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dracoqueen22 · 12 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 · 4 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 · 10 days ago

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BlorboWriMo 2024 - Day Three

Dart wakes to a kiss on each cheek, and while that’s a good reason to open his eyes, he groans and tries to ignore it.

“No. Sleep,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes firmly closed.

“No. Get up,” says Lysia as she nips at the edge of his finned ear. “Mission. Remember?”

“Too early,” Dart grumbles and tries to turn away from her, but that just puts him in range of Lucas who drops a kiss on his nose, then his cheeks, then his jaw.

“Get up,” Lucas rumbles, and then there are fingers digging into Dart’s ribs, relentless in their determination to drive out the last vestiges of sleep.

Dart lasts for a handful of seconds before the giggles start. He squirms, trying to escape, but the twins work in tandem, as they so often do, and there’s nowhere to go.

“Help! They’ve got me!” he shouts, and he can practically hear Weaver’s eye roll before she says, “Get up, Darvalon. We have work to do.”

Clare, however, grabs Dart’s ankles and yanks. She pulls him right out of the bedroll, right out of the tangle of twin limbs, and right onto the freezing cold stone floor. Dart yelps as cold invades every sense, and he springs to his feet to limit the amount of contact. The rock is even more frigid in the early dawn hours, and though he hates socks with a passion, he suddenly wants several pairs.

Clare smirks up at him, hands on her hips. “You’re the very picture of dignity, boss,” she drawls, mighty intimidating despite her small, mousling stature. Come to think of it, Dart’s never met a mousling who wasn’t intimidating.

Small, but fierce seems to be the prevailing mousling trait.

Dart’s skin still tingles from the impromptu tickling session. “I aim to inspire,” he says as his jaw stretches into a yawn he barely manages to cover.

Lucas and Lysia start wrestling each other without Dart in the middle to serve as convenient target, so Clare shuffles over to them and delivers a sound kick to Lucas’ arse.

Weaver’s already dressed and ready to go, perched on the bed and idly sharpening her knives. Probably pretending that she’s not surrounded by a bunch of children. Telemus sits next to her, sleepy-eyed and drowsy, but fully prepared for the mission. Side by side, it’s easy to see that they’re related.

They’re both tall and a deep, deep blue, in deference to their Tsak heritage, with matching forehead tusks of thick, blunt juts to either side of their temples. Telemus has the upright ears of his bunelf father, but they both have dark hair, though Weaver’s is now peppered with grey.

Dart needs to get his own arse in gear, so he stumbles over to his bedroll and belongings, pulling out his clothes and armor. It’s kind of piecemeal, since he’d come up to Dryland with practically nothing. He’d scavenged bits of armor from every Ori site he’d visited, and matched it up with things he’d found on the ocean floor.

He’s most proud of the breastplate. He found it in the same wreck where he’d found Sirene, and it saved him from quite a few Templar blades.

He pulls on socks, shoves his feet into boots that are a size too big, and retrieves Sirene from where he left her, strapping her into place on his left hip.

“Right,” Sirene reminds him, and Dart dutifully swaps her place. He’s not used to bladed weapons. He’s always fought with his claws and his teeth back home, but here on Dryland, he needs more than that.

He’s getting better. Sirene’s a great teacher.

“You’re left handed, Dart,” she says. “I hang on the right so you can draw me quicker. Remember?”

Technically, he’s ambidextrous, but Dart does favor the left. He says as much, and though he can’t see Sirene, he has the distinct impression she’s rolling her eyes.

“What now, fearless leader?” Clare asks while Dart fights off another yawn and stretches his arms over his head, easing the kinks in his spine.

“Breakfast,” Dart says. It’ll give him a chance to finish waking up and review the map to double-check their route. “Then we go?”

“Then we go,” Weaver says. She’s the tallest of them with her Gigant heritage, having to duck to keep from slamming her head into the low ceiling. Even Telemus only comes up to her shoulders, with Lysia and Lucas half a head behind him.

“To the kitchen!” Lysia declares with far too much energy for this time of day. She hooks her elbow around Lucas and drags him to the door. “I want pancakes, Lucas.”

“You always want pancakes,” he grumbles, but he follows gamely along.

Telemus brightens, for the first time looking his age. “I want pancakes,” he says, staring longingly in their direction.

Weaver takes him by the shoulders and steers him toward the door. “Then go get pancakes, child. You don’t need permission.” She gives him a playful pat on the rump, an encouraging push out the door. “Go.”

Mmm. Pancakes. One of the Drylander food that Dart has come to enjoy. They’re sweet and soft and kind of pillowy, like no other texture he’s ever experienced. There’s no such thing as pancakes in Undersea.

Telemus hurries out the door, and Dart knows Lucas has no chance. He might be able to resist Lysia’s begging, but one look from Telemus’ big brown eyes, and Lucas will fold like a house of cards.

“I’ll go make sure the kids get some nutrients, I guess,” Clare says. She hooks her bag over one shoulder and struts out the door like her tail isn’t lashing excitedly behind her.

No one, apparently, can resist the draw of pancakes.

