of an overflowing river turned to ice in the blink of an eye, as if by magic.

Here and there the bones of the sentries. I recognized Eustace Bagge from his cigarette case. The leather had been eaten away, but the copper badge bearing the name of the regiment he served in the war was still perfect.

Two or three miles down, laying near some scrub was the skeleton of a horse surrounded by silver dollar conchos. I picked one up, turned it over; It could only be Erlen Baymer’s horse and saddle. The saddle, however, was gone but for the metal pegs that held it together. The freedman’s dark skin, that nightmarish piece of leatherwork, had been completely eaten away by the swarm.

The man himself had crawled away from his dead horse and left a trail of bones. He lost a lot more than the one leg; Toe and finger bones poked from the sand like pebbles, and the larger ones, a femur, most of a hand and the arm up to the elbow. I found gold teeth, and his revolver with the tacks that had held together the holster.

A bit further on I found Erlen Baymer. I turned and went back down the riverbank.

Micah had woken up and I found him wandering dazed and confused amongst the skeletons. I spoke to him but he didn’t reply; He never said a word to me again, and from what I’ve heard those New England brain-doctors haven’t gotten him talking. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what. He just kept staring past me.

He followed me without resistance. We followed the riverbed. We must have walked ten miles the first day and ten miles the next. The whole time we were stepping around skeletons. A herd can go surprisingly far in panic; The only reason they hadn’t gotten farther was, well, they were being eaten alive at the time.

The sun was our enemy. We had our canteens; I kept pouring little slips down Micah’s mouth, worried he’d choke but even more worried he’d die of thirst. At some point the brim started falling off my hat and letting sunlight hit my forehead, searing the skin red and raw.

Round noon of the third day, we came to an old covered bridge where we took shelter from the sun for a while, then started out along the road. After two and a half days walking, we were near dead. I had to pull Micah along, but he’d only move at a snail’s pace. I was terrified that he’d eventually fall down and just refuse to get back up; It’d be the end for him, and my own couldn’t be far away.

And then, as if by magic, a carriage appeared. One moment we were walking and then, the sound and smell of horses and a voice crying out in Spanish, “Quitate de en medio, idiotas!”

Well, I spoke a peck of Spanish, just enough for him to understand that we were in trouble, and the kind old man stepped down and helped me load Micah into the back, building a little bed for him out of bags of corn, and setting up a tarp to keep him out of the sun.

We rode to a hacienda named Soledad El Aquelarre, and the women bathed us and fed us and fussed over poor Micah. There was a nunnery not far away and the old man sent for the holy sisters to tend his needs, but beyond keeping him fed and cleaning up after him, there was little they could do.

I never told him a word of what happened. My lack of Spanish helped in that respect; Whenever he asked, I could pretend not to understand. He was kind, too kind for the likes of us, and I do feel guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t think he could comprehend what we’d been through, let alone understand. I barely could, and as I lay there day after day I got to wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of insane dream. I could see the workers in the fields through my window and beyond them the bone white desert stretched out gleaming, a thousand miles of dust to the gulf of Mexico.

One night, however, I was visited in my room by one of the sisters. She spoke good English and introduced herself as Sister Clarita. She was one of the sisters tending to Micah. She didn’t ask me what had happened, because she already knew. There were stories in this region going back centuries, of caravans going missing in the desert night, and by light of day all that are found are the polished white bones. The monastery library held many such reports going back to the days of the conquistadors. Sister Clarita thought it must have been going on a lot longer; The native tribes shunned this entire area, considering it an unclean place to visit and avoiding the entire hundred-mile stretch of desert as we Americans avoid the cesspit or the slums.

There were other books, too. Books on biology and entomology, and the evolution and adaptation of species. Sister Clarita suggested that a species of small insect, like the tiny mites and fleas that live among grains of sand and are so small as to be almost indistinguishable, may have become adapted, over many centuries, to the consumption of flesh. That such a diet would cause changes in the bodies of the insects making them more adept at catching their prey; Perhaps their mandibles had developed a razor’s edge for slicing off bits of flesh. Or maybe they coated their victims in digestive acid and slurped up the liquified flesh. Sister Clarita knew of several insects that consumed their prey in just such a manner, though none that she knew had ever gone after so large a prey as a man or a cow.

“But Sister, if these really are man-eating insects, why do they stay out here in the desert? Every animal migrates toward its food source; These things could strip a town clean of flesh overnight! Why aren’t they swarming through the cities, just… Everywhere?”

“Perhaps they just like the weather here,” Sister Clarita said and kissed her rosary.

After a week of recovery, I felt well enough to travel. I collected Micah from the sisters, who protested, but I thought if anyone could help him it would be at one of those new asylums up in New England. The old man took us as far as the train station in Las Friolero del Resol, and there he bade us goodbye.

Two days later we were back in Texas. First thing I went to the barber to shave off the wild beard I’d grown. Then I walked into the nearest sheriff’s office to report the fate of the Erlen Baymer Cattle Drive.

Well, they didn’t believe a word of what I told them and locked me and Micah up for murder. To hear them tell it, the two of us got up one night and slit everybody’s throats. Didn’t matter to them what I said, nor the state Micah was in; They left us to rot six weeks before the circuit judge came ‘round to pronounce the sentence.

He had expected an open-and-shut murder case; When we were brought to stand before him, he saw my sleepless eyes and the empty shell of a man that was Micah. He listened to my story silently, nodding occasionally for me to continue, and when it was done he pronounced the sentence.

“I, Judge Howard Lorbbock of the Great State of Texas, do hereby declare these two men to be mentally insane. No doubt they were driven mad by the ordeal they suffered, of crossing the desert after their cattle drive was destroyed by Apaches.”

There weren’t any damn Apaches in that part of Mexico, but I kept my mouth shut. The sheriff was making enough noise as it was, imploring the judge that “What the people of this town need to see is a good old fashioned hanging!”

Well, we were sent to Houston for treatment. Micah was considered such a specialty case that he was sent up north to New England, to the asylum in some town called Arkham. 

I stayed behind at the Houston madhouse. The medicine they gave me made me sleep, but nothing can stop the dreams. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Erlen Baymer’s lidless eyeballs rolling round and round in his red skull-face.

[ccmagma]

I think about my story and think about one word: Disbelief. Not because what has happened to me is something shocking, or worrying, no, nothing like that at all. But upon learning my heritage, what has happened over years… It sounds like something from a tale. I’ve heard the story enough times from my parents, more so my father who came from someplace far away much like other refugees. Perhaps, that’s where this story should start… I can’t say for certain how they felt exactly, experiences are, after all, unique to us. However, putting myself in their shoes… I can’t even begin to imagine what it had been like. To have no information, not knowing what was coming and the inability to prepare for it.

My father came from a planet called Earth, a funny name I thought considering the translation of it had meant literal dirt. It wasn’t the most unique of names when I realized the other planets surrounding Earth and its history with Gods and Goddesses.

Earth. It was a planet already doomed thanks to its human inhabitants. The world was crumbling around them, war was a regular term in their households, little did they know something greater was coming. It’s safe to say things did not end well for them, the residents of my home did what they could and saved what humans they could. There were a lot of casualties… Many families were separated and I am certain not many took a liking to their new life.

Emptying Earth and leaving it to ash happened over the course of years. It wasn’t until recently where portals to that planet were closed off as far as two-way travel went. It would be another dumping ground for the creatures that plagued our lands of Izavyn. That was the root of all problems and the cause for most quarrels throughout our countries and city-states. A plague, a virus, an abomination, there were many words to describe what caused the woe of so many but the term we used for those creatures was a simple one, Demons. Their creation was one out of malice but perhaps when an organization sees too much peace, it craves to shift the balance. War might not have been as common here but it wasn’t unknown.

Demons were once people, our people. Changing them back was impossible, at least it seemed that way. When one combines the magic of the land with dark practices given to them by one of The Arms, the one no one mentions for there is power in a name or prayer.

The Arms were created by The Eternal. Those lucky enough to hear her voice or perhaps catch a glimpse learned she had a name, Divi. The Eternal Divi created what we know, her power flows through all of us, and upon passing we re-join her. All life is connected to her and therefore we are all connected, to every fabric of being. The Eternal also created four to help her, to watch and guide us, The Arms. Any paintings or statues of Divi and constructed so that she appears to have four arms, though now at days older art either scratched out or have removed the fourth arm. The fourth betrayed The Eternal and have been gathering followers and temples of his own, promising a new age and have become a powerful deity in his own right. Whispers of The Ascent Mol is rare, but not unheard of.

