#bayoneted babies

[immaculatasknight]

Chorus of imbeciles

[quanblovk]

Fun lil relationship chart with loads of empty space

[tobii-kadachii]

For fun i did a general mock-up of my hunter in Rise! I dont have any screenshots on me as I’m away from my computer but here’s the general vibe :D!

[dyklopces]

Why the stomach

bc my tummy hurts a lot

[disappearinginq]

I feel like people are sleeping on the awesomeness that is Sister Boniface Mysteries. I think it's considered "cozy murder mysteries" which is just a weird genre to have, but it's a spinoff of Father Brown in the 60's in the Cotswolds of England. I'm not usually a murder mystery fan, they're mostly just 'eh' for me - neither good or bad, just there to have in the background. But I love Sister Boniface for several reasons (which I will admit bias to)

The police are actually happy to have her around. The main DI will find an excuse to pull her into any case they have, and the entire police force love her and will almost always follow her advice/lead, unlike 90% of other mystery shows where the police are always either one step off from bad guys or just can't be bothered.

It shows the wide diversity of women who find their way to a convent. The nuns make wine. They wind up on cooking shows. They host an episode of a really hokey Austin Powers type TV series. They guest star on a children's show being filmed at the church. They love being a part of the cases when they get roped in. The Mother Superior is a cranky Irish lady who is like a beleagured mom who has more luck herding cats than keeping the Sisters out of cases, but she also has a favorite fish in the pond that she feeds, and loves babies and new parents and bends over backwards to help people and lets Sister Boniface blow up the basement with her experiments on a regular basis.

Sister Boniface herself. She was a translator in WW2, she has the equivalent of a masters in chemistry and is the police department's Go To forensics. She has a vivid imagination that borders on cartoonish when imagining the crime and how it could've happened. She rides a motorcycle. She is like 5 feet tall and spicy. The basement of the church has been converted into her own laboratory where she tinkers and futzes at all hours as long as it doesn't interfere with her church duties.

THE SISTER AND THE INSPECTOR ARE BESTIES WHO CRACK TERRIBLE PUNS OVER CRIME SCENES. No, really, there's an entire youtube video of every scene where these two idiots (affectionate) are cracking the absolutely WORST puns related to the crime. Sam Gillespie is the DI and he doesn't seem to actually enjoy the police part of policing, but really likes the community outreach part. He's a WWII vet that was at the battle of Normandy, took heavy losses, got bayoneted (which is brought up in one episode), and as soon as a crime has been committed, he calls in Sister Boniface. There is zero romantic interest between them, she is like his actual sister, and they are absolute enablers for each other's shenanigans, and it is hilarious.

There are no bad characters.

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 28 July 1932, the US government sent in the army to attack World War I veterans and their families with tanks, fixed bayonets, teargas and sabres, killing three, when vets marched demanding the wartime bonuses they were promised. The bonus payments were due to be paid in 1945 but when the great depression hit, leaving many veterans destitute, they decided to demand earlier payments. Up to 25,000 vets, Black and white, formed a "Bonus Army" and set up camp in Washington DC. Major Patton, whose life had been saved by one of the protesters, advised his troops to stab protesters with bayonets, and kill a large number of veterans as "an object lesson". General MacArthur and Dwight Eisenhower were the other officers in charge of the operation which killed two veterans and an 11-week-old baby, partially blinded an 8-year-old boy, and injured a thousand others. Read this and hundreds of other stories in our book, Working Class History: Everyday Acts of Resistance & Rebellion, available here with global shipping: https://shop.workingclasshistory.com/products/working-class-history-everyday-acts-resistance-rebellion-book https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=668683575304861&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[anyonghalimaw]

i mean this completely wholeheartedly people have got to start treating imperial japan the way we treat european colonists aka with criticism disdain and vocally decrying them. even now they deny that they did this to us. there are literally people over there who WORSHIP THE WAR CRIMINALS AT SHRINES. they used to fucking THROW CHILDREN IN THE AIR AND CATCH THEM ON BAYONETS. online they have people who literally do nothing except search for certain keywords like "unit 731" or "rising sun flag" to accuse any chinese korean or seasian person of being Historical Revisionists and saying that were simply falling to korean propagand about The Good Japaneses. i had someone tell me to my face that "the imperial japanese army fought for good" when they murdered one of my family members as a BABY. even now there are so many modern japanese media where if u look closely enough they straight up have imperialist apologia or propaganda, saying shit like "we Needed to colonize korea for their own good, they needed it" like atp if you dont acknowledge the crimes of japanese imperialism at least once ur either ignorant or u just dont care

[hotvampireadjacent]

Jesus Christ everything awful in American history has always been exactly the same. I’m reading a history book about the Great Depression and then the dust bowl. “In 1924 they’d [war veterans] been promised bonus payments, but those were not scheduled to be paid until 1945.”

