#cause if it’s set in 1914

[inkinthetypewriter]

alphonse definitely makes “you weren’t born in this century” jokes to edward and ed loses his mind

[wolfpackenthusiast]

Someone special

Pairing : Jacob Black x reader

Word count : 1914

Summary : based on the song “Last Christmas” in a way!!!

Warnings : some angst, but fluffy ending!!!

A/n : sorry i haven’t made a fic in a few days, I’ve been busy packing for a trip !!

You, Jacob and Bella grew up together, all three of you being close, though, you could tell Jacob and Bella were a bit.. closer. It was obvious there was a duo in a trio.

Despite that, you had a little crush on Jacob, even as kids, he was your best friend, you didn’t have a good understanding of love, but you felt like he was special to you, and you hoped you were special to hum, too.

You were! But obviously, Bella seemed to be more special to him than you were, this hurt, obviously. Even though, you tried staying close to the two, though, it felt like third wheeling the older you guys got.

Soon, Bella moved to Phoenix with her mom, leaving you and jacob. In a way, you were happy, but you obviously didn’t show it, But now it was just you and Jacob. This was your chance to get closer to him!!

That’s exactly what you did, you spent loads of time with Jacob, your feelings growing, but you never openly admitted them. You didn’t want to ruin your bond with him, especially ‘cause you knew.

His heart was set on Bella.

Years pass, you and Jacob stayed close, until Bella came back to Forks to live with her biological dad.

Jacob was thrilled, obviously, you were happy too, but you knew he’d spend more time with her.

Soon, as you expected, your hangout time with jacob lessened, from almost every week day to weekends, to one day a week, you always got excuses lime “i’m showing Bella around, things have changed since she last got here,” “i’m catching up with Bella,” or “Bella needs me today.”

It’s always Bella.

You were supposed to be a trio! What happened to that?? It’s always just those two nowadays, leaving you in the dark.

Yes, you spoke to Bella, you still have her number, she hadn’t changed it. But you two never really hung out anymore.

Even after Bella got a boyfriend, Edward, Jacob was still around her! Though, he spent. A little more time with you, but even then, he spent the majority of his time with Bella.

Soon, Bella’s boyfriend left, and she went into a not-so-good state, and Jacob was the one to always be around her, like it was his time to shine.

You tried talking to Bella too, but she never really answered, it was either a dry response or no response at all.

And more excuses from Jacob came along with Bella’s depression. Always “I’m with Bella,” “Bella needs a friend right now, and I want to help her.”

At first it was understandable, but the more time went on, it seemed like she was just using Jacob as a rebound guy, ever since her boyfriend came around, she spent less time with Jacob, but mow that he’s gone, Jacob’s suddenly her favorite person??

It made you mad, she shouldn’t be using him like that! The worst part, Jacob just goes with it!

But soon, Jacob just.. cut contact, sith you and Bella, it was.. weird.

But soon, Bella was pounding at your door.

You opened it.

“Yeah?”

You said, not really in the mood to talk to anyone.

“Somethings up with Jake, he’s not answering my calls or texts.”

Bella said, obviously pissed off.

“Maybe he broke his phone?”

“Billy would’ve said so, but billy says he’s sick with Mono, but it’s been weeks!”

“Maybe it’s-“

“You’re coming with me to see him.”

“Wha-“

Before you could even protest, you were sitting in Bella’s truck, driving to La Push, Jacob’s place.

It was pouring outside, Bella was crazy for wanting to drive in this weather, but there was nothing to stop her now.

As you two got there, there was four shirtless men there, was that… Sam Uley and his “goons”? Jacob always said how they were showoffs. Why were they at his place?

Bella put the her truck in park and immediately got out, going up to the four of them.

Before you knee it, Bella slapped one of them, making them extremely angry.

You got out of the truck, running over to them, had to save Bella from whatever situation this was.

“Bella!”

You said loudly, grabbing her wrist and moving her away from the group, and just in time, there was a large wolf replacing the man that was just there, what the fuck??

And as if on cue, Jacob came out.!

“Bella, Y/N!”

He shouted, jumped over his fence and running towards them all, suddenly in the air and transforming into a large wolf himself, you and bella were flabbergasted.

Though, you and Jacob make eye contact, and he seems to pause for a moment, staring at you like you became his world, but then, quickly tore his gaze away and over to the other wolf, tacking them and into the woods they go.

“Embry, Take them back to Emily’s.”

Sam said sternly before going after the two.

“Guess the Wolf’s out of the bag.”

The boy, Embry said, heading over to Bella’s truck, you and Bella following.

Soon, you made it to Emily’s place, stepping out of the truck.

“Some advice, don’t stare too much at Sam’s fiancé, it bugs him.”

Another boy said as you all walked in.

Walking in, there were some muffins on the table.

The boys immediately sat down.

“Save some for your brothers.”

The girl, who you and Bella assumed was Emily, said.

“And ladies first, you two hungry?”

She asked, bella declined while you took a muffin.

“Thank you.”

You said politely.

“So, you’re the vampire girl,”

Emily said, vampire?? You weren’t aware of that!

“And you’re the Vampire girls.. friend?”

She asked, not completely sure

“Yeah,”

You confirmed, giving Bella a look.

“Vampires??”

You said.

“I..- I couldn’t tell you, sorry, Y/N.”

Bella said, somewhat muttering.

Soon, Jacob, Sam and the other boy came back.

Jacob stood by the door, giving you a look to follow him.

You went up to him, followibg him.

You two walked along the shore of La Push Beach, in silence.

“So, you’re a werwolf.”

You spoke up, breaking the silence.

“Yup, last time I checked.”

He said

“..but there’s more to it, and you’re involved.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

What could you have done to get involved?

“..elaborate.”

You said

“I…”

He seemed a bit nervous.

“imprinted… on you..”

He said, the hell was that?

“Am i supposed to know what that is?..”

You ask, extremely confused.

“Imprinting on someone is like... Like when you see her...Everything changes. All of a sudden, it’s not gravity holding you to the planet. It’s her. And that her; Is you, in simpler terms, you’re my soulmate.”

Jacob explain, flabbergasted was an understatement! Was this really happening?? The guy you’ve loved for years was YOUR soulmate??

“..and-“

“But.”

He interrupted you before speaking.

“I don’t want anything romantic, I just want to continue being friends.”

He said

His words were heart breaking, he could probably hear your heart shatter.

“Oh… oh yeah.. that’s fine..”

You muttered, in the most calmedt wya you could.

“Y/N, you know I love Bella.”

Even if you know, it still hurts

You swallowed hard

“Yes, i’m aware.”

You said,

“I’m planning on perusing her, and if everything goes correctly, you’ll be together.”

He said in a hopeful tone.

“..yeah.. okay, good luck..”

You said, and you two went back to the rest of the pack… and Bella.

Later that night, Bella went to Italy on very short notice, apparently going to save her “boyfriend” from killing himself or something.

Obviously, Jacob was worried, and decided to rant to you about it.

“I just can’t believe it! She just leaves to go to her ex, she’s gonna get herself in danger or something, gosh. How can she just leave me after all i’ve done! He left! He said he didn’t need her, yet she still goes after him??”

Be ranted, frustrated.

“Mmh, seems like you got a taste of your own medicine.”

You murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what do you mean.”

“You did the same thing to me, in a way.”

