#a ship is its captain's confessor

[annecoulmanross]

A Re(sponse)-Re-Re-Review, Re: The Terror (2018)

I’ve recently read through all of the gorgeous review posts of The Terror (2018) from @rhavewellyarnbag​ and I just want to say that I think they’re incredibly beautiful and thoughtful responses to this show – all three amazing rounds of them.

I started out simply collecting quotes that were amusing to me, but my notes document very quickly became full of my own responses and confessions. Basically, I ended up making my own response/review of the whole thing, which is what you’ll find in this post.

So, thank you @rhavewellyarnbag​ for your many insightful thoughts about this show and my responses are below the cut! (Also, your repeated efforts to drive Goodsir to the hospital are a truly noble service, and bring me comfort in these dark times.)

01x01 – “Go For Broke” (One, Two, and Three) 

“Ciaran Hinds looks like a grand old walrus.”

This was the line that made me realize I needed to start keeping track of quotes that made me laugh like a seal barking.

“‘You should cherish that man.’ I cherish that fucking line of dialog. I don’t even mean it in a filthy way. That line is so goddamn sweet, I could punch myself in the face.”

Amongst all the beautiful content produced about this show, almost nothing will ever surpass, for me, this description of this line of dialogue paired with that post about “Idiot Boat Caesar, who knows a slow-burn when he sees one.” Sir John has an astonishing capacity to be truly warm on rare occasions, and this is one of the few scenes in which we really get to see James experience that warmth, both genuinely and, here, in the form of a truly gentle, well-meant rebuke that probably cuts James far more than we see.

“This is an interesting scene with the diving suit. This could potentially go very badly. The man in the suit may be dispatched by the mysterious horror following them, or, in order not to give it away, and to show a scientific curiosity, he may die of decompression of the suit.”

Fun fact: one of my great-grandfathers apparently died of decompression from using an early-model diving suit. I learned this when I was word-vomiting to my mother about The Terror. I am now even more terrified of historical diving suits. All diving suits, really.

“If James’ characterization plays around with gender, it does so in this sense: James is constantly acted upon, by the bullet that wounded him, by the disease that fells him, by others’ opinions of him.”

Watch me attempt to cite your reviews of the The Terror in a dissertation, because everything about this description is exactly the gender framework around which I’ve draped the two historical men with whom I’ve fallen in love, one being my actual subject of research, the other being James Fitzjames.

“I’ve previously compared James’ bravery, his very person, to a woman’s beauty: bestowed upon her, not earned; understood to be temporary; dependent upon others’ admiring, desiring of it. Does James exist when no one is around to observe him?”

I adore everything about this description and also it makes me cry.

“There are a great deal of unfortunate classical references in this episode.”

This is my entire mood about The Terror, always. The nods to Philoctetes and Medea as components of the Argonaut myth that Sir John invokes are also distinctly worth exploring in this context, though I’m not going to do so here because the Argonautica (broadly speaking) is not my speciality.

01x02 – “Gore” (One, Two, and Three)

“James and Sir John are about the same height. They look not dissimilar, which James probably liked.”

Oh James.

“Strangely, [Sir John] doesn’t seem particularly pleased with James, who adores him.”

It’s true, and it’s quite painful. I don’t think Sir John is a good role model for James, but it doesn’t lessen the fact that I know James is perceptive enough to know that he’s not being adored in return, and that’s a brutal thing to know.

“You don’t have to be a drunk redheaded sea captain to see that James is empty, hollow, aching, desperate to be the things he tells you he is, desperate to see himself reflected back at himself. Desperate to be loved.”

I have a type, and this is it, apparently.

“Goodsir is a character from another sort of work, entirely. That’s its own kind of tragedy, the tragic juxtaposition. Goodsir is a sweet, gentle, utterly ordinary little pudding, an incidental character plucked from a more innocent narrative, and he’s no-doubt going to die horribly.”

This is the early impression of Goodsir, before any of us see what’s beneath Goodsir’s surface, but it’s also not wrong at all. In another sort of work (perhaps, as noted, a work by Jane Austen), Goodsir is (uniquely, among these men, perhaps) capable of living a sweet, gentle, utterly ordinary little life, with a more innocent narrative.

“It’s strongly implied that Irving’s imagination is so open that he has to work to close it.”

That’s certainly true of the historical Irving, as I read it. I have many more complex thoughts and feelings about Irving now than I did after just watching the series through the first time, but I’m not sure whether that’s because his story-line is actually rich, or because I’ve come to like him separately. (Unlike, for instance, Fitzjames, whom I have come to adore separately, but I can safely say does also have a rich story-line in these ten episodes.) The real Irving is more elusive than I think I at least gave him credit for originally.

“Oh, James Fitzjames, you overly-familiar little strumpet, you.”

I’m sobbing.

“Scurvy doesn’t care what kind of person you are.”

In many ways this is true, because we do see scurvy acting indiscriminately on different men, here, without a care for age or station or morality. But also scurvy, in this narrative, attacks most vividly those with some sort of previous wound that the scurvy can reopen. Notably James, but also Morfin, whose flogging-scars we never see but can assume from his conversation (also, for that matter, Jopson, who, historically, had a major scar on his leg, of unknown origin). Scurvy may not truly care what kind of person you are, but if you’ve led a dangerous life, scurvy has one more way to hurt you.

“Who among us has not been desperate to discuss our interests, to the point where there is almost a flirtatious edge to the broaching of the topic?  One must be careful, so as not to give away too much, both for the gentle handling that one’s interests require, and for the sake of not alienating some poor rando who made the mistake of asking a bland, vague question simply to be polite.”

Ah, so I see you understand, then. I’ve taken to apologizing in advance of discussing the gorier elements of the Franklin expedition, as though I’ve exposed myself in public. (But seriously, this is the most excellent description of the discomforting feeling of very more obsessed with something than is socially acceptable.)

01x03 – “The Ladder” (One, Two, and Three) 

“John Ross is the Jacob Marley figure, I take it.”

The beginning of many intriguing resonances between this show and Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and I think, one of the most elegant. The actor who plays John Ross would be an excellent Jacob Marley.  

“Jopson would not talk about Francis’ drinking! You take that back, Gibson.”

This is what I adore about Thomas “Mr. Hears Everything” Jopson – he’ll only ever tell things about others to Francis; he’d never tell things about Francis to others. That’s a moral compass upon which we can unerringly rely, and one that is in no way affected by the magnetic changes at either pole.

“The spyglass sticks to the skin above Francis’ eye, as though it wished to force him not to look away.”

This is an amazing take, especially re: the way spyglasses are used to show foresight and the future in this show. Francis is forced to know look at what is coming for them, the future that waits ahead, hungrily salivating for his men.

“James is completely shattered, but he looks luminously beautiful.”

He does, doesn’t he?

01x04 – “Punished As A Boy” (One, Two, and Three)

“Lady Jane’s response is: ‘Fuck you. I know Charles Dickens.’”

Much as I detest Dickens, and much as I have my own problems with Lady Jane, she is never anything less than badass, particularly here.

“Lady Jane, clad in burgundy, ‘the wine-dark sea,’ stands between Francis and Sophia.”

Oh good god that’s it, though? It was through Lady Jane that I first found the Franklin Expedition, oh, four years ago (it feels like four hundred), and the first thing I ever said about the matter was “I’m confident that she knew Greek.” I’ve never been able to prove it, but she writes, in her letters, like someone who reads Greek. Lady Jane is well and truly our Homeric Hera. Brilliant and vengeful and matronly and brutal. I do adore her.

“Of course Goodsir’s never been lashed.  He’s a nice man.  He’s probably had the opposite of a flogging.  People probably throw roses at him when he walks down the street. I know I would.”

I’d be happy to attend this rose-throwing Goodsir-parade. I already have a bad habit of bringing roses to the pseudo-graves of historical men whom I love; we can add Goodsir to the list without too much hassle.

01x05 –  “First Shot’s A Winner, Lads” (One, Two, and Three) 

“[Re: James and “Your nails are a terror, Mr. Wentzall]…the checking of collars and fingernails is a very maternal duty.”

I love spotting feminine traits in James, but what I’m getting out of this is actually imagining James’s adoptive mother Louisa Coningham examining the fingernails of a very young James. It’s an adorable, if slightly tragic, image.

“Irving doesn’t seem like a hard man, but like a man trying desperately to be hard, and often failing. He should have forgotten about the navy, stayed on land, gone to France and become an early Impressionist painter.”

This fantastic description of Irving makes it even more tragic that he DID try to forget about the navy and stay on land, and it didn’t work. Canon divergence AU where Irving moved to France instead of Australia?

“We’re told, repeatedly, including by Goodsir, himself, that Goodsir isn’t a doctor.  It’s a fundamental misunderstanding: people think they know who Goodsir is, or who he wishes to be, but Goodsir has no desire to be anything but what he is. Perhaps appropriately, it’s Hickey who recognizes and names Goodsir (“You’re an anatomist.”) One may say that Hickey ‘reads’ Goodsir. Though, Hickey’s understanding is, as it often is, flawed.  He may know what Goodsir is, but he doesn’t know who Goodsir is.”

I very genuinely wonder – did Goodsir want to be thought of as a doctor, by any of them? What were Goodsir’s thoughts and preferences on the matter?

01x06 – “A Mercy” (One, Two, and Three)  

“What Sir John left them was a means of dissembling, a facade. Cheer in a cheerless time, which holds the dangerous allure of forgetting.”

This is perfect, because Carnevale, at its center, is “the dangerous allure of forgetting,” in no small part because, structurally, Carnevale fills the role of the Homeric island of the lotus-eaters. (It is also a labyrinth, though, and that’s an interesting doubling.)

“The half masks in the trunk have the semblance of the faces of dead men we’ve seen. The creature has the habit or practice of biting a man’s head in two, or biting off part of the cranium.”

I had never noticed this but it’s entirely true.

“Francis is bracketed by Thomas’, neither one of them a doubter.”

I will SCREAM

“‘I don’t like to hear a woman laughing now.’  I suppose it’s fortunate that Jopson’s professional life allows him to be around men, exclusively.  What would Jopson have done later in life?  Marriage is obviously out of the question if women’s mirth causes him such distress.  Would he have stayed on boats?  Francis promotes him to lieutenant, but would that have made him happy?  He has a love of, an instinct for caring for others that obviously can’t be transposed onto a marriage, both because of Jopson’s limits and because of Victorian gender roles.  The best possible course for Jopson would have been valet, a gentleman’s gentleman.  His rank and background would have made him an asset, and no more devoted valet would there have been.”

The fanfic writes itself. (I have nothing to say yet, I just adore this speculation; more below, though.)

“The drop of blood falling from James’ hairline onto the mask’s cheek to make a kind of morbid beauty spot is a gorgeous image, like a piece of decadent poetry.”

I personally find James unbearably beautiful, and the whole extended sequence with the dress and the drinking and the blood dripping is so subtle and lovely and I think, like with poetry, what we get out of it is never simple.

“James is dressed as Britannia. Which makes James mother to them all.”

Though I, selfishly, would have loved to see James in something more scandalous than his Britannia costume, I think it’s symbolically the best possible choice for him. This is an outfit that is technically crossdressing, but it’s very subtle thanks to the choices James makes – we don’t see any dramatic woman’s wig or other feminine elements. This is an outfit that reminds the men of home; reminds James of home, and of his adoptive mother, whose poetry was full to the brim and spilling with Britannia.

“Blanky looks great. I wonder if the visual reference to the Ghost of Christmas Present is intentional.”

I’ve always assumed he was meant to be Bacchus, but of course the Ghost of Christmas Present has more than a little Bacchus in him also. All of these Christmas Carol overlaps are exceedingly interesting – John Ross’s Marley warning Franklin’s Scrooge, and now the Ghost of Blanky Present reminding Crozier that others are – for good or ill – having fun without him.

“One may imagine that Edward has disguised himself as someone who enjoys parties.”

OH GOD.

01x07 – “Horrible From Supper” (One, Two, and Three)  

“Hickey can’t move on from humiliation, because he would see that as more humiliation. Keeping the humiliation alive in his mind is the only way to gain some mastery over it. He holds the wound open, so that no one can deny that it’s a wound, that it happened, that it mattered, that he matters, but it means that he can never heal, never be whole. Scurvy.”

The Hickey/Fitzjames parallels are STRONG here. Also, this resonates really well with a conversation I had with a friend about Eleanor Guthrie from Black Sails – she’s unable to move past being hurt and I just can’t fault her for it, even as her stubbornness just hurts her more. And I feel that sympathy for James, too – he’s bottled up so much hurt inside, and it has kept hurting him his entire life. If Hickey didn’t “hold the would open” by, you know, making wounds in other people, literally, I’d probably even feel bad for him.

“There is an emotional and psychological toll, which Francis tries desperately to reduce by keeping the men together, reinforcing the bonds between them, persistently humanizing them.”

The Jopson’s promotion scene warms me on cold nights. That’s all.

“Jopson’s role is the opposite of Lady Silence’s: the fact of her gender alters nothing about it; Jopson’s informs it.  Make Jopson female, and he clearly functions as Francis’ wife.  If Jopson is male, though, what is he?  A paid servant, in the literal sense, but his obvious pleasure at caring for Francis long ago eroded the patina of duty.  I think we can safely say that Jopson loves Francis, loves and cares deeply for him.  Is invested in Francis’ safety, well-being, happiness.  Enjoys the details of his service to Francis, beyond the enjoyment of a job well-done.  Add a sexual component, and it becomes a marriage.  Leave it out, and the relationship is something else.  Drop Jopson into a marriage with a woman, and he becomes a husband.  Leave him with Francis, and he remains Francis’ wife.”

This is what I find so fascinating about Jopson – everything about his identity has the potential to be contingent, to change, but as the expedition’s tragedy unfolds, we see all of the possible threads of Jopson’s future cut off, one by one. From the beginning, Jopson can’t be female, and thus can’t serve a wifely role in British society, even though he’s clearly fit for it. We learn that Jopson has some very specific PTSD triggers related to women that might prevent him from ever being married to one, even if he wanted to be. Jopson seems to wish to continue serving Francis in perpetuity, to continue being as close to a wife as Francis will ever have, but Francis, sober, no longer needs the same kind of care that Jopson used to provide, and, eventually, Jopson becomes unable to care for Francis at all, so that Francis has to care for him. Jopson is all change, all tragedy.

“I would like to thank the director, cinematographer, anybody else who may be responsible for that stunning shot of James in profile. James really is beautiful, even, maybe particularly, at this stage of his infirmity. I’ve said it at other times, but there’s something, well, I suppose, romantic about his illness, because he is young, and beautiful, and heroic, so desperate to be loved, and so loved, in the end.”

*sighs* I’m not okay about James.

01x08 – “Terror Camp Clear” (One, Two, and Three) 

“I don’t know how I didn’t notice before, but James is a leggy creature.”

I will still treasure the term “a leggy creature” when I am in my grave.

“Sir John was not a top, and I know that for a fact, because I just got Lady Jane on the Ouija board, and she told me.”

I WILL SCREAM.

“[Francis] doesn’t look on James as a sick person in need of careful handling. There’s no sense of the separation necessary for pity between Francis and James. He is this way toward James because he cares about James.”

I know we all joke about the quote “it’s rotten work” / “not to me, not if it’s you,” but this is what that quote has always meant to me (the Anne Carson of it, that is, not the original Greek). Caring for someone via pity, via distance, takes effort, is painful, is rotten, even though it is sometimes worth it. Caring for someone via care, via love may still take effort, and may still even be painful, but there is no separation, no alienation, from the service of providing care. That’s where Francis’s tenderness comes from, I think. That closeness.

“James, you big, beautiful racehorse.  Even chapped and cracked, he’s radiantly beautiful.  He has such a warm quality.”

