#cause apparently its not from the south

[tommytomatoe]

i just realized that sam countryman cornbread eatin' collins has never said the token southern phrase "bless your heart" in an audio before... explain yourself erik.

[typheus]

who's being silly on Twitter rn i don't have a twt account but i'm nosy and i wanna snoop

dont wanna say the name cause her fans are annoying as fuck :/ but its the s0uth p4rk in hell show

[steveyockey]

In the absence of a clear and obvious angle to attack Bushnell’s protest, most likely due to his status as a serviceman that would make outright insulting him or suppressing the news itself scandalous, discussions on Western shores have now taken on the familiar framing of mental illness. In Time Magazine’s write-up of Bushnell’s death, the article finishes with a link to the suicide hotline, and asks readers to contact mental health providers if they are experiencing a “crisis.” Mark Joseph Stern, a writer at Slate, seemingly unasked, also wrote on Twitter/X:

“I strongly oppose valorizing any form of suicide as a noble, principled, or legitimate form of political protest. People suffering mental illness deserve empathy and respect, but it is wildly irresponsible to praise them for using a political justification to take their own life.”

Conviction does not exist to the American. To be willing to die in a selfless act for what they believe in only exists for those outside America's sphere of influence. Many will recall reporting on those who self-immolated in protest in Iran and in Russia for instance where this sort of approach, unwilling to engage with the root of its cause, would not even be entertained, let alone written and published with sincerity. The Arab Spring began with a self-immolation. The self-immolation of Buddhist monks in protest of South Vietnam’s persecution became defining images of the war and its corruption. Within America’s walls however, there is a belief, unspoken and ingrained from birth, that democracy allows for everyone’s voices to be heard and that its representatives are inherently inclined to respond to the people and their widespread wishes.

Desperation at inaction or complicity in terror and atrocity need not apply. Everyone incensed by their government to such an extent must simply have something wrong with them. To be able to go about one’s day knowing that children are screaming from the hunger that is eating their insides and that pregnant women are eating bread made from animal feed, and that the United States is supporting Israel’s creation of this famine, is apparently the real sign of well-adjustment.

Seamus Malekafzali, “The Words Burned Through His Throat: The Sacrifice of Aaron Bushnell,” February 26, 2024.

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[txttletale]

I'm asking this genuinely, as a 19 yo with no education in economics and a pretty surface level understanding of socialism: can you explain the whole Bananas discourse in a way someone like me might understand? In my understanding it's just "This is just a product we can give up to create better worker conditions and that's fine" but apparently that's not the full picture?

alright so some pretty important background to all this is that we're all talking about the fact that bananas, grown in the global south, are available year-round at extremely low prices all around europe and the USA. it's not really about bananas per so--the banana in this discourse is a synechdoche for all the economic benefits of imperialism.

so how are cheap bananas a result of imperialism? first of all i want to tackle a common and v. silly counterargument: 'oh, these ridiculous communists think it's imperialist for produce to be shipped internationally'. nah. believing that this is the communist objection requires believing in a deeply naive view of international traide. this view goes something like 'well, if honduras has lots of bananas, and people in the usa want bananas and are willing to pay for them, surely everyone wins when the usa buys bananas!'.

there are of course two key errors here and they are both packed into 'honduras has lots of bananas'. for a start, although the bananas are grown in honduras, honduras doesn't really 'have' them, because the plantations are mostly owned by chiquita (formerly known as united fruit) dole, del monte, and other multinationals--when they're not, those multinationals will usually purchase the bananas from honduran growers and conduct the export themselves. and wouldn't you know it, it's those intervening middleman steps--export, import, and retail, where the vast majority of money is made off bananas! so in the process of a banana making its way from honduras to a 7/11, usamerican multinationals make money selling the bananas to usamerican importers who make money selling them to usamerican retailers who make money selling them to usamerican customers.

when chiquita sells a banana to be sold in walmart, a magic trick is being performed: a banana is disappearing from honduras, and yet somehow an american company is paying a second american company for it! this is economic imperialism, the usamerican multinational extracting resources from a nation while simultaneously pocketing the value of those resources.

why does the honduran government allow this? if selling bananas is such a bad deal for the nation, why do they continue to export millions of dollars of banans a year? well, obviously, there's the fact that if they didn't, they would face a coup. the united states is more than willing to intervene and cause mass death and war to protect the profits of its multinationals. but the second, more subtle thing keeping honduras bound to this ridiculously unbalanced relationship is the need for dollars. because the US dollar is the global reserve currency, and the de facto currency of international trade, exporting to the USA is a basic necessity for nations like honduras, guatemala, &c. why is the dollar the global reserve currency? because of usamerican military and economic hegemony, of course. imperialism built upon imperialism!

this is unequal exchange, the neoimperialist terms of international trade that make the 'global economy' a tool of siphoning value and resources from the global south to the imperial core. & this is the second flaw to unravel in 'honduras has a lot of bananas' -- honduras only 'has a lot of bananas' because this global economic hegemony has led to vast unsustainable monoculture banana plantations to dominate the agriculture of honduras. it's long-attested how monoculture growth is unsustainable because it destroys soil and leads to easily-wiped-out-by-infection plants.

so, bananas in the USA are cheap because:

the workers that grow them are barely paid, mistreated, prevented from unionizing, and sometimes murdered

the nations in which the bananas are grown accept brutally unfair trade and tariff terms with the USA because they desperately need a supply of US dollars and so have little position to negotiate

shipping is also much cheaper than it should be because sailors are chronically underpaid and often not paid at all or forced to pay to work (!)

bananas are cheap, in conclusion, because they're produced by underpaid and brutalized workers and then imported on extortionate and unfair terms.

so what, should we all give up bananas? no, and it's a sign of total lack of understanding of socialism as a global movement that all the pearl-clutching usamericans have latched onto the scary communists telling them to stop buying bananas. communism does not care about you as a consumer. individual consumptive choices are not a meaningful arena of political action. the socialist position is not "if there was a socialist reovlution in the usa, we would all stop eating bananas like good little boys", but rather, "if there's a socialist revolution in the countries where bananas are grown, then the availability of bananas in the usa is going to drop, and if you want to be an anti-imperialist in the imperial core you have to accept that".

(this is where the second argument i see about this, 'oh what are you catholic you want me to eat dirt like a monk?' reveals itself as a silly fucking solipsistic misunderstanding)

and again, let's note that the case of the banana can very easily be generalised out to coffee, chocolate, sugar, etc, and that it's not about individual consumptive habits, but about global economic systems. if you are donkey fucking kong and you eat 100 bananas a day i don't care and neither does anyone else. it's about trying to illustrate just one tiny mundane way in which economic imperialism makes the lives of people in the global north more convenient and simpler and so of course there is enormous pushback from people who attach moral value to this and therefore feel like the mean commies are personally calling them evil for eating a nutella or whatever which is frankly pretty tiring. Sad!

tldr: it is not imperialism when produce go on boat but it is imperialism when produce grown for dirt cheap by underpaid workers in a country with a devalued currency is then bought and exported and sold by usamerican companies creating huge amounts of economic value of which the nation in which the banana was grown, let alone the people who actually fucking grew it, don't see a cent -- and this is the engine behind the cheap, available-every-day-all-year-everywhere presence of bananas in the usa (and other places!)

[distant--shadow]

The Witch and the Widow – Chapter One – The Lake

Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

Maybe murdered. Apparently. That is what brought Imogen here - indirectly, at least.

Not that she's with the law enforcement or anything. Not that, definitely, though ironically being an officer - an interrogator - would suit her well, at least on paper. Passion and enthusiasm would be a different question - and that's why she's here. Sorta. Indirectly, again, for a different question. Words travel, by means of mouth or ink or thoughts (apparently, she had found out), even though thoughts should not travel past the head that they were made in. But they did, and continue to do so, and Imogen had heard enough accounts about the man himself (the Lady’s husband, when he was alive and after the fact), had seen enough women squashed under the boots of the men they were tied to to intimately know and understand a flash decision made in a moment for self-preservation-

all too often women tempered their instincts to allow themselves to become the soil underfoot rather than the sole of the shoe

so much as to say that Imogen does not care much if Laudna Bradbury had murdered her husband.

She cares more about what the words whispered and weaved and waded in the time after wrote:

Laudna Bradbury had used witchcraft to murder her husband.

The only utterances of magic Imogen had heard of, had seen, had unexplainably received taken telegraphed by inner voice and grey matter before that rumour, were her own.

Imogen needs answers, desperately, as though a necessity purely imperative like breathing and eating, and so she brought herself to the source of the lake before it divided and weakened and meandered from river to muddy stream to drink directly from her-

(it.)

Laudna Bradbury is a widow, a widow who continues to live on the estate her husband’s heraldry and wealth had afforded them, company kept by a small team of housemaids and gardeners and the like.

and it is a large estate, a lot to look after, for sure, certainly, with its couple hundred maybe more years in age and just as many acres. There's hairline cracks in the stucco, a missing roof tile here and there

but there is no denying that it is a fine example of architecture, certainly was the highest of fashion at the time. A grand country house with an East Wing and a West, bay windows and towers and pleasing ratios between alcove and doorways and arches and walled topiaried gardens that extend from north to south, illustrations in stained glass ornately framed with flowering climbing ivy

statues that step out from domesticated bordering jungles, now appearing more as gargoyles thanks to the decay of time, noses eroded like they have rotted off, birds’ nests of briars thorned crowns or horns

rosemary bushes skirt the main building’s façade, perfuming the sometimes hot-and-humid, more often brisk-and-grey air carried through the opened lead-lined boiled sweet coloured window panes into the dark mahogany-panelled and silk-embroidered tapestried interiors.

Off of the West Wing there is an extension nearing the height of the gargoyled walls that surround the estate. This is the wall that fortifies the Lady Bradbury’s private garden; with doors adjoining directly to her study - both of which are off limits. Imogen doesn't know much of pretty and imported flowers, but she knows local common sense, knows what berries to pick and which weed’s sap causes a blister that will never heal again should it brush her skin.

