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dracoqueen22 · 26 days ago

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BlorboWriMo - Day One

Dart can’t sleep.

His bedroll is solid, unmoving, soft. The blankets twist around his legs no matter if he sleeps in pajamas or nude. It’s too quiet, despite Weaver’s snoring and Clare’s nose-whistling and Lucas farting because they ate beans for supper, and Lucas ate too much. He always eats too much.

There’s no window, by design, and though the room is dark and small and cramped, it’s not the right kind of darkness. It’s not the right kind of pressure.

Dart’s been sleeping on Dryland for the better part of a year now, but he still hasn’t gotten used to it. Is that his problem tonight?

He frowns and flops over onto his front, burying his face in a pillow that smells of earth and stone. Goatmilk and lye – recently scrubbed. Pungent. Dart’s still not used to the way things smell on Dryland. So dry and burning in his nostrils.

Bleh.

Dart tosses the blanket back and heaves himself out of bed, feet bare on the cold stone floor. He wriggles his webbed toes, appreciating the chill. He slings Sirene and her sheath over his shoulder, tucking her in place. She’d fuss if he left him behind, even if only for a walk.

“I can’t take myself, I don’t have legs!” she chimes in, but Dart does not dignify that with a remark. Not where conversation could wake someone else at any rate.

Clare snorts and flops on her belly, tail whipping into the air once before it settles back over her rump. With her face buried in her belly, the nose-whistling is muffled. Now it’s even quieter.

Nope. Not sleeping now.

Dart picks his way across the floor, careful to avoid Lucas and Lysia tangled together in their bedroll, as if they’d fallen asleep mid-wrestle. Telemus is curled into a tiny ball in the corner, barely visible in his mound of blankets. Weaver sprawls across the bed, the only one given the honor of four posts and a mattress.

“Age before beauty,” she’d cackled, and no one dared argue against a woman likely to knife you in your sleep. Or hack off your limbs with her favorite double-headed axe.

No one stirs before Dart gets to the door. At the last minute, he grabs Lysia’s dayrobe and shrugs it over his shoulders. Drylanders get squirmy if you wander around naked. Dart eventually got used to wearing clothes, but every now and again, the cotton and leather chafe. He misses the cool glide of water against his skin, the teasing brush of the kelp forest, the flittering sideswipe of a darting fish.

The narrow corridor outside their sleeping room is quiet, lit only in bare intervals by bioluminescent moss. Nothing that might look out of place if someone were to be sailing along the shore, and happened to glance up at the rocky face, where pits and caverns hint at a twisting tangle of karst channels.

The Templar have no idea the Ori use these caves as a secure base. The longer they can keep it a secret, the better.

Dart fights off a yawn and shuffles down a hallway, into the inner loop, hopefully toward the kitchen if he remembers correctly. Maybe a snack or some tea will calm his nerves enough to sleep. Does it count as anxiety if he’s excited? He doesn’t know.

Tomorrow’s his first mission where he’s lead. Dart’s been on Dryland for a year, and a member of the Ori for just as long, but always as support. He does recon through the water, or helps take down search parties, but he’s never in the thick of it. Never doing anything important.

This is his chance to prove himself!

“You just want to impress Valon,” Sirene says. She coils restlessly at the back of his mind, her blade rattling in her sheath. “He didn’t even know you existed until six months ago.”

Dart folds his arms into his voluminous sleeves. “So? Is there something wrong with wanting to make my father proud?” He still stumbles over the word now and again. Dart hadn’t come to Dryland with the intention of finding his father. It had been a happy accident.

“It is a predictably mortal desire,” Sirene says, her voice taking on that cadence of instruction she adapts every now and again, like she feels it’s her duty to educate Dart on any topic where she believes he’s lacking.

Dart sighs. He pads into the kitchen, relieved to find it empty, though kitchen is a strong word. Crates of food supplies line the walls, and there’s a small cookpot and cookplate in the center, both powered by magical glyphs. The Ori have to be ready to abandon their hideout and flee at any moment, so they never install anything permanent.

Dart is not interested in cooking. He’s still not sure he likes Dryland cuisine. They cook their fish too thoroughly, they season their produce too much, and everything carries the faint taste of char. Gross.

He rummages in the nearest produce crate and produces a handful of berries, an apple, and a few carrots. He doesn’t know what it is he likes about carrots so much. Maybe because they’re orange? He’s always been fond of orange.

“It’s the crunch,” Sirene says. “Vesper likes food that makes noise, too. She says it feels like eating by proxy.”

Dart shoves the handful of berries into his mouth and pushes the lid back into place with his hip. Mmm. Boysenberry. Very sour and tangy. “You don’t eat?”

“Not in the way mortals do, no.”

“Sucks.”

Sirene says, her voice like a light wind across the waves. “Not as much as missing Vesper does. There are many things we cannot do on the physical plane, but at least we can twine our energies when we are close.”

Dart turns for the other door, intending to walk a loop around the interior, and hope that’s enough to tire him out for sleep. “Can you ever touch each other?”

“Yes. If our wielders are willing.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Dart wrinkles his nose at his apple. There’s a soft spot that’s all brown and mushy. Gross. “Feels like a small concession, if you ask me– oof.”