In the confessional spirit of this review, I will admit: I find James more attractive than I am capable of expressing. The interesting thing, to me, is that I don’t have the same response at all to Tobias Menzies or to any other character I’ve seen him play. He’s a great actor, certainly, but he doesn’t do it for me. But James does. I’m still puzzling this out.

“James’ bravery is treated somewhat like a woman’s beauty, in that he believes it to be conditional, temporary. It’s dependent on others’ appreciation of it; when he’s alone, James doesn’t feel brave.”

I will say, admitting that it’s probably James’ femininity that is attractive to me gets you a long way toward understanding why I do find him so terribly appealing.

“Oh, please, baby Jesus, don’t let Jopson flip. Jopson’s one of the few things I have left to hang onto, here.”

Jopson will never flip, such that Jopson’s death really is the point of no return, here. He’ll die before he flips. (Notably, it’s important to be clear that by “flip,” I mean turn his loyalties away from Crozier. I have reconciled myself to the idea that, though Jopson is upright and innocent in a way even my James isn’t, he is capable of violence and even unjustified, offensive violence. But only ever in the service of his captain.) And again here, Jopson very well might not be immune to the seduction Hickey’s definitely attempting, but bending to Hickey’s wiles means betraying Crozier, and that’s an impossibility for Jopson.

“Bridgens, who’s a cozy old piece of furniture…”

….and Henry Peglar would like to sit on him. (I get it Henry, I do.)  

01x09 – “The C, the C, the Open C” (One, Two, and Three) 

“Oh, Bridgens. Where’s Henry? Where did Henry go?”

I think a real triumph of this show is getting you to know, by this point, that when you see Bridgens, you should ALWAYS ask yourself, “Where’s Henry?” Because yeah, “They are each other’s loved one,” and there can’t be either one of them without the other. Bridgens knows this, and makes himself into a memorial for Henry. The only kind of monument Henry Peglar can ever have: Bridgens, with his own body, preserves Peglar’s words for the future, for us. I’m just going to cry for Bridgens and for Peglar for a minute, that’s all. Please excuse me.

“Hartnell watches Bridgens pick up Peglar, Peglar’s arm around Bridgens like, ‘… Wait a minute…’ Hartnell also misses Hickey’s innuendo about Armitage.  Tom Hartnell tragically has no gay-dar.”

Oh precious Hartnell. This lack of gay-dar is part of why Hartnell had to get written out of what I’m currently writing (I’m sorry Hartnell! It’s not you it’s me.)

“There’s something of a horrible wooing about it: Goodsir, like an unwilling bride, forcibly taken from his own people by unscrupulous men, installed in as luxurious surroundings as can be had, with his trousseau, for the purpose of catering to an unspeakable hunger.  His innocence is taken from him, and he’s turned against himself. His body is stripped naked and consumed.”

(a) What a horrible and horribly accurate description. (b) This is another one of those places where this show is unafraid to place male characters into narrative metaphors of womanhood. For me, the most vivid is always Jopson, but Goodsir is also often made to face this sort of feminine role, and for Goodsir it’s so much more often about violence and shame.

“James says “I’m not Christ,” before he tells Francis to feed the men his body.  It seems like something of a non sequitur, until one imagines James’ train of thought.  As the impulse to give his body to the men occurred to him, so may have also come a last flicker of self-mockery: “What, James, do you think you’re Christ, now?”  So that his announcement that he’s not Christ comes in response to this: he knows who he is, and who he isn’t.  Finally, he knows this.”

I think that’s exactly what went through James’s head. And more than that, I think back on that beautiful gif-set that placed James’s “I’m not Christ” beside Francis’s “Like Christ, but with more nails.” Francis, whose self-hatred is clear and undisguised, begins to heal by recognizing what is Christ-like in himself: his suffering, and the compassion that is borne from the suffering. James, whose self-hatred is buried under masks and lies and stories and gilded dresses, begins to heal by admitting what is not Christ-like about him: his mortality, his humanity; and that doesn’t make James any lesser, and James finally, finally begins to see so.  

“Can’t Jopson’s story end differently, this time?”

That’s what hurts. In no version of this story that happens with Hickey AND the Tuunbaq AND the inevitable deaths of 129 men, should James die any different, or Goodsir, or Bridgens. If they were going to die, they should do so showing bravery and brotherhood; agency and defiance; commitment and love. There are other men who deserved so much better than the ignoble deaths they got (Irving comes to mind) but Jopson is the warmest light and receives the coldest death. There’s no reason for his story NOT to end differently, except for the sheer narrative cruelty of it all. The Terror is brilliant because it knows to reserve this sort of agony for the worst possible gut-punch. Any more than one, or maybe two, utterly, pointlessly cruel deaths, and we would be immunized. But we have no immunity to prepare us for the dizzying nausea of Jopson’s death.

“The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death.  Death, ultimately, isn’t mysterious. Whatever might happen to one afterwards is immaterial to the living, still bound to this plane of existence.  One may fear it, but once it happens, it’s over.  Love is a way of life, though.  It changes over time.  It changes the person who feels it, and the person they feel it for.  Both Francis and Jopson were changed by their love for each other.  Jopson goes to one mystery still in the grip of the other: it’s Francis he sees, reaches for, cannot touch.”

Jopson’s death is still haunting me. It’s like Tantalus, all that food that would save Jopson’s life, if only he could eat it, and yet he crawls right past, toward Crozier. What does that say about Jopson? The way the world tortures him is to hold Crozier just outside of his reach – what on earth is Jopson being punished for? (These aren’t intelligible thoughts anymore; I’m just broken-hearted for my boy.)

“In a narrative that encourages empathy for everyone and everything from a colonial expedition to a monkey to an eldritch monstrosity that rips men’s heads off, why should Hickey be exempt?”

A beautiful way of putting it. I’m still working through my initial disgust at Hickey, but intellectually, I can’t help but agree.

01x10 – “We Are Gone” (One, Two, and Three)

“…the experience of being through so much with these characters that I care about so much has been like living several lifetimes.”

My mother, who has not yet watched this show, told me recently that she thinks these characters have become my family. In part, this is due to the historical research I’ve been doing on the real men of the Franklin expedition, but the show played its own large role in making me fall in love with these men, making me desperate to live as many lifetimes with them as possible.

“Why does Goodsir do it, though?  He seems to have made up his mind before Francis appears, and with Francis comes the hope that Edward will rescue them.  If anything, Francis’ presence makes Goodsir more resolute.”

As another dear friend said, Goodsir definitely had the plan in mind before Francis showed up, but the plan needed a trigger: it needed Francis, a good man worth dying for. Someone for Goodsir to look at and say, “Maybe my actions will help this man.”

“I think I just confessed to being in love with a man who doesn’t exist.”

Ahh, this lovely club. Even the men I’m in love with who actually lived two thousand years ago don’t really exist, at least not in the way I love them.  

“The Terror is like a play put on by a theater company that has no female actors, so all of the men must play female roles…without any women to place in certain contexts – caretaker; lover; victim; object of desire – those dramas necessarily play out on the bodies of the men.”

Watch this space. The Terror is a classical Greek tragedy, and I can prove it.

The description of Goodsir’s preparation for death is richer and more complete than anything I will ever write. GO READ IT.

I also think it’s fascinating to see this scene through the eyes of a reviewer who readily admits “This is an unusual case. I like Goodsir. I don’t usually like the men I’m looking at. I care for Goodsir.” I confess that, though I also like and care for Goodsir, when I am looking at “eroticized male bodies” in media, I only really “feel at home in a text” when I also like and care for those men. If a male character is too morally objectionable to me, I find no erotic appeal to viewing him, because I am so distracted by my own sense of his evils. I simply cannot find anything to pull me, aesthetically or sexually, to someone like Hickey. (I can never find anything sensually appealing about Hickey/Tozer, for instance.) I am pulled to James, in contrast, because he is beautiful to me visually, and because his life (as far as I can see) shows me a person who cared, who tried, who loved. Who is worthy of my care and trust.  And though I don’t think I’m in love with Goodsir in the same way than I am with James, I care deeply for Goodsir and thus can find the appeal in watching him, visually.

“‘There is wonder here.’/ ‘Then, there will be the angels.’ The first thing angels ever tell any human being who beholds them is not to be afraid.  Wonder isn’t always delightful, isn’t always something that humans can understand, or possibly, even, survive.”

Fear is something I don’t often enough examine closely with this show, though it is so terribly central. “Be not afraid” and “We have too much fear.” How can one dispel fear? Wonder obviously isn’t enough; wonder might even make it worse. Being told not to fear rarely works out so well for those visited by angels. I think, sometimes, that all we can do is – as Peglar does – admit to those we love that we have too much fear, and hope that they can help us carry it.

I can’t NOT give you the end of the first round of these reviews, because, like the description of Goodsir’s preparations, it’s literature: 

“The Terror, a show taking place one hundred, sixty years ago, manages to be timely without even trying.  Lead poisoning.  Environmental catastrophe.  The baggage of colonialism.  The treatment of indigenous people by white people. Information and misinformation.  What it means to be a leader.  What it means to be in a marriage.  The role of women in society.  Gay marriage.  Income inequality.  Ethical consumption.  Consumerism. Members of the armed forces working far from home.  Mental health. Addiction.  All of these fit neatly into what can also be taken at face value, a well-constructed and -acted tale of adventure and loss set in a faraway place and time.  The Terror never tries to force meaning on the viewer, never struggles under the weight of its lofty aspirations- because it has no aspirations.  It’s an utterly guileless production, seeking nothing but to present its characters and situations honestly.  In doing such a simple thing, it has created the world.”

And, finally, I leave you with: “I’m not looking for a way out.  I just want more time with the characters. I don’t want to leave them.” To me, this gives an answer to David Solway’s question “Do you have a tolerance for ongoing narratives which generally turn out to be the same narrative?” And that answer is “yes.” I think there’s a tolerance – or, even, a hunger – for ongoing narratives that turn out to be the same narrative, in this fandom, because why would anyone want a way out anymore, if it means the end of our time with these characters?

I know I don’t.

“The end of The Terror isn’t a sad end, nor is it a hopeful one.  It’s not even properly an end, because we know what comes next. What comes next? Well, we do.”

[orthodoxydaily]

Saint&Reading: Sat. Nov.,28, 2020

Commemorated on November 15_ Julian calendar

The Holy Martyrs and Confessors Gurias, Samon and Habib

     The Holy Martyrs and Confessors Gurias, Samon and Habib: During the time of persecution against Christians under the emperors Diocletian (284-305) and Maximian (305-311), two friends were arrested in the city of Edessa, the Christians Gurias and Samon, preachers of the Word of God. At the demand to offer sacrifice to the gods the saints answered with a decisive refusal and confessed their faith in Christ. For this they were subjected to cruel tortures: they beat them, hung them up by their hands, tied heavy weights to their feet, and cast them into a stifling prison. The martyrs endured everything with firmness and a prayer to the Lord, which one of the witnesses to the martyrs wrote down: "O Lord my God, without Whose will not a single sparrow falleth into the snare. Thou it was, Who wast diffused in the heart of David in sorrow, Who proved the Prophet David stronger than lions, and granted for a child of Abraham to be victor over torture and flames. Now also Thou knowest, O Lord, the infirmity of our nature, Thou beholdest the struggle set afront us. For the enemy striveth to tear away from Thee the work of Thy right-hand and to deprive (us) from the essence of Thine Glory. But do Thou, with Thine compassionate eye watching over us, preserve in us the inextinguishable light of Thy Commandments. By Thine light guide our steps, and grant us to delight in Thine bliss, for blessed art Thou unto ages of ages". By night they took the martyrs out beyond the city and beheaded them (+ 299-306). Christians buried their holy bodies.      After some years the last pagan emperor Licinius (311-324) began a persecution against Christians. A deacon of the Edessa Church by the name of Habib, whom the emperor ordered to be arrested for his zealous spreading of the true faith, presented himself before the executioners, since he did not want other Christians to suffer because of the search for him. The saint confessed his faith in Christ and was sentenced to burning. The martyr went willingly into the fire and with prayer gave up his soul to the Lord (+ 322). When the fire went out, the mother and kinsmen of the saint found his body unharmed. They buried the martyr next to Saints Gurias and Samon.      After the death of the saints, numerous miracles were wrought by them for those who with faith and love entreated their help. Thus, one time a certain Gothic-soldier, sent for service at Edessa, took as his spouse the pious maiden Euphymia. Before this he vowed to her mother Sophia at the graves of the Martyrs Gurias, Samon and Habib, – that he would do his spouse no harm, and would never insult her, but would always love and cherish her. At the completion of his service in Edessa, he took Euphymia with him back to his native land. Afterwards it turned out, that he had deceived her: in his native-land he already had a wife, and Euphymia became her slave. Euphymia had to suffer much abuse and humiliation. When she gave birth to a son, the jealous Goth woman then poisoned him. Euphymia turned with prayer to the holy Martyrs Gurias, Samon and Habib – witnesses to the oath of the deceiver, and the Lord delivered Euphymia from her suffering and miraculously returned her to Edessa, where she was welcomed by her mother. After a certain while the Gothic oath-breaker was again sent for service to Edessa. All the city learned about his misdeeds after his denunciation by Sophia, and by order of the governor of the city the Goth was executed.      Glorifying the holy martyrs in an akathist, Holy Church addresses them: "Hail, Gurias, Samon and Habib, Heavenly Patrons of honourable marriage".

© 1996-2001 by translator Fr. S. Janos.

Repose of St Herman of Alaska 

November 15, 1836 in Spruce Island

“I IMAGINE MY BELOVED VALAAM.”

St. Herman’s Letters to Abbot Nazarius

St. Herman even in Alaska considered himself to be under obedience to his spiritual guide and abbot, Fr. Nazarius of Valaam Monastery. Whenever he had the time he would write to Valaam with reports on the missionary team’s work in the Alaskan territories among the native peoples. As we can see from St. Herman’s legacy of “Russian Orthodox Alaska” today, this missionary work was effective and enduring.

May 19, 1795

Rejoice in the Lord, O most blessed and most honorable Fr. Nazarius, together with thy brethren in Christ. Thy paternal kindness and deeds of love towards my lowliness, shall in no way ever be erased from my heart. Neither the terrible impassible Siberian wilds, nor its dark forests, neither the rapids of great rivers, nor the mighty ocean can quench these feelings of mine. For in my mind I imagine my beloved Valaam, and constantly behold it across the great ocean. But because of the great distance, it is impossible for me with my own voice to express to you my gratitude and instead I am obliged to send you, my beloved Batiushka, this little piece of paper. I shall try at the same time to give you a report.

By the grace of the Most High God and thanks to your holy prayers, we have safely reached the American territories, all ten men. The briefness of time does not allow me to describe such a great voyage in detail. Nearly the whole year was spent travelling. We did not meet with any adventures worth recording, although some impressed themselves by reason of the novelty of the place and the varied forms of travel. For the sake of conversation, you can tell those who are curious for news that while travelling on horseback along the Okhotsk road, we were attacked by bears. And on the ocean we saw several kinds of sea animals: whales, dolphin, sea otter, elephant seals and others of which we spotted quite a number. There have been no big storms except one.

We are located on the island of Kodiak, but this is not to be permanent. Our intention is to go to the mainland, although we are not sure just what place will be to our liking. The Americans2 are very eager for baptism—nearly seven thousand have been baptized. On Unalaska, while passing through the Aleutian chain, we were driven by an opposing wind to a place where the Aleuts amazed us with their zeal and readiness to be baptized.

Together with this letter, Fr. Makary is setting off for the Aleutian, Fox and Adrianovsk Islands in order to preach and to baptize. Fr. Juvenal will be leaving shortly for the mainland starting on the Kenai peninsula and then heading to the Chugachi, the Alegmint and further to the Kolosh and ocher tribes, even to the Chilliket.