You said, you were finally going to say how you felt after all this time, let out all your frustration.

“Y/N-“

“No, Jacob, let me speak for once, you ALWAYS ditched me for Bella, always by her side like a puppy, even when she got a boyfriend, who she was clearly in love with, you were after her! When he left, you were her rebound, she was using you to make herself feel better!”

You said, and Jacob seemed mad, of course.

“Y/N, Bella made the wrong choice by dating that leech, i need to show her how much better i’d be for her, even if she is just using me, i’m not giving up.”

He said stubbornly

“That’s not the point, Jake, i’ve loved you since we were kids! Can’t you see that?? I’ve always been here for you, even while you go after Bella.”

You spoke, your voice becoming dhaky.

“Y/N.. i.. you know i love bella, i’m sorry, i know you’re my imprint.. but i really don’t see you like that.”

“You’re my best friend.”

His words hurt, even if he was trying to be kind about it.

“I know! But it hurts seeing the person you love go after another, it hurts like fucking hell Jacob, you should know how it feels.”

You didn’t want to sit around anymore

“Y/N, I-“

“Save it, Jacob, i’m done, i’m done sitting around watching you go after Bella, go peruse her, do whatever, i’m just.. tired.”

Mentally tired.

You walked off and into your car, starting it and driving home, not letting Jacob have a say in your decision, you couldn’t watch him go after another person anymore.

Though you didn’t know was that it hurts, mentally, to be away from your imprinter, you were practically in HELL, i missed Jacob, but this was your decision, it’d probably hurt more to see him and Bella together.

Some time passes, and from what you’ve heard is that Bella’s back with her boyfriend, good for them, but you were still miserable.

And then, there was a knock on your door.

You got up from where you were sitting, shuffling to the door and answered it.

And there stood, the one and only Jacob Black.

“Y/N..”

“What do you want?”

You said, not really fond of seeing him.

“I-i’m sorry, for everything,”

He muttered

“Are you only here because Bella’s busy with her boyfriend again?”

You spat,

“No! No.. i’m over Bella, i want you.”

That made your heart rate speed up.

“…you’re serious? Is this only became you can’t have Bella?”

You asked in disbelief

“No! It’s not, i realized i loved you more, i’m an idiot, i didn’t realize what i had when you were around, i want you and only you, i love you, Y/N.”

He said, taking a step towards you.

“I gave Bella my heart, but she just.. tossed it aside and stayed with edward, not giving a danm about me.”

He said

“This time, i’m giving it to you, you’re so, so special to me, Y/N, i didn’t realize it before, but you’re a special person to me, so i’m giving my heart tot you, and only you, forever.”

You were SO happy.

You just went up to him and gave him a BIIIGGG hug, and he immediately hugged you back

“You owe me big time.”

“I know.”

[hard--headed--woman]

For this 2nd day of Pride Month I decided to talk about a woman I mentionned yesterday in the post about Renée Vivien (that you should absolutely read by the way, Renée Vivien is amazing) :

Natalie Clifford Barney !

I talked about her to say that she's had a love story with Renée Vivien, but that's not the only thing she's done.

Natalie was born in 1876 in the United States and died in 1972 in Paris, at the age of 95. Writer and poet, she was the first woman to use the word "lesbian" in her writings (in this case a collection of poems, published in 1899), instead of the word "tribade" (it's another word for lesbian in french) or simply "homosexual". The word lesbian back then was even more taboo than it is today, so you can imagine how important this fact was (and still is).

She was also famous for the parties she organised: she held a literary salon which she wanted to turn into the "new Mytilene". She invited the female artists, writers and intellectuals of her time, in response to the all-male Académie Française, and they all spent whole afternoons and evenings in the flat of the wealthy American.

Natalie never tried to hide her homosexuality. As she said in a sentence that quickly became her most famous one,

"Why would anyone blame me for being a lesbian ?"

(Yes, that's her with Renée Vivien)

Natalie's mother (a renowned artist) and her tutor awakened her interest in the French language at an early age, and when she was a little older, she was sent to a school in France; thanks to this, she spoke French fluently and without an accent, and developed a soft spot for this country.

Natalie was 12 when she realized she was a lesbian, and decided right away to "live in the open, without hiding from anyone".

Hee first known relationship was with Liane de Pougy, a famous dancer of the time (whom she cheated on with many women). Natalie wrote about this love story in her collection Quelques portraits, sonnets de femmes. ("Some portraits, sonnets of women"). Liane wrote about it in her novel "Idylle sapphique", which so fascinated the French public that it had to be reprinted sixty times in the same year, with people torn between admiration and scandal. The two women eventually parted ways, however, due to Natalie's infidelities and Liane's "debauched lifestyle" (in Natalie's words).

As I said, this book caused a huge scandal. Natalie was forced to return to the United States, where her father burned all her writings he could find, and tried to marry her off. However, she categorically refused to obey him, and faced with her stubbornness, her father gave up, and Natalie returned to Paris, where she had a lot of lovers. Among these lovers, there's Renée Vivien (probably the most important, since Natalie never accepted their breakup and tried to get Renée back until Renée died at 32) Lucie Delarue-Mardrus, Colette, Emma Calvé, Olive Custance, Henriette Roggers and many others.

In 1902, on the death of her father, Natalie Clifford Barney inherited a large fortune and was able to rent a house in Neuilly-sur-Seine, where she gave parties that became the talk of the town.

In 1910, she moved into a house at 20 rue Jacob ; for nearly sixty years, this house was the setting for her famous "Fridays", one of the last influential literary salons. A LOT of famous people went there. Like really. The complete list is on Wikipedia if you're curious, and here's a screenshot with some examples :

Marie Skłodowska-Curie went there. Albert Einstein went there. Apollinaire and Proust went there. Oscar Wilde went there. That's cazy to me!

She's had other lovers, like Elisabeth de Clermont-Tonnerre, but her greatest love story was with the painter Romaine Brooks, with whom she had a relationship similar to that of a married couple from 1914 to the end of her life. Of course, this didn't stop her from cheating on Romaine with other women: Natalie was known for her infidelities, believing that polygamy was necessary for a couple's survival, although she claimed that this didn't stop her from being deeply in love with Romaine. She cheated on her for example with Oscar Wilde's niece Dolly, and Nadine Huong, whose story I'll tell one day because it's so interesting!

She spent the years of the Second World War in Italy, and later returned to France to find her second home, which she shared with Romaine Brooks, destroyed. In 1949, she reopened her salon (which started to welcome more and more famous actors and actresses on top on everyone else).

Nothing much happened for the rest of his life. She never left Romaine Brooks (despite continuing to have affairs with a host of other women) and died in Paris in 1972, aged 95.

Natalie Clifford Barney's work and life were very important not only for culture itself, but also for the lesbian community. She made a major contribution to lesbian visibility, opened many minds, helped normalize (even if we still have a long way to go) homosexuality and, above all, helped many lesbian women accept themselves, understand that they were not alone and live the life they deserved.

The influence of her works and her salon on culture, literature, cinema, theater and even science is immense and deserves to be recognized. We should be talking about her much more than we are!

Here's some of her poems with an english translation :

And she's written loads of other stuff that I really recommend you read! She was an interesting woman who wrote interesting things. Look her up on Google and read her writings and her life!