The Arms were prayed to just as The Eternal was. Though references to them have changed over time. Sometimes I hear elders sigh out, “By the five!” and anyone within earshot is horrified. We no longer reference them as five but as four. After all, if one divine figure goes rogue and attempts to take all, for the most part, you should be against it. Naturally, that isn’t always the cause.

Izavyn had felt responsible for the havoc that came over the years. There are parts of our world that had been destroyed and rebuilt, taken over, some still fight a resistance or civil war. When those who decided to follow Mol and his trek for power over all, things changed. They gave their lives, prayers, their devotion, and in turn, it made him strong. Everything is connected, choosing to give yourself to something so powerful isn’t wise but not all men are wise. Creatures were created, the dangerous sort that can infect you with a wound and have you turned. Death by a Demon though frightening was merciful compared to the other option. They spread throughout the land, diminished populations, and where they roamed, darkness followed. The neverending night was their home, it’s where they flourished and thrived. No one dared made their way to a patch of dark land when the sun was out, the cold and dead land meant creatures that would kill. At night, everyone would stay in their homes, traveling would be banned for cargo ships and merchants. Those who wished to risk it on their own was another story… Not even our armies would venture to the darkened lands. The dark clouds in the distance were an omen, a promise of destruction to those who sought safety. The only way to destroy the patches of darkness would be to kill the hoard that inhabited it, that was not an easy feat. Upon nightfall, they roamed free, and hope at that point was lost.

There was a point the people of Izavyn thought things could turn around. The numbers of Demons were dwindling, causalities were becoming less and less. However, just as we had access to magic, as did they. There was a practice that had been used for the most heinous of prisoners. Those who did wrong beyond fixing and required justice were banished from the world. A portal would open and they would be sent somewhere desolate and free of intelligent life. What happened after would be up to them and no longer the business of our world. However, it turns out that a portal can work two ways with the right studies behind it. That’s how the numbers jumped up again and other worlds began to get involved in the strife that should have belonged to Izavyn alone.

Since then, most Kingdoms and City-States have decided to get involved, working to have the same ability the opposing side did. Wars were fought on all fronts and refugees were taken in of all races, most sent to camps to fight. We needed armies and they needed an escape… it was a dreadful exchange but I could understand the military aspect of it, it didn’t mean I agreed to it. Those who sought asylum were brought over, checked over by doctors and ailments would be removed. The world here was free of sickness that could kill, our healers and their abilities were both inspiring and wanted. Everyone who came through would be treated, and while the masses were grateful… I knew it was because our world could do more with healthy people than sickly ones. It was a double-edged sword of sorts but perhaps everything that had beauty also had an ugliness to it.

To make joining the military enticing, promises were made and kept. Majikas were crafty and their practices were difficult, so much so that only one of the many elements would be taught to them. They could summon fire at will, hold lightning in their hands, or even practice in potions and the arcana which would allow for many things, endurance, a day without needed sleep, even a change of appearance of them or others. Hallows were the most pampered of the bunch, clothes in white and ethereal looking, elegance was their calling and people were in awe of them and their ability to heal the sick or create barriers of protection without needed enchantments. We then had those in the front lines, impressive warriors who gained respect just by their sheer look alone, there were many kinds. Some with bulky armor and a grand sword, an enchanted shield that could but up a barrier. They were front-line men, giving commands to their squadron and leading the way. Others were dressed more lightly, more agile. Some with slimmer long swords, long twin daggers, bows with arrows that would appear on a whim, all enchanted weapons with their own special ability. It all looked glamourous really and those who were not from this world were given promises of a better life if they joined one of the ranks. A promise of enhanced beauty, so you would look like the most prominent version of you courtesy of a Majika, and those who joined the front-line men were given the option of a complete change and land, an enticing idea for those who liked the material things. The person would no longer have to live in the safe house and would instead be given a cozy room to call their own, a private bath included, and the promise to be able to own land or home depending on their choice of rank to follow as well as being given the status of a citizen instead of being labeled a refugee.

The refugees were put to work but they worked alongside everyone else, everyone had to pitch in one form or another. Those with a specialized trade were willing to take on apprentices and that option was one people sought after because it promised a place of their own in the home of the master tradesman. There was also an option to help in re-building, supplies run, guard duty, and many other things. That didn’t mean that there was no downtime, not at all. People were still able to enjoy time with their families or seek out help and therapy due to the drastic changes. Not all took it well and when death rates began rising within the safety of the barriers, those in higher power took action. It was a hard change, but those who remained were able to make it through and over the years the world has prospered the best it can given the circumstances. However, it seems the Demons have run out of souls to take on for their army and the focus now remains on us, the last standing in their path and our unwillingness to bow makes us targets.

Some know that time might not be kind with what looms. Some choose to just make it by, others wise to live as if tomorrow might be the end and that’s what my parents did. My mother is was born in this world, she comes from across the sea and studied as a tailor. Her studies eventually brought her to the City-State of Verrin where she ended up being the private seamstress to the council. She never did talk much of home but I understood. It was painful… Back in her home of Qisyo things were difficult. It was one of the countries where the royal family had been forced out and armies with the banners for Mol were raised. Some refugees from her country could be seen throughout Verrin but I knew of a settlement by the ocean on a cliff where her people were trying to wait out the war across the sea so they can return home. Qisyo’ko was the name of the settlement and I had only been there once…  

My father had arrived when my mother was working in a dress shop, he did not join the ranks and instead chose to live his life in the business of delivery within the city. My mother was someone he came across quite often since he would deliver goods to the shop she worked in and their relationship eventually grew and then they were married. My mother was aware of his status as a refugee and knew marriage wouldn’t secure a future for him but her eventual career opened doors and my father was able to eventually work in the library, much like he had back on Earth. It was a quiet enough life for them, and my appearance made things better for them, something they always reminded me of. I remember spending a lot of time with my father in the library, reading never-ending books, and in the evening bothering my mother beyond words since I had not seen her all day whenever work called for her.

Eventually, I did make friends of my own but there was one I ended up being the closest to. It was around the time the last of the humans from Earth made their way over. There had been a group of orphans but there was one who did not seem as sad as the others. It turned out she had already been an orphan and had been placed in home after home. The events of her world and the drastic change stressed her eyes, but she did not cry over the loss of family like the others and seemed more optimistic, hopeful almost. Her name was Morgan and she and I had a bond that could rival the closest of sisters.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Fifteen: Migration ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Itachi ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: River Runs Deep ] [ AO3 Link ]

When Sasuke wakes, it’s to the sight of the canvas of his tent overhead. A familiar one, and yet...in so many ways, it’s different now.

Or, rather...where he’s set up camp is what makes all the difference.

For weeks now, the Uchiha have been on an involuntary migration. While they once occupied their own district within their home city - loyal samurai to their lord - they were forced to flee when war overtook them, and their lord surrendered, abandoning them.

Given their ties to a conquered man...they were all set to be hunted until death.

There was no time to take anything important. If you couldn’t carry it, it was left behind. They saddled their horses, strapped on their blades...and fled.

Days and days were passed running their mounts to their limits, trying to outpace their pursuers. Camps were cold and dark in an attempt to go unseen after nightfall, many of said nights spent walking on foot, gear muffled to try and make time. All they had to do, they were sure, was pass the mountains to the north of their homeland. Perilous, foreboding things that stood along the horizon like a great wall. But should they survive the trek...it would be an obstacle few on their trail would dare face.

The climb was perilous. Loose stones threatened to steal their feet out from under them. Gnarled roots sprung up from the ground to catch inattentive feet and twist ankles of men and mounts alike. And there were no trails - just steep, jagged inclines covered with thick flora and fog.

It was only a matter of time before someone got lost. And that someone was the younger son of their clan head: Uchiha Sasuke. Separated, he knew only to keep going - to try and meet them on the other side.

What he found instead was like a fairytale.

A mysterious valley between the peaks, inhabited by a shrine and a miko. But why would a shrine be so deeply buried in the mountains…?

He was warned to leave, and never return lest he incur the wrath of the god.

Though Sasuke had long lost faith in the concepts of gods and spirits, nor was he one to entirely discount them...especially if they were a threat. Carrying the secret of the strange village with him, he was allowed to leave, and by some miracle found his kin.

Then a traitor, seeking to return, had to be hunted down. Should he reach their foes and spill their secret, they’d lose the small respite they’d gained by crossing the mountains. So Sasuke took the challenge, returning to the peaks only to find the man dead of his own accord: slipped and claimed by the mountains.

And by some stroke, Sasuke wandered back into that same valley...and this time, came face to face with its guardian god. Her miko was his only saving grace, insisting fate must have brought him back. The spirit warily agreed.