Oh! Here enraptured in spirit, in spite of all the shortness of time I will snatch a short minute to relate some narratives [of the missionaries’ travels and apostolic fervor].

Finding myself between fair weather and foul, between joy and tedium, between sufficiency and insufficiency, satiety and hunger, warmth and coldness, in all my sorrows I find something that cheers me, when I hear conversations between the brethren about their preaching, and about their dividing up for this various regions among themselves—especially the discussion between Hieromonks Makary and Juvenal, for they set out around Kodiak, too, in the smallest little boats of hide, despite all the sea’s dangers, and Father Archimandrite Joasaph Bolotov remained with us, as if with little children, in the harbor.

And so these hieromonks extended their thoughts yet farther: Once when taking a scroll in our harbor, where I, sinful one, happened to be among them, we climbed a little hill toward the southern side, sat down facing the ocean, and among other things began to speak as to which of us should go where to preach, for the time was then at hand for the departure of the ships on which they had to travel. And then an argument broke out between them which for me, humble one, was comforting and joyful. On Captain Cook’s maps of the north, it is indicated that along a certain river Russians live; among us there are different rumors of them, about which we then recalled in our discussion, wishing somehow to see them. Father Makary began to speak: “According to my intention, if it please God, when I shall be in the Aleutian Islands, in all propriety I should go also to Alaska [the mainland], to which place the Alaskans have already called me, too; and as that side is nearer those Russians, I shall find means somehow to learn something more certain about them.” But Father Juvenal, having heard about Alaska, and in his zeal not allowing the other to speak further, hastened to say to him: “Alaska in the whole belongs to my part, and so I beg you to yield to me and not offend me in this; since the ship now is setting out for Yakutan, I shall have tO go by way of Alaska to go out to this harbor.” Hearing this, Father Makary became shrouded in despondency and, having assumed a sorrowful air, said with feeling: “No, Father, don’t hem me in with this; you yourself know that the Aleutian chain of islands adjoins Alaska, and so it absolutely belongs to my part, and from there the whole northern shore; but as for you, if you please, the southern part of America is sufficient for your whole lifetime.” And I, lowly one, hearing such a debate, went from joy to rapture.

Ah, what a pity, Batiushka, that because of the shortness of time, I cannot tell you more about the customs, habits, and all about the way of life in this country, as well as about our own brotherhood. Cosmas Alexeyevitch was tonsured, receiving the name of Ioasaph. We are now together in the bread bakery. Forgive me, my beloved Batiushka, forgive me—I have no more time to write. l· am asking your holy paternal prayers and your blessing. I remain,

lowly Herman

P.S. To all my beloved and dear Valaam brethren, I most fervently bow down before you and ask your holy prayers.

More letters @Orthodox Christianity

Luke 9:37-43

37 Now it happened on the next day, when they had come down from the mountain, that a great multitude met Him. 38 Suddenly a man from the multitude cried out, saying, "Teacher, I implore You, look on my son, for he is my only child.39 And behold, a spirit seizes him, and he suddenly cries out; it convulses him so that he foams at the mouth; and it departs from him with great difficulty, bruising him. 40 So I implored Your disciples to cast it out, but they could not. 41Then Jesus answered and said, "O faithless and perverse generation, how long shall I be with you and bear with you? Bring your son here." 42 And as he was still coming, the demon threw him down and convulsed him. Then Jesus rebuked the unclean spirit, healed the child, and gave him back to his father. 43 And they were all amazed at the majesty of God. But while everyone marveled at all the things which Jesus did, He said to His disciples...

Galatians 1:3-10

3Grace to you and peace from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ,4 who gave Himself for our sins, that He might deliver us from this present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father, 5 to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen. 6 I marvel that you are turning away so soon from Him who called you in the grace of Christ, to a different gospel, 7 which is not another; but there are some who trouble you and want to pervert the gospel of Christ. 8 But even if we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel to you than what we have preached to you, let him be accursed. 9 As we have said before, so now I say again, if anyone preaches any other gospel to you than what you have received, let him be accursed. 10 For do I now persuade men, or God? Or do I seek to please men? For if I still pleased men, I would not be a bondservant of Christ.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Charles Spurgeon's "Morning & Evening"

Devotions for September 12

MORNING

"That through death he might destroy him that had the power of death." - Hebrews 2:14

O child of God, death hath lost its sting, because the devil's power over it is destroyed. Then cease to fear dying. Ask grace from God the Holy Ghost, that by an intimate knowledge and a firm belief of thy Redeemer's death, thou mayst be strengthened for that dread hour. Living near the cross of Calvary thou mayst think of death with pleasure, and welcome it when it comes with intense delight. It is sweet to die in the Lord: it is a covenant-blessing to sleep in Jesus. Death is no longer banishment, it is a return from exile, a going home to the many mansions where the loved ones already dwell. The distance between glorified spirits in heaven and militant saints on earth seems great; but it is not so. We are not far from home-a moment will bring us there. The sail is spread; the soul is launched upon the deep. How long will be its voyage? How many wearying winds must beat upon the sail ere it shall be reefed in the port of peace? How long shall that soul be tossed upon the waves before it comes to that sea which knows no storm? Listen to the answer, "Absent from the body, present with the Lord." Yon ship has just departed, but it is already at its haven. It did but spread its sail and it was there. Like that ship of old, upon the Lake of Galilee, a storm had tossed it, but Jesus said, "Peace, be still," and immediately it came to land. Think not that a long period intervenes between the instant of death and the eternity of glory. When the eyes close on earth they open in heaven. The horses of fire are not an instant on the road. Then, O child of God, what is there for thee to fear in death, seeing that through the death of thy Lord its curse and sting are destroyed? and now it is but a Jacob's ladder whose foot is in the dark grave, but its top reaches to glory everlasting.

EVENING

"Fight the Lord's battles." - 1 Samuel 18:17

The sacramental host of God's elect is warring still on earth, Jesus Christ being the Captain of their salvation. He has said, "Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." Hark to the shouts of war! Now let the people of God stand fast in their ranks, and let no man's heart fail him. It is true that just now in England the battle is turned against us, and unless the Lord Jesus shall lift his sword, we know not what may become of the church of God in this land; but let us be of good courage, and play the man. There never was a day when Protestantism seemed to tremble more in the scales than now that a fierce effort is making to restore the Romish antichrist to his ancient seat. We greatly want a bold voice and a strong hand to preach and publish the old gospel for which martyrs bled and confessors died. The Saviour is, by his Spirit, still on earth; let this cheer us. He is ever in the midst of the fight, and therefore the battle is not doubtful. And as the conflict rages, what a sweet satisfaction it is to know that the Lord Jesus, in his office as our great Intercessor, is prevalently pleading for his people! O anxious gazer, look not so much at the battle below, for there thou shalt be enshrouded in smoke, and amazed with garments rolled in blood; but lift thine eyes yonder where the Saviour lives and pleads, for while he intercedes, the cause of God is safe. Let us fight as if it all depended upon us, but let us look up and know that all depends upon him.

Now, by the lilies of Christian purity, and by the roses of the Saviour's atonement, by the roes and by the hinds of the field, we charge you who are lovers of Jesus, to do valiantly in the Holy War, for truth and righteousness, for the kingdom and crown jewels of your Master. Onward! "for the battle is not yours but God's."

[everythingieverloved]

25 November 1120 - The Sinking of the White Ship & the Death of Prince William Adelin, heir to Henry I of England and Normandy

Henry and William must have set off on their journeys back to England feeling relieved and satisfied. There was plenty to celebrate in the deal with Louis and the defeat of William Clito. After twenty years of uncertainty and latterly, four years of intense fighting and diplomatic actively, Henry had got the better of his French enemies and secured the succession to England and Normandy for his cherished son. Now married and with children of his own sure to come soon, the prince’s own future, as well as his family’s, could not have looked brighter or more secure. It is hardly surprising that the drink continued to flow after William and his friends arrived at Barfleur on 25 November 1120...

As high water in Barfleur harbour approached at about ten o’clock that night, 25 November 1120, Prince William and the members of his young, glamorous entourage crowded on board the White Ship, jostling each other in the torch light, shouting and joking. Rowdy and boisterous, they had been drinking for much of the day, and the contents of the casks of wine on board had been shared with the crew too. Amongst the three hundred or so men and women waiting to embark with the prince, the atmosphere was carefree and reckless. At this point, some of the more sober passengers thought better of travelling on the White Ship and disembarked... Meanwhile, Thomas [the captain] was challenged by those remaining on board to put his ship and its crew to the test. The crossing to England would normally take about twelve hours. Why not make some of that time more interesting with a race?...

There was no wind and the sea was calm. But the new moon made for a dark night, and the ridges and rocks on the approach made Barfleur’s harbour notoriously difficult to navigate at the best of times. Nevertheless, undeterred by the familiar hazards and heedless of the need for caution, the White Ship’s fifty oarsmen saw this as a chance to show off their skill and their strength... As the goading from the inebriated passengers grew louder, the ship quickly picked up speed, traveling ‘swifter than a feathered arrow,’ according to one contemporary. After about twenty minutes, though, a mile and a half from shore, the vessel came to a jolting stop. The ship had hit a great rock on its port side; concealed beneath the waves at high tide, and unseen by the helmsman in the dark, the rock had breached the hull and the vessel began to take on water. A momentary silence on board was followed by anxious cries and shouts; alarm quickly turned to fear and the passengers began to panic. Then, as the drunken crew took up their oars and began straining to prise the ship free from its rocky hold, they only succeeded in destabilising it even more. Already listing and taking on water, with frantic passengers only adding to the confusion, the White Ship capsized. Few if any of the passengers could swim, and many drowned quickly; but a lucky handful managed to find a place in a small boat. One of these was Prince William himself, but, realizing his half-sister Matilda had been left stranded on the sinking ship, he turned the boat around and headed back to try and rescue her. His bravery and devotion counted for nothing: as the prince came alongside the upturned ship, his boat was overwhelmed by those desperate to escape, and it sank under their weight...

When [William] died at sea, a general sense of shock was mixed with no little ambivalence about the sort of ruler William would have made. Some commentators thought that the prince and his companions were too proud and distracted by lust and a love of luxury. But these allegations were not written down until later, and this kind of moralizing may tell us more about its authors than the prince himself. More convincing is the opinion of William of Malmesbury. He had met Queen Matilda and perhaps even the prince himself. In his view:

“Many provinces looked to the boy’s lightest wish, and in him it was supposed King Edward [the Confessor’s] prophecy was to be fulfilled: the hope of England, it was thought, once cut down like a tree, was in the person of that young prince again to blossom and bear fruit, so that one might hope evil times were coming to an end. But God had other plans; these expectations went down with the wind, for the day was already at hand when he must fulfill his fate.”

The Prince Had certainly spend the second half of his short life training to be a ruler. What is more, his involvement in English government after 1116 and his conduct on the battlefield at Bremule suggest that he had learnt his lessons well. The hopes of many were invested in him and ‘lifted as to a tower’s top,’ in William of Malmesbury’s words... He left a widow (Matilda had crossed to England on Henry I’s ship, not her husband’s) who returned to her family and became a nun, and a distraught father. In the course of one dark night, Henry’s heart was broken and twenty years of political planning and military endeavour had come to nothing.

“Tales from the Long Twelfth Century,” by Richard Huscroft

[amethystina]

2 and 62/WinterIron You're the best(~>u

Ohohoho! Okay, let’s go!

THE TROPES:2. Royal AU62. Love Confessor (Character A confessing their love for Character B to Character C) 

Oh man, I love this. And I had such trouble deciding if I wanted the setting to be fantasy or sci-fi (I am in SUCH a fantasy mood right now) but, in the end, I think sci-fi has the most potential. So go ahead and read more about it below the cut ;)

Bucky is a space pirate. Well, privateer, to be more precise, together with Steve and their rowdy little crew. They’re a bunch of strays from all across the galaxy who, at the time being, has the fortune of being commissioned by the king of a, particularly wealthy planet. King Stark isn’t what Bucky would call a nice man, but he’s firm, ambitious, and pays well. His planet, Vordania Prime, is currently in dispute with a neighbouring one about travel routes, and Steve and Bucky have been tasked with plundering as many of the ships on that route as they can. It’s risky, sure, because their spaceship is small and has definitely seen better days, but the crew is skilled and Steve an amazing captain. So they make do.

It is when they happen to come across a delivery of wares stolen from Vordania Prime and unravel a smuggling ring of epic proportions that the king invites them to the royal palace to personally thank them. It’s a nerve-wracking visit since, even if the crew clean up well, they are not used to dealing with royalty. Banquets are even more out of their comfort zone.

Bucky does his best, however, nodding politely and saying “sir” and “lady” a lot and never once flinches when people ask him about his bionic arm. It’s a touchy subject, but they can’t know that. They can’t know he got it when he was captured years ago during a war in his own home system, tortured and brainwashed and turned into a killing machine. Steve managed to save him and, somehow, help him straighten out the mess his head had become, but they were no longer welcome in their home system. Bucky had done too much damage — killed too many people.

Steve hadn’t cared, following Bucky literally to the other end of the galaxy to start their careers as space pirates. Bucky isn’t unhappy with his new life — the crew ss great and he has more or less recovered from his time in Hydra’s clutches— but he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he misses home sometimes. And that there are days when the guilt gets just a little too heavy to bear. Still, he's comfortable— he’s got a job, friends, and life that’s not exactly honourable, but uncomplicated.

At least until he sees the prince.

Bucky has never had a reason to meet him before— they have only ever dealt with the king or his advisors— and, from the moment he lays eyes on him, Bucky knows. He has almost forgotten about that particular quirk of his race. He has forgotten that, if he’s lucky, one day he’ll meet his Destined.

He just hadn’t expected it to be the crown prince of Vordania Prime.

Bucky quickly suppresses the rush of rightness and hope and yearning, knowing it has to be a mistake. Bonding with a different spiecies isn’t unheard of, but it certainly isn’t easy. There are no guarantees that the other can or want to embrace the bond— not all races mate for life, like Bucky’s— and that’s without the added complication of this being the crown prince of an important, wealthy planet. A young, charming prince with his whole life ahead of him.

The universe is clearly trying to punish Bucky for something.

But he keps his roaring emotions in check— if only barely — and manages to remain polite even when the prince comes to talk to him. He’s even prettier up close and Bucky’s heart is racing, his entire being screaming at him to just reach out and pull Prince Anthony to him and never let go. But he can’t do that.

He can never do that.

It hurts to be so close to the prince and not be allowed to touch. Later, Bucky can barely even remember what they talked about, except that it made Prince Anthony laugh, his beautiful, brown eyes sparkling.

After the banquet, once they return to their ship, Bucky locks himself inside his cabin and breaks down. Resisting the bond is painful in and off itself, but the knowledge that he can never allow it to grow is agonising. He can’t tell a prince that he’s Bucky’s Destined. 

Prince Anthony deserves so much better— is probably already engaged, which causes a painful stab in Bucky’s chest— and Bucky is far too broken. He can’t tie someone as beautiful and carefree as Prince Anthony to the legendary Winter Soldier. No one in this system might call Bucky that— no one but Steve knows of that particular part of Bucky’s history — but the name is known far and wide. Everyone fears the Winter Soldier.

Prince Anthony deservs so much better.

So Bucky vowes never to act on it. Steve gives him a couple of weird looks in the days that follow — Bucky is distracted and disoriented from denying the bond— but doesn’t ask.

They keep working, pillaging space ships in the name of King Stark.

And they keep getting invited to the palace.

Every time, Bucky both hates and loves it. Prince Anthony always wants to talk to him, eager and friendly and so beautiful it takes Bucky’s breath away. He can’t help it— can’t say no— because any kind of contact with his Destined is better than none at all. Bucky knows he’s falling in love— that’s what he’s supposed to be doing— but he never tells Prince Anthony.

He can never tell Prince Anthony.