Anyway, that's it! Sorry for posting so late, and see you tomorrow for the 3rd lesbian pride post 🏳️‍🌈

[scotianostra]

On 19th January 1919 The Sunday Post - home of the 'Broons' & 'Oor Willie' made its first appearance.

The Sunday Post, the Scottish family newspaper was once named the most successful in the world by the Guinness Book of Records.

The paper was the creation of DC Thomson, the family firm behind the third J in Dundee's famed trio of jute, jam and journalism.

It was born out of a thirst for news brought on by the outbreak of World War One, as many local men headed off to fight on the front lines.

The Thomson family had made their fortune in the international shipping industry before branching out into publishing with the purchase of the Dundee Courier and Argus in 1866.

In 1884, 23-year-old David Coupar Thomson was put in charge of the family's growing publishing interests, and in 1905 DC Thomson and Company was set up to publish newspapers.

Although it was home to the daily Courier and Evening Telegraph titles, at the outbreak of war DC Thomson didn't have a Sunday paper.

So to serve the insatiable daily appetite for news of the war effort, a special Sunday edition of the existing Saturday Post was established in 1914.

The fourth battalion of the Black Watch was Dundee's own regiment, and was made up primarily of men who had worked in the three Js - including hundreds from DC Thomson.

With many of their own men serving in the trenches, the firm's newspapers were ideally placed to report on the war, with eye-witness accounts from the "fighter writers" sent back from foreign battlefields.

Even David Thomson himself took his chauffeur and car across to France to visit the front and send back reports.

The "Sunday Special" edition was intended to last for the duration of the war.

But the strength of its journalism and appeal was such that it continued on as a fully-fledged paper of its own, with the first edition of the new Sunday Post hitting the streets on 19th January 1919.

Despite falling out with some socialists when Thomson cracked down on trade union membership after the General Strike of 1926, the Post grew to become one of the country's most popular papers.

Perhaps in response to the collapse of the jute industry at the turn of the "Hungry Thirties" and a depression which saw unemployment in Scotland soar to 28%, the Post launched a "fun section" which produced the paper's most enduring characters.

Created by artist Dudley D. Watkins, Oor Wullie and the Broons made their debut in the first fun section in March 1936, and have been there ever since.

Every Scot was/is aware of Oor Wullie, through the Post, through his Christmas annuals, everybody knew it, 'Jings, crivvens, help mah boab' became part of the Scottish language, part of the dialect. How many of us have used the words ourselves? It is as much a part of our language as the age old favourite "Och Aye the Noo!"

The characters even got involved with the war effort when World War Two broke out in 1939, with Wullie setting up a shy featuring images of Hitler and other Nazi leaders instead of coconuts and Hen and Joe Broon enlisting.

Throughout the war, the Sunday Post became known for giving equal prominence to the headlines of the day and stories and appeals from local people.

Examples include a plea from a Clydeside mother of four for a safe place to take her children during the Blitz, and letters from wives and mothers trying to track down their loved ones.

The paper also campaigned fiercely on behalf of its readership - one long-running campaign targeted large stores of whisky in built-up areas, which it was feared could cause huge explosions if hit by a bomb.

Eventually the editor of the paper was called to London to talk to ministers, and the warehouses were moved to outlying areas. A lot of the whisky was actually moved to Canada, and one of the ships carrying it ran aground off Scotland, and became the source of Compton Mackenzie's famous 'Whisky Galore' - so you can thank the Sunday Post for that.

By 1935 the paper's circulation had grown steadily to 350,000, but in the post-war years it exploded - by the turn of the 1980s it was estimated six out of ten adults in the country were readers.

At its peak the paper was named in the Guinness Book of Records as the most-read paper in the world in its circulation area, with more than 1.7m copies sold every week in a country of five million people.

However, those glory years are long gone. Competition from television, the internet and an increasingly saturated newspaper market have seen the Post's circulation dropping to just under 143,000 in December 2016, with a year-on-year fall of 13.5% recorded for 2016.

In 2014 a weekly magazine supplement was reintroduced. Called IN10, it features entertainment, food, homes, gardens, travel and books as well as The Sunday Post's man in Hollywood, Ross King.

And despite sales being a shadow of their 1980s heyday, the Sunday Post is still as relevant as ever, although newspapers in print all over the country are in decline and I wonder how long some can survive......

[daphnefisherofficial]

bugna: TAKIPSILIM | destiny's twilight

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Pairing: MCU Moon Knight System (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Avatar Fem!Reader

masterlist | previous | next chapter

(A/N: This update took a lot longer than expected, because I really wanted to flesh out Darius Carter's character here. As we discovered in the latest chapter, he is the avatar of Anubis and the past life of our moon boys (Marc, Steven and Jake). I can't wait for you to finally meet him and discover how he first met our beloved Mira (you) and became an avatar. Sooooooo, I will no longer keep you waiting. Enjoy!)

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE - LIEUTENANT DARIUS CARTER

The year was 1914, and the world was on the brink of an inferno. The scent of gunpowder and the sound of marching boots echoed through the continent, war slowly rising on the precipice as the entirety of mankind braced itself for a conflict of an unprecedented scale. As the avatar of Mayari, the goddess of the moon, your immortality has not shielded you from countless conflicts that you have witnessed over centuries. But something about this one felt different.

As the majority of Europe has been set ablaze with the flames of war, you found yourself walking on foreign soil, far from the shores of your own homeland. Leaving the tranquil halls of Harvard University where you had just earned your medical degree being a pensionada, you have answered the call of duty in the first world war as you were dispatched to the epicenter of battle.

Not as a warrior, but as a healer.

It was a time of uncertainty, and your only duty was to save lives and alleviate the suffering caused by the horrors of war. It was a daunting task, but you were determined to do your part.

It was in a military outpost in France where you crossed paths for the first time. The air in the barracks was thick with anticipation and a hint of apprehension as fresh soldier recruits started to fill the encampment, their faces a mix of youthful enthusiasm and the dawning realization of what lay ahead. 

You stood among the medical personnel sent by the American Red Cross, observing the nervous yet determined faces of your comrades as you were being introduced to one another and your regiment officer. Your crisp, white medical uniform felt heavy with responsibility, yet you bore it with the quiet strength of someone who had seen far more than her youthful appearance suggested.

It was here that you saw him for the first time.

His towering stature caught your eyes immediately, standing tall and proud among your peers as his striking hazel brown eyes seemed to pierce through the haze of bodies and chatter. He stood out, not just for his imposing presence but for the way he carried himself—confident, yet with an air of humility.

His olive brown skin was littered with nervous sweat as he saluted, his military uniform crisp and new.

"Lieutenant Darius Carter, reporting for duty," he said, his voice steady and confident.

“At ease, Lieutenant”, the regiment officer said, patting the young soldier’s back encouragingly before his eyes fell on you and your colleagues. “You will be in charge of this unit, together with our friends and allies from the American Red Cross. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”

It was there, amidst the sea of young, eager faces, that your eyes met for the first time. Darius found himself tongue tied as you stepped forward, his heart pounding loudly in his chest as he witnessed you raising your right hand to salute before introducing yourself to your superiors and your fellow army recruits altogether. 

“Myrna Katigbak, reporting for duty,” you spoke, managing a polite smile despite yourself as you felt a hundred pairs of eyes on you. And yet, Darius's gaze stood out from the rest of your comrades, his eyes sparkling with bold admiration as he felt a strong connection in that moment, an inexplicable pull towards you that he couldn’t possibly ignore. 