Oof being the way Dart steps into the hallway without looking and runs face first into someone else. Or face-to-chest? Since he’s slammed into their chest and left a spray of chewed apple on the unfortunate person’s shirt.

“Oh, sorry about that,” Dart says, rubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth. “I didn’t mean to– ah.” Heat stains his lightly-scaled cheeks.

Valon, his father, looks down at him with a completely unreadable expression. But that’s probably because Dart’s still working on reading Drylander faces. “Midnight snack?” he asks as he bends down to grab the carrots Dart dropped.

“Just a small one, sir,” Dart says. He can’t shape Father with his mouth yet, and honestly, he’s not sure Valon’s ready to hear it either. Valon, by his own admission, never planned to have a family.

Dart barely looks like his father. Maybe they have the same nose. They definitely have the same legs since legs don’t run in Dart’s seamer family. Mom doesn’t have legs. Just a long, sinuous lower half courtesy of her krait heritage. She gave him the faintly blue hair, the scales, the fins, the gills.

Maybe Valon’s eyes. Valon has bright blue eyes that wouldn’t be out of place under the sea, but everything else is Drylander. He’s taller than Dart, then again most Dryland warriors are, and his shoulders are broad. His hair is short and brown, his ears small and curved, his smile big and wide, with a pair of tusks jutting out in a curve to either side.

It was probably his smile that hooked Mom. She’s a sucker for a nice smile, and there’s something kind about Valon’s smile, for all that he’s usually set with a stern face. Dart blames that on his position. Valon’s one of the higher ranked members of the Ori and with that comes a whole heap of responsibility.

It’s impossible to say which of them gave Dart his blue skin, since both Mom and Valon have a blue tinge to their skin.

“I hope you’re well-stocked for the mission tomorrow,” Valon says. He looks Dart up and down, raises a brow at the flowing silk that is his current garb, but says nothing. “Do you feel adequately prepared?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Dart says. He tries to smile, and shows too much fang.

It discomfits some folks, even with all the Lamina around, his fangs make people uncomfortable. He’s no more likely to bite and envenomate than any of the other snakekin, but he’s a Kelple, and no one trusts a Kelple.

Valon, fortunately, doesn’t blink at Dart’s fangs either. He must not be too concerned about them, since he fucked Mom and everything, and sometimes, Dart really wants to know how that happened. Mom never talks about him. Riptide knows, up until Dart went onto Dryland and met Valon, Dart didn’t even know his father’s name.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Valon says. He lifts a hand, but then awkwardly tucks it behind himself, clasping it with his other. “Look to Weaver for guidance. She has more experience than anyone in your party put together.”

Dart grins. “I’m lucky to have her.”

His entire team has been put together to support him. Weaver for her experience, Clare for her knowledge, Lucas and Lysia for Dart’s good working relationship and friendship, and Telemus because… because he needs the experience, too, Dart supposes. Or because Weaver insisted. If her favorite grandson is going to go on missions, then she’ll be damned if he goes out with anyone but her.

Honestly, if they fail, it’ll be due to Dart’s leadership and no other reason. No pressure or anything.

Valon nods and stares off into the middle distance, somewhere over Dart’s left shoulder. “You should get some rest, Dart. You have an early start.”

“Before dawn,” Dart says with a groan. “I remember.”

His father chuckles and steps to the side, leaving room for Dart to pass. “Good luck, Dart. May the Mother watch over you.”

Dart tips something like a salute with two fingers – he saw Lucas do it once. “Yes, sir. Uh. Good night.”

“Good night.” Valon’s amusement chases him down the hallway, the long tails of Dart’s borrowed over robe flapping around his legs.

“That went well,” Sirene says once Valon is out of sight and Dart slows to a loitering stroll. He bites into the apple viciously enough to splatter juice in all directions.

Dart rolls his eyes. “I don’t think you were paying attention. He practically told me that this is a tadpole run, and I better not fuck it up.”

“He did not use those words.”

“The implication was there,” Dart insists. He shoves the rest of the apple into his mouth, core and all, which would horrify Telemus had he seen.

He says it’s dangerous to eat apple seeds. That they’re toxic or something? Dart’s never had to worry about toxins in his entire life, and he hasn’t gotten sick yet. Telemus is just a picky eater, always plucking seeds or gritty bits out of his meals and flicking them away.

“I don’t like the texture,” he says, all while slanting a look at Weaver, praying his grandmother doesn’t notice him wasting so much as a bite.

Sirene sighs and floats around his thoughts like she’s caught in an eddy. “Eat your carrot,” she says. “Then go back to bed. Your father is right. You need rest.”

“If they want me to get rest, they shouldn’t make me get up before dawn,” Dart grumbles, but Sirene’s right, and Valon’s right, so he picks up the pace.

He takes the long route, dragging his feet through the narrow corridors, turning to the side a few times to let other members of the Ori pass. Most he doesn’t recognize, so they get a head tip and a greeting as he gnaws on his carrot. This outpost is really just a glorified waycamp.

Dart’s team leaves in the morning, two other units will be gone by midday, and the rest will be out by nightfall, leaving a handful of folks to mind the supplies until the next planning session. Dart won’t be coming back here after mission. They’re supposed to check in at the Reeds, another glorified waycamp smack dab in the middle of a marsh.

Fun times.