But they grow closer — become friends, of sorts. Bucky starts sneaking into the palace when he and his crew are planetside, just to see Prince Anthony. He teaches the Prince how to shoot with plasma rifles since no one else will— they seem to think it’s not suitable for a prince to know that. And Prince Anthony invites Bucky to his workshop to show his projects — Vordania Prime is famous for its technology, always top of the line and extremely expensive— and the prince has clearly embraced that. He’s clever, intuitive, and so brilliant that Bucky just doesn’t know what to do with all the affection growing inside of him.

Anyone would be lucky to have Prince Anthony as their Destined, but Bucky knows he can’t. He just can’t.

Bucky loves the prince, there’s no doubt about that, but he’s a filthy privateer with a past darker than anyone should have to carry, and he just can’t burden Prince Anthony with that.

Not to mention that the king would never let him.

So Bucky keeps quiet and does his job. He also secretly meets with the prince— which Steve teases him about— and tries not to let his emotions get the better of him. It works, more or less, which is a relief.

Then comes the day that King Stark is overthrown.

Bucky and the crew aren’t even on the planet when the coup starts, but they certainly hear the desperate hailing over the comms. Pleas for aid from the royal guard that is desperately trying to keep the invading forces at bay. Steve doesn’t need to see the panicked look on Bucky’s face to turn the ship around, heading back to the planet.

As they get closer, they receive more and more news— the reports growing more and more desperate.

The king has been murdered.

Queen Maria found dead.

The Prince is missing.

The only way for Bucky to keep the panic at bay is to focus on those reports. Focus on what needs to be done when they arrive at the royal palace. As long as Prince Anthony hasn’t been confirmed dead, Bucky still has hope.

He can feel himself slipping— a calm settling over him that he knows does not bode well— but he doesn’t try to stop it. He needs to find Anthony. That is the only thing that matters.

He needs to find his Destined.

They bypass the docking stations and head straight for the palace. A part of it is burning, another explode as they go in for landing, but Bucky doesn’t even flinch. Steve grabs his arm when the ramp is about to open, giving him a worried look, but Bucky doesn’t stop to hear what he has to say. As soon as he can, he’s out of the ship.

Bucky finds a gun — takes it from one of the insurgents— and does not stop. Instincts he’s suppressed for a long time rush to the surface and there is no stopping him. He doesn’t care who gets in his way, he just keeps searching.

He need to find his Destined.

And, eventually, he does. Anthony has fled to one of the gardens— the one they used to meet in — and is huddled behind a statue with a plasma gun in his hands. The ground is littered with dead insurgent members and Bucky is so grateful that he taught Anthony how to shoot; he would no doubt have been dead or captured otherwise.

The cold, burning rage Bucky feels is matched only by his relief at seeing Anthony alive. Then Anthony looks up and the detachment Bucky has wrapped himself with melts away. He can never be detached at the sight of his Destined in so much pain— so much grief and fear.

With a choked gasp — Bucky’s name — Anthony scrambles to his feet and throws himself into Bucky’s arms. He’s still so young, his shoulders trembling from panicked sobs, and Bucky knows he’ll never let him go. He might still not tell Anthony that he’s Bucky’s Destined, but their lives are irrevocably linked and Bucky will follow this beautiful, brilliant prince to the end of the universe if need be.

But they cannot stay. Whoever is attacking the palace, they clearly want the royal family dead. Bucky has to get Anthony to safety.

So he carefully wipes Anthony’s tears away, relieved when Anthony regains his usual determination. There is nothing weak about Bucky’s Destined and, even when he no doubt wants to break down, Anthony will soldier on. He carries an inner strength that Bucky greatly admires.

The head back to the ship, Bucky hailing Steve and the others, letting them know he has the prince. It’s not easy— people are fighting, explosions going off— but they make it aboard and are flying off before the ramp has even had time to close.

Bucky isn’t sure what to do after that. They have escaped with the prince— one without a planet— and, more pressingly, a young man who has just lost his parents. So Bucky starts fussing, taking Anthony aside to make sure he’s warm, fed, and unharmed. Soon Anthony is tucked away in Bucky’s bunk, staring blankly at the wall, but safe, at the very least. That’s all Bucky can ask for at the moment.

He goes to see Steve, to ask if they suffered any casualties, but is relieved to find there were only minor injuries. The rest of the crew had stayed close to the ship while Bucky rushed off to rescue Anthony.

And Steve asks about that— of course he does— because he’s getting suspicious at that point, and Bucky realizes he can’t lie anymore. not if Anthony is going to stay on their ship for any length of time. Steve will see the signs anyway.

So he tells him. He tells Steve that Anthony is his Destined and he just couldn’t leave him.

Steve is shocked, not understanding why Bucky hasn’t acted on it yet, and Bucky isn’t sure how to explain it if Steve doesn’t see it right away. Of course he can’t. Anthony deserves so much better.

He tells Steve as much, then makes him promise not to tell Anthony. He can never know. Steve isn’t pleased, but he does. They clearly have other things to worry about, like figuring who was daring enough to overthrow King Stark —  they will no doubt come for Anthony if they find out he’s still alive—and just what to do with the grieving prince.

They clearly have a tough couple of months ahead of them but, at the very least, Bucky’s Destine is alive.

For now, that’s all that matters.

Aaaand I think I’ll stop there because otherwise this will go on forever! How come my Sci-Fi AUs always get so long? Also, I accidentally included the Soulmate trope in this. Oops?

If I ever had the time, this might be a pretty interesting story to write...

AH WELL. Enjoy! :D

[journal-of-a-gamer]

Who Am I

Chapter 10 : Overly Zealous

We slid into the bridge after Evana, a look of concern being washed from everyone’s faces till the door closed behind us, “where’s Doctor Valentine? Is she not with you?” Hayden stared at the door wide eyed hopeful that it would open and with growing dread that it was shut. Evana sniffled, she couldn't cry anymore her eyes were bloodshot and dry, “Doctor Valentine was, exposed to an alien contaminant upon the impact that the Alexia suffered shortly after landing, this contaminant is all over the med bay,” he sniffles each pause with her voice carrying across the room above the computers but quivering with sadness. “Doctor Valentine is dead…her…her body has gotten back up but I assure you that it is not my Valentine,” with this Evana made her way over to a seat and buried her face into her hands, her entire body shook while everyone besides me and Ewan stood as tho they had been victim to a static surge. “Ewan, whats your assessment of the damage to the med bay?” “Critical mam, the contaminant as Doctor Evana stated is everywhere and the entity in the room appears to be hostile in nature, so in short out of use until a way to deal with the contaminant is discovered and applied.”

Hayden curled her hands into fists and slammed both onto the briefing table, “god ducking damn this planet and this job, I'm going to glass this planet and then that entire moon with him on it when we get back!” Hayden screamed losing her composure for a rage filled moment before straightening up and walking to the front of the bridge to look outside. “Muther…fuckers…” Hayden exclaimed and her shoulders slumped as a direct communication began to flare up on the screen of the main desk, the symbol of the state of science flickered across the screen for several moments before a voice boomed over the speakers, “I am the Arch Confessor Sloan DeVolantes,” he paused briefly before smirking, “here to settle the score with me Captain Hayden Dogma? Or, maybe to join my ranks like you did on Mars hmmm?” Hayden’s face went from slightly annoyed to red with flustered rage, everyone’s attention had shifted from the main screen to the captain.

Surveying the situation, Hayden quickly shot her eyes across the room in one build sweep. No one had drawn a gun on her yet and were staring in almost disbelief her left hand swept up from her side fingers dancing on the small leather latch on her holster, her thumb placing itself around the grip using the momentum all while her back arched as she lowered her profile to an aggressive lean, ready to dodge; she stopped there for a moment waiting for someone else to draw or place their hand on their weapon. No one did. In a room in which she had been outed as a terrorist, a zealot even, everyone should have tried to kill her instantly, the bounty out on zealots was nice and high. Unit_L3.w15 looked up at the captain from the device he had been monitoring, “Captain I think I speak for all of us in that we trust you more than we do a stranger,” with that L3w1s turned off the inbound broadcast and the deranged zealot vocalised ramblings with the device he was holding.

Her hand dropped from the pistol, her back straightened and she was left with a flushed embarrassed look on her usually pale face, “okay, thank you Lewis, I guess I owe you all explanation as to why that zealot knows me.” “Nah, not really,” Jenny interjected, “you’re my captain and thats that, I’ll shoot anyone who says otherwise.” while in that last bit making sure everyone could see her stroking her right leg with her heavy blaster holstered to it; Jerome followed her hands with his eyes a little too long and far too eagerly if you asked me then following her up with, “If Jenny’s with you, I’m there too Captain.” Ewan let out a heavy sigh and lowered his head into his hands briefly, “I knew something was up,” raising his head he shrugged, “what needs fixing Captain.” Evana simply raised her head from her hands briefly to look at the captain, her face wet from her silent tears, eyes clear; she coughed to clear her throat, “I’m not about to commit mutiny Captain,” with that she dragged her sleeve across her face sniffling as she wiped away mucous and tears from her face. I simply looked at Hayden smiled a wide smile and nodded, “I’ll stay by your side till the end Captain.”

“What did I ever do to deserve a crew as good as you guys…” Hayden reached up to her face and wiped away a singular tear, “OoKay, let’s get to it, we’re here to steal an artefact from these zealots and return it to the buyer, from what I've been told it’s used in burial rights.” She looked at Ewan raised her wrist across her body pressed a few buttons, “that’s what I've got Ewan, see if you and Clark can make any sense of that and help us find it and get off this rock A S A P, thank you.” With that me and Ewan turned to leave the room, briefly stopping by Evana to make sure she was okay; she wasn’t, not really.  

Ewan reached for the panel to open the door, when suddenly something slammed off the door again. Thud, thud, thudthudthud. Noticeably taken aback Ewan pulled himself from the door panel losing his balance and lading on his back side in the motion of his being startled. Jenny cocked an eyebrow and raised her gun toward the door, the safety made a satisfying bing as the gun readied itself to blast a hole in a target after having not been needed for well over a month now.

The slamming of the door stopped, in its place there was a loud scraping sound like nails on a chalkboard, I covered my ears to save myself from the prolonged discomfort, nobody else seemed bothered enough by the sound to bother protecting their ears. Then just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, in the small window of the door into the hall what was Valentine raised it’s head into full view. “Fuck that,” Jenny shot through the glass once where it’s head was; the glass didn't shatter as much as there was a perfect circle  three centimetres in diameter burned through the glass. The molten glass residue blistered up and poured over the edges turning black as it cooled, the wall across from where Jenny took the shot had a black burn on it three centimetres in diameter.

“Open that door now, I want that thing found and removed from my ship alive or dead!” Hayden barked to which Jerome and Jenny set off out the door, guns at the ready for running into the remains of Valentine. I turned towards Evana and could see her visibly shaking with fear, I put my hand on her shoulder to try to comfort her but she shrugged me off and staggered out the words, “her forehead, the needle, no wounds.” She just stared at the area where the thing had raised it’s head clutching the sides of her head, pulling at her brown hair in a distressed manner.

I didn't know what she meant and just looked at Ewan, “I think it’s been a hard day for our poor Doctor,” turning then to Hayden I stood up straight, “permission to take Evana with us, doors locked till told otherwise?” She looked at me her features relaxing from the stern angered face she had ten seconds ago when giving the order to hunt down an ex member of the crew, “yes, look after her for me Clark, she’ll be in safe hands if she’s with you.”

With that me and Ewan grabbed the doctor each with one arm around her sides and made our way out of the bridge and back towards the engineering deck. As we left the room we could just glimpse Jerome and Jenny turning the corner guns poised to blast the first thing they seen into charcoal.

On the way back to our deck, nothing much happened, we could hear the occasional discharge of weapons somewhere on the ship and when we tuned into Jerome and Jenny’s security frequency it was just them chasing whatever was on the ship into a corner only for it to ‘slither’ away and the captain would egg them on after it. The only other thing that we really noticed was the slow mental degradation Evana seemed to be going through as she just kept muttering to herself as she walked either being held by us or for at least some of the way back without support, neither of us could make out what she was saying and decided with a look that it would be better to just get her into a comfortable pod as soon as possible.

The door was shut, and on opening it we were greeted by the massive mess that had been left in the wake of the earlier crash, tools and bits and bobs were littered across the room, collectively we let out a sigh as we both knew that we’d had to tidy this shit up before long and it was going to be a pain in the ass. “Lets just put her in your pod? It seems to be the least messy and already has a few pillows in it from when you curl up in there for a nap when you think I'm not looking.” I turned to Ewan with a rather red and embarrassed face, “you knew I went for naps in there?” He just chortled to himself as he led Evana into the comfortable pod, “lock the main door for me will ya?” Letting out a sigh as he’d found out my best spot to nap I let my shoulders sink a little in relaxation, turned and keyed in the lock code for the door and then moved towards the holo station and keyed in the code to lock down the entire deck, “There, secure, the only things in this deck are us.” “Well…unless there was anything else already on this deck…” Ewan chipped in grimly.

Just as if to spook us more than Ewan had, a plaz welder fell from it’s precarious position on a work surface and clattered off it’s canister on the floor. “O my fucking god, lets clean this bucket of lasers and tinnitus before I slip on a cutter and slice y knee open.” With that we got to work, rummaging through the mess of the work area sorting the junk into the correct areas between, canisters of fluid, gases, screws, blots, transistors, resistors, conductors, tools and many more bits and pieces that we went through.

With the collection of bits put away Ewan unclipped his rotary plasma cutter from his utility belt, pulled up a chair and inspected it over the now empty work top, “You see this part here? It’s a circuit I made myself, I dunno how well it’ll work but it should overheat the plaz almost to its gaseous state, so it should cut well burn through most things, or it’ll just fry the circuit and I’ll get a nasty shock and a good burn from the blow back” he laughed at the thought while gesturing to his hand which already had a few burn scars on its surface.

After a while just resting we both decided that we should check out the rest of the deck, make sure that nothing was broken or loose, the air purifier and hydroponics being a main point of interest. That’s what we told ourselves we were looking for, but really we were uneasy; we didn't know where the thing was, we asked Jerome if they had caught it yet but he just said that they had lost it and were still looking. Bastard could've just told us that they’d got rid of it so we could rest easy for a bit before we had to fix the ship up.

I headed for the air purifier room since I figured if that was to get fucked we would all be fucked, I forgot how dark the way around here was even with working fucking lights. After bumping off everything that was inhumanly possible to bump into and checking over my shoulder every tenth to twentieth second out of pure anxiety and fear that Valentine could have hidden in the dark down here and came out behind me without me noticing till it was too late and she was nibbling my giblets. Fortunately this didn't happen, though I think I found the experiment six to six scurrying around, must’ve escaped Evana’s mouse colony experiment, it wasn't uncommon for Ewan to find the escapists and give them refuge. I let out a sigh; for the fact that a mouse gave me a fright when there was an actual monster running around on the ship somewhere; as I punched in the code to the open the purification room.

The room was light in its usual deep crimson lighting, it was nice to know that this room was still getting power. No sooner had I door open for more than ten seconds and the refugee mouse ran between my legs into the room, “fuck, no you don't you little shit, if you nibble on any of these wires it’ll take me most a day to fix any damage you do.” I swore as a hurried into the room after it to catch it before it fucked me up.

“Gottcha you slippery little bastard, now be good and don't make me send you back to your buddies.” I held him firmly but not tightly so as not to panic him, I don't want him biting me let alone wires and then promptly slid him into my left breast pocket for safe keeping, I’ll put the little guy in the pod with Evana when I get back to the main room.