Something about your enigmatic presence drew him in. Having grown up in a family with a deep connection to Egyptology, you were like an undiscovered pharaoh’s tomb to the young lieutenant waiting to be unravelled. And like any archaeologist and Egyptologists he has known his whole life, he has made it his first mission to seek you out and fulfill his quiet curiosity.

The next time you saw Darius Carter, it was in the makeshift soup kitchen. The scent of broth and bread filled the air as you ladled portions into bowls, your hands moving with practiced efficiency. Your fellow medics and soldiers, both weary and hungry after their intensive training, lined up at the long table with gratitude etched on their faces as you started to distribute lunch.

The young lieutenant was but a few steps away from the long table as the line progressed, almost chickening out as he neared. As he slowly approached, you looked up and met his gaze fully for the first time. Handing him his bowl of soup and a half loaf of bread, you noticed him trying to linger, his eyes bright with a mixture of hope and shyness as he struggled to find the words to speak.

“You can come back for seconds later, Lieutenant Carter”, you smiled, amused by his poor attempt at small talk which you find endearing.

“Right, thank you, Miss Katigbak”, he stammered as he ended up butchering the last name of your latest alias.

“You can just call me Myrna”, you corrected with an amused smile, bidding him goodbye as your attention shifted to the next man in need of sustenance. “I don’t expect everyone to get my last name right”

Darius internally groaned as he mildly shook his head, managing a soft chuckle despite himself as he continued moving forward and out of the lunch line. He found himself sitting at a nearby table, still gazing longingly at the long table where you were as he started to eat. As the hours slowly progressed and the early afternoon finally made its way, the number of people in the soup kitchen slowly dwindled until the only ones left were him and you.

This time around, Darius no longer allowed his nerves to get the best of him. With careful steps, he approached you once again, his eyes emanating the same spark from when he first laid eyes on you. 

“Excuse me, Miss Katigbak”, he asked, finally pronouncing your last name correctly with his rich, baritone voice that resonated pleasantly in the empty vicinity. “May I help you with anything?”

“You got it right this time,” you nodded in his direction as you started preparing your workspace for your upcoming chore. “And yes, you can help by carrying those empty bowls from the lunch tables and I’ll wash them here.”

He eagerly obliged, his movements careful as he balanced multiple trays of empty bowls on his hands. As soon as they piled up, he worked alongside you and shared your dishwashing workload. It was a mundane task for a soldier like him, but it didn’t matter as he had you to keep him company.

Besides, observing you from afar was becoming his favorite pastime. Your smooth and flawless skin was the first thing he noticed, a warm, sun-kissed brown with golden undertones that radiated health and vitality. Your hair, ebony-black and rich, fell in long, soft waves around your shoulders, framing your face perfectly. Your facade possessed a delicate heart-shaped contour that added a touch of youthful charm, along with high cheekbones and small, slightly upturned nose that accentuated your femininity. Your lips, full and naturally mauve, curved into a smile that reflected the warmth of your spirit, a genuine expression that made him feel at ease.

But it was your eyes that truly captivated him. Almond-shaped and chestnut brown, they glistened with warmth and mystery, capable of conveying joy, sorrow, and strength in a single glance. Framed by long, thick lashes, your gaze had an intensity that made those who met it feel uniquely seen. Your naturally arched brows added depth to your expression, giving you a look of quiet confidence.

“You never did go back for seconds, Lieutenant Carter” you spoke out loud, slightly startling Darius from his own reverie.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, his voice warm and earnest as you ended up laughing at his amusing response. 

“I meant you could go back in line earlier after finishing your meal to get a second serving of soup and bread”, you ended up explaining in which Darius sighed with pure relief. “I was waiting for you”

“Oh, right”, he seemed to relax at your friendly tone. “I’m too shy, unfortunately, so I will most likely die of hunger before I ask you for seconds, Miss Katigbak”

“You can just call me Myrna”, your amusement grew as you observed his quiet awkwardness which you find endearing. “Miss Katigbak is too formal and besides, it’s only the two of us here”

“Myrna it is”, Darius nodded, testing your name in his lips. “And please call me Darius, Lieutenant Carter is also too formal”

“Sure, Darius”, you obliged, prompting a warm smile from the lieutenant. “And now that introductions and our collective nerves are out of the way, care to tell me why you’re really here?”

"Well, to be honest, I was hoping to engage you in a conversation since we’ve first met”, Darius scratched the back of his head, his gaze locked onto yours. “I've heard that you're a medical graduate, and I thought I might pick your brain about a few things."

"I'm happy to help, but I have to warn you that I'm not the most exciting conversationalist”, you laughed softly. “I spend most of my time tending to wounds and doling out soup."

“That’s quite all right”, Darius's eyes sparkled with interest. "In fact, I have a penchant for Egyptology. Did you know that the ancient Egyptians were pioneers in the field of medicine?"

“Egyptology, you say?” you couldn't hide your surprise. "That's an unexpected interest for a soldier. But I must admit, it's a topic I find intriguing as well."

“I could spend all day talking about it if you’re interested”, Darius started, his positive energy overflowing at finding an outlet to share his interests. “I came from a family of archaeologists and Egyptologist, hence my knowledge”

As he started going on about his recent discoveries in the history of Egyptian medicine, you slowly fulfilled his curiosity by answering his questions in correlation to your current expertise, marking your longer interactions with the young lieutenant. He didn’t keep the conversation one-sided and challenged your insights, asking about your journey from America, your studies at Harvard, and your impressions of the war. You answered every question with polite brevity, finding his earnestness both charming and amusing as the two of you find companionship amidst the harsh reality of the ongoing war.

Your paths crossed once again in the crucible of battle. The frontlines were chaotic and brutal, the air filled with the deafening sounds of gunfire and explosions, serving as a constant backdrop to your work as a medic. You and Darius found yourselves deployed and stationed together with him as the commanding officer of your sector. As a medic, you worked tirelessly to fulfill your duty to save as many lives as possible and tended to the wounded from your unit, often under fire. 

It was during one of these intense battles that you truly began to see the depth of his character.

Darius was brave, almost to the point of recklessness, always throwing himself into the fray to protect his comrades. It was after one such skirmish that he found himself injured, and you were the one to tend to his wounds. As you worked, he watched you with a mixture of pain and admiration.

"You have a steady hand," he remarked, his voice strained but appreciative.

"Years of practice," you replied, focused on your task. "Hold still, this might hurt."

He winced but remained silent as you cleaned and bandaged his wounds. When you were finished, he looked at you with gratitude. "Thank you, Myrna. I don't know what I'd do without you here."

You smiled softly. "It's my duty, Darius. Just as it's yours to fight."

In the days that followed, your interactions grew more frequent and meaningful. You shared stories, hopes, and fears, finding solace in each other's company amidst the horrors of war. Your connection deepened, and it became clear that Darius's feelings for you were more than just admiration.

One fateful day, your barracks were under siege, almost overrun by enemy forces. The chaos was overwhelming as German soldiers started to storm the base. Recognizing the dire situation, Darius Carter ordered your unit as its commanding officer to evacuate.

“Myrna, take the others and head to the trucks”, he said, handing you a slip of paper with coordinates. “You and the rest of the surviving sector will be taken to the rendezvous point.”