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Day 1 Word Count: 2095 Running Word Count: 2095

#draco writes #blorbowrimo 2024 #trial by sword #tethers universe

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littleeyesofpallas · 5 months ago

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Geez are we already 5 issue into this? And barely anything has actually happened...

So batman has a little revelation that he is falling behind the pace of progress in gotham. Gael muscles out of the ice in time to escape the powerplant flooding, but Bruce gets washed away. Once again knocked the fuck out and drowning, Freeze pulls him out of the drink this time instead of Gordon. They have a little heart to heart and Freeze compares Bats' fixation on gotham to his own with Nora. Maybe a little on the nose considering this is a theme we were already fed in less obvious terms, but it is a cool line.

Arzen announces, although only vaguely, his plans to invest his family fortune into a better future for gotham. Meanwhile his goons move to dispense with less public obstacles: one hypnotising Wayne Enterprises' board of directors into selling key housing projects to the Orghams, and the others attacking people in those same slums to clear them out.

I forgot that the 2022 annual was in this reading order somewhere. Its referenced along with the reveal of the "Telemus Engine"/"Reality Engine".

Apparently Gael is literally older than Gotham. He recalls its early settlement and the construction of a church that Arkham Asylum would later be built atop the ruins of...

It also establishes a bunch of goofy distant ancestors as analogs to mosern gotham figures in colonial "Gathome": The Wainwright family is slaughtered and their son orphaned, a fear mongering pastor named Ichabod Krane, a lawman named Jardin, a short and stocky enterprising local merchant named Pebblecroft, a scarfaced bandit named Darcy Hunt, etc... All to establish the idea that Gotham itself is a kind of closed karmic system manifesting the same roles and narratives over and over.

For some reason this is apparently the "fault" of the archetypal characters, and their perpetuation of this loop runs counter to the Orgham's plans, despite that sort of sounds like the total opposite of their entire gimmick of being this ancient family adherent to traditions, immortalized in myths of Grim Soldiers, and wielding masks to conjure personas with fixed powers....

Anyway.... No idea wtf the "Thelemus Engine" is supposed to be. Was this a klunky evocation of telemetry, the science of remote measurement devices? Of the greek hero, Thelemachus, son of Odysseus?

Theres a fun nod to the classic broadway Phantom of the Opera poster at one point. Ya know, to remind us of this story's big inspirations, in case we somehow forgot...

And then Arzen shows up to talk to Bruce about Gotham and how, not-so-different-you-and-I, they are. Until Bruce turns on the news to see the wayne housing projects on fire.

Theres another fun easter egg sitting on Bruces desk: a funkly little bat statue. The obvious reference is most likely to mesoamerican mythology and some iteration of Camazotz, a menacing spirit of the underworld. Although personally I find the design comes across (very probably by complete accident) more like indonesian Leyak or Rangda -- given the distinctive shape of the eyes and teeth.

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eliasbatboy · 7 years ago

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This is definitely real in some universe somewhere.

#brutalmoose #televoid #telemue #today was a weird day

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pandaemoniumpancakes · 2 years ago

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Arnold Böcklin, Odysseus and Polyphemus, 1896, oil and tempera on panel, 66 × 150 cm, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

“My words so enraged the Cyclops that he tore the top off a great pinnacle of rock and hurled it at us. The rock fell just ahead of our blue-painted bows. As it plunged in, the water surged up and the backwash, like a swell from the open sea, swept us landward and nearly drove us on to the beach. Seizing a long pole, I pushed the ship off, at the same time commanding my crew with urgent nods to bend to their oars and save us from disaster. They leant forward and rowed with a will; but when they had taken us across the water to twice our previous distance I was about to shout something else to the Cyclops, but from all parts of the ship my men called out, trying to restrain and pacify me. “Why do you want to provoke the savage in this obstinate way? The rock he threw into the sea just now drove the ship back to the land, and we thought it was all up with us. Had he heard a cry, or so much as a word, from a single man, he’d have smashed in our heads and the ship’s timbers with another jagged boulder from his hand. We’re within easy range for him!” But my temper was up; their words did not dissuade me, and in my rage I shouted back at him once more: “Cyclops, if anyone ever asks you how you came by your blindness, tell him your eye was put out by Odysseus, sacker of cities, the son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca.” The Cyclops gave a groan. “Alas!” he cried. “Those ancient prophecies have come back to me now! We had a prophet living with us once, a great and mighty man, Eurymus’ son Telemus, the best of soothsayers, who grew old as a seer among us Cyclopes. All that has now happened he foretold, when he warned me that a man called Odysseus would rob me of my sight. But I always expected some big handsome man of tremendous strength to come along. And now, a puny, feeble good-for-nothing fuddles me with wine and then puts out my eye! But come here, Odysseus, so that I can give you some friendly gifts and prevail on the great Earthshaker, Poseidon, to see you safely home. For I am his son, and he is proud to call himself my father. He is the one who will heal me if he’s willing – a thing no other blessed god nor any man on earth could do.” To which I shouted in reply: “I only wish I could make as sure of robbing you of life and breath and sending you to Hell, as I am certain that not even the Earthshaker will ever heal your eye.” At this the Cyclops lifted up his hands to the starry heavens and prayed to the Lord Poseidon: “Hear me, Poseidon, Sustainer of the Earth, god of the sable locks. If I am yours indeed and you claim me as your son, grant that Odysseus, sacker of cities and son of Laertes, may never reach his home in Ithaca. But if he is destined to see his friends again, to come once more to his own house and reach his native land, let him come late, in wretched plight, having lost all his comrades, in a foreign ship, and let him find trouble in his home.” So Polyphemus prayed; and the god of the sable locks heard his prayer. Once again the Cyclops picked up a boulder – bigger, by far, this time – and hurled it with a swing, putting such tremendous force into his throw that the rock fell only just astern of our blue-painted ship, narrowly missing the tip of the rudder. The water heaved up as it plunged into the sea; but the wave that it raised carried us on towards the further shore.” (trans. E. V. Rieu and D. C. H. Rieu)