Through small cracks in the masonry delicate tendrils curl out; leaves crawling, surfacing, small purple flowers with yellow tear-drop centres blooming.

Deadly nightshade.

She wonders what else grows behind the wall, patiently biding its time until the decay of such allows it through. 

It is in the stables that Imogen spends most of her own time; her years of experience working under Master Faramore awarded her an earnest recommendation, and it sure helped that a couple of the Lady’s mares and a stallion were from his own livery, that they had been raised and trained by Imogen's own hands before they left them.

She needs answers, so she has taken herself to them, to the lake to drink from. She observes from a distance, listens to any whisperings and wonderings that bed with her in the servants’ quarters.

The days are long, mostly spent between mucking and feeding and exercising and grooming the horses and watching the Lady Bradbury taking a walk around the herb garden with knees as muddied as the kitchen staff’s, or cutting bark segments from off of the trees that dot the grounds as if she were operating in front of an amphitheatre of flora and fauna students whilst Imogen brushes down one of the horses or shovels hay

and despite the distance and Imogen's best efforts to remain subtle, the Lady Bradbury’s eyes would sometimes catch hers observing (staring, admittedly), and she would smile, and perform a barely perceivable curtsey (one of many behaviours outside of expectations), and Imogen would tip her brimmed suede hat in return, and would think of how despite the fact that the Lady’s practices of class and boundaries and what is proper were different, a bit odd, nothing of the woman's behaviour suggested that of a killer - only the situation that she stood in - the peculiarly beautiful widow with a walled off poison garden. And so maybe the same is to be said of her magic, should she even be harbouring or practicing any (although admittedly her appearance certainly is bewitching…)

and it's like the instances before but unlike them - Imogen stealing glances of the Lady Bradbury as she potters about her estate (she probably really does potter, she fills so much of her time with crafting and making. Imogen wouldn't be surprised to see her pale skin elbow-deep in caked-on terracotta pigment digging out clay rich soil into old whisky barrels to have carried by willing hands to a throwing room with a secret kiln.) but on this day, when their eyes in new routine now inevitably meet across the wildflower-speckled field (that in itself is unusual, highly out of vogue, it isn't the acres of well-kept uniform lawn and paths laid with talking-point pebbles imported from the coast that the other estates boasted and Imogen had glanced when ferrying Master Faramore’s horses elsewhere) the Lady Bradbury takes pause, before she starts to make her advance towards Imogen.

shit.

She's been brushing the same patch of short thick hair on Foie Gras’ shoulder for so long that she's surprised there isn't a bald patch. Maybe the Lady Bradbury is worried as such. Maybe Imogen has been too obvious in her observing (admitted staring). Maybe she has been found out.

She feels her brow start to perspire, the muscles in her limbs wishing to move erratically and awkwardly and restlessly and to carry her to stand out of sight hidden behind the thick neck of the horse like an obvious child playing hide and seek behind a tree trunk, or to flatten the creases in her breaches and her linen tunic and pick out the strands of hair and hay that have lodged themselves into their weave, untwist the grasp of her suspenders over her shoulders - but she practices restraint - is trained and cautious and intentional and thorough she was only being thorough with the mare, casts her gaze in iron like the blacksmith hammering the horseshoes and steels herself for the Lady Bradbury’s approach.

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

Imogen has heard her call them her children (the birds that is, not the wrinkles) - has heard her talk to them as if they are responding, oftentimes giving her own tampered voice to do so (and to Imogen’s amusement)

The Lady never had children of her own; those are their own rivers of rumours within themselves. Imogen did not care for that stream of gossip at all.

The Lady steps closer, and the yet-to-be familiar fog of her mind cocoons Imogen, water transmuted into mist against jutting rock at the plummet of rapids, relief from the laborious work and humidity, her previous restraint to keep her body in check breaking as she visibly swallows and licks her lips, suddenly aware of how dry they had been.

The Lady Bradbury rests her hand on the back of Foie Gras’ neck, fingers long and pale and decorated in black lace like mother of pearl inlay and marquetry on a lacquered curious curio cabinet that perhaps Imogen had eyed through a stained glass window standing in the corner of the out-of-bounds office.

“Good day. It's Imogen, correct?” her delicately veiled fingers comb through the mare’s mane, her dark mahogany eyes seeming to look over the gloss of Foie Gras’ coat to inspect the way the late morning sunlight rests upon its sandy hues before turning her attention back to Imogen with a smile.

She hadn't spoken much to the Lady since she was hired a few weeks back - not much being that this is the third time, after her interview and a brief acknowledgment when being shown around by one of the housemaids the day she started.

The Lady Bradbury’s lips are painted a deep purple, an unusual colour for sure; Imogen had only seen illustrations and paintings of the dignitary from era’s passed in shades of peach and pinks and reds, stencilled in exaggerated shapes, and as with the landscaping of grounds, to wear such obvious make up itself is frowned upon, old fashioned, conveniently equated with providing false fronts.

The Lady’s teeth are bright, especially in comparison to the purpled dark lips.

and sharp

especially in comparison to how soft-

“You must pardon me, have I got it wrong?”

shit, fuck-

“Oh! n-no-” Imogen was staring, definitely “I apologise m’lady. You are right, it is Imogen.”

God dammit - she’s gonna get herself fired, fired for daydreamin’ and giving the horses receding hairlines and ignoring the Lady of the Manor when she addresses her-

The Lady chuckles to herself delicately, an act displaying a markable absence of frustration and bewilderment.

“From Master Faramore’s, yes? How are you finding the new environment? I am sure the stables here pale in comparison to his, but I do not believe that they afforded such space and the opportunity for frequent walks around such a beautiful lake…”

“Certainly, m’lady. There are less of them so they get more attention, they can be well looked after-”

“Indeed, plenty of grooming at the very least-”

Imogen can feel the hot blood rush to the surface of her cheeks, unable this time to wrangle her body’s motor reflexes.

“I have yet to visit the lake m’self, I am sure they enjoy bein’ taken by you though, they always seem happier when they come back.”

“Is that so? Well, I must insist you see the lake for yourself, if not only to relish the fact that you took great part in an amount of their contentedness.”

The Lady Bradbury looks to her expectantly, Imogen expected to have a reply for the unexpected.

“Would you accompany me this afternoon?”

Imogen can read thoughts. She can read thoughts but what if the Lady Bradbury can too? Or what if she can tell that she is imposing? Would she find herself in the bottom of that lake on her very first visit? A drink more filling than what she had wanted, her lungs full and void of buoyancy. Imogen can read thoughts but she dares not to read the Lady’s.

She can feel them, though, that first and second and now third time in her vicinity, feel how they are different, an audible silence amongst the swarm of bees wings and small talk and anxieties

At some point the Lady had stepped around Foie Gras’ head to stand beside Imogen

She smells like sage and gunpowder

On the day of her interview she had smelled of eucalyptus and raw animal fat-

“You’re quite the thinker, aren’t you?”

Of that she is guilty, though usually she can argue that the majority of the thoughts that weigh her down are not her own.

“Apologies m’lady, I wasn’t sure I had heard you right. Did you want a horse saddled for you for this afternoon?”

Imogen had never thought that her accent sounded particularly thick or clunky, but it felt as heavy as her mind tends to be around other company when speaking with the Lady, her tongue all thick tangled muscle swelling against the roof of her mouth and her teeth.

Perhaps this is some sort of witchery. She waits for the molasses to take a hold on her muscles and limbs, for the her skull to be crushed concave from the inside

But it doesn’t happen.

The Lady smiles (again)

“Almost. One for you and one for me, if you would accompany me around the lake - there isn’t a cloud in the sky today and it would be a shame to keep the clear reflections of the mountains to myself and Foie Gras here.”

Imogen is thrown. Yes, y’all could argue that this is exactly what she came here for; time alone with the Lady Bradbury, the opportunity to form a rapport or to subtly pluck at her brain but there is something in the way that she carries herself, how she talks to Imogen with ease and lack of formality that is alarmingly disarming, and leaves Imogen cloudy on why she came here in the first place-

“C-certainly, if it’s what the Lady wants-” she chuckles (again, again) waving her hand dismissively before catching herself and laying it over the patch of hair on the mare’s shoulder that surprisingly hasn’t thinned from all of Imogen’s enthusiastic (distracted) brushing.

“I will take Ceviche; you seem to have formed quite the bond with Foie Gras.”

Imogen can only nod with lips parted in silenced protest as she feels her cheeks flush again.

~

The walls of the stable are thick and stone, absent of windows save for the upper halves of the handful of wooden doors that allow for the horses to pop their heads out in eager greeting to Imogen as she walks towards them with their buckets of feed.

It is a clear day, as the Lady Bradbury has said, hot and humid and Imogen is grateful for both the surroundings and the company of the stable.

As she rakes the trodden-in and dirtied hay across the flagstone floor she allows the earthy scents of the dried grass to remind her of the smell of the sage, the crumbling mortar imitating gunpowder.

She wipes the back of her shirt sleeve across her brow, skin also sweating at the wrist where the gloves wrap work-beaten leather over shielded skin

Soft skin, mostly - save for where her fingertips appear to be frost-bitten.

A fairly visible reminder of why Imogen is here, should she forget again in the Lady’s presence-

Not that she would dare to take off the gloves.

That would only lead to questions.

‘Jammed in between horse-drawn carriage and stable door’ - she used to say, before the purple bruised tips started to migrate further, splitting out like surfaced capillaries that encompassed her fingers one knuckle at a time

They mark half-way over her palms now – like someone had dipped fine dense vegetable roots in an inkwell and struck them in lashings across her hand, punishment obfuscating her palmistry.

She hears one of the horses whinny – Ceviche most likely, a little restless, the black stallion not having been let out onto the fields yet today, as Imogen was now preparing him for his ride to be taken shortly.