It was then Sasuke hatched a plan: a desperate, likely foolish one...but he felt he had no choice. He would beg asylum from the god. A place for his people to finally settle and be safe. When she asked what price he would pay, he offered his life...and she believed him.

His clan, however, was not so sure. Several, upon his presentation of his plan, refused to believe, and instead kept traveling north in search of a new home. But Sasuke’s family and many others followed him back into the mountains.

And now...here they sleep. He can only pray this was the last leg of their migration. That the Uchiha, at last, can come to rest and be safe.

The small village has been their home now for barely a week, but efforts are well underway to house them. Their new neighbors - all rescued from black fates by the god - have accepted them into their fold, knowing of their own circumstances.

It still...unnerves Sasuke at times: seeing just how kind and giving people can be when not afflicted by greed. He keeps expecting a price, a deal...but favors are only repaid by favors.

It’s so...odd. And yet, it’s refreshing. Their city had been slowly growing its shadows: gambling, prostitution, strange substances and alcohol.

Perhaps, in a way...it was good that it fell. Perhaps now it might find peace.

...but he doubts it.

But most important, to Sasuke at least, has been the god’s help with his brother, Itachi. So long sick and frail, body betraying him, he’s been restored to proper health. He still finds himself, at times, just watching Itachi. Seeing him live so unburdened.

That, if nothing else, makes it all worthwhile.

“Sasuke.”

Broken from his reminiscing, Sasuke sits up, finding his brother peering in. “Yes?”

“The miko wishes to speak with you.”

That earns a blink. The Hyūga, Hinata, has been the unofficial ambassador between the valley’s previous inhabitants, and the Uchiha. And though he isn’t clan head, it’s typically Sasuke she seeks out whenever something must be said. It was he, after all, who made this deal.

“All right...I’ll be out in a moment.”

Itachi nods, leaving his brother in peace. Sighing, Sasuke brings a hand down his face, mind full. There’s so much to do, so much to account for. It’s mind-boggling, really. In many ways, he’s glad the position of clan head will fall instead to his brother, and not to him. Sasuke isn’t stupid - far from it - but this sort of thing is far more Itachi’s specialty than his own.

Once dressed, he abandons his tent, glancing around and finding the clan active. Already many have begun efforts to find new employment. In a place so secluded and peaceful, samurai are hardly necessary.

...but that doesn’t mean Sasuke has any plans to stop practicing.

“Sasuke-san.”

Looking to the voice, he finds the pale-eyed miko. “Hyūga.”

“I hope I did not have you awakened?”

“No...I was already up with my thoughts,” he assures her. “And that aside, it’s high time I rise, anyway.”

“You work hard. Rest is important,” she in turn allows, a hint of a smile upon her face.

Deciding not to argue, Sasuke instead asks, “Did you need something?”

It’s then the miko hesitates. “...not in the way you likely expect, no. Rather...it’s I who have something to offer.”

A dark brow perks.

“I realize that your father recognized my lineage. And as I told you...my clan was also once a renowned family of warriors that rivaled your own. But...you can quite obviously tell that neither I nor my cousin are such warriors.”

“...if you think me suspicious of you, there’s no need,” Sasuke offers slowly in reply, not sure what she’s driving at.

“...no, I suppose not,” she replies softly. “But...I feel that - given our common roots - we may have something to learn from each other. And there is much about myself I have yet to tell you. Are you not curious…?”

He hesitates. “...I don’t like to pry.”

“...there are many secrets within this valley,” Hinata replies in a near-whisper, almost as if to keep from being heard. “None that would ever harm you or your kind,” she assures him upon his tensing. “...but if you’re to live here, and thrive here...it’s best you know.”

Sasuke draws a long, low breath. “...very well.”

“I can speak for no one else...but I’ll begin with my own tale. If we may...sit somewhere?”

Reading her intentions, Sasuke nods, following her back toward the village.

Behind them, Itachi watches thoughtfully.

“...when my own clan faced a fate similar to yours,” she begins as they walk, “we were scattered to the four winds. Many went south. Some north. My father, his brother, and their families stuck together and headed west toward the coast. I can barely remember it...they intended to start new lives as fishermen. But during a storm, my uncle was lost...and things began to sour. Money grew scarce. Catches were not as bountiful as they’d been. My aunt claimed it was her husband cursing us because his death had been our fault. Or rather...my father’s.”

Hinata sobers as they find a seat along a set of stumps. “...my aunt died not long after, having always been rather frail. Now with another child to feed, my father began to feel desperate. Then my younger sister was born...and our mother died from complications with the birth.

“He abandoned my cousin and I in the city. Disappeared without a trace with my sister. We were so young...had no way to support ourselves. And that’s when she found us.”

“...the god.”

Hinata nods. “I had been praying, desperate for someone - anyone - to hear us. We were the sort she looked for: those abandoned, with no where else to turn. And she knew then that I had eyes unlike most. Neji too, but to a slightly lesser degree. She offered us shelter, and asked that I become her miko as one with the All Seeing White Eyes. I agreed...and we’ve been here ever since.”

Sasuke remains silent for a long moment. “...I’m sorry. You’ve both lost so much.”

“...we have. But we’ve made our peace. And we are content here.”

“If I ever meet your father, I may have to repay him for his treatment of you.”

Hinata gives a small, somber smile. “...it’s appreciated, but I’ve come to forgive him. He too lost much. His brother, sister, wife...what he did was cruel, but he surely thought it necessary.”

Sasuke doesn’t reply.

“...but, I’ve kept you long enough. Perhaps another time, you can tell me more of your origins,” Hinata then offers, head tilting.

“I suppose that would only be fair.”

“Until next time, then. You have your clan to tend to. Take care, Sasuke-san.”

“...you too.” Watching her stand and take her leave, Sasuke finds himself feeling just as unknowing about her as before.

...there’s far more to her than meets the eye, he’s sure.

                                                    .oOo.

     (This is a sequel to days 60, 77, 140, 165, 189, 290, 296, and 297!)       More kami verse! I'm...literally about to pass out, so...not much else to say besides that this feels awfully incomplete, but I'm already so far behind...I didn't want to skip another night @~@ Hinata's story has more to it, just...no time, no energy. So maybe next time. For now, I desperately need some sleep. Thanks for reading~ 

[noaroy312]

What Birds Make Noise at Night in Florida (ID Guide)

What Birds Make Noise at Night in Florida

What Birds Make Noise at Night in Florida? Nighttime in Florida is a great chance to focus on birds. Many birds sing as the night advanced and surprisingly more first thing in the morning and dusk.

The following are 8 kinds of birds that peep at night in Florida:

Northern Mockingbird

Eastern Whip-poor-will

Yellow-breasted Chat

Restricted Owl

Eastern Screech-Owl

American Robin

Toss will's-widow

Nighthawks

Section by part guide

1. Northern Mockingbird

2. Eastern Whip-Poor-Will

3. Yellow-Breasted Chat

4. Prohibited Owl

5. Eastern Screech-Owl

6. American Robin

7. Toss Will's-Widow

8. Nighthawks

Ways of birding at Night

Sources

List of chapters

1. Northern Mockingbird

2. Eastern Whip-Poor-Will

3. Yellow-Breasted Chat

4. Banished Owl

5. Eastern Screech-Owl

6. American Robin

7. Toss Will's-Widow

8. Nighthawks

Ways to bird at Night

Sources

1. Northern Mockingbird

The Northern Mockingbird sings throughout the night, especially during mating season, February to August.

April and May are especially bustling quite a while for mating mockingbirds.

Mockingbirds imitate the sounds that they hear, whether or not it be another bird, a vehicle alert, or the sound of machinery.

Overall, they're prepared to progress practically 200 one of a kind tunes.

Mockingbirds are ordinary in the United States paying little heed to seeing a 20% decline in population numbers over the span of ongoing years.

Habitat annihilation and local cat attacks are two leading purposes behind the mockingbird population decline, the two of which conservationists have begun to address.

Enjoying reading regarding What Birds Make Noise at Night in Florida? May you additionally prefer to learn about Difference Between Male and Female Robins?

2. Eastern Whip-Poor-Will

The Eastern Whip-poor-will is a Night Birds in Florida that sings riotously when it stirs at nightfall.

It's difficult to see in light of its effective cover anyway can be seen by its sound, which it was named after.

These birds feed on insects and home on the ground, and they will guarantee their homes powerfully when crucial.

The Eastern Whip-poor-will is especially loud during the spring and summer while the breeding folks sing their tunes.