#arnold bocklin #arnold böcklin #odysseus #ulysses and polyphemus #homer #odyssey #polyphemus

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sadoeuphemist · 5 years ago

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Ever since the injury I have taken to philosophy, and to refine an idea in my head soothes me, like my fingers trailing against the curving walls of my home, wearing them smooth. I think soon all the world will be smoothed down to fit a hollow the size of my skull. Let those wretches call me wicked, and lawless, and claim my misfortune was delivered upon me as punishment from the gods. The gods? Hah! We trust in the immortal gods beyond all else, and so in our thoughtless faith have been raised above them. No-one has harmed me. No-one has done me wrong. My larder is full, and the sun shines down upon my flock. What fear have I of the gods?

My days are longer now, stretching ahead of me as I tilt my head to feel the sun. It is true, yes, we have no laws in this land, unlike those pitiful feeble creatures that come from across the sea and rely on the law to protect them. But what need have we of laws in paradise, where all is free for the taking? No-one seeks to rule or be ruled here; no-one comes together in assemblies. Let others make laws, and cities, and great roofs above to crouch under. We live upon our lofty hills, sheltered in our caves, secure beneath a benevolent sky!

No-one sows on this island, no-one with their hands labors with a plow, nor seeds the soil, and yet all bounty springs forth regardless! The wheat, the barley, the heavy clusters of grape, all things in abundance in the seasons. I reach out and pluck them at my leisure, burst their skin between my teeth and savor their sweetness as the juice runs down my chin. The goats and sheep run wild and breed among the woods and hills, and graze freely and grow fat at their leisure. Are we not blessed in this? Have we not been raised above all else?

I seldom leave my home now, and even then but a few steps from my door, but this is no restriction. Every inch of this island is fertile; the vines never die. My flock loves me dearly, and when the sun sets they return to me, each sheep eager for their milking. Their milk is sweet, singing sweetly as it rings against the bottom of the pail, their wool curling between my rough fingers, and even the darkness is fertile like soil. I think of those feeble creatures, so dependent on the law and obligation, bound to it as a stake, or a splint; a crippled, dwarfish thing. No-one builds here, nor sets up fences. No-one has any need.

No-one has brought misery to this island.

In the late afternoons I let myself be lulled by the waning sun, and listen to the contented bleats of my flock. I, punished by the gods? The hills ring with my peals of laughter until the landscape itself seems to have become absurd. No-one has built harbors here, nor moorings, nor ships—for who would wish to leave? And yet ships wash in from foreign shores regardless, guided to our beaches by the all-too-hospitable winds. Then, having reached paradise, they would come crawling in their swarms, making demands of me, a stranger? They would appeal to me for hospitality, on the grounds that it would be pleasing to the gods?

The gods! Hah! What could such wretches know of the immortal gods? Who, knowing the favor of the gods, would find themselves needing to worship and scrape and sacrifice, to throw themselves upon someone else’s mercy and plead for hospitality? No-one! No-one among us! Those insects! Those little hypocrites! Unloved little creatures, playing at the divine! And they would dare to call me wicked? They would claim that my misfortune was chastisement from the gods?

We are greater than the gods! No-one could have forged the thunderbolts of Zeus; no-one could have crafted their impossibly intricate shifting edges that flow swifter than water and strike hotter than flame! But we did! My people! No-one could have crafted the trident of Poseidon, whose points jut from the crest of waves, deadly as the jagged rocks, and then just as quickly recede into the churning seas, soft and immaterial as foam! No-one could have crafted the cap of Hades, shapeless, formless, invisible as death itself! No-one could have fitted unhewn stones together so cunningly, so as to stack them into towering walls without need for masonry nor mortar! But we did! We have! No-one else could have wrought such artless craft!

...and yet. And yet in my convalescence I find myself imagining them grudgingly, those wretched creatures, the cruel lands from which they must hail. Soil that yields fruit only grudgingly, needing to be watered by the sweat of their brow. I imagine their picks, their plows, hacking in nicks and scratches into the dark and fertile soil. I have beheld the world, by my perception smoothed it out, made it perfect, and yet these flaws refuse to yield. It is as if I have rolled aside the great smooth stone of the world, and in its hollow uncovered to my horror a race of struggling, swarming ants.

Oh, they prick at me! The thoughts of them, like burning splinters in my skull, throwing up sparks. I am as one with this island, with the gods above, and yet I am tormented by insignificance! Might they somehow be right? Could our paradise be flawed? Could a world wrought by the gods have such miserable wretches in it?