The veterans marched on Washington DC to demand immediate payment. “Veterans pressed their demands. Then six people died in a violent stand off after a local police officer tried to evict marchers from some buildings owned by the treasury department. The deaths gave Hoover and his allies justification to clear the larger encampment.” One thousand soldiers were sent to dismantle the camp. “The active duty troops crushed their veteran counterparts’ structures and used bayonets and tear gas to force holdouts away. A twelve week old baby died in the enduring chaos after inhaling tear gas.” The Golden fortress by Bill Lascher (59-60)

I assumed attacking people just using their 1st amendment rights was a relatively recent U.S. tool (as of the 60s) clearly this was wrong and they have been doing this for forever. Of course I knew they always terrorized black and other POC communities, but I thought they at least loved their golden boy white men. Truly the state has a monopoly on violence.

[zervem]

Ghost + Animals

👻🐱

——————————

Ghost loves animals. He desperately needs every animal to like him and will go an extra mile to make that happen.

If a cat or dog doesn’t like him within 20 minutes of meeting him he is CRUSHED (not including animals with prior trauma issues. He respects them and understands they need a lot of time).

Finds an injured baby squirrel and brings it back to his room. Rehabilitates it and releases it without anyone ever knowing it was in there.

Animals are just instinctively drawn to him. He is calm and never tries to cross their boundaries. Even the crankiest old cats will curl up on his lap for a nap.

Loves the army dogs. Spoils them when no one is looking. They respect him the most so he easily trains them.

(Taught one of the dogs the “sick balls” command from that one tiktok just to fuck with soap.)

Type of mf to feed crows and slowly gain their trust for months until they start bringing him little treasures. They eventually start following him around base. This absolutely terrifies the rookies.

Speaks to animals in a baby voice when nobody is around. Will melt your heart.

As soon as he finds out someone on the team gets an animal he buys some gifts for them and demands to meet it.

When he is on leave for longer periods of time he likes to foster cats and kittens. He would love to own one when he retires.

Makes his own cat tree for the cats. Also makes his own catio.

Will eat whatever cheap healthy food he can find for himself but will go all out for his pets.

If he is unsupervised he WILL name any nameless animal he comes across weapon / military words. “This is M9 bayonet - bay for short :)”.

The team stumbles across him asleep in the common room with a tiny kitten on his chest he found outside. It was cold out so he obviously couldn’t leave it out there c’mon guys. (This makes soap cry.)

Has full conversations with animals like they can understand him. One of the few times he actually opens up and really talks about how he’s feeling.

“Oh hey what’s moving in your pocket, Ghost? You got something in there?” Ghost:

[staticofthetv]

Doing another favourite frames from the new b side chapter because narumi is my favourite son

Everything's under the cut, this is gonna get long

Starting off strong, numbers weapon 1 starter is officially contacts

Also bayonet origin!! When in doubt attach your sword to your gun with what I can only assume is left of the medical wraps/tape after he gets patched up

Ah yes, the good ol stab n shoot

All three narumis on this page give me life, he's such a fuckin goof

Honourable mention to the immediate karma in the last frame

Baby mina AND bakko!!!! He looks a lil goofy but in a cute way just hanging out behind her 🤣

And narumi is just confused

Calling your commanding officer an old gorilla, icon behaviour

NO BECAUSE HE LOOKS SO CALM WHEN AFTER THE CONVERSATION!! HE'S FINALLY SURE HE'S STAYING WITH THE FIRST DIVISION

Icon behaviour

Side note: wasp kaiju, horrible

Hasegawa immediately calling him out on his bullshit once again, you can't call obsessive training "gaming" and get away with it narumi