“Understood, Lieutenant”, you nodded, saluting Darius as you started to help your fellow medics and other soldiers escape first, ensuring they reached the safety of the military trucks stationed on the outskirts. As the alarm sounded, signaling the order to retreat, you urged the remaining few of your comrades to make haste, barking orders left and right as you refused to leave anyone behind.

“Darius, you need to go”, you shouted amidst the chaos around you, seeing the lieutenant fought bravely as he clutched his rifle close, firing shot after shot at the advancing German soldiers merely a few feet away.

“I’m not going anywhere without you, Myrna”, he declared, his voice firm with resolve.

“I’ll be right behind you”, you insisted and started to push him away to safety, but he held his ground unwavering. 

“No, I’m not leaving you!” he shouted, his eyes locking onto yours with pure determination as his tone left for no argument. “We’re in this together”

You sighed in defeat, allowing him to stay by your side knowing there was no time to debate. The situation grew more perilous by the minute as it became clearer that the enemy was closing in on the barracks. But you and Darius continued to stand your ground, determined to aid your fellow comrades and guide them to safety.

Together, you fought your way through the turmoil as the chaos and destruction intensified, dodging bullets and explosions while glancing left and right to ensure each other’s safety. The moment of truth came when the last of the military trucks departed, and the two of you finally decided to make your escape. 

The barracks were in shambles, and you could hear the sounds of enemy soldiers drawing nearer. The two of you made a run for it, racing toward the outskirts where an abandoned motorbike was stationed.

But fate had other plans. Just as you were about to reach the vehicle, a group of German soldiers appeared on the scene, hot on your heels. They spotted your position, and before the two of you could react, shots rang out followed by a sharp crack that rang out. Darius staggered as he cried out in pain, clutching his shoulder where a bullet had struck. You watched in horror as he fell to the ground, the world seeming to slow down around you.

Panic coursed through you as you knelt beside him, trying to assess the situation. The German soldiers closed in, their weapons trained on you both. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you let your own instinct take over. There’s no way in hell that you will let him die on your watch.

Without hesitation, you drew upon the ancient powers bestowed on you by your patron goddess Mayari, summoning her very essence that lay dormant within you all these long years until this precise moment. In a blinding flash, your form shifted as the ceremonial armor slowly materialized in a shimmer of moonlight, replacing the former medical uniform enveloping your body.

You, Myrna Katigbak, a simple medic, began to change before Darius’s wide eyes. The initial shock and disbelief he felt witnessing your transformation slowly turned into awe, marking the beginning of your intertwined fates being woven together.

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

masterlist | previous | next chapter

[coimbrabertone]

A History of Formula One Grand Prix in the United States

After a near month long hiatus following the Singapore Grand Prix, Formula One returns this weekend with the United States Grand Prix at the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas. This is the second of three races in the United States this season, and a lot of people attribute the increase of American GPs to Drive to Survive and the peak in popularity that caused over here.

That may be true, however, two things complicate this fact:

One is that this is not the first time there have been three American F1 races in a season.

Two is that Grand Prix racing in the United States goes back further than in any country other than France.

So, today...let's talk about the history of the United States Grand Prix, and Formula One races in the United States more broadly.

The first race that could be considered a Grand Prix in the US was the Vanderbilt Cup, held on Long Island in the early 1900s. The initial 1904, 1905, and 1906 races were held on dirt roads, however, in response to the success of the 1906 French Grand Prix, William Kissam Vanderbult II financed the construction of the Long Island Motor Parkway.

This would not just provide a paved, modern road to Long Island, but it would also serve as the setting for the 1908 Vanderbilt Cup, won by American George Robertson in an American-made car called the Locomobile. An American victory in an American race governed by the American AAA.

But this is open wheel racing in America, so of fucking course there was a governing dispute already.

The AAA raised their membership dues in 1908, that was strike one, and then strike two was when they refused to adopt the Grand Prix regulations drafted by the AIACR - the FIA under its initial name - which paved the way for the Automobile Club of America to emerge as a competitor to the AAA.

And their showpiece event? the American Grand Prize.

Yup, the ACA went down to Georgia, found a stock car race run by the Savannah Automobile Club, and decided to turn that into the very first proper Grand Prix in America. The state of Georgia authorized the use of convict labor to lengthen the stock car track to 25.1 miles for the Grand Prize.

It was held in 1909 and won by Frenchman Louis Wagner...who in 1926 would go on to win the first British Grand Prix as well. An impressive resume.

The tea drinkers can write their own blog though, more on the US now!

Come 1911, and both the Vanderbilt Cup - aimed at American talent - and the American Grand Prize - aimed at international drivers - would both be held together in Savannah, Georgia. They would once again be hosted together in Milwaukee in 1912, in Santa Monica in 1914 and 1916, and in San Francisco in 1915.

World War I would kill off European participation however, and after 1916, the American Grand Prize went away.

The Vanderbilt Cup would briefly return in 1936 and 1937, back at Long Island, this time at the Roosevelt Raceway. However, with Tazio Nuvolari winning in an Enzo Ferrari-run Alfa Romeo winning in 1936 and then Bernd Rosemeyer winning in an Auto Union next year, the American audiences weren't convinced.

The 1930s version of the Vanderbilt Cup just served as a big money race for the Europeans to win.

So the American Grand Prize and the Vanderbilt Cup didn't work out, but what was working in America at that time was oval racing on board tracks.

The Astor Cup, held on the two-mile Sheepshead Bay Speedway in Brooklyn won over the Long Island audience instead.

If the names of these trophies sound familiar, it's because in 1996, during the CART-IRL split, CART revived the name Vanderbilt Cup and built a replica trophy as the prize for the US 500. Yup, the history of the Vanderbilt Cup was used to go up against the Borg-Warner Trophy of the Indianapolis 500.

Well, after four years of the US 500, in 2000, the Vanderbilt Cup became the trophy for the CART championship instead. The Champ Car World Series continued this tradition.

When Champ Car and the IRL Indycar Series merged, the Astor Cup name was revived instead. From 2011 onwards, the Indycar series champion receives the Astor Cup.

Anyway, back to the F1 in the US.

Initially the World Championship for Drivers, in 1950, gave the US date to the Indianapolis 500, seeing it as the biggest and most important race in the United States.

This was in spite of the fact that the Indianapolis 500 was governed by the AAA - and later USAC - and once the World Championship went to F2 regulations in 1952, Indy and the rest of the championship weren't even run under the same regulations.

In fact, the only time a World Championship driver came over to Indy was in 1952 (the first year of those F2 regulations) when Ferrari took Alberto Ascari and a 4.5L V12 Ferrari 375 to Indy in an attempt to win the biggest race in America. Alberto would retire, and Indy would be the only stain on an otherwise perfect 1952 season for Ascari.

Meanwhile, road racing was returning to prominence in the United States as permanent venues like Riverside and Sebring began to emerge.

In 1958, Riverside hosted a United States Grand Prix as part of the USAC championship.

In 1959, the II United States Grand Prix was held at Sebring, and this time, it was part of the Formula One World Championship. This race was won by Bruce McLaren in a Cooper.

In 1960, the race moved to Riverside, where it was won by Stirling Moss in a Lotus. This was also the last year in which the Indianapolis 500 counted for the World Championship.