I have grown morose. My head throbs again with the incoming chill. No-one has harmed me. No-one has done me wrong. I am happy here, with my rams and my sheep. And yet, alone in the darkness, the old terror resurfaces. When I was young a soothsayer lived among us named Telemus, bold in the art of prophesy. I remember him towering over me as he revealed to me an awful fate, the one darkness in all my paradise: the name of whom at his hands I would someday lose my sight.

For years I watched for this person, certain I would see at a distance the darkness coming for me, the long shadow he would no doubt cast at the very edges of my vision. Tall and imposing he must be, this “Odysseus”, with the coldly handsome face of death, as one must be, to wound me so.

A child’s fear! The years have passed, and no such man has come. Come morning, my goats go out to graze, and come nightfall they return, as they have always. No-one has hurt me. No-one can hurt me. I tell myself that, in the darkness, even among the mocking of my fellows. No-one has done me harm.

And yet—

And yet sometimes in the darkness I think I see it, crouching in the shadows in the hollow of my cave. That hideous dwarf! That weakling! That little No-one! How I loathe him! How I long for vengeance upon him! No-one is murdering me by cunning! Oh! No-one has gouged out my eye!

#fiction #greek mythology

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tuleleii · 7 years ago

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'Alas! Now an ancient prophecy about me has truly been fulfilled! Telemus, fine, tall son of Eurymus, a seer who surpassed all men in prophecy, reached old age among the Cyclopes as a soothsayer. He said all these things would come to pass someday—I'd lose my sight at the hand of someone called Odysseus.

Homer, Odyssey, ix, 509

#Telemus #Telemo #Tuleleii #Polyphemus #Polifemo #Kickass

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kubilaykaratas35 · 3 years ago

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Ambargocu Telemus Systems Battı

Suriye’de terör örgütü PKK/YPG’ye karşı başlatılan operasyonlar nedeniyle Türk SİHA’larında kullanılan ürünlerin satışını durdurup ambargo uygulayan Kanadalı savunma şirketi “Telemus Systems” milyonlarca dolar zarara uğrayarak battı. Yaşanan bu gelişmenin ardından Kanada’nın Türkiye’ye ambargo uygulamasını ballandıra ballandıra anlatan solak sitelerin ne diyeceği merak konusu oldu. Suriye’nin…

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bestdroneforthejob · 3 years ago

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Canadian defence company bankrupted due to arms embargo against Turkey | Middle East Eye https://www.middleeasteye.net/news/turkey-canada-arms-embargo-defence-company-bankrupted

Ottawa's decision to cancel weapons sales to Turkey forced Telemus Systems ... Industries' Anka drone, seen here in Ankara on 5 March 2021 (AFP). from Google Alert - drones for sale via IFTTT #Drone #Drones

#IFTTT #Google Alert - drones for sale

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spongyspingy-rising · 6 months ago

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last one for tonight it's my own boy Iskal :) what is he up to? well see that Telemus guy...

#kal rising #flight rising #flight rising gijinka #flight rising art #fr art #fr gijinka #kal art #character tag: iskal

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armeniaitn · 4 years ago

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Canada’s Foreign Minister urged to ban arms sales to Turkey and Azerbaijan

New Post has been published on https://armenia.in-the.news/politics/canadas-foreign-minister-urged-to-ban-arms-sales-to-turkey-and-azerbaijan-70826-18-03-2021/

Canada’s Foreign Minister urged to ban arms sales to Turkey and Azerbaijan

The Armenian National Committee of Canada (ANCC) sent a letter to Canada’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, Hon. Marc Garneau, urging the Minister to expeditiously release the results of the WESCAM investigation, uphold the current arms suspensions and move to enforce a full arms ban on Turkey and Azerbaijan.

On Friday, March 12, 2021, the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs and International Development released heavily redacted documents, revealing important information surrounding the decisions made regarding arms exemptions given to Turkey in May 2020.

It was revealed that through intensive lobbying efforts, Turkey gave delusive and misleading assurances that the WESCAM target acquisition sensors will be used for their operations in Syria. However, Turkey then illegally diverted the sensors to Azerbaijan, which the latter used in its aggression against the Republic of Artsakh, killing scores of Armenians and forcing 90,000 individuals to flee their homes.

“What is more egregious is the fact that these exemptions were justified using the same reasoning upon which Ottawa placed an arms moratorium on Turkey in the first place,” wrote ANCC Co-Presidents, Hrag Tarakdjian and Shahen Mirakian in the letter sent today.

Through ongoing research and analysis, members of the ANCC have also learned that aside from the WESCAM exemptions, in June and July of 2020, three exemptions were also granted to Telemus Inc., an Ontario-based company selling electronic receiver components to the Turkish Aerospace Industries Inc,” stated the co-chairs of the ANCC.

There are presently several WESCAM permit requests going via Turkey directly to the Azerbaijani Air Force. The permits are currently “under review” as per the documents released on March 12.

“The Canadian government has a moral duty to categorically deny these permits, sending a clear message to both Ankara and Baku that Ottawa will not fall into the same trap and become once again complicit in their destabilizing and aggressive agenda.”