Just,,, this entire page

Hasegawa talking about how narumi went back alone to get the toys for the other kids in the orphange, yeah it's under the guise of just getting his own and there's no way anyone believes that

Also narumi looking like a disgruntled wet cat in the first frame because he was confronted with someone else knowing that he may actually care for people more than he let's on

The rest of this is gonna be a part two because of the 10 images per post limit, alas

[mdeeks15]

I’m sorry but if my kinda sorta partner figure skated their way through a squad of guards and massacred them via makeshift bayonet and pulled a near perfect spinning finish (I know nothing about figure skating) I would be begging for their hand in marriage and their babies

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons. 

“Mattie.... What is that coat?” 

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears. 

“It’s for you.” He said. 

“Whe did you get it?” 

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.” 

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly. 

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said. 

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.” 

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday. 

[amateurvoltaire]

In your brilliant review of Vaincre ou Mourir, you mentioned that Reynald Secher's research methods happened to be rather sketchy... I got curious, what do you mean by that? What did he do?

Thank you very much for the question. What better way to celebrate Bastille Day than by answering a question about the French Revolution?

Before I begin, I'd like to note—perhaps unnecessarily—that the study of history is inherently subjective. It's in the very nature of the subject for different individuals to interpret events differently. For instance, Mathiez and Leuwers will invariably have slightly divergent views on Robespierre, simply because Mathiez wrote during the Third Republic while Leuwers is a product of the Fifth.

This brings us to the crux of the matter: a historian's interpretation of history is deeply influenced by their own context and motivations. So, who is Reynald Secher?

He is a right-leaning French historian, best known for a section of his doctoral thesis, titled Le Génocide franco-français (translated into English by George Holoch as A French Genocide). In this work, he proposes that the events in the Vendée could be classified as genocide. There are several reasons I disagree with this assertion—which I'd be glad to elaborate on in a separate post if anyone is interested—but in short, what occurred in the Vendée was tragic for its residents but constituted a civil war, not genocide.

That being said, the fact that I happen to disagree with his thesis doesn’t make his argument invalid or his research sketchy. The way he supports his argument does. The fact that he misrepresents sources does. The fact that he has a financial incentive to be as inflammatory as possible does.

Allow me to explain.

(In the interest of transparency, I should mention that my observations are based solely on Le Génocide franco-français/A French Genocide, the only book of his i've read.)

Cherry-picking Sources

Arguing any point is straightforward if one only considers one side of the argument. Off the top of my head, I could list at least ten sources to write an article to convincingly argue that Robespierre harboured ambitions to be crowned king and that the Thermidorians were heroes for stopping him. Of course, I wouldn't do that; it would be highly disingenuous. Quickly into reading Le Génocide franco-français, it becomes evident that Secher isn’t burdened by such scruples.

I learned in high school that not all sources are created equal. Secher seems to have missed that lesson. With all due respect, if your book consistently references 19th-century local memoirs and anecdotes, treating them as facts without examining their veracity, perhaps it shouldn’t be taken as serious historical research. Also, how can one write a comprehensive book on the Vendée using 19th-century sources and overlook the 12-volume epic, Histoire de la Guerre de la Vendée by Chamard, Deniau, and Uzureau? In short, what surprised me most in the bibliography was the abundance of sources with very little integration into existing historiography—a definite red flag.

As such, his seminal work comes off more as a catalogue of republican violence, dwelling on horrific accounts of women burned for fat, people skinned for officer breeches, drownings, bayonet-stabbed babies, and massacres of villagers. While acknowledging attacks by Vendéean forces, he dismisses these as natural responses to republican aggression, completely ignoring events like the massacre of Republicans at Machecoul.

Cherry-picking extends to his treatment of the Convention’s attitude towards the Vendée. While Secher rightly highlights the extreme rhetoric in the Convention during 1793, he fails to acknowledge its moderation post-April 1794. He also takes this rhetoric at face value, neglecting to contextualise it within the broader proceedings of the Convention. Even a novice to the French Revolution would understand that much of what was said in 1793 was mere posturing and political theatre; it’s disingenuous to suggest otherwise.