And in 1961, the United States Grand Prix finally settled on its first permanent home, when Watkins Glen was chosen as the venue. From 1961 to 1980, Watkins Glen was the home of the USGP, a stint that lasted so long that the first winner was Innes Ireland in a Lotus and the last was Alan Jones in a Williams.

It was not the only USGP though.

I'd like to welcome everybody to the wild wild west.

Yup, from 1976 to 1983, F1 came to the LBC, the Long Beach Grand Prix joining the calendar under the title of United States Grand Prix West. The 1976 race was won by Clay Regazzoni in a Ferrari, while the last four races were won by Cosworth DFV powered cars, giving Long Beach a reputation as the race that the turbo powered cars couldn't win.

Indeed, the first win for a turbo car at Long Beach was 1984, when it was a CART race. The winner? Mario Andretti.

The next race on our list came in 1981, to replace Watkins Glen.

It was the Caesar's Palace Grand Prix, held in the parking lot of the casino for two years before it too was shifted off to the CART series - which itself only lasted two years before going away entirely.

The 1981 race went to Alan Jones in a Williams, picking up where he left off at Watkins Glen.

1982, meanwhile, went to Michele Alboreto in a Tyrrell.

1982 had a third US F1 round - like I said, the current era isn't the first time this has happened - being the Detroit Grand Prix in the downtown of the motor city.

A tight, twisty track swerving through the heart of the Motor City, the first Detroit Grand Prix was won by John Watson in a McLaren, while the last three were all won by Ayrton Senna. 1986 in a Lotus-Renault, 1987 in a Lotus-Honda, and 1988 in the all-conquering McLaren-Honda.

In 1989, Detroit too became a CART race, but unlike Caesar's Palace, it was actually successful.

In 2023, the Indycar Detroit GP returned to the streets of downtown, racing around the Renaissance Center in a layout best described as "bleh."

In any case, 1982 marked three American F1 rounds, but funnily enough...none of them were actually called the United States Grand Prix.

Long Beach was the USGP West, which was a rather clunky title given that there was no USGP to be west of.

Detroit was Detroit and Caesar's Palace was just Caesar's Palace.

Is Caesar's Palace the smallest geographic unit to get a Grand Prix named after it? It's gotta be up there, right?

1984 was a similar story, as there were two American F1 races back-to-back: the Detroit Grand Prix won by Nelson Piquet, and the one and only Dallas Grand Prix, won by Keke Rosberg.

Dallas was a mid-summer race held in the high heat of central Texas and that was only the start of the problems. The track surface was crumbling, the fans were in constant fear of the event being cancelled from out from under them, and the drivers felt the track was narrow and lacking in runoff areas.

CART passed on this one, instead, it was briefly brought back as a Trans Am race before fading into obscurity.

Dallas didn't work out, Detroit and Long Beach went to Indycar, and the less said about Caesar's Palace, the better.

Was Formula One in the US dead after 1988?

Not if anything to say about it, Phoenix has.

Yup, Phoenix of all places stepped in to host the USGP - returning to that name - in 1989. This event actually lasted three years despite triple digit summer heat, a disintegrating track surface, and an uninspired layout threatening to confine the track to the same fate as Dallas.

Alain Prost won in 1989, Senna won in 1990 and 1991.

Ecclestone initially promised the promoters the Phoenix Grand Prix would be held again on March 15th, 1992, but instead, the race was cancelled.

Formula One would not return to the US until 2000.

Tony George, in his quest to make the Indianapolis Motor Speedway the top racing venue in the country, brought NASCAR to IMS in 1994, and in 2000, he created an infield road course. This infield road course has become the home of sports car racing at Indianapolis, hosts an Indycar race ahead of the 500, and has in the past hosted MotoGP, NASCAR, and F1.

This was great, right? Formula One was back in the US and it was at the same place which hosted all those world championship rounds in the 1950s. F1 had finally reconciled Indianapolis with its road racing nature. Could this finally be how the USGP finds a stable home in the United States?

Well, it was going pretty good...up until 2005.

The oval had been diamond ground when it was repaved ahead of 2005. Bridgestone - the tyre supplier of Ferrari, Jordan, and Minardi - knew this, as they owned Firestone, which supplied the IRL Indycar Series with tyres, as it does with Indycar now.

Michelin, who supplied the rest of the grid...did not.

And Ralf Schumacher crashed in practice for the second time in two years. On a Michelin-clad Toyota.

Then Ricardo Zonta stepped in to replace Ralf...and he crashed as well.

The Michelin tyres couldn't take the oval corners, which formed the big final corner of the IMS Road Course. The Michelin teams tried to find a solution - whether that be a chicane, allowing pitstops, or using a different specification of tyre.

In the end, the FIA and Michelin could not come up with a compromise.

And in Indiana State Law, if Michelin let its teams race and something happened, they could be held criminally liable.

Thus, the Michelin teams pulled out of the race.

A six-car farce of a race then occurred between the Bridgestone teams as the fans booed and jeered.

All of IMS's good will in F1 evaporated.

After 2006 and 2007, the USGP disappeared.

An attempt was made to create an American Grand Prix in Port Imperial, New Jersey with the cars racing under the shadow of the New York skyline, but after years of trying this never got off the ground.

Instead, in 2012, the USGP found its modern home in COTA. Circuit of the Americas weathered the storm of some truly awful attendances in the mid-2010s - including a soggy and awful 2015 where the teams hardly got any running ahead of the race - to rebound and become one of the most highly attended races in history by the 2020s.

In 2022, the USGP at Austin was joined by the Miami Grand Prix in Miami Gardens, Florida. A flashy, exclusive race around the Hard Rock Stadium where the Dolphins play. This race saw Lando Norris take his maiden Grand Prix victory in 2024, kicking off a return to form for McLaren.

2023 added the Las Vegas Grand Prix, taking the idea of the Caesar's Palace Grand Prix to the next level. Rather than racing around a parking lot in the day, they raced down the strip at night under the lights of fabulous Las Vegas.

Miami and Las Vegas are considered grossly expensive and exclusive races meant to milk the US market, and maybe they are, but as an F1 fan in the United States, I used to dream of times like this.

We have three races, all hundreds of miles apart to give some decent coverage throughout the country, and I'd argue each one brings a different vibe.

Miami is all pastel colors and white awnings.

Las Vegas is the neon lights with the cars ripping down the Strip.

Austin is the larger than life red, white, and blue Americana that suits the main race.

I have many, many, many, many, many problems with the state of Formula One nowadays. I have many weeks of negative blogposts to prove that, but I'll never say that Formula One has too many races in the United States.

Las Vegas is as far from Miami as Madrid is from Moscow.

I know Europe is the home of Grand Prix racing, but as this has shown...the US has plenty of history too.

So onto Austin for the 2024 United States Grand Prix, with Formula One looking to be in a more competitive place than it was at this time a year ago.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Luke Taylor at The Guardian:

For Isabel Corro, Donald Trump’s suggestions that the US could use military force to take control of the Panama Canal evokes painful memories. The 79-year-old vividly recalls rushing her children inside her apartment on 20 December 1989 as US army helicopters and fighter jets screamed over Panama City, turning buildings to piles of rubble with rockets and gunfire.