“Eeeeeeeevvvvaaaannnneeea…” a breathy voice spoke from behind me, I froze. “Whare mi Evvveeeeee,” I felt the hot breath on the back on the neck, my hairs pricked up. An icy hand with long chalky fingers placed itself on my left shoulder and the face leaned in towards my right ear, “take me her,” the breath was a mixture blood and necrosis, if I wasn’t so stricken with fear I felt that the stomach would've moved itself up into my throat and emptied itself through my nose, ears and mouth. I gulped, my throat was drier than a planet after being glassed. “Evee…nnoowwww,” it hissed. It retracted its head from my shoulder and in its place came the right hand, except this one didn't stop at my shoulder. It passed my shoulder up towards my throat and grasped, the deathly cold, long white fingers pressed tightly against my throat, it forcibly moved me out the door.

My legs moved back the way they had came, my heart was reaching a crescendo, the veins in body were screaming run; run run run run run run. I walked. The soft sickly padding of bare, sticky but most definitely wet feet moving close behind me as I led it towards Evana one step at a time. I kept my hands away from the weapon i had in a sling around my midsection, I hadn’t fired it yet and while I wanted to kill this thing than let it get to Evana I didn't really have a good opportunity with the icy vice that was what passed for it’s hands.

The walk back was sightly faster than the walk down to the purification room, I wasn't looking for the monster anymore, I had really stepped in it this time. I wished that I hadn’t gotten caught by this shambling corpse doctor.

We had reached the last door, all I needed to do was input the passcode and wham, the door’d be open and I had no idea what’d happen after that, it wouldn't need me anymore I guess. Numbness filled my head like a void. I went limp, I stared with wide eyes at the floor as I slumped my body only being held up by the unfriendly hand holding my throat.

I grant wishes.

My vision faded, my breathing slowed along with my heart; I blacked out.

[telchis]

An Accounting:

[Posted in several commonly frequented places where the Sunguard gathers.]

“Good Oathsworn of the Sunguard,

And all others who fight at our side. You must forgive the tardiness in this letter, for it was never my intention for time to slip away so quickly. The events we have witnessed have profoundly impacted me, and it is with great courage I attempt to address the obvious matters at hand. While I too wish to grieve at the losses we suffered in the Battle of the Dawnspire, my position as your commander does not allow me such luxury. It is why I shall attempt to make the state of our affairs as plain and succinct as possible. It is as such I shall bear to you this accounting, so you may better understand our position. 

When the Legion had first returned to Azeroth nearly a year ago, I had summoned the majority of our power to the Dawnspire. There we mustered and trained our soldiers, organized them into fighting companies to be commanded by the Wardens of which titles you hold. There were a great many banners in which were oathbound to heed my summons and as Serdar of the Dawnspire, we were able to marshal an army of nearly thirty thousand. Never before had we commanded such strength in one host and with nearly forty ships within the Crimson Fleet, I believed we were adequately prepared for the tasks at hand. Commanding such an army is no small feat, and it is through the discipline of the Wardens that we have been able to do so. 

Tirisfal and Orgrimmar attempted to test that preparedness and where we were thirty, we were soon twenty. Tirisfal would have placed nearly eight thousand Argents at our side, but given the ongoings of the battle, we were given none. Even more so, the fates of High Confessor Reddings and Sir Arthur Royce were decided later during the Dawnspire’s invasion. It is still with shame that I look upon our choices, but when war threatens the world, hard actions must be taken. The Ebon Blade saw the truth in that, and as mighty as they are, only three hundred Knights were able to be summoned at our side. 

Orgrimmar proved to be the worse, as the Twilight Hosts activities there took both us and our enemies by surprise. At the side of nearly ten thousand elite Frostwolf soldiers, we rebuffed their intentions to sack the city and plunge it into darkness, but it came at a price. Frost-General Wolfrage, who many of you know from our previous wars, was a woman of the highest caliber. Her death was a blow that will not be easily recovered. Still, we returned to the Dawnspire with a promise of orcish soldiers to join us, and the new General Nar’sha proved to be true. 

At the onset of the Invasion of the Dawnspire, it was easy to view the situation with despair. With resolve, we were the bulwark against the Legion’s rage. Yet even in our strength, we could not prevent all suffering. Sundial Anchorage suffered greatly and its port will take many months to repair. Even more so, the city’s garrison were soldiers of my personal household and was cut down to the last man. These soldiers were tasked with protecting the city from itself, and now with their absence, crime is rife. 

In the Evergrove, our forces successfully defended the Vidame Evelyne Rosewind and her Dreaming Gardens. It is tradition that orphans of the Dawnspire are to be raised in the Gardens and given a better life. I fear their numbers shall be nearly doubled, and such breeds a troubled future of our people. Though much of the gardens survived, many of its villas and groves were scorched, giving further hardships to the people of Evergrove. 

In Oakvale the Legion was able to strike first. There they were almost able to corrupt the entire forest. If it was not for the quick actions taken by our soldiers the wounded titan matrix would have collapsed and the forest would have withered. Our efforts are only temporary as the wound still drains the forest of its natural magics. Lady Aleriel has informed me that the ancients will no longer able to awakened and the spirits that attend them have turned more feral and vengeful. I fear whatever Ancients that remain are all there ever will be.

Still, our people carried on, and when our allies came to our aid, hope once again renewed. Though hope and victory at times can make the expenditures of war cloudy. Even when reinforcements arrived, our combined host was nearly forty thousand strong and perhaps only half will return home. The battle saw many losses, some of which will be difficult to bare. 

Lord Leoc Blacksquall and all his retinue, known as the High Kraken of the Bloodied Squall, was cut low by the blade of a Praetorian. His sons Adian and Severus have taken his body back to Dawnbreaker Anchorage to be buried at sea as in their traditional manner. Phoenix Captain Sunstorm, the man dispatched by the Regent-Lord suffered grievous wounds that cost him an eye and a hand. He recovers back in Silvermoon City, but I this battle had changed him. Such do wounds harden one's soul.

More personally to us were the losses of the High Confessor Blackwood, Sir Tyril Sunspear, and my dear sister, Asteryn. Each had given their lives in the defense of my home, our order, our cause. To honor their loss, we shall wear black tabards until the new year to signify their passing and pay respects to them as we must.

The High Confessor’s remains were not able to be retrieved, as true to her nature, she has since vanished. Lady Aleriel may perhaps give some foresight into what has occurred, but she has assured me that Cere’thien shall be departed from us for some time. Sunward Stormsummer will resume acting commander of the Dawnmenders until a more suitable appointment can be made. When we meet in the coming week, I will attempt to honor her with kind words, I only ask that you think on her fondly, and remember all she has given for our order.

Sir Tyril Sunspear was a man close to my childhood and even closer to my father. He gave his life to spark the spirit that the Dawnspire takes as its sigil. Some of you may question his sacrifice, but for those that truly knew Tyril would know that his choice was the only choice he could have made. In life, he was a stalwart man of high honor and conviction, things that he would not allow to be besmirched. The spirit of Alazar was born within him the moment he first stepped into the pools of the Phoenix Heart. Dame Leariel Dawnstrike has asked for a dispensation of her knighthood to the Dawnspire, and I would be cruel to deny it. She has since left the service of the Sunguard and returned to Shattrath City where she will live out her days with the Scryers. 

Finally, with a heavy heart, I wish to inform you all of the loss of my sister, a woman who had seen the furthest reaches of our people’s darkness and chose to rise against it. I fear her sacrifice perhaps would stand contrary to the ruthless woman she had become, but in the end, she realized that for all she had forsaken that family matters most. Asteryn was more dear to me than I had ever made plain, and her loss has cleaved a wound within my heart I fear shall never heal. I will mourn her and so shall the people who loved her.

The destruction of the warship Doom Glaive was a tragic one, as it was the home of the Dying Suns which have frequented our side. The Dawnspire is no place for them and their soldiers, and as such, I have ordered our Suncasters to help take their army to Outland to live in the shadows of their former temple. There they plan to rebuild and reorganize. 

Our wars may seem over, but I only remind you to look at the sky and see the fetid moon that is Argus, breaming ancient malice. Azeroth shall not be safe until the Legion is defeated, but my people have suffered enough. It is with reluctance that I sign all Oathsworn over to their own endeavors. Those strong enough to join the other champions of Azeroth on the planet’s surface, make ready for battle, and for those still recovering to do all they must to heal. 

Now we know when our darkest hour rises, only our light shall guide our path.

Anar’alah belore,

Archon Telchis Truefeather

Lord Paramount of the Dawnspire”

[nightmareonfilmstreet]

[Recap] AMC’s THE TERROR Episode 7: “Horrible From Supper”

The mind is a powerful thing. It takes in external stimuli, interprets the ramifications of that information on the fly and converts it into electrical impulses that control everything from your sweat glands to your body movements. When everything works correctly, you can perceive a threat and make a rational decision in milliseconds based on hundreds of different variables. When everything is not working correctly, if a foreign agent has been introduced into your system that alters just one facet of this process, things begin to become slanted and skewed.

Maybe your vision is slightly impaired and you cannot see a crack in the rocks you’re climbing. Maybe you begin to hear things that aren’t there, voices telling you to do unspeakable things to those around you. The foreign agent slowly takes control and begins to make your body do things that it would never do on its own. This is what is happening to every single character on AMC’s The Terror, and it is manifesting itself in a creeping madness that is beginning to unravel even the strongest of men.

    There are two foreign agents that have revealed themselves over the last few episodes. The first is Lead. Each crew member has been slowly poisoning themselves for years with the lead that has leaked into their canned provisions. This has caused headaches, paranoia, and in the severe case of John Morfin this week, a bad case of “suicide by Marine”. He has been complaining for weeks of having unnatural thoughts and he apparently reached the end of his rope this week, begging to be killed to put an end to the pain. Morfin got his wish after the rifle he was pointing at Captain Crozier misfired and he caught a bullet to the head for his troubles. Not only was this the end of one man’s life, but it was yet another nail in the coffin of every other crew member’s psyche.

Henry Collins laid in his tent, not even poking his head out to see what the commotion was about. He stared at the canvas ceiling, seemingly resigned to the madness that has already begun to take hold in his own mind. Dr. Goodsir, probably the finest and most pure man on this expedition, finally loses control and begins to hyperventilate in his tent. In the most beautiful scene that The Terror has given us so far, he is comforted by Lady Silence, who quietly lays herself down beside him and holds him until his breathing slows down. She can no longer talk, but she makes sure that he feels safe and secure, even when everything around him is out of control.

  “If it comes, it comes. All you can do is make sure you’re not the one in its jaws.”- Cornelius Hickey

  The second foreign agent that revealed itself this week is none other than Mr. Cornelius Hickey. Ever since the flogging he received from Captain Crozier, we have known that Hickey’s motivations are not completely altruistic. He has been slowly sowing the seeds of insurrection within the minds of his fellow shipmates. Now, we have learned that he is aware that the food is poisoning them. He knows that they have found the heads of the advance party that left last year, the one that has “supposedly’ found help and is on the way back for them. He knows that Crozier and Fitzjames have been lying to the entire crew about both the dangers of the food and that their rescue only made it 18 miles from the ships before Tuunbaq found them. In previous episodes, his shenanigans could be marked down as another side effect of cabin fever mixed with the rancid, lead-laced food. In “Horrible from Supper”, however, we begin to see that it isn’t the madness sweeping across the camp that turned Hickey into the menace he has become, he was mad before the ship even set sail.

The episode begins with a flashback to before the ships left England. A young man named Cornelius Hickey reports for duty. He is a fresh faced young man who asks for advice for his first mission. “Just show up on time“, the officer responds, to chuckles from the fit and well-fed crew around him. It is confusing at first, because it is plain to see that the young man reporting for duty is not the Hickey that we know. He’s younger, clean-shaven, chubbier. I brushed it off as a flashback to farther back in time, back when Hickey was younger and reporting for duty on a different mission. I was wrong.

  In the present, Hickey joins John Irving and another crew member for a hunting expedition at the end of the episode. They crest a hill and find a small group of Inuit men dragging their hunt behind them on a sled. John tells the others to stay behind and he goes down to try to speak to the group. As he introduces himself to the Inuit and exchanges a bit of seal meat for his telescope, we can see Hickey and the other man on the top of the hill. When John asks the Inuit to stay in place, however, the two men are no longer on the horizon.

Worried, John hurries back up the hill to see a dark shape straddling one of the men, looking like a phantom plunging its hands into the body of its victim. As he approaches the figure, it shrugs off its coat to reveal Hickey, only in his underwear and holding a knife. He pounces on Irving like an animal, stabbing his chest over and over again. The brutal attack culminates in him holding his hand over John’s mouth as he bleeds to death, smirking and planning all the while.

  “Friend, Mother, Lover, all the things they say a ship is to a captain and they miss the only thing that matters… Confessor”- Francis Crozier

  The scene is inter-cut with another flashback, this time it is the Hickey we all know and love coming aboard the Terror, reporting for duty. He claims that the reason the officer doesn’t recognize him is because he grew out his beard, but we know the truth. He is not Cornelius Hickey. He is a foreign agent that has killed the real Mr. Hickey and taken his place on board this ship. We knew that he was a dangerous man, but we never really knew just how dangerous he was. Before, when wronged, we saw him defecate on his enemies beds or spread gossip about them behind their backs. Now, with the scene in the frozen wilderness and the flashbacks as our guide, we know that Hickey is an animal. He is just as dangerous as the lead in the food or Tuunbaq in the night. He is using this act to further the men’s paranoia and distrust. They are already in a horrific state, barely hanging on to sanity as it is, and Hickey wants to exploit that to get others to join his cause.

No scene better illustrates the state the men are in than the interaction between Collins and Dr. Goodsir earlier in the episode. Collins breaks down to the doctor over what he is going through. He’s not afraid or paranoid, as most of the men are. Instead, he’s disgusted with himself. In a scene that chilled my bones and gave the episode it’s title, Collins describes to Goodsir what has been going through his mind since the tragedy at Fitzjames‘ Carnivale:

  Collins: “Now I can’t stop smelling the Carnivale.” Goodsir: “The smoke, you mean.” Collins: “… More the meat… They were cooking, like fillets grilling… Those were my friends burning right next to me, but my mouth went from dry to wet in an instant. My nose and my stomach, they don’t know horrible from supper. But I do.”

  The men are hungry. They are exhausted. They are sick, and they are scared. What Hickey is doing is pushing men that are already close to the edge, like Collins, over to tumble down to their doom. Two foreign agents have wormed their way into the brains of the crew and lies, rage, hate, murder and cannibalism are not far behind. “Horrible from Supper” sets up the final three episodes perfectly, showing us the true monsters that await these men as they try to escape their fates.

There are only three episodes left of AMC’s The Terror, so there is still time to get caught up before it ends. If you don’t, then you are missing out on what has become the best show on television, one filled with scares, history, gore and monsters of all shapes and sizes. Keep your eyes on Nightmare on Film Street as we continue to recap each episode and give you the latest and greatest horror news available on the web. While you’re at it, join our Facebook group, Horror Fiends of Nightmare on Film Street and let us know what you think!

    The post [Recap] AMC’s THE TERROR Episode 7: “Horrible From Supper” appeared first on Nightmare on Film Street - Horror Movie Podcast, News and Reviews.

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[historybehindassassinscreed]

In Game:

Christoffa Corombo (Italian: Cristoforo Colombo), better known by the anglicized Christopher Columbus, was an Italian navigator, colonizer, and explorer who worked with the nation of Spain. His voyages across the Atlantic Ocean exposed the existence of the Americas to the Europeans and planted the very first seeds of the Spanish Empire, though his original intention was to find a western route to India and China.

It was in 1491 that he was first contacted by a Rodrigo Borgia, Grand Master of the Templar Order, who he knew only as "the Spaniard". The Spaniard offered a long-term business partnership with Christoffa, whereby he would sponsor his voyage. Luis, secretly an Assassin, suspected that the meeting was a trap, but the desperate Christoffa refused to heed his warnings.