Whip-poor-will populations have diminished by 75% over the latest 50 years, generally on account of habitat obliteration.

Whip-poor-wills rely upon forest areas for cover and battle surviving in agrarian districts.

Car collisions and declining insect populations have in like manner accepted a section in the decline of Eastern Whip-poor-will populations.

The American Bird Conservancy's Migratory Bird Program includes the Eastern Whip-poor-will in its summary of birds that need insurance due to these and various factors.

3. Yellow-Breasted Chat

The Yellow-breasted Chat has a distinctive song, delivered using a mix of whistles, quavers, and clucks. See the following catch of a Yellow-breasted Chat singing:

These birds aren't nocturnal, yet they genuinely sing at night, especially during the spring while they're breeding.

Yellow-breasted Chat birds are more really heard than seen notwithstanding their dazzling yellow chests.

Yellow-breasted Chats have lost habitat lately, resulting in a 37% decline in population size. In certain states, these birds are considered endangered or threatened.

4. Banned Owl

The Barred Owl is remarkable for its "who-cooks-for-you" call, yet it can similarly make a wide extent of caws, laughs, hoots, and falters.

You can hear these sounds in old forests and swamps with trees, especially in area of the thick asylum near water sources.

The Barred Owl responds to its sound, so imitating its call is a nice strategy for getting one to arise into the open.

In any case, these birds are cautious with regards to predators at night, as the Great Horned Owl pursues them.

Restricted Owls are moreover typical clients of nesting boxes, especially assuming it's set up before the breeding season.

5. Eastern Screech-Owl

The Eastern Screech-Owl makes a couple of novel sounds at night, including shakes, barks, hoots, and yells.

The folks a portion of the time make a whinnying call to get their domains.

Eastern Screech-Owls are ordinary notwithstanding being in decline.

The greatest threats to their populations are habitat hardship and accidents with glass windows and vehicles, and ingestion of pesticides.

You'll find the Eastern Screech-Owl in forest areas and parks. They camouflage themselves well indeed, hiding in tree miseries with bark-like plumage.

Assuming you see or hear a large number of songbirds circling through the treetops, there's an open door they've found an Eastern Screech-Owl and are mobbing the predator to move it to take off.

6. American Robin

You can hear the American Robin singing at night, regardless of the way that these birds are diurnal.

This suggests that they rest during the night and are ready during the day, yet they keep conscious until late and advance beyond timetable to sing.

The main motivation behind why robins do this is to do whatever it takes not to fight with city noise. They furthermore become jumbled by city lights and battle telling day from night.

The robin's call is a repeated, cheerful Birds Chirping at Night Florida sound ending in a shake. Be prepared to hear this sound often during the breeding season, especially in Northern Florida.

It's typical to see the American Robin eating at bird feeders or feeding on worms and natural item.

You can in like manner find runs of robins up in trees, and especially in fruiting trees.

7. Throw Will's-Widow

The Chuck-will's-widow makes a dismal, shake like sound, and it will in general be heard through the woodlands. It looks for insects at night and is for the most part unique at nightfall and sunrise.

You can see a Chuck-will's-widow making leaping bounces for moths, dreadful little animals, and various insects with its mouth open.

The Chuck-will's-widow homes on the ground in open locales or on the understory of a woodlands.

8. Nighthawks

The ordinary Nighthawk is dynamic both during the day and at night. You can see this bird by its white wing cuts and its sharp "beert"- like call.

Their wings moreover make a great deal of noise, especially while a courting male dives from high up in the trees with its wings expanded.

Nighthawks are attracted to insects, and they habitually invest energy around streetlamps. They live in the southern United States.

Ways to bird at Night

Listening to birds at night is a great strategy for enriching your birding experience. For any situation, before you head out, make sure that you think about these tips:

Make sure that you stay in districts you're acquainted with. Make an effort not to stretch out on another path into the evening, especially if you haven't avowed that the path is accessible to visitors after nightfall.

Bring binoculars with night vision innovation, like these JStoon Night Vision Binoculars from Amazon.com. That way, you can take a careful look at the birds without relying on electric lights. In spite of the way that spotlights are compelling, they can similarly be problematic.

Remain still, and trust that the birds will come to you. You'll most likely have the best karma just about a wellspring of water.

All things considered investigate eBird for records of bird sightings close by, and attempt recognizes that have had ordinary sightings at night.

Sources

Florida Museum: Florida Bird Sounds

American Bird Conservancy: Birds That Sing at Night in Florida and Chirp at Night: 7 Of The Best Night Singers In The U.S Audubon: Birdist Rule #29: Try Birding After Dark

Kees sharing What Birds Make Noise at Night in Florida? with your loved ones

[yesmicalsmithblog]

The most effective method to Identify and Control Rats

There are various types of rodents found inside the United States, however this article will center upon those rodents that most much of the time make bug issues in homes and organizations. These rodents are the Norway rodent (Rattus norvegicus) and the Roof rodent getting rid of possums (rattus). Moreover, two different rodents, the Rice Rat Oryzomys palustris) and the Cotton Rat (Sigmodon hispidus) won't be explained on in this article, however are referenced since they are recognized by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention as hosts of hantavirus and subsequently imperative from a general wellbeing viewpoint get rid of possums.

rat

Appearance

 Norway how to get rid of rats in the roof are regularly called earthy colored or sewer rodents. They are enormous, built up looking rodents that can develop to lengths of around 13-16 inches when estimated from their nose to the tip of their tail. Hue is principally dim on their underside and ruddy or grayish-earthy colored to dark on the highest point of their body. The ears and tail of the Norway rodent are bald and the tail is more limited than the length of the rodent's body. With obtuse noses, Norway rodent grown-ups weigh around 7-18 ounces.

 possum in my roof are generally called dark rodents and are more modest than Norway rodents. Grown-ups range in weight from around 5-10 ounces. Their tails are longer than the remainder of their body and are consistently dull hued. The underside of the rooftop rodent's body is grayish to white catch possum. The gag of the rooftop rodent is pointed and the general appearance of the rooftop rodent is considerably more smoothed out and smooth looking than a Norway rodent.

 More data on rodent ID.

 Conduct, Diet and Habitat

 Conduct

 Rooftop rodents are skilled climbers and as anyone might expect are adept to construct their homes in areas over the ground. In any case, they may in some cases likewise fabricate possum in my house. These rodents are basically dynamic around evening time. Researchers have noticed that the rooftop rodent's long tail is adjusted to upgrade their capacity to climb and capacities to helps them in adjusting. Both rooftop rodents and Norway rodents have a very much evolved feeling of smell and are careful about new things that are brought into their home reach. Rooftop rodents are not cultivated swimmers and are not generally found in sewers.

 Norway rodents are generally dynamic at nightfall or during the evening and are latent during sunshine hours. Nonetheless, when a Norway rodent populace develops so enormous that opposition from different rodents for food, water and harborage builds, a few individuals from the rodent local area may try to discover new territories to colonize during the daytime. Norway rodents construct their how to get rid of rats under my house in underground tunnels where they mate, back their young, store food and look for asylum from hunters. Norway rodents can climb, however not just as rooftop rodents, and are solid swimmers.

  Read more about rodent conduct

 Information on rodent chomps

 Description of rodent tracks

 Diet

 Rooftop rodents are omnivores and will benefit from numerous kinds of vegetation, for example, natural products, grains, seeds and basic food item produce. Likewise, rooftop rodents are probably going to burn-through creepy crawlies. Much the same as Norway rodents, rooftop rodents demolish undeniably more groceries by tainting from defecation and pee than from utilization.

 Norway rodents are likewise omnivores and will eat pretty much whatever is found close to where people dispose of food. Likewise, Norway rodents may go after fish, poultry, mice, flying creatures, little reptiles and creatures of land and water. They may eat vegetation, yet really like to meat or meat-related squanders. Peruse more about what rodents eat (possum problems).

 Environment

 As referenced above, rooftop rodents favor over-the-ground settling areas in bushes, trees, and thick vegetation. Rooftop rodents entering homes are for the most part found in raised or secure fenced in areas, for example, dividers, cupboards, lofts, and bogus roofs. Rooftop rodents are probably going to establish in seaside, close beach front zones and port urban communities.

 The favored living space of Norway rodents is just about anyplace individuals live. A portion of their living spaces incorporate landfills, sewers and fields. In the majority of our metropolitan zones, Norway rodents might be seen hurrying around after dim searching for food in trash bins and different spots where human deny is found. Their tunneling natural surroundings incorporate soil along building establishments, under heaps of wood and different heaps of trash. Should Norway rodents overrun a construction, they undoubtedly will live in the storm cellar or ground floor. Peruse more about where rodents reside (rodent trap).