Corro’s stepfather, a police officer, was killed in the invasion; his body was not found until it was hauled from a mass grave the following year. “I remember that night. The city was quiet, the houses full of decorations and the entire country was in anticipation of Christmas. Then suddenly, helicopters were whirring around and the sky was lit up with bombs and gunfire,” Corro said. “It was an extremely violent and tragic night. One that unfortunately I will never forget.” Washington had once backed then president Manuel Noriega – an ally who had spied for the CIA – but George HW Bush sent in 10,000 troops to oust the dictator as his role as an international drug kingpin became apparent. Hundreds of people were killed – many of them civilians – during Operation Just Cause and the shadow of the invasion still looms large over Panama. Trump’s comments have stoked fears the US could once again set its military sights on the country.

“He is a very arrogant man who thinks he can take whatever he wants,” said Corro, president of the Association of Family Victims of the 1989 US Invasion of Panama. “He cannot just decide: ‘I’m going to buy this country, I’m going to invade this one.’ The world is not some big flea market. It should not happen and we will not let it happen.” Trump, who will be sworn into office as US president on January 20, has returned to the subject of Panama frequently in recent weeks, complaining that American ships are charged “ridiculous” fees for passing through the canal, which he alleged was controlled by China.

[...]

In Panama, where the scars of conflict with the US are still healing, Trump’s comments have provoked widespread anger. The incident has strained relations with Panama’s government, which has said sovereignty over the canal is “non-negotiable” and accused Trump of lying about making an offer to buy it. “The only hands operating the canal are Panamanian and that is how it is going to stay,” said the country’s foreign minister, Javier Martínez-Acha. About 5% of global maritime traffic passes through the Panama Canal, slashing 6,835 miles (11,000km) off a journey that would otherwise require a long and dangerous trip skirting the southern tip of South America. The head of the Panama Canal Authority said on Wednesday that Trump’s suggestion that US ships get preferential rates “will lead to chaos” and denied that China had any control over the operation.

“We cannot discriminate for the Chinese, or the Americans, or anyone else. This will violate the neutrality treaty, international law and it will lead to chaos,” Ricaurte Vásquez Morales told the Wall Street Journal. The waterway was built by the US between 1904 and 1914, and leased to Washington. Following a treaty signed by then president Jimmy Carter in 1977, control of the canal was returned to Panama in 1999 under the condition it would be free for any nation to use.

The canal contributes 7.7% of Panama’s GDP and has become a cause for “pride” and part of “the country’s identity”, said Serena Vamvas, councilor for the San Francisco district in Panama City. “Panama might be divided politically but we all agree the canal is a national treasure. Everyone here is outraged by Trump’s comments,” Vamvas said. Any discussion of US intervention prompts painful memories for many in Panama. Officially, 300 soldiers and 214 civilians were killed in the 1989 invasion, but some rights groups say the death toll was closer to 1,000. Many Panamanians celebrated their country’s liberation from Noriega’s rule, but the US was accused of being heavy-handed, leaving a disproportionate number of civilians among the dead.

Donald Trump’s threats to retake the Panama Canal has reopened wounds within Panama, as memories of the 1989 US invasion still linger.

[miriamladyvoid]

═════════════════【✉˚₊‧ཐི✧ཋྀ‧₊˚✉】═══════════════════

Worldbuilding and fanfic writing

As I work on my drafts for my future Lies of P fics, something I would like to achieve in my writing is to get a good handle on the social and cultural context in which the game is set in the city of Krat: Belle époque (1871-1914), not only to make the setting feel more real, but also to show how the context affects, influences and conditions the behaviour of the characters in their world. Since it is a fictional alternate world that obviously collects elements of that time and different places in old Europe (in addition to the fantasy elements and steampunk aesthetics), I always had a little doubt about how much the environment culturally and socially influences the condition of the people. Obviously, the game developers pay a lot of attention to the details and setting of the city in terms of fashion, architecture, technology, music, etc. But I still have more doubts, especially about how the city was socially and culturally before and after the disasters we already know happened.

1.-Is there a single idiom or slang in the language? 2.-Were social labels very strict or were creative liberties taken to make them less rigid in Krat? 3.-How pronounced was the social structure and inequalities? 4.-Are there political tensions? 5.-Is there strong censorship and cultural control? 6.-Were there social movements and struggles, especially with the industrialisation of puppetry? 7.-Are there myths and legends that use elements of European folklore? 8.-How strong or cautious were the scientific and medical ethics? (cough, cough, Geppetto, Simon) 9.-Will there be a future equivalent to the First World War? 10.-Will there be conflicts between the traditional and the future modernity? 11.-How will modernisation progress in Krat when the frenzy is over? (I have the basic idea that the game obviously starts in 1871, but when the city slowly resurfaces, it will progress until the early 1900s).

I don't know, it's these issues that always come up when I'm trying to write and, well, they tend to give me a bit of a headache about how to incorporate them. It would be interesting to know more about them, especially how they affect Pinocchio, given that he is someone who has not been raised or conditioned by these social norms, and how his social maladjustment would cause him to step out of the norm. Not to mention the issue of not knowing whether P ends up being a real human or some weird human/puppet mish-mash. I think it would only add to Pinocchio's existential crises, but now add a social inadequacy and a VERY likely rejection of his person and what he represents (poor guy can't catch a break).

It would be interesting to read this topic in more fanfics (especially in lop x reader scenarios) (and how the reader or an OC helps P with these topics, perhaps creating debates and social criticism) I know many like to write more about action or expand the lore of the game, but I've always been someone who has had a fondness for everyday stories and how they develop and condition individuals. Especially with the character of Pinocchio, the way he builds his individuality and humanity, and the existentialism of his condition, already influenced by his environment.

˚₊‧ Just P Learning about the complexity and beauty of the turbulent human condition and its social implications. ‧₊˚

═════════════════【✉˚₊‧ཐི✧ཋྀ‧₊˚✉】═══════════════════

[whencyclopedia]

The Causes of WWII

The origins of the Second World War (1939-45) may be traced back to the harsh peace settlement of the First World War (1914-18) and the economic crisis of the 1930s, while more immediate causes were the aggressive invasions of their neighbours by Germany, Italy, and Japan. A weak and divided Europe, an isolationist USA, and an opportunistic USSR were all intent on peace, but the policy of appeasement only delivered what everyone most feared: another long and terrible world war.

The main causes of WWII were:

The harsh Treaty of Versailles

The economic crisis of the 1930s

The rise of fascism

Germany's rearmament

The cult of Adolf Hitler

The policy of appeasement by Western powers

Treaties of mutual interest between Axis Powers

Lack of treaties between the Allies

The territorial expansion of Germany, Italy, and Japan

The Nazi-Soviet Pact

The invasion of Poland in September 1939

The Japanese attack on the US naval base at Pearl Harbour

Treaty of Versailles

Germany was defeated in the First World War, and the victors established harsh terms to ensure that some of the costs of the war were recuperated and to prevent Germany from becoming a future threat. With European economies and populations greatly damaged by the war, the victors were in no mood to be lenient since Germany had almost won and its industry was still intact. Germany remained a dangerous state. However, Britain and France did not want a totally punitive settlement, as this might lead to lasting resentment and make Germany unable to become a valuable market for exports.