“Any such sales to Turkey and Azerbaijan will be seen as efforts to exacerbate the conflict in Artsakh and will directly contradict Canada’s long-standing position on the issue,” added Tarakdjian and Mirakian.

The documents also revealed that during the preliminary investigation conducted by Global Affairs Canada (GAC), officials from WESCAM confirmed that the evidence surfaced during the war did indeed correspond with their product, while Turkish officials hardly cooperated with Canadian diplomats on the investigation.

“Using its expedient membership in NATO, Turkey effectively lied to the Canadian government and abused Canada’s arms export regime. This is not how a supposed ally should behave,” read a part of the letter.

“To create and maintain a robust arms control regime, Canada must be firm and principled and not allow corporate interests and the interests of unrepentant dictatorships such as Turkey and Azerbaijan override our values and our obligations under international law,” concluded Tarakdjian and Mirakian.

Read original article here.

#Armenians #Artsakh #Politics

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dracoqueen22 · 3 days ago

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BlorboWriMo 2024 - Day 24

He unhooks Sirene and her sheath from his belt. Reluctance makes it hard to hand her over, like he’d be surrendering a limb. Worse, he’s leaving himself practically defenseless, giving up the only thing that’s keeping him safe in enemy territory.

“It’s alright,” Sirene murmurs.

“No, it’s not,” Dart mutters, aloud because he can’t be fucked to care. His friends are in chains, Templar high command seems ready to eliminate the problem his existence creates, and Dart has fucked everything up.

He really let himself be led into enemy territory with a smile, didn’t he?

Sirene has no response to that. Not even empty reassurance or consolation.

“Dart.”

Officer Kent’s voice is surprisingly gentle, as is the way they reach out to accept Sirene. “She will be treated with the utmost respect. You have my word.”

Dart sighs and hands Sirene over. It’s the first time he’s willingly surrendered her, and he doesn’t like this feeling.

“You’d better,” Dart says, a threat that feels empty, but necessary. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

“Of course.”

Dart takes in a deep lungful of the musty, stale air and enters the cell. It’s small. Barren. There’s a chamberpot in one corner, and a pile of straw in another. There’s no window, but plenty of empty chains as a subtle threat.

“Charming,” he mutters and plops down on the straw, legs cracked. Cold still seeps up through the thin layer of dry material.

The door creaks shut. Locks. Kent walks away without a word, boots scuffing across the immaculate stone flooring. Someone must sweep down here, too.

Kent hadn’t lit a torch outside Dart’s cell like the others. Dart doesn’t need one, but somehow, that small absence feels telling. Like he’s been left in the dark on purpose.

Everything inside of Dart aches to kick up a fuss. To complain. Shout about better accommodations, how about a blanket? Also, he’s starving. There’s no light. He’s bored. There’s a part of him that wants to make the very act of putting him in a jail cell a huge inconvenience to the Templar.

He might have done it despite Marcus’ threat. Who cares about a little defiance? It’s in his nature.

Dart can’t afford that now. Lucas, Lysia, and Clare are here. Dart can’t ignore that. If he has any bargaining power, perhaps he can trade for their freedom or earn it with good behavior.

He peers through the dim, but his friends are too far to make out. He can barely hear their breathing, the faint rustle of clothing, the distant clink of metal. He doesn’t have to ask to know they’ve not been well-treated. How can they drink or eat with the gags? Clare must be in agony. Lucas and Lysia have each other at least, but that must be a small consolation.

And there Dart is, strolling by, untouched, unhurt, well fed and rested. Like the traitor he is.

“I’m sorry.”

Dart’s voice carries without him having to raise it. Clare is probably not conscious to hear it, but the twins are. It might mean nothing to them, but Dart has to say it.

“This is all my fault.”

He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes.

“I thought you got away. I should have been paying attention. I should have been a better leader.”

There’s a tight squeeze in his chest, heat at the corner of his eyes. Weaver and Telemus escaped, he reminds himself. All isn’t lost. Sure, Dart’s first mission as leader failed and most of his team is in a Templar prison. He’s just a complete and total fuck up.

“I’m sorry,” Dart says again.

It’s inadequate. It’s all he is. He won’t make a promise he can’t keep. He doesn’t want to give them false hope.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he asks.

Guilt vibrates along their tether in a low drone. “Yes,” Sirene admits. “Vesper told me. We thought it would overcomplicate things if we told you.”

“Overcomplicate,” Dart repeats. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. He feels sick. “I expected this much from Cecil. It’s in his best interest to keep me calm. I guess I should’ve realized where your loyalty lies, too.”

Hurt eclipses the grief, but Dart refuses it. Puts a block between himself and Sirene. Good. Let her hurt. Let her feel a fraction of what’s clawing his insides to ribbons. He thought, at the least, Sirene was on his side.

“You didn’t need me to carry you back to Shandara. If this was what you wanted, you should have let me go,” Dart says.

Sirene doesn’t answer him. That’s damning enough.

It’s several hours of uncomfortable silence, faint shivering, the itch of the straw and the grumble of his belly, before anything changes. Distant conversation floats to his ears. Then there are footsteps, careful and measured, along with approaching light. A single pair.

Dart doesn’t look until the light peers into his cell, illuminating the ground, his feet, his legs, and finally his face. For a moment, it’s too bright, but that doesn’t matter. He already knows who it is, all the way down to his marrow where something unfamiliar sings with delight. There’s a part of him that clicks into place the moment he lays eyes on Cecil Stormhold.