The Lady’s saddle is very ornate, the leather finely tooled and decorated with organic flowing arrangements that resemble leaves and petals and insects with patterned wings or many many limbs

Its material and stitching is kin to the other saddles, the ones for notable guests and stablehands alike, brands the same maker’s mark

After a short amount of time observing (staring), Imogen suspects that the Lady tooled it herself.

~

The Lady does not ride sidesaddle – she straddles the stallion proper.

Imogen can only assume that she changes from her garden-strolling undergarments to allow for this, having never worn a crinoline herself - that would both be out-of-class, and, more importantly (to Imogen at least) - real impractical.

She had noted as such about the Lady on the first day she had seen her taking one of the horses (it was Carpaccio, a black and white paint) out of field.

It was the first instance of out-of-expected behaviour that she had witnessed.

Imogen can admit to herself that such a small thing had ignited her warming to the widow.

~

Imogen allows the Lady Bradbury and her steed to take the lead, pace set by the older woman’s enthusiasms making themselves known in short enough time from pointing out ‘notable’ forms in the sloping rock faces lining the well-worn path, covered in blankets of moss and ferns and tall stems of bell-shaped pink and white foxgloves and pomanders of wild thistles.

“I just can’t help but imagine what tiny creatures would love to make home between the cracks in the rock and the tree-stumps.”

“’lotta mice and rats I imagine, probably squirrels-”

“Well, yes, certainly…”

Ceviche’s slow walk carries on ahead of Foie Gras’, and the Lady sways with his gate in the saddle, though despite this Imogen could just about read the slight deflation in her shoulders when she had replied to the Lady’s statement.

Her head turns over her shoulder, gaze searching and challenging Imogen’s, caught staring (again), dark eyes hollows of homes burrowed in rocks, the high sun exaggerating high cheekbone architecture, pleasing ratios of brow to bridge of nose.

“…I refuse to believe that there are no imps or fairies when the land is so perfectly carved for them.”

“I can only say I’ve heard stories…” Rumours, rivers.

“Certainly, else you would not be here, would you?”

The Lady holds her gaze a moment longer, as if expecting Imogen to have an answer worth vocalising for that. Imogen feels her pulse begin to thud at her temples, the sweat returning to her hairline and underneath the cuff of her gloves.

The Lady giggles melodically and dismissively, returning her attention to whatever catches its fancy on the path ahead.

“How ugly it is that we must quarry and build. I have thought more than once about leaving the manor to the animals and the girls and making my home in the cave by the lake- oh, I am so very thrilled to show it to you.”

Her excitement cuts the atmosphere, spring back in her step transposed through the steed’s, one hand off of his reins and gesturing in the air.

“You can see it from the upper floors of the house – though that is rather rude of me to say, isn’t it? If you will allow that injustice to fall upon the architect and how societal structure seems to love its walls and assigning basement dwelling.”

Imogen finds herself inadvertently allowing Foie Gras to fall at a pace beside the Lady and Ceviche.

“That’s alright, most nights I tend t’lodge in the stables; eases my mind that I’ll be near the horses should anythin’ happen.”

“Plenty of wild animals around, yes? They do get spooked so easily.”

“I like how you’ve named ‘em – it’s fun.”

“Oh!, You do? I am so glad! You are the one who has to be calling their names most often after all.” Imogen may be in early days (hours) of learning the Lady’s tells, but the smile that creases the skin around her nose and mouth and deepens the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes feels genuine.

“It does often make me chuckle, I assume you’re fond of raw meats?”

“I suppose you would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Are y’not?”

The Lady takes pause, her look introspective.

“Have you ever eaten horse?”

“w-what? Of course not – do people actually do that?”

“Mmhmm, across the waters – in all directions. It is certainly a common custom. What makes horse any different from beef?”

“I could never – we share a bond, they let us- they give us-” Imogen's tongue is too thick and heavy again, blubbering with words that do not come easily to it as they do her head. She allows herself a deep breath, collects what little face she has, remembers the presence she is in (a Lady regardless of murder or witchcraft) “-in all honesty I rarely eat any meat, the more time ya spend with animals the more guilty ya feel about doing so.”

“How peculiar…maybe you need to spend more time around carnivores.” The Lady laughs at her own joke this time, hand patting at the side of Ceviche’s neck, the horse unaware of what words have been said. Imogen is thankful, in this instance, though she will admit she has tried more than once to see if her mind reading extended to her four-legged friends.

“But they’ve got no choice, that’s how they were made.”

She mimics the Lady’s movements, lovingly patting Foie Gras at the same spot on her neck.

“Made…yes…You have incisors don’t you? Canines?”

“I do, but I don’t have a mouth full of ‘em. Most of our teeth are as flat as these fellas over here…” she ruffles the mare’s mane “-though I won’t deny that gettin’ bitten still hurts something fierce.”

“Makes you wonder what sort of damage you could do if you so chose to, after all, your eyes are not on the sides of your head.”

~

The lake is beautiful.

Of course it is. It displays itself naturally basined, wrapped in the embrace of the mountains surrounding draped in forest cloak, walls both man-made and much older obfuscating its view from the ground floor of the estate.

The lilac and blue hues of the pebbles are familiar, lining the vegetable patch borders in the garden, larger stones used for holding stable doors open.

It is quiet over the lake. The terrain raised around it shutting out the winds, only the quiet breeze that drifts through the canopies on the mountain crests giving a gentle whistle to the waters below, an enjoyable confusement between what is wind and what is the crashing of the tender tides.

The waters are clear blue with a hint of turquoise, green given by either the surrounding plant life’s reflection or by the ones that live underwater.

It reminds Imogen of the lakes in the mountains from her childhood. It is something else new.

Their horses slow to a stop, on the Lady’s cue.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

“It really is - no wonder why the horses come back so happy.”

“And will you be as such on your return?”

“Certainly m’lady, thank you for allowing me such a privilege”

“It is not mine to give, though I will make it explicit that you may come down here whenever you wish – providing the horses are happy, of course. That is what I ask of you.”

Imogen thinks she is blushing again, but the feeling is further inside her than her veins, a warmth radiating.

“You take good care of the servants at the estate, don’t you?”

For the first time, the Lady seems thrown by what Imogen offers, a step behind instead of two larger-horsed paces ahead.

“They take better care of me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone wish to leave their home to the help.”

“It would be the very least I could do.”

“You give ‘em food and a roof over their heads-”

“They sow the seeds, they tend to the animals, they butcher their meat and harvest the wheat to bake the bread. I have been so lucky that they have yet to poison me.”

“I can only say from ma short experience that I’d find that hard t’understand.”

Her face softens again. It feels both comforting like a blanket but then uneasing like having the lights blown out.

“Funny thing, perspective…”

Lady Bradbury slides off of her horse, heels of her fine boots falling into the gaps between the pebbles, though her footing remains certain, experienced.

On the surface of the lake the trees grow downwards, the birds fly with their bellies exposed to what lies in the waters.

The Lady halts, dropping to one knee as she makes short work of the laces on her shoes.

Imogen isn’t sure if she should be offering to remove them for her, jumps down from Foie Gras and jogs clumsily on uneven surface towards the Lady regardless. 

“There are old stories of this lake, you know-”

Lady Bradbury confesses a little breathlessly, lung capacity limited by the press of her thigh into her stomach. She swaps her knee for the other on the ground, starting on the other lace.

“I won’t tell of them just yet, I would hate for them to be off-putting.”

She stands straight again, the sieved remnants of harsher winds that have made it over the mountains’ embrace wishing to make field mouse nests of her hair, spiderwebs of the lace collar around her neck, footprints of birds’ feet fossilised in the marble cornering her eyes.

She looks at home at the lake, certainly a natural thing - flesh and blood and bones cocoons to silk cotton to yarn to lace – Imogen wonders what a marvel the Lady could paint and chisel into the mouth of an open cave.

Balancing, she pulls each shoe free, grin knowing, slightly manic, intensely catching Imogen before she gathers the length of layers of skirts into one hand and steps into the clear waters.

Imogen swears she sees something conjure beneath its surface to greet her.

Laudna Bradbury had (maybe) murdered her husband – (maybe) with witchcraft, most importantly - but Imogen has bigger questions that require her answers, and so she follows the Lady into the lake.

[o-wyrmlight]

I haven't said anything on here because I've been so focused on what's been happening on Twitter. I spent six or more hours last night just retweeting whatever I could to help raise a ruckus. For anybody who isn't aware of what's been happening:

For the past 75 years, Israel has been doing exactly what the United States of America did to indigenous natives when we first began to claim the territory. They've been pushing Palestinians off of their homeland and claiming the land for themselves. They've been stealing homes and territory that doesn't belong to them, engaging in a quiet genocide.

They control what goes in an out of the border. They control how much food Palestinians are allowed to have access to. They control how much water and electricity Palestinians have access to in a day. They control how many times a year and how far out fishing boats are able to go, and they're relegated to areas where there are no fish. The amount of ships aren't enough to sustain the population. Israel has ensured that Palestinians cannot build bomb shelters by preventing those materials from coming into the country.

On October 7th, 2023, a Gazan organization named Hamas, which is stationed in the Palestinian city of Gaza, decided to retaliate. They did a plethora of horrible things to Israeli people, taking hostages. In response, Israel has begun being more aggressive and upfront in its genocidal attempts to eradicate Palestinians.

This is not an exaggeration. Israel is very upfront about what they want. The official Israeli account has posted what they've done proudly. The first event that made people outside of Palestine aware of what was going on was the bombing of a hospital that Israel boasted of, and then later walked back to claim it was a Hamas base.

There are rules of war to follow. Among them, it is a war crime to attack where people are taking shelter in places of religion and hospitals. Once this information was revealed and made obvious, public outcry for the support of Palestine began to ring out. Apparently it wasn't even the first hospital that Israel had targeted--there were over 10 at the time and more to come in the following days.