 Propagation

 Rooftop rodents are polygamous and bunch themselves into settlements of numerous guys and females. Mating may happen all year in areas where the ecological conditions are adequate. Grown-up females can replicate at 3-5 months old, can deliver up to five litters every year with around 5-8 youthful in each litter. Grown-up rooftop rodents generally live around one year How To Remove Possums.

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Οι Symphonic Blackened Death Metallers Drama Noir, λίγο μετά την κυκλοφορία του τρίτου τους άλμπουμ “Nightfall Upon The Asylum”, παρουσιάζουν για πρώτη φορά στο κοινό της Θεσσαλονίκης τα νέα τους τραγούδια. Μαζί τους συμπράττουν οι Temple of Katharsis (black metal)από την Καστοριά και οι End of Dawn (Symphonic/Gothic Black Metal) από την Θεσσαλονίκη, για μια πολύ ξεχωριστή και σημαντική μουσική συνάντηση!

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Dark Souls characters, ranked

The misplaced souls of Lordran

To play Darkish Souls is to hunt victory in a land outlined by failure. Lordran, the sport’s fictional kingdom, is dying. The once-great gods have deserted their bastions, fleeing a world in determined want of a savior. Each crumbling metropolis stands as a tragic reminder of what may have been; echoes of progress all however forgotten. A plague of undeath curses those that stay, lowering their existence to a cycle of dying, rebirth, and slowly hollowing souls. Everybody who travels to Lordran is doomed to fulfill a merciless destiny, however that does not cease individuals from making an attempt.

Darkish Souls has a surprisingly deep forged. They seem to be a unhappy lot. Every character gamers encounter is dying, damaged, or within the midst of a disaster. However regardless of the dire circumstances of their existence, these wayward adventurers are brimming with character. They’re warriors, healers, and students — individuals who can be destined for greatness in another kingdom. In Lordran, nonetheless, they’re doomed. Via a mixture of indirect storytelling and nihilistic inevitability, Darkish Souls‘ characters are among the many most fascinating NPCs in latest reminiscence.

It is excessive time somebody ranked them.

61. Petrus of Thorolund: 

Petrus ruins what’s in any other case one of the crucial memorable moments in Darkish Souls. After escaping the Undead Asylum and arriving at Firelink Shrine within the claws of an enormous crow, the Chosen Undead’s first steps on Lordran soil are tentative and stuffed with thriller. This can be a land of unknowns, a spot that the gods have forgotten. However all that magic and momentum is ruined when gamers inevitably stumble upon Petrus of Thorolund, a dopey cleric with what is sort of probably essentially the most punchable face in online game historical past. Something appears doable in Lordran, however Petrus’ pageboy haircut is just too terrible to imagine. 

60. Kingseeker Frampt:

This serpentine noodle is essential to Darkish Souls‘ story. He is additionally an abomination. Destructoid’s Co-Editor-in-Chief Jordan Devore summed up Frampt’s existence eloquently: 

Some monstrosities are higher left loud night breathing for all eternity.

59. Pinwheel:

Pinwheel capabilities extra as a cautionary story than the rest. Pinwheel is arguably the best boss in Darkish Souls, greatest seen as a hollowed husk extra desirous about researching necromancy than fight. The masks that adorn its face — a Father, Mom, and Youngster — indicate a merciless destiny involves those that search energy. 

58. Vince of Thorolund: 

One other cleric, one other ugly mug. It’s protected to imagine that there are not any respectable barbers in Thorolund. 

57. Nico of Thorolund: 

Nico’s solely redeeming high quality is that his helmet obscures what’s undoubtedly one other atrocious hairdo. He and Vince appear to be shut; perhaps they discovered love in Lordran. 

56. Rhea of Thorolund: 

There’s tragedy on the coronary heart of Rhea’s story, however her best crime is associating with the Thorolund goof troop.

55. Rickert of Vinheim:

Most of Lordran’s blacksmiths are nice. Rickert, nonetheless, sucks. He’s content material to be locked up for an eternity, and that’s effective as a result of he is totally ineffective.

54. Griggs of Vinheim: 

Griggs is boring. He’s outclassed by his mentor in each conceivable manner, from spell choice to hat dimension.

53. Paladin Leeroy:

This man is so near greatness. His huge hammer, Grant, is an intimidating weapon and his Sanctus protect appears to be like rad. However the truth that he’s a strolling Leeroy Jenkins reference kills his placement on the record.

52. Darkstalker Kaathe:

Darkstalker Kaathe is the inverse of Kingseeker Frampt, which is superb. However the truth that Kaathe and Frampt are probably two serpents sharing the identical physique means this slippery dude sort of sucks too. 

51. Eingyi:

Eingyi is an egg-bearing chump who’s blissful to serve one in every of Darkish Souls‘ most beloved characters. He’d place greater if he weren’t so gross trying.

50. Prince Ricard:

There are a handful of Darkish Souls characters outlined solely by their mediocrity. Ricard is one in every of them, an undead noble whose deft rapier stabs are finally forgettable.

49. Seath the Scaleless:

Controversial opinion: Seath sucks, appears to be like dumb, and is an entire and utter nerd.

48. The 4 Kings:

The 4 Kings have a twisted, vaguely metallic look they usually hand around in the endless darkness of The Abyss. That is cool. However it’s laborious to disregard the truth that greater than 4 kings spawn throughout their boss struggle. What’s with that? 

47. Nightfall of Oolacile:

Nightfall’s presence in Lordran alerts the beginning of Darkish Souls’ glorious Artorias of the Abyss enlargement. Previous that, she’s a confused time traveler who is comparatively bland in comparison with most characters. 

46. Knight Kirk: 

Kirk, Knight of Thorns, is sort of a center faculty bully. He comes out of nowhere and assaults you with obvious glee. And like coping with a bully, the one factor worse than probably getting your ass kicked is understanding that beneath his prickly exterior is a tragic child who simply needs consideration.

45. Maneater Mildred:

There’s one thing to be mentioned about an individual who’s keen to strip off their garments, put a bag on their head, and run by means of a toxic swamp simply to hack individuals aside with a machete. Mildred scares me, however I am impressed along with her dedication.

44. Elizabeth the Mushroom: 

Elizabeth will get factors for being an enormous speaking mushroom, however she pales compared to the lovable — and surprisingly lethal — enjoyable guys in Darkroot Backyard. 

43. Quelana of Izalith:

So far as pyromancers go, Quelana’s a professional. In actual fact, she’s thought of the mom of the fiery artwork. Regardless of her spectacular resume, Quelana is the black sheep of her household. It’s not as a result of she’s into beginning fires, although. Quelana’s an outcast particularly as a result of she’s the one member of her clan that isn’t fucked up in some horrible manner. Solution to kill the curve, firestarter.

42. Undead Poison Service provider:

Right here’s some lore hypothesis: This poison-slinging service provider is crushing on her male counterpart huge time, however he’s in love with another person. And so, she waits for an eternity, promoting knives and sewer moss as a intelligent manner of keeping track of her unrequited love with out seeming too apparent.

41. Undead Burg Service provider: 

This dude’s a nutter. He has some weapons to promote, positive, however his singular obsession with Yulia — who or no matter that truly is — dominates his ideas. Possibly it is his uchigatana. Maybe it is his favourite bucket. Or perhaps, simply perhaps, it is the long-forgotten title of a lovely woman from close by he as soon as knew…

40. Princess Gwynevere:

Gwynevere is not actually within the recreation. The larger-than-life lady gamers encounter is definitely an phantasm. However even nonetheless, Gwynevere’s remembered by gamers as one in every of Darkish Souls‘ greatest, uh, belongings.

39. Blacksmith Vamos:

After trudging by means of the Catacombs, it is good to fulfill a skeleton that is not hell-bent on murdering you. Vamos is a group of bones who is aware of his manner round a forge. His defining trait is his skeletal beard, which appears to be like as if it is assembled from finger bones. That is as spectacular as it’s macabre. 

38. Sieglinde of Catarina:

One of many hardest components of rising up is watching your dad and mom begin to lose a step or two. Sieglinde spends all of her time in Lordran chasing down her father in an effort to get him to simply, like, decelerate for a minute. She’s an incredible daughter, however an in any other case one-note character.

37. Witch Beatrice:

Though she will get little display screen time, Witch Beatrice is rad as hell. She absolutely commits to her namesake, carrying a haunting gown awash in deep purples with a gnarled wood catalyst in hand. Beatrice is a summonable character who can hurl spells on the Moonlight Butterfly and 4 Kings bosses, and whereas her presence is welcome, it additionally leaves you wanting extra.