Dart grins, but there’s no joy in the way he shows his teeth. “Looks like I’m a cage after all,” he says, and twists his wrists. “Still no chains though. They must have missed that part.”

Cecil frowns and puts the torch into the sconce. “This is not what I wanted.”

“Could have fooled me.” Dart snorts. There are a dozen things he wants to say, and none of them are even halfway polite. “What’s the verdict? Do I get to hang or are you chopping off my head?”

Cecil visibly startles. “What are you talking about? You’re not being executed.”

“Sure,” Dart drawls and waves a dismissive hand before pointing above him. “Everyone up there seemed real interested in having me join your stupid club.”

Cecil’s frown deepens. Dart expects him to start huffing about how great and grand the Templar are and Dart should treat it with better respect. “A discussion was had,” he says. “A final decision has not been made.”

“And here you are.” Dart laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “I’m seeing the gallows in my future.” He works his jaw and stares Cecil right in the face. “Probably just like my friends. You know, the three other people in cages down here? Funny how you didn’t mention them before.”

Cecil sighs and leans against the bars, his arms crossed over his shoulders, like he’s too ashamed to meet Dart’s face. “If you did not have Sirene, you would have joined them already.”

“If I didn’t have Sirene, they wouldn’t have been caught in the first fucking place.”

“You could always–”

Dart hisses through his teeth. “Say one fucking word about breaking the contract and I will bite you, I swear to the sea. We both know the time for me doing that and living afterward is gone.”

It’s a matter of survival now. The only thing keeping him alive, giving him any kind of leverage, is Sirene. And hanging all his hopes on the idea that she might care enough to fight for him.

“Of course I do!” Sirene insists. “Dart, I swear, I will do everything in my power to protect you. I adore you. Things are complicated, I know they are, but I swear, I picked you because I wanted to, not because I had to.”

She sounds sincere, but Dart doesn't know what to believe anymore.

“What’s going to happen to my friends?” Dart demands in the growing silence.

“I don’t know,” Cecil says after a moment. “We don’t usually keep prisoners,” he says, which Dart knows to be true. His father had said as much. The Templar prefer to kill everyone in their way. “They will be interrogated.”

“After that?”

Silence again. Cecil’s default reaction when he doesn’t want to answer a question.

Dart scowls. “I’ll bet they don’t get the same pretty deal you offered me. No opportunities to join the Templar for Ori scum, I take it.”

Cecil sighs like having a conversation with Dart is tiresome. “Even if it were offered, I doubt they would consider it. Those who are born Ori have been fed lies since birth. They do not see us as anything but monsters.”

“Funny. No one laid out a welcome wagon for me,” Dart says. “You’re definitely not beating the monster allegations.”

“Tradition is… important to the Templar.” Cecil finally turns back to face him, clasping his arms behind his back. “Our Zivati are sacred to us, so seeing Sirene in the hands of the outsider has made emotions somewhat volatile. I trust reason to prevail.”

“That’s a lot of fancy words to explain how I ended up in a cell.” Dart stands and brushes straw from his pants. “No food. No water. Didn’t even give me a fucking torch while I get paraded past my friends in chains, who you never bothered to fucking mention, all while you try to convince me that the Ori are the liars.”

Cecil twitches. His gaze slants to the side, guilt wafting from him. “This is war,” he says. “We do what we must in the face of the enemy.”

“Yeah?” Dart curls his fingers around the bars and stares at the side of Cecil’s face. “Is that what you told yourself with your dick in my mouth?”

The torch isn’t that bright, but it’s good enough for him to see the red coloring Cecil’s cheeks. “I seem to recall you being the one making every advance. Something along the lines of it not mattering out in the wilds?”

“And you told me we had a bond,” Dart hisses. The anger burns inside of him, like an underwater vent, hissing and bubbling. “That it meant something because of the Zivati pair we shared. All lies just to get my cooperation, right?”

Cecil’s jaw forms a hard line. “If you had just severed the bond with Sirene, this could have all been over. I would have let you go.”

“Sure. Just like you let my friends go.” Iron bars separate them, and perhaps it’s a good thing, because if they didn’t, Dart would have punched him. Bit him. Slashed him. Done something to feel less like he’s complicit in his own shame.

“I never promised that.”

Dart smiles, all fang. “Nope. You just kept your little secret until it didn’t matter. Congrats! You’re the perfect soldier. Daddy must be proud.”

Cecil takes a step back, his lips forming a thin line. All of him, in fact, is one tense line, though Dart can’t imagine why. He’s the victor here. Enemy subdued. Sword retrieved. Everyone where they belong.

If anything, Cecil should be gloating.

“Captain Stormhold!” A voice booms down the corridor accompanied by many pairs of booted feet, and a shiver claws up Dart’s spine.

He recognizes Menelaus’ voice. There’s no mistaking that deep, cold timber. Or Cecil’s reaction to it, a full-body flinch that snaps him to attention, whipping to face the oncoming storm.

“You were ordered not to visit the prison!” Menelaus barks as he strides into view, cape flapping behind him, trailed by Amara and a trio of Templar infantry, all of whom nearly trip over themselves not to keep up.