“What about you, Weaver?” Dart grabs his own pack and runs a searching eye over the room. They always leave something beh – aha. A sock!

He bends down and picks it up. He’s not sure whose sock it is. Or why someone only left one sock. Shouldn’t they have lost it in a pair? Dart shrugs and stuffs it in his pocket. It was probably Lysia. She’s always losing things.

Weaver snorts and ducks out of the door. “I’m going to go get some pancakes, obviously.” Her great big laugh echoes in the stone hallway.

Dart grins and follows.

Breakfast is a lively affair. It reminds him of home, everyone gathered around and fighting for what’s available, even though there’s always plenty to go around. Lysia drowns her pancakes in syrup; Telemus cuts his with a knife and fork. Clare eats hers plain, and Weaver wraps pancakes around little sausages.

Lucas complains bitterly the whole time, but then Telemus gives him a great big smile stained with syrup and butter as he says ‘thank you’ with complete sincerity, and Lucas folds, just like Dart thought he would. He’s such a softie.

Weaver whips up a batch of death brew. She calls it coffee, but everyone says it’s strong enough to wake the dead, and if there’s one thing Dart’s come to love about Dryland, it’s coffee. He likes his plain, dark and bitter, but everyone else likes to dress theirs up with sweet cream. He even catches Telemus pouring maple syrup into his! Dart’s all for trying new things, but he doesn’t think he wants to try that one.

“This mission should be a piece of pancake,” Lysia says around a mouthful of said treat. She sprays bits of batter across their makeshift table of several crates pulled together.

Lucas rolls his eyes and shoves her forehead with the heel of his hand. “You’re so gross. Learn some manners.”

Dart tilts his head. “I thought the phrase was ‘piece of cake’?”

“It is. I think she’s making a joke,” Clare says. She’s had two cups of coffee, and Dart sees her eying the urn for a third, probably seeing if she can sneak it out from under Weaver’s guard. “Unfortunately for us, the twins are rarely funny.”

“Excuse you, we’re hilarious,” they say in that odd way of talking at the same time they have that really unnerves a lot of people, Dart included.

Lucas and Lysia grin and give each other a high five.

“She is probably correct,” Weaver says, one arm hooked protectively around the coffee urn. “This is a simple enough task. I believe Dart and Clare are more than up to the challenge.”

Lysia wipes syrup away with the back of her hand. “This is going to be boring. We’re going to stand around and do nothing.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Telemus asks. He shrinks into himself when everyone looks at him, which is quite a feat considering how large he is. “If this goes to plan, then no one should have to fight.”

Weaver grins and claps her grandson on the back, nearly pelting him forward. “That’s my boy! You’re right indeed. We can all celebrate if none of us have to draw a single blade.”

“Boring,” Lysia and Lucas say before they dissolve into giggles, jostling each other with their elbows. It’s sure to turn into a scrap at the table if Dart lets it go for too long, but perhaps letting them work out some of their energy now is for the best.

They’ve a long walk ahead of them. Then Dart has a long swim with Clare on his shoulders while the others stand guard and take care of any alarm Dart and Clare might have inadvertently activated. Hopefully, Clare can set the bomb and get back to Dart with none the wiser, leaving the Templar’s ship at the bottom of the ocean and Dart’s team to make a quiet getaway.

It is, in the grand scheme of things, not a very urgent mission, but it is important. Every Templar ship they prevent from leaving, keeps the Templar from recruiting more allies or spreading their gospel further than this little slice of Lashore.

They’ve already poisoned Aeotora with their nonsense. The Ori couldn’t bear to see anywhere else suffer under their regime.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Weaver says with a thunderous clap of her palms. “Eat up, children. Time’s a wasting.” She relinquishes the last of the coffee to Clare’s grabby hands. “I’ll be out front. Having a smoke.”

“I’ll clean up,” says Telemus, already leaping to his feet to do it.

Dart intercepts the kid before he can start piling dishes into his hands. “I’ll clean up,” he says. Teach by example and all that. Besides, Telemus gets enough of the scut work. “Run and let them know we’re leaving, okay?”

Is he avoiding his father? No. Of course not. Who said that?

“You absolutely are avoiding your father,” Sirene says sweetly. She’d been quiet during breakfast, but Dart had felt her at the back of his mind, enjoying the camaraderie. “You don’t do well with embarrassment, do you?”

Dart metaphorically waves her off.

“Yes, sir,” says Telemus, and he scampers off before Dart can remind him – for what must be the fiftieth time – not to call him ‘sir’. It gives him the willies.

Clare finishes off the coffee with a look that indicates she is much too old to have to participate in cleaning up, so Dart leaves her to it. He’s lucky to have such experienced persons on his team. Clare won’t work with just anyone, while Lucas and Lysia have been his friends practically since Dart came onto Dryland. They were the first to volunteer to work with him, and he’ll forever be grateful for that.

“The pancakes were delicious,” he tells Lucas, planting a sloppy wet kiss on Lucas’ cheek in thanks.