36. Ceaseless Discharge:

Ceaseless Discharge locations this excessive particularly as a result of his title is without doubt one of the grossest doable combos of phrases within the English language.

35. King Jeremiah:

At a sure level, Darkish Souls gamers understand style is extra necessary than kind. Jeremiah understands this, and his bulbous crown works as each an homage to Demon’s Souls and an absurd look that’d slot in on the Met Gala.

34. Alvina:

A fats cat with the present of gab. What’s to not love?

33. Anastacia of Astora:

Anastacia is maimed, tongueless, and trapped. Her existence is a merciless reminder that retaining the age of fireside going comes at a really steep price. Regardless of by no means uttering a single phrase, her presence is sorely missed ought to gamers enable sure occasions to transpire.

32. Knight Lautrec of Carim:

Lautrec is a dick. An absolute madman. A terror in gold-plated armor. However for as annoying as his actions over the course of Darkish Souls are, it’s laborious to fully despise him as a result of he appears to be like so rattling cool. 

31. Marvelous Chester:

This man is a grinning hunter ripped from one other world. He is mainly a Bloodborne cosplayer, and since Bloodborne is so good, Chester locations greater than he has any actual proper to. 

30. Patches:

I hate Patches. I hate him so goddamn a lot. However I’m additionally frightened of him. Spending numerous hours in his signature squatting pose will need to have toned his physique to Adonis-like proportions. 

29. Crestfallen Service provider: 

Take a look at this stoic motherfucker. Simply have a look at him and inform me you’re not impressed.

28. Crossbreed Priscilla: 

As her title implies, Priscilla the offspring of a dragon and a god. She’s one other character with an unlucky backstory. Gwyn feared her energy a lot that he locked her inside a portray to maintain his realm protected from Priscilla’s harmful potential. Priscilla, nonetheless, is not outwardly hostile. In actual fact, she’s relatively candy. She’s trapped, however totally nice, content material to be left alone with the opposite castaways within the Painted World. 

27. Ingward:

Ingward’s spooky as hell, and whereas not a specter himself, he spends all of his time with ghosts. He is notable not just for his wraith-like masks and placing purple robes but additionally for his position in flooding New Londo. Flooding a complete metropolis is harmful work, however what’s much more spectacular is how rapidly Ingward provides away the important thing to the floodgates he spent untold years watching when you ask him properly. 

26. Lord’s Blade Ciaran: 

Ciaran’s a talented murderer with a watch for style. She seems in Oolacile to pay respects at her former companion’s remaining resting place and is so upset at dropping a companion that she’s keen to depart her weapons behind in alternate for a fleeting reminiscence. Ciaran’s one in every of many Darkish Souls characters who deserve extra direct consideration; she’s a mysterious lady who lets her blades do the speaking when push involves stab.

25. Chaos Witch Quelaag: 

One other youngster of Izalith, Quelaag’s present kind is that of a bare-chested lady rising out of a horrifying spider’s sternum. She’s imposing, quick, and doubtless chargeable for awakening a brand new kink amongst Darkish Souls gamers.

24. Darkish Solar Gwyndolin:

Gywndolin is the chief of the Darkmoon Blades and the final remaining god in Anor Londo. He’s the youngest youngster of Gwyn and spends his time lording over his father’s ceremonial tomb. Though his kin’s affiliation with gentle and hearth is effectively documented, Gwyndolin’s penchant for magic and moon-based powers make him one of many recreation’s most complicated and memorable characters.

23. Quelaan:

This daughter of Izalith is the saddest member of a cursed household. The Honest Girl, or Quelaan as many want to name her, is an element spider, identical to Quelaag. However in contrast to her sister, who appears to thrive in her newfound kind, Quelaan is in a state of fixed struggling. When the Chosen Undead first encounters this Fireplace Keeper, she’s dying a gradual and painful dying, blind and motionless. Gamers can converse along with her by carrying a particular ring and help her restoration by sacrificing hard-earned humanity. It’s price it largely for the satisfaction of understanding that you simply helped save one of many recreation’s purest souls. 

22. Oswald of Carim:

Oswald appears to be like like he solely smokes clove cigarettes. He’s a grown-up goth who prefers to maintain monitor of Lordran’s sinners from a darkish nook of the Undead Parish’s bell tower whereas listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees.

21. Large Blacksmith:

This towering tradesman spends all of his time hammering away at tools he may by no means hope to make use of. His nice character and mellow demeanor are a welcome salve to the cruelties of life in Lordran.

20. Shiva of the East:

Shiva may get by on fashion alone. His armor echoes his Japanese origins, equal components sensible and stylish. When push involves shove, Shiva’s no slouch with a blade both. Because the chief of the Forest Hunters, Shiva prides himself on his potential to topple intruders with exact strikes and lethal effectivity.

19. Gravelord Nito: 

Out of all of Darkish Souls‘ bosses, nobody conveys the sport’s “put together to die” mantra higher than Nito. The lord of the lifeless is an enormous, shifting assortment of skeletal stays which have mixed because the personification of Demise itself. Nito’s able to inflicting dying and sickness from his cozy sarcophagus within the Tomb of the Giants, which is a real testomony to his energy.

18. Laurentius of the Nice Swamp: 

Of all of the characters that come to inhabit Firelink Shrine, Laurentius is well essentially the most endearing. Positive, he attire like a hobo and considers a nasty swamp his splendid atmosphere, however in contrast to Shrek, Laurentius is the sort of individual you’d need to get a beer with. 

17. Crestfallen Warrior:

The Crestfallen Warrior is the primary individual the Chosen Undead encounters after fleeing from the Undead Asylum. He’s melodramatic and dour however nonetheless manages to share details about the world with some darkish, witty humor.  

16. Darkmoon Knightess: 

All through the Darkish Souls video games, Fireplace Keepers are typically damaged, often-disfigured characters. Whereas the Darkmoon Knightess isn’t any completely different, she’s extra proactive than her friends. Lined in brass armor to cover her “ghastly” kind, the Knightess watches over Anor Londo’s predominant bonfire with a blade at her facet.

15. Executioner Smough: 

This impossibly-large man as soon as served as Anor Londo’s heavy-hitting executioner. He’s huge, imposing, and identified for his yucky little tendency to cannibalize his victims. Smough is one-half of Darkish Souls’ dream crew, and whereas he performs second fiddle to Gwyn’s knights, defeating his companion earlier than tackling the executioner provides Smough a chance for a twisted little bit of revenge.

14. Dragon Slayer Ornstein:

If Smough’s hulking determine is his defining trait, Ornstein’s high-energy acrobatics are a obligatory counterweight. He zips round Anor Londo like a gymnast with undiagnosed ADHD, thrusting his lightning-infused spear with stunning precision. The opposite half of the Darkish Souls‘ dynamic duo, Ornstein is what occurs when your hyperactive good friend begins weapons coaching. 

13. Gwyn, Lord of Cinder:

Gwyn’s legacy is a world completely marred by tragedy. His tireless pursuit of a continued age of fireside is the direct reason for a lot ache. By the point gamers attain him on the Kiln of the First Flame, the Lord of Cinder stands over a smoldering flame, the results of his life’s work actually dying earlier than his eyes. The struggle in opposition to Gwyn is a poignant end result to the Chosen Undead’s journey. It lacks the bombast of different boss fights, as an alternative reveling in a haunting melancholy that’s made all of the extra memorable by the sport’s greatest piece of music.

*Creator’s Be aware: I can’t hearken to his theme with out immediately tearing up.

12. Hawkeye Gough:

Hawkeye Gough cannot see. In some unspecified time in the future, a thick resin coated the archer’s helmet, which leads the enormous to suppose that he is blind. Gough’s a retired knight who chooses to spend his remaining days whittling wooden carvings infused together with his booming voice. Whereas that is extraordinarily chill in its personal proper, Gough’s legacy is elevated to new heights by his potential to shoot a dragon out of the sky with out even seeing it in flight. That’s legendary.

11. Andre of Astora:

This strapping chap is the primary motive millennials are selecting to enroll in commerce faculties relatively than formal training. He’s a barrel-chested blacksmith with a bitchin’ ponytail who’s as even-tempered because the merchandise he produces.

10. Sif, the Nice Gray Wolf:

Sif is loyal to a fault. She’s an previous wolf who has survived numerous battles and performed an element in among the most important moments in Lordran’s historical past. Regardless of all that she’s seen and completed, Sif stays loyal to her former grasp and spends each waking second guarding over his gravesite. Sif does not need to struggle the Chosen Undead. She solely needs to ensure her grasp’s remaining resting place is left in peace. Squaring off in opposition to her is totally heartbreaking.