Cecil’s head bows, his arm slanting across his chest. “My apologies, High Commander, but Vesper insisted. She wished to see her wife.”

“You Elite. So often pulled by the whims of your Zivati.” Amara snorts and crosses her massive arms over her chest. “That is no excuse. Self-control, captain, includes that of your Zivati.”

Cecil’s head stays bowed. “I understand that. However–”

“You were not asked to speak,” Menelaus thunders, and something curls in the air, like static. It’s sharp and icy, prickling over Dart’s skin, throbbing in his chest. “You deliberately disobeyed a direct order, and that has consequences.”

Cecil, this time, says nothing.

Good. Because Dart has no reason to obey, does he?

He leans against the bars, ignoring the shudder in his feet. “Come to lop off my head personally, did you? I feel like I should be honored.”

“A decision has not been made,” Amara says, tone tart. Her lip curls, however, and if Dart had to guess, she’s probably eager to see him hanged by midnight. “We were in the midst of a discussion when we were alerted to this disobedience.”

Someone snitched, huh? Not surprising. Doesn’t seem to be much in the way of loyalty when it comes to the Templar. At least, not to each other.

“We will not allow it,” Cecil says. Except it doesn’t sound much like Cecil at all.

More prickles dance over Dart’s skin. The air is thick, like soup, and he swears Cecil’s glowing a bit.

“I beg your pardon?” Amara asks.

Cecil straightens, chin lifted in a defiant tilt he’s never had before, but his eyes. Those are not the eyes of the Templar Cecil. They crackle with energy. It pours off him in waves, the bars rattling in front of Dart, and the ceiling raining dust and bits of rock downward.

“Do not test us,” Cecil says, and his voice sounds different again, right as there is another throb that feels like something’s trying to tear out of Dart’s chest.

It’s like a hand on the back of his brain, gripping his nape, and when his mouth opens, Dart speaks, too. Except they aren’t his words, and they aren’t his voice.

“We will not allow it,” Sirene says using Dart’s voice, her power washing through him like a powerful tide, the bars hissing under his palms as if hit by acid.

“We have chosen these two mortals,” Cecil says, and Dart’s starting to get it, just as Menelaus and Amara are, the latter taking a step or two back as the former reaches over his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the hilt of a blade.

“They are ours,” Cecil growls, dark streaks shooting out of his eyes, over his face. His shoulders twitching unnaturally, like those wings of his are itching to emerge, though there’s little space for him.

Menelaus doesn’t look afraid. He must be where Cecil learned his mask, because his jaw is set, his stance solid and unyielding. “We cannot ignore centuries of tradition, Vesper,” he says, but his voice is not Menelaus’ either. “Be certain.”

The ground rumbles. Vapor rises beneath Dart’s grip, and he can barely see that the iron is melting, giving way to whatever is seeping from his palms. His veins throb with growing power, so quickly that it hurts. This feels nothing like when Sirene and Vesper reunited. This is rage.

“We are,” Cecil and Dart say at the exact same moment.

Menelaus lowers his hand from the hilt of his sword. “Very well,” he says, his voice taking on an echo Dart has not heard before. “Be warned, however. If your actions bring ruin to the Templar, actions will be taken.”

“Remember that yourself, Pragma,” Cecil all but spits.

Menelaus’ lip curls in something like a smirk before it’s washed away. He blinks slowly, the light dying from his eyes. His head gives an imperceptible shake.

“I see,” Menelaus says, using his own voice this time. “It appears the decision has been made, General.”

Amara had drawn a battleaxe at some point, the edges a sharp gleam in the torchlight. “Since when do the Zivati decide for us?” she demands, but the axe returns to wherever she keeps it. “This will be discussed further, Commander.”

“Yes, it will, but not here,” Menelaus says. He looks at Cecil then Dart, and the twist of his mouth speaks volumes. “Darvalon will be released to the custody of Captain Stormhold pending further evaluation of his dedication to the Templar cause. Is this acceptable?”

Dart’s fingers unclench from around the iron bars by someone else’s choice. Left behind are grooves in the metal, which still quietly hisses. “Yes,” Dart says, and then that clutching sensation suddenly abandons him.

He groans, sagging against the bars, a wave of exhaustion nearly sending him to his knees. “What the fuck was that?” Dart gasps, but no one’s paying him any attention.

Cecil’s still staring up at Menelaus, eyes aglow, body rigid. For a long minute, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares like a challenge.

“Is this acceptable, Vesper?” Menelaus repeats, and oh, that makes a lot of sense. Just as Sirene had borrowed Dart, Vesper has borrowed Cecil.

Figures. No way Cecil would actually defy his father. He’s too obedient for that.

“For now,” Cecil says, and then he sags as if someone’s cut his strings. He sucks in a heavy breath, face going pale in the torchlight. “My apologies Fa– Commander Menelaus.”

Menelaus waves a hand and Cecil’s mouth snaps shut so fast that Dart swears his teeth audibly click. “Darvalon is your responsibility now, Cecil. Take him to your quarters.” He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and dangles them in the air. “I trust his education will begin first thing tomorrow morning?”

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Day 24 Word Count: 2873 Running Word Count: 52717

#draco writes #blorbowrimo 2024 #trial by sword #unedited fics

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