Consider that Israel knew they were targeting the hospital and sent out a warning for them to evacuate, and then remind yourself that there were people in the in the hospital who relied on the medical equipment to live. Where were they supposed to go on such short notice? Children and babies were killed. Israel admitted to doing this and then claimed that the hospital was a Hamas base. And soon after, they claimed that it was a misfired rocket by Hamas that hit the hospital. Isn't that so convenient?

Israel has warned a city to travel the road down south in ten hours--on foot, on a hiking trail that takes more than twelve--to reach safety. They promised they would be safe and that Gaza was the only place they were aiming to destroy. Instead, Israel proceeded to bomb and destroy the only safe passage that they were able to get. They weren't safe at all.

In the days to come, Israel would proceed to turn off all electricity and water in Palestine. They would continue to bomb various places under the presumption that they were Hamas bases. Hamas comes from the city of Gaza, so that doesn't explain why several of those places--even hospitals--were much farther south.

Yesterday, they bombed the communication tower that Palestinians have been relying on to communicate with the outside world. As far as I know, they've been dark ever since.

Egyptians have been trying to help. They've been trying to demand the gates to open so that they can send humanitarian aid in. There are people--good people--who don't care if they die for the cause or not. Hardly any humanitarian aid has been able to come in, and Israel has been teasing Egypt, their own weaponry poking at their boarder as a threat. If several missiles cross Egyptian boarders, how is it their fault of they were aiming at a hostile air craft?

Remember how much Israel monitored what comes in and what comes out of Palestine. They control how much electricity and water a day they have. They control their maritime and how far from the coast they're allowed to fish. Do you think that Palestinians are able to build such air crafts?

Egyptians have witnessed the horrors that have been happening from across the sea. The sky was red with fire and alight with bombs. The horizon echoed with the noise and the assault didn't cease. I don't know if it's still going on. I don't know if it ever stopped. But Israel is sending out ground troops now, and who knows how far that went since last night.

Israel calls this a war. Palestinians haven't been able to fight back. They don't have any weapons or a military of their own. Entire families have been wiped off of the face of the earth, numbering probably well over forty by this point. Entire generations are at risk of being killed. This isn't a war. This is a genocide.

Israel claims that Hamas hides behind its civilians for protection, but all Israel is doing is hiding behind Hamas as an excuse to commit ethnic cleansing.

The worst part to me is that world powers who could have done something to prevent this are actively doing nothing. The United States has been providing Israel with the very weapons that they're using to obliterate Palestine off of the face of the map. Britain has outlawed protests speaking up in support of Palestine. And there are a lot of protests. The public opinion knows that this is wrong. Joseph Biden has casted doubt on how many Palestinians have actually died just before the blackout occured.

The warning signs have been here for 75 years, and nobody has done anything about it. And now Palestinians are facing the most brutal evil that mankind is capable of, and nobody who can do anything about it is willing to lift a finger. What's the point of the United Nations to create laws of war that are to be followed if those laws aren't going to be enforced? What kind of message does that send to countries that violate those laws?

That they can get away with it.

This isn't even to touch on the fact that Israel has been paying content creators and companies to speak up in support of Israel. I wouldn't be surprised if they're doing the same with popular celebrities in the United States and elsewhere. I wouldn't be surprised if this is a part of why politicians are refusing to lift a finger to hold Israel accountable for their actions. Israel has always wanted control of the narrative. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last.

I do want to point out that despite these horrors, it's important to remember that, while Israel has done these horrible things, you shouldn't blame the individual people. Not every single Israeli believes in this genocidal cause, but the system of government that encourages and rewards these behaviors should be held accountable. Israelis who disagree with Israel are very likely at risk of being punished severely if they express their beliefs. It's important to remember that.

Israel will cry antisemitism because they are a Jewish state: Holding them accountable for their actions is not antisemitism. Do not be afraid to do so. I have seen videos of Jewish people in the United States leading mass protests in support of Palestine, calling for a ceasefire in Gaza, for Palestine to be free. Don't blame all Jewish people or Israelites for this horror. Be angry at Israel the government, Israel the politicians, Israel the people who support them rabidly and celebrate the death of millions.

I know for a fact that there are some things I've missed. It's so difficult to tactfully cover everything that's happened over the past couple of weeks. But hopefully this is enough to let those who aren't aware of what's been happening know.

I'm ashamed to be a United States American. And I am angry at the politicians and the people in power who could have voted for a ceasefire and didn't. We are witnessing the evils of humanity at work this month. And yet we are also witnessing the selfless good that humanity is capable of, leading protests to free Palestine and call for a ceasefire, trying their best to raise attention to the people who did nothing. History will remember them as the villains of this story.

It feels like there isn't much you can do. But just knowing and spreading awareness of the situation is enough. It is enough. Israel has hired companies and social media to do their best to stifle talk and conversation about Palestine. YouTube has deleted fifteen years' worth of videos examining the Palestinian occupation and Palestinian culture as a whole. Israel wants Palestine to die in silence and be forgotten.

All you need to know is what is happening. All you need to know is to remember and not forget. All you need to know is acknowledge the Palestinian's generations-long suffering, know that we're living through a genocide, and see how world powers do nothing about it. This is how Adolf Hitler got away with it for so long.

So remember. Keep it in mind. Learn the warning signs. And be sure to remember this when it happens again.

Free Palestine.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Morning News with Asmi 14 Oct '24

OOPS I FORGOT TO MAKE A POST YESTERDAY AND SO I GUESS 13TH OCTOBER WILL REMAIN A MYSTERY FOREVER. AAAAAA. ANYWAY HI IT'S TECHNICALLY MORNING OF 15TH TODAY BUT IT'S TOO EARLY TO CARE IT'S 14TH IN TEXAS MMKAY.

1. HURRICANE UPDATE: PEOPLE ARE NOW SHIPPING THE TWO HURRICANES. THERE'S FANART BASED ON THE VAGUE FACE SHAPES THEY MADE?? EVERYTHING IS FINE.

2. I MANAGED TO SURVIVE A VERY SMALL BIT OF THE SPICIEST CHIP IN THE WORLD EVEN THOUGH MY FRIEND WHO LIKES SPICY FOOD ATE THE SAME SIZE TEENY BIT.

3. THE BIRD, REDDIT, FLEW BACK HOME TO ITS HUMANS ON SUNDAY?? ITS HUMANS WERE THE CONSTRUCTION WORKERS FOR THE PLOT NEXT DOOR? SO... THE BIRD JUST WANTED A GODDAMN NIGHT AWAY AS A HOLIDAY WHILE ITS HUMANS WERE SEARCHING FRANTICALLY FOR IT?? IM

4. MY FRIEND INTRODUCED ALIEN STAGE TO ME LAST NIGHT (YEAH THREE OF US JUST RANDOMLY HAD A SLEEPOVER ON A MONDAY EVENING ART SCHOOL IS FINE WE'RE FINE) AND AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH IVAN MY BELOVED AAAAAH SUA AAAAA MIZI (FOR OUR PRINTMAKING CLASS, THE FRIEND--THE SAME ONE WHO THOUGHT TUMBLR WAS DEAD--MADE FANART OF THEM) OH NAAAAAAY CLEMATISSS AAAA

5. NORTH KOREA IS ABOUT TO ATTACK SOUTH KOREA APPARENTLY?

6. SOMEONE NAMED DAVID ALABA HAD AN INJURY WHICH MIGHT AFFECT HIS CHANCES AS REAL MADRID. WHAT THE FUCK IS REAL MADRID? FOOTBALL? CAR RACING? BASKETBALL? YAHTZEE?

7. I FINALLY LEARNED HOW TO PLAY UNO AND I WON THE FIRST PROPER GAME I PLAYED AND IT WAS OF UNO FLIP IM A GENIUS

AND NOW FOR THE WEATHER AND I SWEAR I WILL NOT FORGET ANY CONTINENTS THIS TIME

1. Australia: Hot and stinky. Just like me. I didn't shower yesterday.

2. Asia: Wet. Water. Wet wet sploosh. But not the ao3 way.

3. North America: Hurricane gay porn season I guess.

4. South America: Cloudy with a chance of moqueca.

5. Antarctica: ...still green. I wonder why my brain said piss-coloured. Green isn't piss. I mean. Piss isn't green. It's too early for this.

6. Europe: COZ IT'S TOO COLD FOR YOU HERE AND NOW SO LET ME HOLD BOTH YOUR HANDS IN THE HOLES OF MY SWEATER

7. Africa: The sun peeks out uwu from clouds

AND THE ANSWERS TO SATURDAYS CROSSWORD:

1. Baby food that adults can be allergic to: Milk. Well. It's not an allergy, it's an intolerance. Which involves different biological processes and not being able to digest it rather than the body reacting to an allergen. Shhhh. I never claimed to be smart.

2. Makes shitty copper: El-Nair (thanks @arkytiorlecter for that wild ride)

3. A condition that causes strong reactions to panic and pain at certain sounds: Misophonia (ily mad thanks for educating me @falling-raine)

4. A decaying virtual room of insanity orgies from the 10's: Tumblr

5. With ____, anything is possible: BARBIE!

IM TOO LAZY TO MAKE A CROSSWORD SO INSTEAD HAVE THE LESBIANS I PAINTED FOR MY PRINT-MAKING (MY OC'S)

AND BANGALORE PALACE WHICH I VISITED ON SUNDAY:

I LOVE YOU FORGIVE ME FOR MY NEGLIGENCE HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY/NIGHT MAGGOTS OF MINE

[starlightshadowsworld]

The Sheep King and his Demon AU

Aka Bsd except Chuuya doesn't join the Port Mafia.

Not technically canon to this... Butt what if Dazai joined the Sheep.

Basically the whole operation of setting members of the Sheep free, takes a lot longer than anticipated.

And so Dazai is sort of taken hostage by the Sheep until their hostages are released.

I say sort of because Dazai offered himself up as a hostage.

He's curious, he wants to know about this gang of teenagers that causes such havoc for the Port Mafia.

Especially their king.

The Sheep hold a meeting and they agree.