9. Massive Hat Logan:

Massive Hat Logan is the patron saint of social nervousness. He’s a strong sorcerer so consumed by a thirst for arcane data that he, Logan, selected to put on a huge ole’ hat to keep away from the lingering stares of random passersby. Like so many sensible minds, Logan appears to lack frequent sense, as evidenced by his uncanny potential to be captured a number of occasions.

eight. Domhnall of Zema:

In a world the place everyone seems to be cursed, dying, and going insane, Domhnall stays chipper. He’s a service provider who at all times manages to get his fingers on unique armors with out making an attempt too laborious. His signature greeting, “Aye, siwmae,” is as iconic as his eclectic getup, and Lordran’s a greater place with him in it.

7. Oscar of Astora: 

Though Oscar makes all of it of three minutes into Darkish Souls earlier than he meets his finish, he’s arguably essentially the most useful character in the complete recreation. The noble knight manages to free the Chosen Undead, inform the participant’s journey, and go on his Estus Flask earlier than taking his remaining breath. Oscar does a lot with so little display screen time that preventing his hollowed husk later within the recreation virtually seems like a criminal offense. 

6. Knight Artorias: 

The parable of Artorias is simply as spectacular as Artorias the online game boss, and that is saying one thing. Artorias is the sort of warrior that is spoken about in hushed, reverent tones. The Abyss’s name addles Artorias’s thoughts, and a latest battle has shattered his arm by the point gamers encounter him in Oolacile. However regardless of his situation, he is nonetheless ready to struggle the Chosen Undead together with his nondominant hand, a contact that’s efficient for conveying his fight prowess and hammering residence simply how a lot his trustworthy companion, Sif, means to him. That’s the signal of a superb pet proprietor.

5. Havel the Rock: 

Havel’s an plain badass. His armor is constituted of large items of rock, and his most well-liked weapon is a tooth ripped from the maw of a dragon. Whereas Havel is greatest referred to as Lordran’s most completed — and lethal — doorman, uncovering his gear in Anor Londo reveals his extra secretive facet. Alongside together with his armor, weapon, and greatshield, Havel additionally as soon as possessed a wood membership infused with Occult energy, a component able to harming even the gods. Havel was so assured that he was ready to kill Lordran’s gods with a wood stick. Respect.

four. Siegmeyer of Catarina:

The large boy. The absentminded adventurer. The Onion Knight. Siegmeyer is the Darkish Souls’ beating coronary heart. Upon first assembly Siegmeyer, he is perched exterior of Sen’s Fortress, defeated by its locked gate. He comes throughout like a plump model of Eeyore at first however following him by means of Lordran reveals a warrior pushed by a reckless streak. Fast to throw himself into hazard and nice to have a chat with, Seigmeyer is sort of a cool uncle that exhibits up each few months when his spouse “unintentionally” modifications the locks once more. 

three. Solaire of Astora: 

No online game has a extra entertaining mascot character than Solaire. He’s the Billy Hatcher of Darkish Souls, a plucky hero who’s as charming as he’s environment friendly. Every thing out of Solaire’s mouth is pure gold; his persistent need to assist, his “Reward the Solar” catchphrase, and his honest want to be as “grossly incandescent” because the solar are brilliant moments in a depressing recreation. He’s an excellent bastard who understands the significance of serving to a good friend in want. We may all study a lesson from Solaire. 

2. Iron Knight Tarkus:

Tarkus is the definition of an Absolute Unit. He’s bulk personified, an indomitable mass of black metal and grit. Tarkus will be summoned precisely as soon as in Darkish Souls, however he understands a robust first impression is all that you simply want. If summoned, it’s solely doable Iron Knight Tarkus will tackle the boss of Sen’s Fortress solo. He is a tank. A fixer. The sort of man you’ll be able to depend on to get shit completed. Simply do not ask him to wash your rafters, he is sort of clumsy.

1. The Chill Hole in New Londo:

This Hole is the only greatest a part of Darkish Souls. He’s undead and completely loving it. He’s content material to spend an eternity laying languidly above the ruins of New Londo, blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounds him. He does not struggle. He does not even acknowledge your presence. As an alternative, he simply stares off into the space, dreamily pondering something and nothing unexpectedly.

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‘This Is Not Who We Are,’ Said Someone With No Knowledge Of U.S. History

As we continue to debate the Trump Administration’s “zero tolerance” immigration policy, and whether or not it exists, who started it, and a whole host of other things that ought to be obvious if facts existed in the United States….

I’ll start again.  When all is said and done, the thing that I’m most tired of hearing is “this is not who we are.”  I understand the notion that people saying this would like to appeal to our moral fiber, to suggest that really “this is who we ought not to be.”  But today, I engage in a brief history lesson for those who might not know exactly what the U.S. has done to people, whether its own or not, over the course of its history.  In other words, Santayana was right:  “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

The “zero tolerance” policy of the Trump administration is meant to have a deterrence signal: Immigrants not welcome.  Or as President Trump said, “we’re closed.”  The whole theory of this policy is that when word spreads that we rip children out of your arms if you show up at the border, then people will not try to enter the U.S. illegally.  However, few are masters of U.S. immigration law, and the result will likely be that those who may seek asylum may suffer hardship in their homeland to avoid the U.S. baby-snatchers.

This isn’t the first instance in which draconian deterrence has been used.  Recall the limitations that FDR had in place during the Great Depression.  Few visa applications were approved, and any immigrant “likely to be a public charge” was denied entry.  For Jews fleeing Germany, the “deterrence signal” had a profound effect, namely death.

Some have called the DHS facilities for children “concentration camps.” Concentration camps are nothing new to the United States, either.  No, I’m not just talking about horrific Japanese internment during World War II, although that can be, and has been, described as a most certain hell.  Upon taking over the Philippines in the early 1900s, the U.S. resorted to concentration camps.  As one commander described in his report to Congress:

Upon arrival I found 30 cases of smallpox and average fresh ones 5 a day which practically have to be turned out to die. At nightfall crowds of huge vampire bats softly swirl out on their orgies over the dead. Mosquitoes work in relays and keep up their pestering day night.  There is a pleasing uncertainty as to your being boloed before morning or being cut down in the long grass or sniped at.  It way out of the world without a sight of the sea in fact more some suburb of hell.

The U.S. even has had forced marches in its history, such as the 1500 Dakota women and children who were marched 150 miles to Fort Snelling after the U.S. Dakota War of 1862.  As a letter written at the time conveyed: “I have learned that orders have been issued to convey all the Indians who have not been convicted to the neighborhood of Ft. Snelling.  They will probably take up their march tomorrow.  The men who have been convicted are to be taken to Mankato for what disposal is not made known.  It is a sad sight to see so many women & children marching off — not knowing whether they will ever see their husbands & fathers again.”  During the march, a band of settlers formed an angry mob.  One person witnessed “an enraged white woman . . . snatch a nursing babe from its mother’s breast and dash it violently to the ground.”  The baby was returned to its mother, but it later died and its body was “quietly laid away in the crotch of a tree, according to Dakota custom.”

The first lesson of history, then, is that which I learned from Battlestar Galactica: “All this has happened before, and it will happen again.”  History doesn’t require parity of parties in every iteration, only that circumstances be sufficiently similar to let yet another iteration of an atrocity go on repeatedly.

The second lesson of history is that our faith in our judicial institutions to stop atrocities from happening is misplaced.   We all know the names of those terrible Supreme Court cases:  Korematsu, Dredd Scott, Plessy v. Ferguson, Buck v. Bell, etc.  What these cases teach you is that the Supreme Court is fallible, and sometimes is severely on the wrong side of history.  In many instances, the Supreme Court turns out to echo the contemporary fear, hatred, xenophobia, and racism of the time.

The third lesson of history is that sometimes Congress refuses to stop atrocities despite protestations from members of Congress that they like things like freedom of religion or speech.   Congress is frequently a reactionary institution, which passes laws after crisis that themselves become the tool for commission of atrocities.  In fear of the Red scare, for example, Congress passed the McCarran Internal Security Act of 1950, which would set up a system of concentration camps for political prisoners.  Let’s not forget that the 100-mile border exception to due process was crafted by statute and interpreted by DOJ regulation.  This list would be incomplete without mentioning the Public Law 503, the Indian Removal Act, the Alien and Sedition Act, etc.