Faced with little choice, Luis accompanied Christoffa to Venice, where Christoffa was to meet with his sponsor for the very first time. While Christoffa hurried to the meeting, Luis left for the local Thieves Guild to request its Assassin leader Antonio de Magianis for help in protecting his friend. Luis's intuition proved correct: the meeting was indeed a set-up, and the Assassin Ezio Auditore da Firenze assigned by Antonio to oversee the meeting arrived just in time to save Christoffa from murder; the Spaniard himself never showed.

Once his safety had been secured, Christoffa and Luis attempted to return to their lodgings, only to find that it had been raided by Borgia soldiers. Though their hostel's occupation would have been of little consequence to them, Christoffa's prized atlas was still inside. Its loss would not only jeopardize Christoffa's goal, but as it exposed the existence of the Americas, Luis feared the ramifications should it fall into the hands of the Templars. Without the means to fight the Borgia forces, they awaited Ezio at the Garden District, having asked him to meet them there should the meeting have gone askew. Ezio, unaware that Luis was an Assassin and not wishing to act as a mercenary-for-hire, was ever as reluctant when Christoffa and Luis asked Ezio to help them retrieve the atlas. Even so, he acquiesced due to the mission's possible connection with his archenemy, Rodrigo Borgia.

While the Assassin left to sneak into the hostel, Christoffa and Luis prepared for their departure at the Venetian harbor. As expected, Ezio returned with the atlas after escaping a pursuit by Borgia soldiers through the catacombs and streets of Venice. Although some parts of the atlas were indeed lost in the attack, they were able to retain the most significant maps—those drawn by the famed Turkish cartographer Piri Reis. While Christoffa momentarily left to check on the ships, Ezio advised Luis that he and Christoffa should bring their own protection the next time they come to Italy, to which Luis explained that their failure to do so owed to the Assassins of Spain being wiped out by the Spanish Inquisition, a remark that would prompt Ezio to venture to Aragon to save these Assassin on his own initiative. It was then that Christoffa returned to notify Luis that their ship was waiting on them to depart, and the two set sail back to Spain.

In Spain, Christoffa resumed his protracted negotiations with Castile in the hope that they would at some point finally concede to his requests for funds. Nevertheless, the prospect of such a sponsorship was kept perpetually on hold while Castile remained embroiled in their war against the Emirate of Granada, the last Moorish state in Iberia. With their treasury tied up in such a conflict, there was little cause for Queen Isabella to invest in a risky expedition.

Unbeknownst to Christoffa, this setback was orchestrated by the Templars themselves, who had one of their spies routinely provide false counsel to Emir Muhammad XII of Granada to dissuade him from surrender. By deliberately prolonging the war, they hoped to exhaust Castile's treasury and delay Christoffa's voyage, having failed to kill him, providing them with an opportunity to journey to the Americas and dominate the continent before its existence became common European knowledge.

Thanks to the intervention of Ezio, however, the Templar plot was ended, with the Assassin freeing Muhammad XII from Templar captivity after they took him hostage in retaliation for their spy's assassination and convincing the emir to at last abdicate the throne. Christoffa was present in Granada itself as it fell to the Spanish forces, meeting with Ezio, Luis, and their friend Raphael Sánchez just as Spanish soldiers entered the city. Despite how little time had passed since the surrender of the city, Christoffa immediately set out to urge Queen Isabella to lend him the funds for his voyage.

As soon as Luis had been informed by Queen Isabella of Christoffa's departure, he instantly deduced that the supposed offer by Louis XII was a trap and anxiously sent Ezio to save Christoffa's life yet again. To persuade him to return to him, he told Ezio to preemptively tell Christoffa that Queen Isabella had changed her mind, intending to fund half the expedition out of his pocket for his sake. Ezio intercepted Christoffa just moments before he was ambushed by a Templar guard captain, who Ezio slew after a brief fight. While Christoffa was skeptical of Ezio's claim that Louis XII had never actually offered his sponsorship, Ezio assured him that this was a moot point given that Queen Isabella was now open to his proposal. With that, Christoffa returned with Ezio to meet with Queen Isabella, just as she reached an agreement with Luis to sponsor Christoffa's voyage at last—but only because Luis promised to cover half the expenses.

That same year, the Assassin Aguilar de Nerha entrusted Christoffa with an Apple of Eden, tasking him to keep it safe after having wrestled it from Tomás de Torquemada when Grand Inquisitor sought to take it from Muhammad XII.

Christoffa kept the artifact until his death, and he was eventually buried with it at the Seville Cathedral. There, it would remain until the Templars, learning of its location from viewing the genetic memories of Aguilar through the Animus, took it from his tomb in 2016.

In Real Life:

Christopher Columbus was born in Genoa, part of present-day Italy, in 1451. His parents’ names were Dominico Colombo and Susanna Fontanarossa. He had three brothers: Bartholomew, Giovanni, and Giacomo; and a sister named Bianchinetta. Christopher became an apprentice in his father’s wool weaving business, but he also studied mapmaking and sailing as well. 

His career as a seaman began effectively in the Portuguese merchant marine. After surviving a shipwreck off Cape Saint Vincent at the southwestern point of Portugal in 1476, he based himself in Lisbon, together with his brother Bartholomew. Both were employed as chart makers, but Columbus was principally a seagoing entrepreneur. In 1477 he sailed to Iceland and Ireland with the merchant marine, and in 1478 he was buying sugar in Madeira as an agent for the Genoese firm of Centurioni.

In 1479 he met and married Felipa Perestrello e Moniz, a member of an impoverished noble Portuguese family. Their son, Diego, was born in 1480. Between 1482 and 1485 Columbus traded along the Guinea and Gold coasts of tropical West Africa and made at least one voyage to the Portuguese fortress of São Jorge da Mina (now Elmina, Ghana) there, gaining knowledge of Portuguese navigation and the Atlantic wind systems along the way. Felipa died in 1485, and Columbus took as his mistress Beatriz Enríquez de Harana of Córdoba, by whom he had his second son, Ferdinand.

In 1484 Columbus began seeking support for an Atlantic crossing from King John II of Portugal but was denied aid. (Some conspiracy theorists have alleged that Columbus made a secret pact with the monarch, but there is no evidence of this.) By 1486 Columbus was firmly in Spain, asking for patronage from King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. After at least two rejections, he at last obtained royal support in January 1492. This was achieved chiefly through the interventions of the Spanish treasurer, Luis de Santángel, and of the Franciscan friars of La Rábida, near Huelva, with whom Columbus had stayed in the summer of 1491. Juan Pérez of La Rábida had been one of the queen’s confessors and perhaps procured him the crucial audience.

(Image source)

Christian missionary and anti-Islamic fervour, the power of Castile and Aragon, the fear of Portugal, the lust for gold, the desire for adventure, the hope of conquests, and Europe’s genuine need for a reliable supply of herbs and spices for cooking, preserving, and medicine all combined to produce an explosion of energy that launched the first voyage. Columbus had been present at the siege of Granada, which was the last Moorish stronghold to fall to Spain (January 2, 1492), and he was, in fact, riding back from Granada to La Rábida when he was recalled to the Spanish court and the vital royal audience. Granada’s fall had produced euphoria among Spanish Christians and encouraged designs of ultimate triumph over the Islamic world, albeit chiefly, perhaps, by the back way round the globe. A direct assault eastward could prove difficult, because the Ottoman Empire and other Islamic states in the region had been gaining strength at a pace that was threatening the Christian monarchies themselves. The Islamic powers had effectively closed the land routes to the East and made the sea route south from the Red Sea extremely hard to access. 

Thus a great number of interests were involved in this adventure, which was, in essence, the attempt to find a route to the rich land of Cathay (China), to India, and to the fabled gold and spice islands of the East by sailing westward over what was presumed to be open sea. Columbus himself clearly hoped to rise from his humble beginnings in this way, to accumulate riches for his family, and to join the ranks of the nobility of Spain. In a similar manner, but at a more exalted level, the Catholic Monarchs hoped that such an enterprise would gain them greater status among the monarchies of Europe, especially against their main rival, Portugal. Then, in alliance with the papacy (in this case, with the Borgia pope Alexander VI), they might hope to take the lead in the Christian war against the infidel.

(Image source)

The ships for the first voyage—the Niña, Pinta, and Santa María—were fitted out at Palos, on the Tinto River in Spain. Consortia put together by a royal treasury official and composed mainly of Genoese and Florentine bankers in Sevilla (Seville) provided at least 1,140,000 maravedis to outfit the expedition, and Columbus supplied more than a third of the sum contributed by the king and queen. Queen Isabella did not, then, have to pawn her jewels (a myth first put about by Bartolomé de Las Casas in the 16th century).

The little fleet left on August 3rd, 1492. The admiral’s navigational genius showed itself immediately, for they sailed southward to the Canary Islands, off the northwest African mainland, rather than sailing due west to the islands of the Azores. The westerlies prevailing in the Azores had defeated previous attempts to sail to the west, but in the Canaries the three ships could pick up the northeast trade winds; supposedly, they could trust to the westerlies for their return. After nearly a month in the Canaries the ships set out from San Sebastián de la Gomera on September 6th.

Adverse winds carried the fleet to an island called Ayti (Haiti) by its Taino inhabitants; on December 6th Columbus renamed it La Isla Española, or Hispaniola. He seems to have thought that Hispaniola might be Cipango or, if not Cipango, then perhaps one of the legendarily rich isles from which King Solomon’s triennial fleet brought back gold, gems, and spices to Jerusalem (1 Kings 10:11, 22); alternatively, he reasoned that the island could be related to the biblical kingdom of Sheba (Sabaʾ). There Columbus took at least enough gold and prosperity from the natives to save him from ridicule on his return to Spain.

On January 16th, 1493, Columbus left with his remaining two ships for Spain. The journey back was a nightmare. The westerlies did indeed direct them homeward, but in mid-February, a terrible storm engulfed the fleet. The Niña was driven to seek harbor at Santa Maria in the Azores, where Columbus led a pilgrimage of thanksgiving to the shrine of the Virgin; however, hostile Portuguese authorities temporarily imprisoned the group. After securing their freedom Columbus sailed on, stormbound, and the damaged ship limped to port in Lisbon. There he was obliged to interview with King John II. These events left Columbus under the suspicion of collaborating with Spain’s enemies and cast a shadow on his return to Palos on March 15.

On this first voyage, many tensions built up that was to remain through all of Columbus’s succeeding efforts. First and perhaps most damaging of all, the admiral’s apparently high religious and even mystical aspirations were incompatible with the realities of trading, competition, and colonization. Columbus never openly acknowledged this gulf and so was quite incapable of bridging it.

The gold, parrots, spices, and human captives Columbus displayed for his sovereigns at Barcelona convinced all of the need for a rapid second voyage. Columbus was now at the height of his popularity, and he led at least 17 ships out from Cádiz on September 25th, 1493. Colonization and Christian evangelization were openly included this time in the plans, and a group of friars shipped with him. The presence of some 1,300 salaried men with perhaps 200 private investors and a small troop of cavalry are a testimony to the anticipations for the expedition. 

By the time he died on May 20th, 1479, he had had a total of four voyages across the Atlantic. Columbus had reached Spain in November 1504 after his final voyage. He was not in good health. He spent much of the last of his life writing letters to obtain the percentage of wealth overdue to be paid to him, and trying to re-attain his governorship status, but was continually denied both. He died firmly believing that he had traveled to the eastern part of Asia.

Sources:

http://www.history.com/topics/exploration/christopher-columbus

https://www.biography.com/people/christopher-columbus-9254209

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Christopher-Columbus/The-fourth-voyage-and-final-years

http://exploration.marinersmuseum.org/subject/christopher-columbus/

[anastpaul]

Saint of the Day – 13 June – St Anthony of PaduaO.F.M! Evangelical Doctor – Hammer of Heretics – Professor of Miracles – Wonder-Worker – Ark of the Testament – Repository of Holy Scripture (1195 at Lisbon, Portugal – 13 June 1231 of natural causes)   Religious Priest and Friar, Evangelist, Preacher, Teacher, Apostle of Charity, Apostle of the Holy Eucharist, Scriptural expert, Miracle Worker, Teacher, Confessor, Defender of the Faith.  He was buried on the Tuesday following his death in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, Padua, Italy and legend says that all the sick who visited his new grave were healed.   Also known as St Anthony of Lisbon.   Patron of -against barrenness or sterility, against shipwreck, against starvation; starving people, American Indians, amputees, animals, both wild and domestic, asses, boatmen, mariners, sailors, watermen, elderly people, expectant mothers, pregnant women, for faith in the Blessed Sacrament, fishermen, for harvests, horses, lost articles, seekers of lost articles, mail, oppressed people, paupers, poor people, swineherds, travel hostesses, travellers, Brazil, Portugal, Tigua Indians, 4 dioceses, 17 cities.   Attributes – Infant Jesus (referring to his vision), book, bread, Christ-child in his arms, Christ-child on a book, fire in his hand, fire on his breast, Franciscan habit, kneeling mule, lily.St Anthony of Padua/Lisbon, was a Portuguese Catholic priest and friar of the Franciscan Order.   He was born and raised by a wealthy family in Lisbon, Portugal and died in Padua, Italy.   Noted by his contemporaries for his forceful preaching, expert knowledge of scripture and undying love and devotion to the poor and the sick, he was one of the most-quickly canonised saints in church history.   He was proclaimed a Doctor of the Church on 16 January 1946.

St. Anthony’s Youth & Conversion

St. Anthony was born in the year 1195 A. D. at Lisbon (Portugal) where his father was a captain in the royal army.   Already at the age of fifteen years, he had entered the Congregation of Canons Regular of St. Augustine and devoted himself with great earnestness both to study and to the practice of piety in the Monastery at Coimbra (Portugal).

About that time some of the first members of the Order of Friars Minor, which St. Francis has founded in 1206 A. D. came to Coimbra.   They begged from the Canons Regular a small and very poor place, from which by their evangelical poverty and simplicity they edified everyone in the region.   Then in 1219 A. D. some of these friars, moved by divine inspiration, went as missionaries to preach the Gospel of Christ to the inhabitants of Morocco.   There they were brutally martyred for the Faith.   Some Christian merchants succeeded in recovering their remains and so brought their relics in triumph back to Coimbra.   The relics of St. Bernard and companions, the first martyrs of the Franciscan Order, seized St. Anthony with an intense desire to suffer martyrdom in a like manner.   So moved by their heroic example he repeatedly begged and petitioned his superiors to be given leave to join the Franciscan Order.   In the quiet little Franciscan convent at Coimbra he received a friendly reception and in the same year his earnest wish to be sent to the missions in Africa was fulfilled.

St. Anthony’s Arrival in Italy

But God had decreed otherwise.   And so, St. Anthony scarcely set foot on African soil when he was seized with a grievous illness.   Even after recovering from it, he was so weak that, resigning himself to the will of God, he boarded a boat back to Portugal. Unexpectedly a storm came upon them and drove the ship to the east where it found refuge on coast of Sicily.   St. Anthony was greeted and given shelter by the Franciscans of that island and thus came to be sent to Assisi, where the general chapter of the Order was held in May, 1221 A. D.   Since he still looked weak and sickly,and gave no evidence of his scholarship, no one paid any attention to the stranger until Father Gratian, the Provincial of friars living in the region of Romagna (Italy), had compassion on him and sent him to the quiet little convent near Forli (also in Italy).   There St. Anthony remained nine months as chaplain to the hermits, occupied in the lowliest duties of the kitchen and convent and to his heart’s content he practiced interior as well as exterior mortification.