Dazai is suprised by his treatment, sure he and Chuuya argue constantly and he can piss off anyone without even trying.

But they treat him like they treat each other.

At first Dazai assumed they were lax about security because he came willingly. Or they were just that overconfident.

But he realises that's not the case at all.

Sure they keep an eye on him, mostly Chuuya. But he's not restricted to their base, just warned against going further into Suribachi city.

Obviously, Dazai doesn't because that sounds like more trouble than its worth.

But he's not handcuffed or kept in a makeshift cell. He's allowed to roam around the base and the surrounding area with a Sheep member keeping an eye on him.

Their all well aware of who he is, and have procedures and an agreed upon plan if things go south.

But for the most part, Dazai is treated like one of them.

Like, Yuan takes food inventory. She calculates how much they've got, rations the food as fair as she can.

So Dazai is suprised when a can of crab is handed to him every so often.

Because no one else eats crab, he's the only one. And Yuan goes out of her way to get him it so he'll have something to eat.

He wonders if it's to keep him on their good side, but it's not the case. Because Yuan tries to grab the others food that they love, it's not always possible but she tries.

None of the others comment about it, some joke about him eating crab of all things but leave it there.

They never force him to eat with them but the door is always open.

"Thanks for the crab."

"Hm? Oh your welcome."

Shirase is a strategiest, which suprised Dazai given their first meeting.

But apparently when he's not blinded by emotions, he's a lot more calculating and smart.

Dazai's offered to help when he's seen Shirase scheming a heist against a shipment heading into Port Mafia terrority.

"You... Want to help us steal from your people?"

"Why not?"

Shirase just stared at him for a moment before snorting, moving to sit beside him.

Showing his notebook and filling Dazai in what was happening.

They spend the next few hours pouring over ideas.

Tossing plans back and fourth. Sometimes they end up walking in circles and Shirase ends up leaving to patrol but thanks him for his input.

Dazai's never had anyone but Mori to steategise with, but this felt different. Quietly he'll admit that it was fun.

For all of Chuuya's grumbling of not being a king, he's an effective leader.

And so different from Mori.

After becoming Boss, Mori is strictly hands off.

He rules through fear and intimadation. He doesn't have to fight because he had tools that would it for him.

Mori's word was law, you didn't challenge it unless you had a coffin picked out.

Than you had Chuuya who constantly throws himself onto the front lines. He's a team player even if he would jump into danger alone to spare the others.

The Sheep follow Chuuya because they trust him. They need each other to survive and care about each other.

Chuuya doesn't give orders, everything feels like an open ended discussion. They debate and scheme and come up with solutions together.

The Sheep have even benched him when he's injured despite Chuuya saying he was fine.

They know each other's limits and don't use that to exploit it each other. Rather how to help and take care off each other.

It's so different to what Dazai's used too.

It's werid.

But it's not a bad werid.

Dazai starts to dread the idea of going back to the Port Mafia. He makes a throw away comment about it at dinner and everyone goes silent.

Chuuya just looks at him like he's said the dumbest thing he's ever heard.

"Idiot, if you don't wanna go back. Don't."

Dazai wants to laugh and say that it's not that easy. You don't just leave the Port Mafia, he'll be killed or worse and that's before Mori finds out and deals with him personally.

Chuuya rolls his eyes, as if reading his mind. He tilts his head to the others, and Dazai looks around.

And notices the looks on everyone's faces.

No one objects, no one looks annoyed or angry... Infact, they seem to all be in an agreement.

If the Port Mafia tried to take Dazai, they would all rally behind him.

And Dazai... He smiles.

Somewhere deep down he knows he's found where he belongs.

Chuuya gifts him his blue wristband, putting it on his wrist.

Dazai: Werid way to propose Slug.

Chuuya: I'm not proposing?! We're not even dating!

Dazai: Do I have to do everything around here?

Chuuya: You never do shit!

Shirase: Not true! Shirase tell him! Tell him how useful I've been!

Shirase: He's not wrong, Chuuya.

Dazai: Awww thank you hedgehog!

Shirase:... Nevermind he's been lazing around all morning.

Dazai: Gasp betrayal!

Yuan:.. Did he just say gasp?

Dazai:, Fine fine, oh great king Chuuya will you go out with the lowly peasant that is me?

Chuuya:... I will pay you to never call me that... And sure fine I'll go out with you.

Yuan: I win! Pay up scrubs!

Everyone else: groans and pays her their money

Chuuya: You bet on us?!

Shirase: You can't actually be suprised.

Chuuya:...

Yuan: Thought so.

Dazai: Damnit why didn't I think of that?

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

The Wall Street Journal is reporting that a message from Yahya Sinwar (the Hamas leader inside Gaza) was passed to Hamas leaders who live outside of it, and the essence of that is not to worry, because Sinwar believes they have Israel exactly where they want it. In other words, when Hamas is estimated by Israel to have at least 12,000 of its terrorists killed, and despite the fact that they could stop the death of Gazans by releasing the Israeli hostages and surrendering, Sinwar doesn't see any issues with where the war is at. I think the most important part is this: "According to the report, Sinwar also told the Hamas officials that the terror group is prepared for Israel’s expected operation in Rafah, the Gaza Strip’s southernmost city, and is relying on the high civilian death toll reported by the Hamas-run health ministry to cause enough global outcry that Israel is forced to withdraw" (my emphasis). At what point do people realize that they are serving the interests of Hamas' mass murderers, kidnappers and rapists?

A few days ago, I wrote about the attempt to allow aid trucks into northern Gaza directly from Israel, instead of bringing it to the south, and waiting for Gaza-based elements to deliver it to the north. This means an escort of Israeli soldiers is accompanying the trucks. This is the route the aid trucks cross:

Today, these aid trucks were stormed by a huge crowd, and according to the IDF, many people died from pushing and trampling (at the link you can see aerial video footage of the stampede), not an unheard of phenomenon when a huge herd of people all rush in at the same time. On top of that, some Gazans were also advancing at the soldiers securing the aid trucks. The soldiers felt undr threat, and they opened fire at those charging at them, but according to their estimate, this accounts for only 10 of the dead. Still, you can count on the anti-Israel crowd to adopt a narrative that, immediately and without investigation, calls this a massacre and blames every single death on Israel, not on Hamas, which started the war that made even aid supply into a dangerous and complicated situation.

Here's a reminder that even in the middle of the war, when no one is paying attention to it, Israel continues to demolish illegal homes built by Jews. But you're never gonna hear about it, not even during more normal times, because it doesn't fit the anti-Israel narrative, so anti-Israel sources will only ever tell you about it, when Israeli demolishes illegal homes built by Arabs.

As threats to British Members of Parliament (MPs) are rising due to threats from the anti-Israel crowd, the UK has allocated bodyguards to some of them, along with 31 million pounds designated for the security of British democracy. If some of the most powerful people in Britain are that scared, what do you think Jews there are going through? Indeed, today we heard that 72 million pounds are meant to help secure Jewish centers and institutions in the UK. The problem is that until the root of the problem will be tackled, this is just taking care of the symptoms, instead of curing the disease.

Israeli security forces have stopped two Palestinian cousins, one 17 years old and the other 29 years old, from carrying out an independent terrorist attack. I refer to such attacks as independent in order to point out that they're not a part of some greater plot, unlike every single terrorist attack on Oct 7, which were all interconnected, and rocket attacks since, which are launched as a part of the war that Hamas started waging against Israel. However, some of these attacks ARE connected to Hamas. Apparently, these two cousins contacted Hamas in Gaza to get help in committing their intended crime.

This is 59 years old Michel Nissenbaum.

He made alyiah on his own from Brazil when he was 13 years old. Friends say that coming to Israel saved him. He worked in hi-tech, as well as a tour guide, and volunteered with Bedouin kids. Here he is with one such group:

On Oct 7, Michel heard that the Re'im IDF base was under attack from Hamas terrorists. Knowing that his granddaughter was there, visiting her dad, Michel decided to go there and get her out. While he was making his way to the base, he stopped responding to messages. His granddaughter was rescued from the place hours later, but Michel himself had disappeared. He's believed to be kidnapped in Gaza, but his family is scared, because he wasn't spotted in any of the pics or vids released by Hamas.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[vigilskeep]

since we’re heading to minrathous in veilguard i’ve been thinking abt a tevinter rook - do u have any thoughts on tevinter’s gender roles? i was wondering abt the male chantry structure + dorian’s talk of the magister/altus class being obsessed w bloodlines and heirs… ik dragon age gender lore is inconsistent lol but i’d love to hear your opinions anyway 🙏 i absolutely trust u more than i trust bioware

i DO have thoughts!!

i think the most sensible reason for tevinter to have its more patriarchal structure is religious. in the south, andraste is venerated above all else, and this is (canonically) the given reason that women are looked to for spiritual guidance, whereas men are considered vulnerable to the dangerous passions of maferath. however, in the tevinter chantry, they like to put another male figure front and centre: archon hessarian, the tevinter leader who mercifully(ish) slew andraste on the pyre rather than let her suffer, and later converted both himself and the imperium as a whole to andrastianism.

everyone andrastian likes this guy; it’s his blade of mercy on the templar uniform, and so on. but the tevinters like him even more so (again, canonically) and consider him the most important of andraste’s disciples. (because he’s the tevinter one, obviously.) ergo, more important than maferath. so my line of thought would be a) they do not have the aversion to male spiritual guidance that the south does, because their leading man is hessarian not maferath, and b) hessarian was an archon of the imperium and the leader of andrastianism in tevinter in his day, so of course all future archons and tevinter divines should follow in his footsteps.

i can see how that would cause a serious religious divide in the early schism days. from the southern perspective, spiritual leadership is being handed over to the untrustworthy, and hessarian is being falsely idolised. from the northern perspective, perhaps the female leaders of the southern chantry are going too far by assuming themselves as heir to andraste herself, which i can see being considered blasphemous compared to simply following in the example of one andraste’s disciples. we do know canonically that one of the big pre-schism issues was the sunburst throne refusing to recognise tevinter’s male grand clerics. (which is why another big reason for initially choosing a male divine when the schism began would have simply been defiance. i’m trying to think through why that decision lasted aside from dorian’s comment that they’re still doing it just because it’s the done thing.)