“Of course they were.” Lysia hooks her brother by the neck and drags him in for an embrace, ruffling his hair with her free hand. “He learned from the best.”

“I learned from dad,” Lucas says.

“I didn’t say you learned from me!” Lysia turns her playful neck grab into a half-hearted attempt at strangling her brother. “Quit embarrassing me in front of the captain.”

Mmm. Captain. Somehow, hearing Lysia call him captain feels a lot better than hearing Telemus call him sir. Maybe once this mission is over, he can see if she’d be willing to call him that while they’re fucking.

But that’s a reward for later. For now, Dart has to clean up, get his unit is some semblance of order, and hit the road. There’s a Templar ship to destroy.

Cecil does not wake because he never slept. Dawn creeps over Shandara, early and frigid, and he’s dressed and ready before there’s a knock on the door.

“Enter,” he calls as he finishes tying his hair into the high ponytail he prefers for combat. He’s armored, Vesper across his back, and hopes his lack of sleep does not show around his eyes. He’s already had to put enough concealer around his throat to hide the evidence of Seraphine’s passion. He doesn’t care to apply more.

The door opens only enough for his second, Shively, to poke her long snout head inside. Shively is a Wulfen, and were they to stand side by side, she’d be able to look down on his head. She’s also broader, stronger, and faster, and yet, for some reason, she is perfectly content to serve as his second.

Truthfully, Shively is the only one willing to serve as his second. Others will take the position if ordered, but no one volunteers.

“I expected I’d have to wake you,” she says. Not because Cecil is prone to sleeping in, but because it is technically the duty of the second to be awake and prepared before their captain.

“My apologies,” Cecil says. He doesn’t tell her that he never slept. Such a show of weakness is unbecoming, even to his second. “I’m sure preparations are complete. Have we any… issues?”

It’s the most diplomatic way to ask “was I assigned anyone who might prove to be difficult or cause problems because they don’t like me?”

“Mortals are dumb,” Vesper comments, still a little miffed about their argument last night, but at least she’s talking again. “You are a lovely gemling that anyone would be lucky to befriend.”

-----

Day Three Word Count: 2365 Running Word Count: 6316

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

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perfectirishgifts · 4 years ago

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Bigger Is Better—The French Navy Plans A Huge New Aircraft Carrier

New Post has been published on https://perfectirishgifts.com/bigger-is-better-the-french-navy-plans-a-huge-new-aircraft-carrier/

Bigger Is Better—The French Navy Plans A Huge New Aircraft Carrier

A Rafale lands on ‘Charles de Gaulle.’

The French navy officially has begun the slow, expensive process of building a new aircraft carrier. And in choosing size over availability, the fleet’s leaders are making the right choice, according to one expert.

The Marine Nationale since the early 2000s has operated just one carrier. That means big gaps in the availability of at-sea air cover when the flattop is in maintenance or refit.

But key design decisions mean that, when the carrier is available, she’ll possess real combat power.

The fleet’s current flattop, the 42,500-ton Charles de Gaulle, boasts nuclear power and steam catapults. The new carrier, which French president Emmanuel Macron announced on Tuesday, also will have nuclear power and American-developed electromagnetic cats, at an estimated cost of $8 billion.

Displacing as much as 75,000 tons of water, she’ll be much larger than Charles de Gaulle.

The extra size translates into a bigger air wing with more firepower. Where Charles de Gaulle normally accommodates 24 Rafale fighters (more in an emergency), a pair of E-2 radar planes and four helicopters, the new flattop routinely could handle 32 Rafales and three E-2s plus helicopters and drones.

The planes on both Charles de Gaulle and the new flattop can take off with full loads of fuel and weapons, thanks to the carriers’ catapults. The French “understand that they need CATOBAR to be effective,” said Jerry Hendrix, a retired U.S. Navy aviator who is now an analyst for Telemus Group in Virginia.

“CATOBAR” is naval jargon for “catapult-assisted take-off but arrested recovery.”

Artist’s impression of the new French carrier.

A lack of catapults seriously limits the effectiveness of Russia and China’s own carriers. Owing to budget cuts, the Royal Navy’s two new flattops also lack catapults. The Russians, Chinese and British have partially compensated for a lack of cats on their carriers by installing ramps on the ships’ bows.

Moreover, the Brits embark short-takeoff, vertically-landing F-35B jump jets on their flattops rather than counting on conventional aircraft to work up enough lift on the bow ramp. The STOVL F-35B, like the iconic Harrier, has a downward-blasting engine that helps to shrink its take-off run.

But jump jets still lack range and payload compared to conventional fighters launching by catapult. For that reason, Hendrix said he has doubts about the Royal Navy’s carriers. “Brits made a big mistake with their two STOVLs,” he said. “They will never get into the fight.”

True, the Brits have two flattops—meaning at least one usually will be available. On the other hand, availability is meaningless if the ships lack capability. The French navy has chosen a fleet design with just one carrier, which won’t always be available. But when that sole carrier is available, she’ll be able to fight.

The French fleet could take delivery of its new carrier as early as 2038.

From Aerospace & Defense in Perfectirishgifts

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