St. Anthony, Preacher and Teacher

But the hidden jewel was soon to appear in all its brilliance.   For the occasion of a ceremony of ordination some of the hermits along with St. Anthony were sent to the town of Forli.   Before the ceremony was to begin, however, it was announced that the priest who was to give the sermon had fallen sick.   The local superior, to avert the embarrassment of the moment, quickly asked the friars in attendance to volunteer.   Each excused himself, saying that he was not prepared, until finally, St. Anthony was asked to give it.   When he too, excused himself in a most humble manner, his superior ordered him by virtue of the vow of obedience to give the sermon.   St. Anthony began to speak in a very reserved manner;  but soon holy animation seized him and he spoke with such eloquence, learning and unction that everybody was fairly amazed.

When St. Francis was informed of the event, he gave St. Anthony the mission to preach throughout Italy.   At the request of the brethren, St. Anthony was later commissioned also to teach theology, “but in such a manner,” St. Francis distinctly wrote, ” that the spirit of prayer be not extinguished either in yourself or in the other brethren.” St. Anthony himself placed greater value in the salvation of souls than on learning.   For that reason he never ceased to exercise his office as preacher despite his work of teaching.

The number of those who came to hear him was sometimes so great that no church was large enough to accommodate and so he had to preach in the open air.   Frequently St. Anthony wrought veritable miracles of conversion.  Deadly enemies were reconciled. Thieves and usurers made restitution.   Calumniators and detractors recanted and apologised.   He was so energetic in defending the truths of the Catholic Faith that many heretics returned to the Church.   This occasioned the epitaph given him by Pope Gregory IX “the ark of the covenant.”

In all his labours he never forgot the admonition of his spiritual father, St. Francis, that the spirit of prayer must not be extinguished.   If he spent the day in teaching and heard the confession of sinners till late in the evening, then many hours of the night were spent in intimate union with God.

Once a man, at whose home St. Anthony was spending the night, came upon the saint and found him holding in his arms the Child Jesus, unspeakably beautiful and surrounded with heavenly light.   For this reason St. Anthony is often depicted holding the Child Jesus.

t. Anthony’s Death

In 1227 A. D., St. Anthony was elected Minister Provincial of the friars living in northern Italy.   Thus he resumed the work of preaching.   Due to his taxing labours and his austere penance, he soon felt his strength so spent that he prepared himself for death. After receiving the last sacraments he kept looking upward with a smile on his countenance.  When he was asked what he saw there, he answered: “I see my Lord.”   He breathed forth his soul on June 13, 1231 A. D., being only thirty six year old.   Soon the children in the streets of the city of Padua were crying:  “The saint is dead, Anthony is dead.”   Anthony is buried in a chapel within the large basilica built to honour him, where his tongue is displayed for veneration in a large reliquary.   For, when his body was exhumed thirty years after his death, it was claimed that the tongue glistened and looked as if it was still alive and moist; apparently a further claim was made that this was a sign of his gift of preaching.

Pope Gregory IX enrolled him among the saints in the very next year.   At Padua, a magnificent basilica was built in his honour, his holy relics were entombed there in 1263 A. D.   From the time of his death up to the present day, countless miracles have occurred through St. Anthony’s intercession, so that he is known as the Wonder-Worker.   In 1946 A. D. St. Anthony was declared a Doctor of the Church.

Why do we ask St. Anthony to help us find lost things?

St. Anthony had a book of psalms that was quite special to him.   It was special because in those days before the printing press, books were rare and expensive.   But it was also special because it contained many notes Anthony had made to help him in his preaching and teaching.

Late one night, a young Franciscan decided to leave the community.   He’d had enough of that life, so he made plans to just sneak out in the middle of the night.   He saw Anthony’s book of psalms on his way out and he snatched it up and ran.   He knew that he could sell this precious book for a good deal of money.

Of course, Anthony was quite upset.   He prayed that God would change the young man’s heart and bring him back to the Franciscan life.   He also hoped that while God was at it, he would return Anthony’s book too.   The next day, the young man returned, tired and ashamed, with Anthony’s book.   He also brought back his own gifts and talents, which he decided once more to offer to the Franciscan community.

So that’s why we like to ask St. Anthony to help us find lost things. He was an extraordinary man who can still help us from heaven, even in the most ordinary ways.

[robinhoodrevisited]

The Trial of Bishop Waleran (pt.2)

Nottingham Castle. Sheriff's Chambers. (Henry and Isabella are…getting acquainted. The negotiations regarding who would become the new leader of Vaisey's army have come to a natural conclusion. Eventually, with their passions momentarily satisfied, the pair rest and talk things over.) Henry: (Slightly out of breath:) "I must say, Madam Sheriff, you make a very persuasive argument." Isabella: (Smiles:) "And you drive a hard bargain, dear sir." Henry: "One tries one's best." (Over by the chamber door we can see Prince John peering into the room. The Prince frowns and closes the door.) Isabella: "So what do you think of my proposal?" Henry: (Smirks:) "Proposing so soon? Well I must say I'm flattered but-" Isabella: "Oh shh you fool. Do I have control of your brother's army or not?" Henry: "You make a strong case but the army was fiercely loyal to your predecessor's cause." Isabella: "Vaisey's cause is my own. There’s no one who wants to see John take the throne more than I." Henry: "Perhaps, but I know of another who would seek to claim those men for himself." Isabella: "Waleran. (Scoffs, sitting up:) Does he really think a supposed man of God should have his own army? Does he not realise how that looks?" Henry: "The Bishop has managed to house them so far without too much bother. And he did lead them to Vaisey's killers." Isabella: "He told them where to attack. That's not the same thing." Henry: (Considers:) "True, but it's a start." Isabella: "Nottingham needs that army. Once John is King the town will require extra man power." Henry: "If the Prince deigns Nottingham to be his new seat of power then his own men will guard Nottingham." Isabella: (Frustratedly:) "I want that army!" Henry: (Smirks, sitting up and moving towards her:) "Hush, Madam Sheriff. These are merely opening negotiations. We have much more yet to discuss on the matter." Isabella: "Is that so?" Henry: "Oh yes." Isabella: (Allowing herself to be laid back down on the bed:) "Hmm. I sense your resolve is hardening already." Henry: "Oh it is that, my lady, indubitably."

Powis Castle. The Great Hall. (Titus has had Waleran moved to a holding cell in the castle dungeons. Robin, Marian, Gisborne and the rest of the gang have now arrived back at the castle. Clarke and the Commander are waiting for answers.) Marian: "There was a trial before the people of Kingsbridge. Waleran has been found guilty of regicide." Clarke: "Regicide? (Her eyes widen:) Who did the Bishop kill?" (Marian falters a little in her answer, unable to quite put into words what she knows she must.) Marian: "Y-your father, Princess. Prince Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany." Clarke: (Frowns, shocked:) "That's impossible. My father died during a tournament in Paris." Robin: (Stepping forward:) "I'm afraid not, Clarke. Your father was murdered." Fade To: Kingsbridge One Day Ago. (Waleran sits at a table surrounded by Robin's gang. The townspeople have gathered to witness the impromptu trial. Ellen climbs the steps and stands beside the table.) Ellen: "Years ago, my husband - Jack Jackson's father, held a secret for King Henry. And before he was taken by his enemies, he asked me for quill, paper, ink and sealing wax. I never saw his letter until last night. When he was brought to Kingsbridge and stripped for torture, one of the monks discovered it hidden in his clothing.”

(At this, Waleran looks up at Ellen then scans the crowd searching for said monk’s face. His search does not last long as he sees Brother Remigius staring back at him defiantly.) Ellen: (Continues:) “This monk concealed what he found, certain that if anyone knew what he'd read, he too would be eliminated. This... (Holds up the letter:) is Jacques Cherbourg's story. (Ellen unfurls the letter and begins to read:) 'Your Majesty, I was a jongleur hired by your son Prince Geoffrey to accompany him back to England. The ship was set ablaze and people were drowning. Being the only good swimmer, I managed to stay afloat and saw the Prince captaining a row boat along with father Waleran and Lord and Lady Hamleigh. I was about to call to the Prince for help when the unthinkable happened...

(In flashback we see Waleran slide up behind the Prince, wrap his arm around Geoffrey's throat and proceed to stab the Prince to death. Along with Percy and Regan Hamleigh, the three of them throw the Prince's lifeless body into the ocean. Ellen continues:) I tried to save him, but it was too late. His ring however, slipped off into my hand. Your Majesty, your sons ring is the proof of what I saw. I swear to the truth of these words on my immortal soul. Jacques Cherbourg.' " (Ellen finishes reading from the letter as Waleran slowly lowers his head. The townspeople, having heard all this, are calling for Waleran's head.) Cut To: Powis. The Great Hall. Robin: "Waleran tried to deny this, Clarke, but Ellen and her son Jack provided the proof." (Robin steps forward and hands Clarke her father's ring.) Clarke: (Staring down at it:) "We were told he was trampled by his own horse then his body lost at sea.”

Cut To: Kingsbridge. One Day Ago. (Tuck steps forward at the bottom of the steps.) Tuck: (To Waleran:) "You were Prince Geoffrey's confessor. And Prince John's. Is that why you sent me half way across the world? Because I knew your connection to both men? You went to John and made a bargain, didn't you? With Geoffrey dead, John would be in direct line to the throne. (Shakes his head in disgust:) No wonder the Hamleighs ascent to power and position was so swift. It was their reward for their part in the regicide!" Waleran: (Getting to his feet raising his bible in the air:) "Citizens of Kingsbridge! You have brought the wrath of God upon yourselves. You harbour liars, witches, sodomites and (looking at Robin directly as he passes:) thieves." (Robin smirks at Waleran's audacity knowing the corrupt clergyman has nowhere to run.)

Jack: (Unable to hold his tongue any longer:) "And unholy priests! (Waleran turns and glares at Jack who stalks towards the Bishop:) Because of your treachery, England has been steeped in blood for years. Soldiers have died, wives mourned, sons born fatherless into manhood. This town has been burned, its citizens slaughtered. Yet still we survive. (Pointing towards the heavens:) We build a cathedral the likes of which none has ever seen before. In praise of God and our abilities and our faith in some peaceful tomorrow. And in spite of you, Waleran Bigod, the people of Kingsbridge will find that peace." (Waleran raises his bible high into the air once again and slowly back out of the midst of the angry townsfolk. Gisborne, Allan and the others see this as Waleran's bid for freedom and encourage the townspeople to follow the Bishop.) Gisborne: "Well, what are you all standing around for? After him!" Allan: "Come on, let's bash the Bishop!"

(Waleran runs through the streets towards the unfinished Cathedral, the townspeople following him in anger. Lead by Jack and Aliena.) Waleran: (Reaching the cathedral doors:) "I claim sanctuary! I am your Bishop and this is Holy ground!" Jack: "There is no sanctuary, you said so yourself." Aliena: "Not until the cathedral is completed and that's still years away." (Waleran, realising this is true, turns and enters the cathedral, locking the door behind him. Outside the angry mob stalk towards the cathedral as inside, the Bishop desperately looks for a place to hide. As Little John steps forward and forces the doors open, Waleran notices the scaffold and begins to climb. Spotting him, Jack persues the Bishop. Making his way up and out onto the cathedral's roof. Realising he is trapped, Waleran turns to see Jack slowly approach him. Glaring at him, the Bishop submits himself to Jack's mercy.)

[absolutiomortis]

The Confessors never thought the day would come; the Sororitas were departing the Saint. As Malleus was still technically in his role as "diplomat" on the Confessors' behalf, he felt almost compelled to make the rounds and find out how his brothers felt now that the Sisters were leaving. The majority were simply happy to have their own quarters back, which made Malleus smile. His peers were dry, if nothing else. It was less than an hour later that the fleet entered the orbit of Larem, and the Sisters were seen off by the Chapter Master and Malleus, both clad in their armour in order to provide some semblance of ceremony to the event. Some of the other Confessors, primarily those who had been in the vicinity of the hangar at the time, chose to loiter around the perimeter. Not all had taken complete umbrage with the Sisters' presence aboard the barges, and so felt that being present for their departure would be... wise? Kind? Whatever their feelings, they remained at the periphery so as to avoid potentially souring what friendliness there was between the two parties. As the Chapter Master and the Cannoness shared a few words regarding the Sisters' stay with the chapter and exchanged wishes of good luck in future endeavours, Sila had apparently chosen to simply offer Malleus a respectful nod, which he returned, before the women of the Sacred Rose climbed aboard the Thunderhawks that had been laid on as a final gesture of goodwill. As the last vessel roared from the hangar, Malleus and his superior turned away and made their way to the bridge. "So, Malleus, now that you are free from your responsibilities as peacemaker; how did you find the experience?"

"A reminder of why we are not bred for diplomacy," he admitted. And a shocking test of my resolve, he continued internally.

The Chapter Master chuckled. "Indeed. As the sons of the Emperor, we are constantly tested. Something worth remembering. And the past weeks have been quite a test indeed. I know there has been a great strain on our brothers to maintain peace in the face of what I have heard to be ferocious remarks on our loyalty and even our very being. In spite of these things, we have evaded any kind of incident with the Sororitas, and I am proud of the chapter for their restraint; you, perhaps, most of all."

Malleus quirked an eyebrow and looked at him. "Why so?"

His confusion was met with near-surprise. "The duties asked of you were manifold and placed upon your shoulders with great haste, Malleus. I know all of my men well, and I appreciate that you are not fond of making pleasantries and having to bend to the requirements of those who do not wear the skull. However, you performed above and beyond my expectations, and I daresay your willingness to facilitate our guests' needs, rather than simply providing the barest necessities, resulted in some considerably thawed Sororitas." Vicon once again smiled his knowing smile.

The First Captain took a moment to think. "Well, it was necessary to uphold the reputation of the chapter. And... I suppose the Sisters' conviction is worthy of respect. Their fervour is admirable; close to our own, some might say. That certainly made a good case for compromise, despite their bluntness."

He was answered with a stoic nod as the two drew up to the bridge entrance. "In any case, they have disembarked from the Saint and we are free to continue on without having to worry for any unexpected tenants. Come, we should go over our plans again to ensure that we are progressing properly."

The ships comprising the fleet of the Emperor's Confessors remained in orbit for a few days as efforts were made to resupply with the utmost speed. The day after the Sisters had made their way to the moon of Scargill's Landing, the Confessors had received word that the world of Trist was to be their destination. They were told that the planet was facing dire threat from the forces of Chaos and that they were to make their way there as quickly as possible. The Astartes were stirred to action, and the anticipation was palpable aboard the barges; it felt as though they had been out of the fight for months, and so were eager to carry out their calling.

Malleus sat once more at his desk, going through the motions of maintaining his favoured bolt pistol, when his terminal chirruped at him. He set down the pistol's internals and wiped off his hands before opening the message.

"+++ Captain Malleus

We are in need of your aid once again. We are unable to secure passage to our intended destination, the system of Carpathia. This is a matter of urgency, please respond as soon as possible.

Celestian Sila Aurelius"

Why did "Carpathia" sound so familiar? Malleus stared at the name, rendered in green against black, and wracked his brain. It hit him a moment later and his body was out of the chair before his brain could order it. He made great strides towards the bridge and slammed the button to open the door. It seemed he'd made more of a racket than expected as he entered, Chapter Master Vicon turning to face him from the Saint's control throne. "Malleus, what is it?"

"I've just had word from Sila, Chapter Master. The Sisters are bound for Trist, but they have found no transport. She requests our help."

"Hrm... then it appears we shall have company for a little longer." The Chapter Master pressed a finger to his right ear and took his eyes from Malleus, upward to the silver star chart above. "Lerrin... are the Thunderhawks still prepped for movement...? Good. Have them return to Scargill's Landing as quickly as they can manage, the Sisters are to be moved back to the Saint." His hand returned to its resting spot atop the helmet secured to his waist as he came back to Malleus. "Inform the Celestian that transport is on its way. I will let the crew know."

Malleus nodded and spun on his heel, returning to his quarters as quickly as he came. He dropped back into his seat and immediately began to hammer out an answer.