anyway, it for sure makes sense for that to filter into culture more broadly, especially given that it affects who gets into the top seats of power in such a status-driven society. and as soon as that’s true of a group, the people who do have access to those seats are rarely quick to open them up to more competitors. i can see altus women instead taking political roles where their primary ambition is to push their husbands, sons, brothers, etc. into these positions. classic scheming mother historical archetype

the altus obsession with bloodlines makes perfect sense to me, it’s kind of the natural progression of venerating something that can apparently be inherited by blood, and seeing that thing as a sign of literal divine favour that puts you into a special class above the rest. the only thing i would dislike narratively is any implication that this actually works to increase ability, lmao. tevinter may produce more powerful mages because the study of magic is so much more supported there, and because they’re not, you know, preventing the mages having families and thereby decimating the natural population, but let’s not start acting like fantasy eugenics actually makes mages from these mage families inherently more powerful, because that would be incredibly stupid writing. they’re just more likely to be mages because their family are all mages, and then they have far more training resources at hand. and less religious hangups. (luckily all the evidence so far supports dragon age for once not taking a weird angle. it’s not like any of our randomly born mages are somehow not a match for dorian or danarius or whatever other altus we’ve seen in a fight.)

that got a bit distracted but those are some thoughts :)

[tanadrin]

Tjungdiawan on the Collapse

(Read on tanadrin.de)

The Collapse, of course, refers to that period in the late 21st century and early 22nd when the world began to gradually turn inward on itself; when pandemics and war intensified, when environmental upheavals reached their peak, when we saw the first proof that the ancient democracies could falter and fail, and when old ideologies began to crumble in the face of a new history. This is a time doubtless known well to most of my readers, but which I will nonetheless briefly retread, both for those who may need a reminder and because there are three lessons which we must extract from it, which will be indispensable in understanding all that has transpired since.

The first lesson stands before us, and is apparent at once. The period before the Collapse was famously one of optimism and hope. Even as the first signs of trouble appeared on the horizon, it was felt that these were but the last spasms of the conflicts of the 20th century working themselves out and they would soon be put right. It was not imagined that they were in fact the first of the lurking tensions and contradictions of the 21st century beginning to bear their poisonous fruit. In the imagination of these hopeful souls (with whom I find no fault greater than I might in any soul that ventures to dream of better things), the long road of history was now on a decisive upward ascent, to the sunlit highlands of peace and prosperity, a new plateau which would set a standard for all ages yet to come, and mark a decisive dissolution of the want and fear and hate of the primitive ages past.

It was not so. The road descended; darkness followed. This is the first lesson: there is no final redemption in the affairs of men. There is no glorious sunlit highland awaiting us; there is no utopia to which we grope, however distant. There are dreams of such, and they are mighty dreams: they impel the soul of mankind forward with the fervent knowledge of what is possible, despite all grievous ruin that stands about us, and these dreams are good and right and noble. And they are true, in the sense it is true that such aspirations may work great wonders. But the moment we are waiting for, the knowledge that the time of redemption is here, that the messiah is come, that the kingdom is restored, that all darkness is banished forever and suffering and sickness and time are at an end--that does not exist. And in the wanting and the waiting for that moment, we may find the dusk has been gathering for a long time, and we have not been watchful against it.

So it was in first decades of the 21st century, and in the first years of the Collapse. Those who hoped for the last triumph of liberal democracy, or the great socialist revolution, or the redemption of humanistic values, were all bitterly disappointed, and none were watchful. There was no battle: optimism gave way at once to despair, as if defeat had been ordained by the heavens. In North America, a long struggle ensued against resurgent reactionary politics. Successive civil conflicts disrupted the elections of 2032, 2038, and 2044; simmering unrest in Mexico and the western United States at times rose to an intensity characterized as a de facto civil war, but this was a war of masked men in the night, of disappearances and murder and terror. The California Anarchy of 2041-2055 spread as far north as British Columbia and south into Baja California; until the 2070s, Sonora, Chihuahua, Coahuila, and western Texas were de facto independent states, ruled with bloody repression by regional strongmen whom the Mexican and United States governments were happy to ignore so long as they paid the required tribute in taxes.

In Europe, pressure from Russia and from local nationalist movements caused the weakly-integrated eastern states of the EU to fall one by one from the Union's sphere of influence. Britain flirted with its own form of authoritarian politics, aligning itself with the reactionaries in the United States and with the Committee of Public Safety that had seized control of the government of Australia. The remnant of the European Union, led by the Berlin-Paris axis, became paranoid and militaristic, and political factions in member states that flirted with secession were unofficially suppressed.

More openly fascist governments, of a type thought extinct since the Second World War, blossomed in Indonesia and Australia. The former's ideology of a "Greater Indonesia," coupled with the weakening of the unipolar world order, resulted in a series of wars across the Malay Archipelago and Southeast Asia. The Fifth Indo-Pakistani War turned briefly nuclear in the 2050s, and the aftermath of this conflict resulted in famines and epidemics across South Asia. Episodes of terror now relegated to dismal footnotes by the other catastrophes of this era include the Chinese invasion of Taiwan and the subsequent "Special Administrative Procedures" that resulted in the death or deportation of 10% of that islands population; the Palestinian, Yemeni, and Second Armenian Genocides; the Second Korean War, which also saw the use of nuclear weapons; the Third Congo War; and the Brazilian Brush Wars.

Laid out together, it is a dismal catalogue of death and destruction, well worth the term "Collapse," especially against the future that had been longed for. Is it little wonder then, that in the 2060s a writer who had been young and hopeful in the first years of that century, had lamented that he was living in the last age of the world? K.P. Barstow wrote, in his final novel *Mariner,* "Now nothing is left, save the epilogue, in which we will not have even the comfort of a summing-up of all our sorrows." Every generation of our species since the first has produced pessimists who feel the world is about to end, that nothing can be rescued from the chaos that lies around them, and that nothing fair in their youth will ever flower again; and of those generations which endured the Collapse, perhaps, this is a more understandable sentiment than most.

I, too, understand it. I, too, was born in a springtime of the world, when the sorrows of past ages seemed distant and fading quickly, when the future seemed boundless and full, and the joys of my species seemed like they must only increase, forever. And I, too, have drunk deeply of the bitter draught of grief in seeing this future destroyed. I saw the pillar of atomic fire that rose above Jakarta with my own eyes. I saw how easily the bright cities of Sunda and Sahel were swept away. When the traitorous servants of that awful prince burnt the coasts of Java and Sumatra, they annihilated the little village I had once called home. I have kept the names of all whom I loved who I lost in those days close to my heart, and I repeat them still: the names of my mother and father, of my brothers and sisters, of my nieces and nephews. Each of whom deserved everything of the future that we dreamed of then, each of whom deserved to know that one day the stars would be open to us and we would build palaces in the sky; but now all of whom are lost, and who live on only in my memory.

In those awful and grief-filled days, when I fled with the other survivors through the burning ruins of Serang and Cilegon, hoping that there were still ships at the coast that might take us to Sumatra, or Kalimantan, or Sulawesi, when my skin was red with burns and my eyes clouded with ash and tears, when my belly was empty and my legs were weak, I remembered Barstow's words, and I thought to myself that he had only been off by two hundred years. Nothing is left, I whispered to myself, except for our sorrows.

In the morning we came to the docks and we fled far away; first to Manila, until by some mysterious grace we were granted passage to Shenzhen. In a hastily-erected outside the city I lay in a delirium of weariness and despair for three days. And for three days the sun rose and fell; for three days my companions brought me water and food; and for three days my life and the world and time all stubbornly refused to end.

And this is the second lesson, the lesson that in the end the children of the Collapse, and I, and all others who have endured unendurable loss have learned: there is always a tomorrow. There is no Yawm ad-Din awaiting us, no catastrophe so great that *something* will not remain in the aftermath, and if you find that you are among the fragments that have been shored against the ruin, you will find also that you must learn how to live again in the world that you now inhabit. After three days I arose from my cot, and went out into the sunlight, and began to think about what to do next. They were no great plans: I had hope that some of my family was still alive, and that I could find them. I had hope that I could book passage east, to friends I had in Canada. I wept. I had suffered far less than most. But still I wept, for the pain I felt then at being alive, and the pain of still having hope.

There is no period of darkness in human history so absolute that something does not flourish in unlooked-for places, and so too it was during the Collapse. While Europe fragmented, and the Americas struggled against the teratoid issue of authoritarianism and reaction, new growth bloomed in Africa, in Argentina, in central Asia, and even in the burned-over lands of southern and southeast Asia. Abuja, Nairobi, and Gaborone were flourishing; the East African Community was quickly becoming the most dynamic economy on the Indian Ocean, and the West, exhausted by conflict and anachronistic politics, was beginning to look south for new ideas, and found itself invigorated. Just as the "dark ages" were also the age of the Carolingian Renaissance, and the Second World War was also the engine of a new spirit of international community and cooperation, the Collapse was simultaneously the decay of an old world and the beginning of a long project of building a new one. Even amid the chaos, the seeds of the Second Space Race, of the Genetic Revolution, of the Pacific Conclave and the Renewalist movement, were all being sown.

The Collapse ended, not in a single cathartic event, but gradually and in different times in different places. The New Federalists came to power in the United States as the result of decades of careful political maneuvering; the European Union was reformed, and began to expand again; new constitutions were adopted in India, China, and Indonesia, and in Canberra the surviving members of the Committee of Public Safety were hung by a mob from the spire of Parliament House. In the uneven and insufficient compromises which allowed the world to begin looking to the future again, it is true that many deep injustices persisted. Many conflicts remained unresolved; many would rise to the surface again in paroxysms of violence, including (though we did not know it) the Solar Fitna and the Thousand Days' Strife.