I mention all of this not to make you feel worse about the screaming children in the audio, or the children in fenced areas we aren’t supposed to call cages.  I mention it because saying “this is not who we are” ignores the fact that history tells us, and as Sarah Kendzior eloquently points out, “If your words are not matched in deeds, this is exactly who you are.”  That means a little soul-searching and navel-gazing is in order.  There is a reason this is happening, and it isn’t the work of just one orange-haired President.

LawProfBlawg is an anonymous professor at a top-100 law school. You can see more of his musings here.  He is way funnier on social media, he claims.  Please follow him on Twitter (@lawprofblawg) or Facebook. Email him at lawprofblawg@gmail.com.

‘This Is Not Who We Are,’ Said Someone With No Knowledge Of U.S. History republished via Above the Law

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[HR] The Creature of Cibolo Creek

The Creature of Cibolo Creek Bexar County, Texas

Thirteen miles southeast of the San Antonio suburb of Converse is a narrow lane pathway called “Sculls Crossing.” The gray pavement of the roadway traces its way across the rolling countrysides before nearly vanishing into the thick forests along Cibolo Creek.

A low water crossing on the creek dips a motorist into a tranquil setting, and for a brief moment, the thick woods block out the rest of the world before rising onto the opened prairies. The countrysides are almost picturesque, in a fairytale way, but little would a traveler know that they had just driven through a scene from a horror story.

It was shortly after the Civil War, so the stories claim, that a veteran of the defeated Confederacy moved his family to an acquired stretch of land along the wooded embankments of Cibolo Creek. Reconstruction was wreaking havoc in the eastern portions of Texas at the time. Crime was running rampant. Rumors of underground resistance were stirring up gossip of a continuation of the war, and bandits were scouring the countrysides.

Bexar County seemed to offer a refuge to this former soldier. The lands around San Antonio were once prosperous before the Civil War, but a massive rebuttal from the Comanches had swept like a wild fire through the region during the conflict, and most of the settlers had moved away.

To brave the isolation along Cibolo Creek, was a danger that many did not want to risk. But the land was cheap, and to a man who had just lost the majority of his fortunes in a hard fought war, the rolling countrysides southeast of San Antonio offered a chance to start anew.

According to what has been said, the man selected a house site not far from a landmark known as “Skull’s Crossing.” His wife and young son helped in establishing a large farm that grew into a sizable piece of property.

For about three years, the family lived in subtle happinesses in their home along the cozy confides of Cibolo Creek. Around 1868 though, their lives would change in a terribly tragic way.

The winter of 1868 had been especially harsh. Little rain and bitter cold fronts froze the early year crops, and the rainy seasons of spring were virtually overturned by a drastically hot summer.

By September, a drought had settled into the hills north of San Antonio, and the rivers and creeks were barely flowing. Residents along Cibolo Creek were reporting destroyed fences, animal pens, and corrals. Local gossip stated that animals from the Hill Country, such as mountain lions and cougars, were starting to drift southward because of the lack of water in the mountains around Blanco and Cude’s Mill (present day Wimberley).

Early one morning, around mid-September, the thirteen year old son of the family woke to find that their chicken coop had been busted up badly. Feathers were strewn across the floor, and puddles of crimson grime indicated that the birds had been the prey of a very large predator.

Huge prints in the muck resembled a massively oversized dog with long claws. However, the family noticed that the length of the feet seemed strangely similar to that of a person...but a giant of a person at that.

The footprints led off towards Cibolo Creek, and giant or not, the predator had destroyed a valuable commodity to the family’s farm. It was going to take most of the day to repair the chicken coop, and another to get into San Antonio to buy new chickens. Needless to say, the father of the family was in no mood to put up with a prowling killer.

Lending his a hunting rifle, the father instructed the thirteen year old to follow the trail of the animal for as far as he could. If the boy was to come across the predator, he was told to shoot it and bring back its carcass so that the family could sell its hide when they got into San Antonio.

Excited to be dispatched on his very first solo hunting trip, the boy ventured off towards Cibolo Creek feeling like one of the early explorers he had read about in his school books. Armed with his father’s heavy musket, the boy trudged into the woods like a true frontiersman.

The tracks of the animal led towards the old wagon ruts of Skull’s Crossing. Determined to find his prey, the boy slipped through the thick woods as silently as he could, following all the tell-tale signs of a retreating predator.

At long last, the broken branches and the scattered white feathers of stolen chickens led the boy past the creek crossing and to a rise in the rocky embankment. A foul stench drifted up towards him, and he stealthily peeked over the edge of the hill and saw a heart racing sight below.

Lying at the edge of the creek was a naked man. He was fast asleep, but was surrounded by ripped up and broken chicken carcasses. There was dried blood strewn across the rippled flesh of his bare back, and held tightly in a clenched fist was the severed head of one of the family’s largest roosters.

The man reeked of a thousand terrible scents, and under his long fingernails were layers of thick dirt and plastered mud. This was the predator that the boy had been tracking, he was certain of it, but was scared of how to proceed. Slowly, quietly, the boy turned away so he could report the stranger to his father.

It was late afternoon when the boy got back to the farm. When he first arrived, his father was scolding him for not having returned with a prize. But the boy told him all that had happened, and about the strange man he had discovered in the creek bottom.

Thinking that the man was possibly a Comanche, or worse yet, a loon who had escaped from a mental asylum in San Antonio; the father and son rode to the nearest neighbors to get help. Once a small crowd was collected, the boy led the men towards the area of the creek where he had seen the man earlier that afternoon. It was nearly dusk by the time they arrived, and a plump full moon was rising in the first fingers of nightfall.

Stretching out in a long skirmish line, the men started advancing into the darkening woods. Approaching Cibolo Creek, the boy was trembling with each step he took closer to the rocky overlook where he had seen the strange man earlier. But knowing that his father and neighbors were close by, his bravery was not hard to recover.

All the men could smell the horrid stench that the boy had described to them. As they came closer to the creek, they started to hear a deep and almost guttural sound from the sand directly below them.

At the edge of the stream, was a hunched back figure that seemed to be in agonizing pain. Thick gray hair, blackened at the roots, was spouting from the bare flesh of a human torso. Bones and joints on the figure’s body popped and snapped as loud as the brush that they had trampled through.

With eyes that were turning as ferocious as a hungry predator, the beast rose its frame towards the sky and the last features of a human face cracked into that of a wolf. The father of the boy stepped boldly up to the overlook, and locked back the hammers of his twin barreled shotgun

A spray of buckshot exploded through the air, and the massive beast stumbled into the dark waters of Cibolo Creek. As the smoke of the blast started to drift towards the blackening sky, the creature let loose a wailing howl that was deep with rage.

Other men started firing at the creature, but the volleys that struck had little impact on the thick hide of the monster’s muscular chest. Bounding up from the rocky creek bed, like a tree that had suddenly toppled towards them, the beast leapt through the air with a snarling growl.

The father of the boy, quick with veteran reflexes from the battlefields, stepped swiftly out of the way...and the wolf-man pounced upon his son with no effort at all.

A bulk of animalistic muscle, possibly more than that of a grizzly, crushed the boy’s body in the blink of an eye. Claws, as sharp as the blades of Yankee bayonets, ripped through the child’s soft flesh like thin paper. With a mighty snap of its powerful snout, the beast tore through the boy’s clothing, clasping onto the firm meat of his arm and torso.

Dozens of revolvers sang loudly through the woods. With bullets striking him, the beast tore off the boy’s arm and went charging past the posse...vanishing into the heavy blanket of night.

The boy’s father was helpless. It has been said that he just stood above his son’s lifeless body in shocked, utter, silence. There was nothing that could be done, and as the howling wail of a wolf shook the stillness of Cibolo Creek, the father dropped to his knees and wailed just as loud.

That was the only time that the Werewolf of Cibolo Creek was ever seen. The posse tracked the creature as far as they could, but eventually the trail went cold, and they were forced to retire.

After that harrowing night in the September of 1868, the ones who had witnessed the monster said that it was 8’ tall, as big as a gorilla, and was wolf-like in appearance. The same witnesses also claim, that after burying the tattered remains of his young son, the heart broken father fell into a swift and unrecoverable depression.

It’s commonly told, by some, that the man eventually committed suicide and that his wife returned to her family. Others state that he set out on a solitary mission to track down his son’s killer, but never returned.

Either way, Skull’s Crossing became the core of a local legend. But it seems that the tale grew too popular, and at some point in time, the original name of the wagon road was altered to the contemporary “Sculls Crossing.”

Whatever the reason, there are not many today who claim to have heard the wailing shrieks of a wolf-like creature at Sculls Crossing. But, there are not many that know of the legend today either

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