Misrepresentation and Oversimplification

He tends to oversimplify complex topics and tailor narratives to suit his predetermined conclusion of a Vendée genocide. Thus, he does not represent that neither the First Republic nor the Vendée were monoliths. Just as the Republic under the Committee of Public Safety differed from that of the Directory, so too did the Vendée under Cathelineau in early 1793 differ from that under La Rochejaquelein in early 1794, and from Stofflet and Charette in 1795-1796.

Financial Incentive

And it makes sense that he simplifies; simple books with “Genocide” plastered on the cover tend to sell better than a collection of academic essays with serious historiography. Le Génocide franco-français was published in 1986, on the cusp of the bicentenary of the French Revolution—a time when the legacy of the Revolution was contested between the right and left in France. The timing was opportune for a fresh graduate to write a simple, highly readable book that “proved” the republican government committed genocide against its own people. This book has become central in shaping the genocide discourse and the entirety of Reynald Secher’s career. From what I've observed in his more recent works, he continues to tread a similar path.

I hope this answers your question!

[girl9494940]

it is Our Job to Free our World Of Sin and To do This we Must End Future sinners We Have to Skewer Babies With Bayonets Watch their bodies Pile Up on Our Blade Like a Kebab

[lil-miss-bearhug]

You can drop the knife now, just like how you can drop dead for the GREAT KING OF BRITAIN! *Pulls out his musket and cuts her leg with the bayonet* Where's your boyfriend CatNap? Awww, poor thing! Too bad he's not here to kiss you boo-boo! *Was mocking her in a baby voice*

AH! *she tumbles backwards, hugging her leg and crying*

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

desertwalkers- baby rattler

"Stupid tumbleweed." Riven pouted, kicking another rock out of her path. The Hex Witch had created a beautiful pair of chakrams, all dainty and pretty with enchantments but oh-so-deadly. Riven had fallen in love with the weapons, her fingers itched to pick them up. To have proper chakrams again to dance, to let the magic in her blood fly free once more...But it was the Hex Witch. She was expensive. Thus, Riven's need for extra money.

Technically. The brunette huffed, shaking her head.

No. Her bridal trousseau and the jewelry that had been her dower--those were all stuffed into her spell-warded travel chest. Those were strictly for emergencies. Or when things cooled down that nobody would blink at the rich silks and satins, laces and linens, or the sparkling gemstones showing up in pawnshops...and Riven wouldn't be questioned for having a little bit extra pocket money. She was only two weeks into her arrival at Stonewood, if she went around dropping gil like ceruleum she'd get eyes clapped squarely onto her. So for right now, it'd be stupid to touch the lot. And given the conversation she and Sebastian had upon their arrival with Mz. Gohtawyn, Riven was determined to prove she wasn't stupid.

Maybe the traveling circus needs extra hands. The thought cheered the Tonawawtan woman up. She still had a little bit of lunch-time left, she could go right on over and ask! But before Riven could continue her train of thought, her path took her into the way of something hard like rock and covered in fabric. With a cry she stumbled backward, falling down again on her ass..

"Ow!! What the--" The obstacle turned. Riven trailed off, blinking. She'd collided with a man dressed all in black and silver, with what looked like a bayonet-style gunblade on his back. A frown crossed the stranger's features as he looked down at Riven. Riven stared back up at him. Then she gasped as fingers roughly seized her by one of her upper arms and yanked her to her feet.

"Ow!"

"Look at this one, boss!" A pink-haired Tonawawtan man also dressed in black leered at the brunette.

"Looks like there's a new whore in town! She's a cutie pie! You think they've been hidin'-AAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!!!!" A high-pitched scream filled the air as the toe of one of Riven's boots collected solidly with the man's groin. His grip loosened, and Riven broke free, watching as he fell down howling. With a screech, Riven lifted her foot.

"Don't touch me again!!!" This time her foot came down with all the force she could muster. The howl that escaped the man made the fast-forming group of onlookers cringe.

"Holy sheeeet!"

"Gods damn!"

"Little bit's got some spice!" A drunken Hhetsarro cheered. Riven turned on a heel and stomped away, fuming. Hoots and cat calls followed her.

"Hey Doc! Can ye fix that?!"

"Can't do nothing for smashed sausage and cracked eggs." Mathye commented, shaking his head as more laughter rippled through the crowd.