Even in those uncertain days the distant stars awaited us, and here we come to the third lesson of the Collapse. For we have carried with us into the stars all our hopes for the future, and all our faults and vices. War, we still have with us; and want, and hate. Man is, as William Godwin might have it, perfectible but never perfect. All our past sins and suffering may be granted meaning only if we remained determined to use them as the foundation of a better future. I am a stranger now in those islands that once I loved so well, and the world of my youth, and the future that I hoped for, is now gone--as lost to me as the happy world the children of the twentieth century once hoped to inaugurate in the twenty-first. A different world awaits us now, and be our burdens ever so heavy and our grief ever so great, it is within our power, even if only a little, to determine what it will be.

--Tjungdiawan's Historical Reader, 3rd Edition

[thesummerstorms]

It is fascinating to me to imagine Leliana as Divine during Veilguard.

Here is the Southern Chantry, historical tool of Orlesian Imperialism, with a literal hero of the fifth Blight at its head as the South is threatened by Blight (historical catastrophe) and Venatori (with Tevinter being a historical enemy the Orlesians define themselves opposite of).

But even a literal war hero who has fought the Blight head on, who represents the religion and savior-figure they so loudly proclaim devotion to, who has years and years of experience as a Spymaster and in playing the Game, who to some extent is responsible for the current ruler holding the throne, cannot meaningfully unite them against the threat.

And yeah, maybe it's because she pushed hard on reform, made enemies early and fast, because her alliances were shaken loose in a way the grasping could take advantage of.

But we watch on screen as Fereldan builds an alliance with the Chaisind and Avvar who the have historically rejected.

(Message From the Front: The Fall of Weisshaupt: "When I returned south after speaking with you, I sent envoys to both the Chasind and the Avvar. They and the leaders of Ferelden have agreed to an alliance, at least until this present threat passes.")

As the Free Marches come together under a single banner and start marching South towards the blight to help fight it back when the Inquisitor is forced to abandon southern Fereldan and take refuge in Skyhold.

(Message From the Front: The Drums of War: "The Free Marches have unified under a single banner and even now march south to aid us in our struggle.")

Yet Orlais is sold out from within by its own rebels seeking power...or to maintain their power.

(Message From the Front: The Fight For the South: "In Orlais, a splinter faction of the nobility has made common cause with the Venatori and launched an assault on both the royal forces of Orlais and the border keeps of Ferelden.")

Orlais has been so long fixed on the "Game", on personal advantage, on traditions rooted in keeping the powerful in power, that they can't unite at a meaningful level to fight back, even if the Divine of the Orlesian Chantry is a Hero of the Blight.

(Message From the Front: The Drums of War: "The Free Marches have unified under a single banner and even now march south to aid us in our struggle.")

"But those are the rebels-"

Yes. But! The Inquisitor's letter flat out states that her alliance is trying to help the Orlesian Royal Army and they refuse to cooperate.

(Message From the Front: The Tide Turns: Not all have chosen to ally so openly and directly with us. The Venatori and the Orlesian royal armies clash daily in Orlais. Val Royeaux is now under control of the rebels, and from there the Venatori launch attacks as far east as Kirkwall. Yet Orlais still refuses to join us. We've sent several companies to assist, but while the Orlesian troops don't attack them, they refuse to coordinate tactics.)

Now, the good news is that Orlais has apparently finally pushed back the Venatori enough to take some power back by the last letter from the Inquisitor.

(Message From the Front: The Drums of War: "and reports from Orlais suggest that the Venatori have been fought to a standstill.")

But what position are they going to be in now? Literally everyone else seems to have united on some level to work together. The Rivaini pirates are shipping goods from Ostwick to both the Fereldan Alliance and to Antiva. We have two potentially powerful new multi-people alliances in play. Nevarra, Antiva, and Rivain all have had some sort of presence in the final battle in Minrathous and have been connected together through Rook.

But Orlais has only managed to spend its resources fighting itself and you can bet everyone is going to remember their unwillingness to cooperate later. So now they're one Civil War weaker but also out considerable political influence given that by sitting out they missed out on any alliance building.

Nevarra has been tense rivals with Orlais for years anyway, the Fereldans are still distrustful, and the Free Marches are united enough to push back.

If Orlais tries to walk right back into the game, I think they might find things are not the same old favorable position they've long held for themselves.

[theplumsoldier]

like a good husband would

summary: joel owes you some good dick after he scared you like that warnings: smut, breeding kink, vulgar language, mentions of blood. a/n: omg hope its not that obvious i haven't written smut in a looong damn time o.o

You had heard him even before the door opened, his heavy boots thumping in the hall. Throwing the blanket from your body, you jumped at the sound of his steps and scurried to meet him. You were faster at unlocking the door than he was at getting out his key.

"Joel!" cried you, when you were met with his weary face and leaped forward to pull him in.

"Baby," murmured he, shock apparent in his bearing, careful not to get his red hands on your clothes when you pulled him into a tight hug.

Adrenaline had taken charge of your mechanics and you hurriedly pulled him after you to the bathroom, mind set on cleaning him up and tending to any wounds.

"I was so scared something had happened to you, shit--they said, someone had been hurt! I've been losing my shit the past hours 'cause they couldn't give any updates, and fuck! I was so afraid it was you, Joel--"

"Baby, baby!" he interrupted, harshly pulling you into his chest by your hand. "I'm fine, I'm okay, baby."

Before you knew it tears were streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed by the rush surging through your bones.

Joel grabbed you by the chin, pulling your face close to his, whispering, "Okay? I'm fine, baby."

Gulping, you mimicked his nod. "Okay."

Although he insisted he was fine, you demanded he sat in the tub like a good husband would, and let you clean him. As it turned out, he did in fact have several bruises that hadn't been there in the morning, and you did not hesitate to scold him.

"They're just scratches," he brushed off and he was right. They wouldn't need any extensive care, so you focused on his tense muscles instead. Rubbing his wet skin, your thumbs ran over the most sensitive spots eliciting deep hums from him.

"That good, baby?" asked you, leaning down to kiss his tan skin.

Joel moaned in response, making your eyes catch sight of his cock in the water. Reaching down, you softly pumped him, finger teasing the slit carving his head.

"And this?"

You felt him writhe beneath you, hand reaching up behind him to pull you by your shirt. Placing your lips on his, he immediately moaned at the taste.

"God, I love you," he said between open-mouthed kisses, splashing water everywhere as he got out of the tub and picked you up.

Laughing, you squealed his name, protesting the mess he had made when he threw you onto your bed.

Straddling you, he made a dumbfounded grimace. "Ey, you started this. Ya really think I wasn't gonna finish it, huh?"

You grinned, lovesick as you pulled him into your neck to suck on the spot he knew like the back of his own hand. Leaning into the pillow, you closed your eyes to enjoy the feeling of his warm lips.

"Baby," moaned you, your hands pulling his face up to your own, pressing his forehead against yours. "You gonna make it up to me for scaring me like that?"

A devious chuckle blessed his face, a wink in his eye. Then he went south.

You giggled and pulled off your shirt in a quick move, making yourself comfortable as he removed your sweatpants and underwear.

He started off by, teasingly slow, peppering kisses up your thigh, one hand on the back of your thigh, massaging, and the other one cupping a breast, groping.

Joel looked up from between your thighs, whispering "goddess" as you had found cloud nine, already ecstatic from the sensation that would soon follow.

Then he dove in, his tongue licking a long, wet stripe through your folds, desperate to taste your juices. Moaning into your cunt he became completely drunk on your pussy, loving that this was all for him.

Your hand flew down to grasp at his hair when he pulled you impossibly closer. His stubbles tickled your clit, making you writhe beneath him, just as he had in the bathtub. He was reminded to rub it with his thumb, sliding soft motions across the delicate bundle.

Moaning his name, you whined for the feeling of him filling you and he felt his cock twitch, knowing exactly what you needed. Although he enjoyed playing with you, he was in no mood to deny you of your wants.

With a final suck and kiss on your clit, he moved up your stomach, licking a stripe on your belly and flicking your nipple with his warm tongue.

Pulling him back up to you, you swirled your tongue across his, knowing very well how much he loved it when you wanted to taste yourself on him. To know that he was the one you wanted, that he was the only one who got to see you like this. He was proud to be the man to satisfy you, honored to tend to your needs.

And that's what he did.

He slid into you with ease, your pussy fitting him like a glove, hugging him.

Cussing, you clutched him tight, a hand squeezing his firm ass to steady him and adjust to his size. Every night he would rip you open like a ripe fruit, your longtime marriage confused with that of a newlywed couple, still, madly in love at every darn sight.

"Fuck, I love you," moaned he, pressing his lips to yours, bottoming out.

In a soft but steady motion, Joel rolled his hips against yours, pressing you closer and closer up to the headboard. Your eyes fluttered, lashes blinking up at him, a desperate pout on your face and furrowed brows--you were begging for more.

He picked up the pace, letting you feel the full length of his cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Nuzzling his head into your neck, he murmured praises.

Your eyes fluttered, seeing stars as you felt him in your stomach when he bent your legs upward so that they were pushed against your chest, pinning you in such a way you could hardly move. But it was okay, for you would never leave this man.

"Fuck yeah, baby, want you to fill me up!" moaned you and his eyes locked on you. Your expression didn't match your seduction, a whole different aura to your mien just whining and begging for his cum. A certain attitude about you admitted you were there for his pleasure only, and it riled Joel the fuck up, knowing you wished to be bred like a slut and praised like a goddess.

Even if you were always like this for him, thirsty for his cum, he felt himself reach the point of bursting. He brought his hand down to toy with your clit, a true master at multitasking.

"Gonna fill you with my babies, doll. That whatchu want, yeah? Walk around with my babies, want everybody to know you're mine?"

"Yes, baby--please," whined you, your pussy clenching his cock, nails scraping his back as he thrust one, two, three times before he stilled, coming.