"+++ Thunderhawks are inbound. Ensure your Sisters are prepared to move as soon as they touch down, we have precious little time to reach Trist, even if the Warp favours us.

Malleus"

The message sent, he felt it prudent to make his way down to the hangar. Once an envoy, always an envoy.

That familiar wave of black and white emerged from the Thunderhawks as quickly as they could land in the hangar. The Cannoness and her chosen ambassador, Sila Aurelius, exited the foremost craft, once more face-to-face with Malleus and the Chapter Master. Sila's gauntleted hands made the sign of the Aquila as she looked up at Vicon. "Thank you for your timely assistance once again, Chapter Master. It appears we are indebted twice over now. You are also directed toward Trist, then?"

"Indeed. We were informed two days ago that the Carpathian system was in grave danger, and so we have been restocking as best we can and preparing to depart. Provisions have been made to accomodate you again, though given the situation, you'll have to forgive us if we cannot put on a little more ceremony." Malleus and Sila both smirked at his remark.

"Of course, time is hardly on our side. When do you intend to depart?" Sila's bionic eye whirred in what could have been mistaken for curiosity.

"Immediately. Resupply is as complete as it can be, given current circumstances, so there will be no more delay. Final preparations are being made as we speak, we will cast off as soon as possible." The Chapter Master's determination showed in the simplicity of his explanation and the steely glint in his eye, a look Malleus knew well. "In the meantime, Celestian, our servitors will aid your peers in returning their equipment to the vacant quarters. Have you any questions?"

Sila shook her head, the red locks framing her face shifting lightly. "None, Chapter Master. Thank you again."

The larger Astartes nodded. "Then welcome back to the Saint. Hopefully this stay will be a little more comfortable. Cannoness, will you accompany me to the bridge? It might be prudent for us to consider what our options might be once we enter the system." The Cannoness stepped up to follow him. He offered a salute to Sila and turned to leave the hangar.

The Celestian then directed her attention to Malleus. "Thank you as well, First Captain. I appreciate you moving as quickly as you did to have us returned to the Saint, even if we spent our initial stay on unfriendly terms." The phrase seemed to make her a touch pensive, though Malleus wasn't sure if it was only because the Sisters had been forced to come back to the barge. "Not at all. We're all working toward the same goal, at the end of the day, and let's face it; denying you a path to Trist would have been... callous, I suppose." The First Captain angled his head toward the hangar exit, and Sila followed. "I have to ask, though. What stopped you from getting there after you ended up on Scargill's Landing?" "Ugh." Sila rolled her eyes, organic and non-organic, and Malleus thought he'd done something. "The one bloody Navy vessel we were expecting to be moving to Trist turned out to be heading in the opposite direction. 'Recalled as reinforcement,' he said." He could almost feel the heat emanating from the small Sororitas. "Ah. Must be dire if people are being pulled away..." Malleus ran his knuckles down his jaw as he thought for a moment. "In any case, you have passage, and a little more prestigious than a Navy ship, too," he smirked. Sila seemed less amused. "I shall have to leave you to it for the moment, though, I have duties to see to before we enter the Warp." He stopped at an intersection in the corridors for a moment. "Let me know if you need anything, Sila." The redhead nodded. "Of course. Thank you again, Malleus."

And so it was that the Sisters of the Sacred Rose were once more dispersed among the sleeping areas of the Saint, a little less chilly of temperament but still apparently maintaining their best impressions of ceramite walls when outside their quarters. It was, however, widely noted among the Confessors that they were a touch easier to engage with this time around, which Malleus appreciated. While he was happy enough to make concessions for them, he still needed them to meet him half way if the voyage to Trist was to be harmonious. The Sisters had entered back into their regular worship almost immediately, and the Confessors made sure to keep well clear of the chapel when it was occurring. The incense made their noses burn and the act of veneration still made them uncomfortable. It made more sense to them to be honing themselves in the combat rooms or studying tactical thought, but when these arguments were made to the Sisters, they were met with incredulous stares and derisive snorts. For the time being, at least, it would seem that the two factions remained at a theological stalemate.

The Confessor battle barges – Saint, Castigator, and Nemesis – had begun Warp travel a week and three days ago, and it disappointed the Saint's captain to note that her initial prediction of two weeks had been altered by the tides. She believed it would now take the chapter an additional week to emerge in the Carpathia system, and the news made the Astartes even more restless. The training rooms were often at their busiest during Warp travel, particularly when the Confessors were being pointed toward traitor forces. The anger had to be burnt off somehow, and even the most aggressive practice drills did little to calm the blood. It had occurred to Malleus that the Sisters who had been present in the practice rooms when his brothers were working out their energy had observed the phenomenon primarily with discomfort, secondarily with surprise; Space Marines were widely thought of as warrior-ascetics, calm and collected, but the Confessor combat method barely seemed to fit. It seemed as though the enemy were not there to be fought, but simply to be fallen upon and rent asunder, though the savagery was paired with little in the way of howling and screaming, so perhaps the Confessors were closer to the ideal Astartes image than they thought.

Malleus used the back of his hand to sweep the sweat from his face as he backed away from the dummy. His chest rose and fell with great breaths as he allowed himself a moment of respite, his knuckles red from his blows and his pupils shrunk from the shot of adrenaline coursing through him. "Impressive," a voice rolled into his ears from his left-hand side, snapping him back to reality. He turned his head to find Sila stood watching, clad in what he assumed to be her practice apparel; a simple vest and a pair of pants ending just below the knee. The Astartes found himself without a witty remark to make, still coming out of the tunnel vision he entered during combat. "Malleus?"

"Mm..." He came to, blinking. "Ah, sorry... I..." Two fingers tapped against the side of his head, just behind his eye, in some vague effort to explain. "I have a habit of focussing... quite hard when I'm... when I'm met with a foe."

"So I see." She pointed to the dummy, her arms folded. "Some of the techniques there... is that the sort of thing that can be taught?"

"Perhaps. I'm not the best teacher, but I can try. I'd ask if that's why you're here, but..." It was his turn to point at her, running the pointing finger up and down a few times. "Well, you came prepared, so that answers the question." He straightened up. "Alright. Take a stance." She did so; it seemed to be the standard combat posture for the Sororitas, and it made Malleus wonder if this was going to work. "Something simple; did you notice last time how the dummy had more weight in some areas than others?" She nodded. "These are designed to emulate an opponent wearing power armour. Try to push it over." Sila moved up to the stationary enemy and made her best attempt to put it down. A minute filled with grunting and huffing passed before she gave up, her shining face turning back to him. "Exactly. Truth be told, we make it a little more difficult than necessary. Putting on the armour before practice would quickly get tiresome, and time-consuming, so they're designed like this to really test us. Now, look roughly at where the knees would be on someone my size. Hook a leg around that point and push on where the chest... no, the stomach would be." It slipped from his mind that he had a good few feet on her, and so he decided to adjust the instruction to compensate. She carried out the motion, and the dummy swung back a few degrees, moreso than when she had been striking it a few weeks prior. He smiled, she looked to him once again and wore a look of surprise. "Congratulations, Sister, now you might be able to fell a traitor without your bolter."

Malleus nodded toward the dummy. "Again."

[cylixconspiracy-campaign]

Session 01 Recap - Trader Incident

Desperately needing to get more money following the collapse of Uriel’s small trade empire, the party accepts a deal from retiring rogue trader Wrath Umbolt. They travel to a small cluster of worlds to recover his lost trading ship and deliver its cargo, with the promise of being allowed to keep the ship - the Forgotten Pleas - and its crew upon completion.

On warp transit, the party did the following:

Ivica Tynne spent time with the ‘captain’, Yuliana Winterheart, and managed to kindle an interest in piloting and machines in the girl after allowing her to play in a captured (and disarmed) Killa Kan in the trophy room. 

Titus Verity gained more trust from Barbosa Rosalind, the shipmaster, after showing concern for the quality rather than quantity of their men and expressing a desire to try and keep them alive. 

Nicomedes Davrus attached himself to Verity Heras, the ship’s navigator as her bodyguard - and both her and her friend, the ship’s confessor Karoleen Urania, have grown attached to him following his help describing an action movie to the blind girl. 

Araleen Tessera managed to save Yuliana from one of Zariel’s long-winded speeches, making her more impulsive & impatient but also gaining more trust from her. 

On arrival, the party searched a local debris cloud and found an escape pod containing a small group of pirates, including Jurgon Fius - the propaganda artist for local ‘Pirate Admiral’, Golddust. Getting as much information out of him as they could, they press-ganged most of the pirates into their crew and hired Fius as Yuliana’s art instructor before heading to save the Forgotten Pleas. 

Settling for diplomacy rather than going in guns blazing, the party gets Dustin Brohn, son of Golddust and a man with his own ambitions, to join their side following the end of the battle - and to stay out of the battle for now. They manage to enter the asteroid base and kill Golddust in a heated firefight, before confronting his second-in-command, Captain Rhones, in the cargo chamber. The fight threatened to overwhelm them at first, until Verity unleashed a devastating psychic onslaught that overcame Rhones and the majority of her men. 

After repairing all damage to the three ships and delivering the cargo, the party stepped away with the following rewards/new contacts:

XP as seen on the facebook page

The Shattered Dream, a Sword-class frigate. 

The Curtain Call, a Sword-class frigate. 

The Forgotten Pleas, an armed freight trader. 

Dustin Brohn, a ‘commodore’ in command of the Shattered Dream and Forgotten Pleas. 

Vennora Hart, captain of the Forgotten Pleas

Thuriam Adedth, replacement captain of the Curtain Call

Two years after the event of this plot arc, Inquisitor Alonph Heras returned to the crew to hire them for a new mission now that they had disposable income - to find and acquire four ancient xenos artifacts for him. One is on a research station that went dark, two are up in open auctions for private collections and can be acquired with cash, and another is in the grips of yet another pirate warlord - this time, ones that Brohn claims to have known in the past. With a year and a half time limit, counting for warp travel times, the party is going to need to delegate some of this to their sub-captains if they want to avoid angering the Inquisition of Man...

[cylixconspiracy-campaign]

Funeral For An Idiot // A Plot Is Hatched

"Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today..."

The majority of the crew tuned out Karoleen's awkward, stumbling delivery as the blonde woman thumbed desperately through the pages of her Lecitio Divinatus, searching for some kind of ritual to guide the senior staff through now that she'd gone through the cliche's she remembered from vids. Zel yawned, the ship's Purser having somehow been corralled into wearing a shirt for once as they all stood at attention and stared solemnly at the casket containing Uriel Winterheart's dead body. 

Bloody idiot had charged off without warning anybody and gotten himself killed trying to fulfill a vendetta. Octavius leaned forwards and glanced at their captain's former bodyguard, eyeing the four 'senior' officers and grunting. Nicomedes seemed more irritated than anything else, and who knew what the damned tech-priest was thinking? Barbosa was all composure and military grit, while Titus-

Octavius swallowed as Titus' head snapped around, the psyker giving the aging Adept a sickeningly wide grin. He looked back at the coffin, deciding to pretend that he didn't hear Caradoc's snickering next to him. 

"...is there anyone who wants to say a few words?" Karoleen finished sheepishly. Zariel Eizen started to walk towards the stage, and as one the gathered crowd let out a despairing groan that, thankfully, the old man seemed not to hear. 

"I grew up knowing that Master Uriel would be my captain, and my captain he was for nearly two hunnnerd years! The stories he could tell, yessir, they don't make traders like him anymore..."

Octavius shuddered as the Master of Ordnance started to really ramble. He felt a slight surge of something to his left, followed by the temperature in the room dropping for a brief instant, and then heard an even longer groan than most of Zariel's speeches were met with.

"How long is this one going to go?" He heard Karoleen ask her best friend casually. Strange that the ship's Confessor should take to their astropath so well, but...well, they were the same age. And really, Karoleen wasn't much of a confessor. 

"Another twenty minutes, if somebody doesn't stop him." Verity replied glumly. That made Octavius close his eyes and grunt a slight curse under his breath. He wanted to get back to his damn cogitators already. 

"...a walking-bird. Yes, Uriel loved to hunt, and we'd have walking-bird whenever we visited a garden world that had them, with all the trimmings too: cranberries, fruits, whatever kind of amasec was there. Then we'd all watch scrumball, which in those days was called..."

"Yes, thank you for the kind words, Master Zariel." Eventually Barbosa took pity on the rest of the crew, getting a sigh of relief from the less professional members of staff. Which, distressingly, was most of them. The dignified former Navy officer said a few more words, and then with a press of a button they watched Uriel's casket shoot out into space. 

"Does anyone else have something they'd like to say before we leave for mourning?" Barbosa asked, the question clearly rhetorical, but Octavius cleared his throat. The man looked annoyed, but waved him on anyway. 

"With the death of Uriel Winterheart, ah..." Octavius glanced around, before shrugging. "The Winterheart dynasty is over. We're out of a job. I imagine the Administratum will be shutting us down as soon as they hear about this."

There was a brief pause, and then a sudden flurry of questions, shouts, and other arguments that Octavius couldn't be damned to deal with. Message delivered, he could head back to his office - and hope that his next posting would be with saner people. 

The first meeting to resolve the problem started chaotically. Eventually, at the ten minute mark, the ship's armorer Scythia fired her riot shotgun into the ceiling, and the meeting came to order. 

"...how long can we go without the pencil-pushers actually noticing something's wrong?" Was the first proposed plan - to just rely on the Administratum's notorious incompetence and delays. Unfortunately, while Zel's idea wasn't without its merits, it was shot down on the basis of being unsustainable. All a rival would have to do is report them, and they'd get a bounty placed on their heads. A dozen more ideas were presented, and shelved, until suddenly...someone struck on a good one. 

"What's the name of that child Uriel picked up from a Dark Eldar slave ship a few weeks ago?" Ivica asked slowly, the tech-priestess turning to the rest of the room. 

"...my name's Verity." Verity said slowly, flinching back as Elleantra tossed a piece of scrunched-up paper at her. 

"Not you. And the child's name is Yuliana, no last na-" Elleantra got as far as saying, before the religious woman's eyes narrowed and she looked at the rest of the crew. "We're not. That's just fraud. Uriel may have been a petty thief and a dozen other things, but surely we have better moral fortitude than that!"

The crew ignored her.

"Considering Uriel's reputation...a bastard child is certainly was his style." Zariel put forwards, even the old man following their train of thought. "Really, I'm surprised we haven't met an actual one sooner. Why, I remember this time-"

"Alright, thank you." Barbosa said firmly. Soon, and slowly, an idea started to hatch...one that they hoped wouldn't bite them in the ass. Octavius was most annoyed when they broke into his office, casually pressed Nicomedes' autogun against his head, and told him to forge the relevant documents. When he objected, there was a menacing click sound, and the Administratum agent found out exactly how fast he could type under pressure. 

Almost as annoyed and confused was Yuliana herself, the poor child having thought she'd return home - but without any way of knowing which planet she was from, she was stuck. 

So instead she found herself waddling onto the bridge in robes several sizes too big for her, Ivica trailing behind her and glaring at anyone who dared to start laughing. Fighting desperately to keep a straight face, Barbosa cleared his throat and nodded. 

"Orders, Lord Captain?"

Yuliana's brow furrowed, and she seemed to try and think of something - but failed, shoulders slumping in defeat before she shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe, uh...maybe find a way to get some more money?"

"Oh, trust me." Titus grinned, the psyker turning back to his own console and pulling up a message from an old friend of Uriel's. "We can do that. Got a job lined up already."

"Oh. Good." Yuliana still seemed lost, turning and slowly stumbling over towards the screen. "Uh...do it, then? And don't screw up or you're going out the airlock?"

"What have you been teaching this child?" Ivica hissed at Nicomedes, but the bodyguard ignored her - although he did smirk a little. Barbosa let out a short, biting laugh before turning and starting to punch in some coordinates. 

"Yes, Lord Captain. We obey."