He moaned into your mouth, his milky seed mixing with your own juice.

Joel then looked at you, grinning at the cocky smirk on your lips. Always getting what you want.

"Three," he chirped, commencing the countdown to your ritual post-sex tomfoolery.

You giggled before taking over, "two, one!"

Laughing you reached down to cover your pussy, preventing cum from leaking onto the sheets as he quickly pulled out. He moved to grab a cloth for you, as usual, walking away, cock in hand, but not before you licked his cum off of his fingers and he had kissed your forehead.

[arminreindl]

Large caimans, seacow predation and a new pepesuchine

What a week we just had when it comes to fossil crocodile news. Not one, not two, but three whole publications dropped this last week, each noteworthy in its own way.

The first of these was "New taxa of giant caimans from the southernmost hyperdiverse wetlands of the South American late Miocene", which coined two new genera of caiman from the Argentinian Ituzaingó Formation.

Tho the names are new, both are far from unknown. The first of these is Paranacaiman bravardi, which was described based on a fossil traditionally associated with Caiman lutescens (now deemd a nomen dubium). The second is Paranasuchus gasparinae, which was already described in 2013 under the name Caiman gasparinae.

I will say that I find the names to be a little poorly chosen. On its own either one works, but together they are very similar and feel like they might cause some confusion down the line, at least in science communication.

But that's just my own opinion. Regardless of nomenclature, they are interesting. I am currently working on reconstructing Paranasuchus, but I did wrap up Paranacaiman with a simple reconstruction of the skull and a quick scaling, revealing it to have potentially been just shy of five meters in length.

Barely a day later we got hit with more Miocene croc news, specifically a short note on crocodilian feeding traces being identified on the fossils of the dugong Culebratherium from Venezuela. The animal has bitemarks all over its body, but highlighted are those centered around the skull. In addition to simple punctures, some bitemarks appear to showcase dragging and slashing, possibly associated with the well known deathroll performed my crocs. Alltogether, this could hint at the fact that one of the large crocodilians of the Agua Clara Formation might have grasped the seacow by its snout to drown it before tearing into it. Given that the fossil locality is fairly new and the fact that they are nothing but bite marks, we do not know what crocodilian was responsible, tho the paper suggests a small to medium sized caiman. Feeding traces also show that tiger sharks got involved at some point, which mirrors fossil evidence from the Austrian Paratethys.

Artwork of the possible predation event by Jaime Bran

And the final croc paper of last week takes us back quite a bit further, all the way back to the Cretaceous. Epoidesuchus tavaresae is a new species and genus of pepesuchine peirosaurid from the Adamantina Formation of Brazil, famous for its diversity of notosuchians (and apparent lack of modern crocs sans one exception).

Now for those unfamiliar, Pepesuchinae is a subfamily of Peirosaurids, best recognized by having slender, very crocodilian-like jaws that may indicate more semi-aquatic habits, as opposed to the more terrestrial and almost pig-like peirosaurines such as Uberabasuchus.

I should mention that theres some debate around the nomenclature. The paper follows the idea that Pepesuchinae is a subfamily of Peirosauridae, but a more recent paper (which at least two of the authors including the lead worked on) has Peirosaurinae and Pepesuchinae both as fully-fledged families, with the latter going by the name Itasuchidae (which is the older name). I should further mention that the nomenclature paper coined the clade Peirosauria to contain both these families and Mahajangasuchidae.

Anyways, tho fragmentary, we know that Epoidesuchus had the same narrow jaws as many other pepesuchines/itasuchids and was likely semi-aquatic. Given that neosuchians are rarer in South America, it seems very possible that their nische was largely filled by these specialised notosuchians, which strayed from the usual terrestrial habits of their group. In fact, tho many different notosuchians are known from the Bauru Group, the only neosuchian recovered so far is the recently named Titanochampsa.

Below the gorgeous press art by Guilherme Gehr

All three papers in order

New taxa of giant caimans from the southernmost hyperdiverse wetlands of the South American late Miocene: Journal of Systematic Palaeontology: Vol 22 , No 1 - Get Access (tandfonline.com)

Full article: Trophic interactions of sharks and crocodylians with a sea cow (Sirenia) from the Miocene of Venezuela (tandfonline.com)

A new Peirosauridae (Crocodyliformes, Notosuchia) from the Adamantina Formation (Bauru Group, Late Cretaceous), with a revised phylogenetic analysis of Sebecia - Ruiz - The Anatomical Record - Wiley Online Library

[indigos-stardust]

Flicker

Hundreds of years ago the fire moth people, or Nari'shi, lived on volcanic Islands to the South. Unfortunately, there was a catastrophic period of forest fires in the nearby lands that spread from the wild, to crops, and finally villages.

The Nari'shi contain the ability to generate enough heat to create flames. This is because they naturally have a sixth sense to read energy through their antennae and have a much higher resistance to the natural heat from the volcano's they live nearby and depend on. Due to these factors, they can use their own stores of energy and release that through the friction their thick fur creates in fast movement. They even had group dances that would create sparks from the fast movements and touches.

However, that ability to create flame is why they were blamed for the tragedies that continued, even if they was no real evidence they had done those things. Due to complicated politics of the time, including the greed and power tactics of many leaders, they were used as scapegoats for not just the fires but many other things.

During their season of Dormancy And Rest, or Winter, many attacks were made against them using cruel techniques. IN the end their rule was dismantled and they were forced to pay for "retributions." Having no home and no wealth, they agreed to contracts that essentially trapped them and their families in generations of forced labor, abusive surveillance, and working conditions that violated many human rights.

Most work in the Fire Works, where their energy is used either to forge weapons with their fire or create magical energy capsules for a variety of purposes. It's a grim and gruesome reality. Schooling and any method for empowerment or escape from that lifestyle are banned using racist ideas to back it up.

Red, or rather Flicker in this au, worked and lived in those horrible conditions. One day, an older man who had taken care of him, was being yelled at by one of the surveyors. He was too slow. It didn't matter that he was overworked, exhausted, and slowed down by the years of intense labor. He'd be punished for his slowness anyways. Most of the time, the only reason it happened was just to make an example.

At a certain point, everyone reaches a limit. Even though it was stupid, and the elder man begged him not too, Flicker tried to defend him. Tried to make an excuse or aid him in some way, to make the pain less. Things only escalated unfortunately. Then other people were roped into it. More serious threats were made.

Flicker, well, he ended up determined to defend him. And with his own temper his own flame flared up. So hot it broke his own restraints. Apparently, he was "gifted" with a strong fire. People like that were sent down to the Tartarus Plant. No one ever came back from there. No one that ever went there saw the sky again. The beautiful sun would be a dead memory.

So he ran. Sure, it was a rather explosive escape. Sure, if he was caught he'd face a fate worse than death itself. Maybe he accidentally did cause several fires because of the adrenaline and lack of restraint paired with this "gift" (more like a curse.) Miraculously he manages to escape on a raft. Or well, he would've been shot down if Flicker did that. The Island was full of guards.

It's more accurate that they thought he died and then he thought he died when the small boat exploded around him. Flicker wasn't exactly sure what happened. A selkie folk, who knew the ocean and its depths, wouldv've realized that he'd been dragged off by a vicious rip current. And managed to survive purely because he was entangled in a boyyant piece of the small boat he stole.

As for the whole "drowning" issue? No clue on that, for all anyone would ever guess is that either some guardian spirit was watching over him or maybe he just was so near death and hot that he just created an air bubble from all the water he was heating up. Who knows honestly.

Of course, when he washed up in some small cave on the cliff side of some foreign land, he had to admit he was relieved. Sure, there was no way out due to the tides that blocked the exit of the cave. Perhaps, he'd never leave this place and he'd just starve inside, it wasn't like he could swim. Honestly, it was better than whatever fate was awaiting him at the Fire Works.

But then he noticed a frozen chunk of ice near the corner of the cave. At first, he thought it was a strange rock, he'd never seen ice before. There was even clams growing around it as well. He felt droplets melt as he touched it. While he observed the strange thing, he noticed a strange shape inside. So, he melted through it. And then...

A MEAL- Okay, it was probably some dead disease infested animal that died some unfortunate death- But cmon! It PROBABLY wouldn't kill him and honestly- Maybe he could make this work! He'd get enough energy from eating that weird freaky looking animal and maybe he'd learn how to fish! He could just- Drink the water dripping from the stalactites above! He'd survive!!

Well, that's what he thought before he was about to try to cook the dead thawed thing and then it suddenly opened its eyes and shrieked and bit him. Oh, and then it turned into a whole freaking man with weird white hair and crap.

Then the guy started screaming more! Sure, maybe it was because Flicker was screaming too- But in his defense he didn't expect his dead meal to just BECOME A RANDOM GUY?

Things calmed down and they established that they didn't want to kill each other. Then they both demanded what the hell was up with the other dude in the cave. Apparently "Buwe" was trapped in ice or cursed or something. He seemed strangely concerned for Flicker though, Flicker couldn't really understand why.

After a bit of peace and making up for the "accidentally trying to eat/bite you" scenario with some fish that Buwe had caught they chatted some more. Buwe was determined to take Flicker home with him. But the more Buwe talked.. Yeah, Flicker wasn't exactly schooled, but he started to realize everything this guy was describing.. From money and the state of the kingdoms and whatever else? He sounded like he was alive when the Nari'shi were free.

So, they started to put together that Buwe's entire family and tribe were probably dead because apparently he'd been frozen in ice for over two hundred years.

Buwe, brilliant man that he is, decides he's going to cope by adopting Flicker. Flicker, who doesn't want to die and is appreciative of this strange man who has provided food and protection find's himself accepting this agreement. Even though he's literally an adult but apparently, "Smol brother is smol brother" was enough reasoning for Buwe so this was just his life now.

They tried to go back to Buwe's old village, but after seeing the way the grief absolutely wrecked Buwe, Flicker encouraged them to find a new life elsewhere together. Buwe agreed and they set off.