The peace terms were set out in the Treaty of Versailles, signed by all parties except the USSR on 28 June 1919. The Rhineland must be demilitarised to act as a buffer zone between Germany and France. All colonies and the Saar, a coal-rich area of western Germany, were removed from German authority. Poland was given the industrial area of Upper Silesia and a corridor to the sea, which included Danzig (Gdánsk) and cut off East Prussia from the rest of Germany. France regained the regions of Alsace and Lorraine. Germany had to pay war reparations to France and Belgium. Germany had limits on its armed forces and could not build tanks, aircraft, submarines, or battleships. Finally, Germany was to accept complete responsibility, that is the guilt, for starting the war. Many Germans viewed the peace terms as highly dishonourable.

The settlement established nine new countries in Eastern Europe, a recipe for instability since all of them disputed their borders, and many contained large minority groups who claimed to be part of another country. Germany, Italy, and Russia, once powerful again after the heavy costs of WWI, looked upon these fledgling states with imperialist envy.

In the 1920s, Germany signed two important treaties. The Locarno Treaty of 1925 guaranteed Germany's western borders but allowed some scope for change in the east. The 1928 Kellogg-Briand Pact was signed by 56 countries. All the major powers promised not to conduct foreign policy using military means. In 1929, Germany's reparations as stipulated by the Treaty of Versailles were reduced from £6.6 million to £2 million. In 1932, the reparations were cancelled altogether. This was all very promising, but through the 1930s, the complex web of European diplomacy began to quickly unravel in a climate of economic decline.

Continue reading...

[acesw]

Chapter 7 | E Lucevan le Stelle Trailer - Breakdown

Welcome to 1914 Vienna, one of the capitals of the Austro-Hungarian empire. In the prime time of arts and culture, Vienna is set to host a well-loved opera among the masses. Meanwhile, more tumultuous conflicts arises as we begin to reach the height of the "Storm." What will we be seeing here in this colourful city?

We're well aware that the trailer absolutely shows us that we will be seeing a new perspective in the current events of the main story. But what are we presented with so far? Lets see here. [Content Warning: Mentions of suicide, depictions of electroshock therapy]

The Title

The title itself is a reference to the song of the same name. E Lucevan le Stelle is a romantic aria that is performed in the third act of Tosca by Giacomo Puccini. The three-act opera is a tragic story about love and jealousy, telling the story of an opera singer fighting to save her love from a sadistic police chief.

From this alone, it makes its themes of this chapter very clear. Furthermore, Tosca might be the opera that will be performed in Vienna.

The Art Gallery

"A painting? Based on the mysterious island?... The host is Isolde, the opera singer?" "Oh poor thing; every member of that family met a tragic end. And now, her brother..."

We start this trailer by being informed that Isolde, an opera singer, is hosting an art exhibition in Vienna. The exhibited paintings are of her late brother, who had died prior to this story.

The building signage on the art gallery (literally) translates to: "to time its art, to art its freedom" in German. There is no doubt that the "mysterious island" is referencing to the Island and Apeiron, which has recently been bombed and implied to be exposed to the public in Chapter 5.

These paintings have been burnt, yet parts had been preserved and presented to the public. They have been painted by Theophil Dittersdorf, being the named late brother of Isolde Dittersdorf.

The Salvation

"Behold, my brother's final painting, inspired by the Golden Isle: "The Salvation." "

Once again referencing the Island, Theophil must have known about it for some time. Here, the painting could be about the "Storm" itself.

The News

"The rain, the 'golden isle,' the island in the painting, is that where the Timekeeper is at now?" - Marcus "How did Theophil know about the 'Storm', and the Island?" - Hoffman "He belonged to an organization called 'The Circle.' " - Marcus

We're finally introduced to Greta Hoffman and Marcus, the two investigators who are deployed to Vienna to investigate about the "Storm." Also, the newspaper here confirms that the Island had been exposed. Its ownership causes international conflicts between Bulgaria, Serbia, and Greece. This coincides with Theophil's art exhibition and the revealing of the Salvation.

They discover that Theophil knew about the Island because of a group called "The Circle." They're described as a group of artists, but Marcus speculates that they might have a purpose beyond that.

"Are they really just a group of artists?"

Kakania helping Isolde

"What do you see in the mirror?"

Kakania is likely to be a psychiatrist for Isolde, who helps the latter try to cope with the loss of her brother.

"I see... golden circles. Theophil in the fire... He, He burned all his paintings! And then, I heard a shot."

Isolde describes what had happened during Theophil's death. Here, we see a memory of her receiving electroshock therapy as a form of treatment. (which I'll talk about in a different post) Then, we see a vague memory of what happened that night.

Theophil's silhouette seemed to be domineering over Isolde's own as he burned his paintings. The last sentence implies that Theophil did not die in the fire, but rather committed suicide by shooting himself.

The "Storm"

"All these assassinations... All at the same time?"

We see that the "Storm" will be happening around this time by acceleration. It's catalyst has to do with mass assassinations and thus sparking WW1.

Meanwhile, we have a short scene of a fighter plane being taken down, suggesting that we might have a moment to see what happened on the Island.

Kakania and Marcus' meeting

"I can see how you burned with passion. Welcome to 'The Circle,' miss Marcus."

The paths of the past and future will cross once again. Marcus and Kakania will be meeting under certain circumstances. Kakania—despite likely not knowing anything about the "Storm"—will be helping Marcus with her mission.

More of Isolde

"Will our people be able to defend themselves on that island?" - Kakania "To help them, is to help ourselves." - Isolde —— "We share the same dream as you."

We're not sure what this shows here, but considering Isolde's quotes here, she might be a part of something more in this story than we know for now. Who is "we" anyway?

Arcana

"I am intrigued by the name of your little group: 'The Circle.' "

Arcana makes an interesting appearance in this trailer. Perhaps she will be important to a flashback? Or maybe an interaction that happens before she arrives to the Island? Who knows!

The End

"Even if the world ends tomorrow, we still have a show to watch. Please, enjoy."

This is all we see in the trailer. I'm really excited to finally see what happens in Chapter 7, as it'll truly be a long yet grandiose show for everyone. Have fun with theorizing!

[mania-sama]

something in the orange tells me you're never coming home

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan

➼ information ❧ Call of Duty ❧ Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley ❧ Additional Character: John Price ❧ Tags: wwi au, christmas truce of 1914, football/soccer, ambiguous/open ending, gift giving, implied/referenced time-period homophobia, angst, hurt! soap ❧ Summary: In spite of the months they’d spent in the trenches on the Western Front, Soap still managed to give Ghost a Christmas present. ❧ Word Count: 5,325 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 25 December 2022

December 24, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium

Trench warfare was the absolute worst, Soap decided.

It had been raining nearly nonstop for weeks on end, leaving the trench floors so wet to the point that it was nearly impossible to walk anywhere without being swallowed knee-deep in mud. The winter clothing they had been issued blocked out the cold for the most part, but it had been months since he had last felt sincerely warm and dry.

The rain, mud, and cold itself weren’t the main issues by themselves. Rather, it was what they caused. At any given moment, parts of the trench would collapse under the weight of the wet dirt, burying soldiers underneath. On more than one occasion, it took precious lives. Then more soldiers would replace those that had died.

Even that was tame in comparison to what the soldiers had dubbed trench feet. Countless men had blisters and swollen feet, red and dirty and pulsing with pus. Their toes had sunken in, the bottoms of their calloused feet peeling apart to leave nasty, gushing wounds. The remaining men had long learned their lessons about keeping their feet out of the mud for as long as possible.

All in all, the trenches were terrible, and Soap wanted nothing to do with them anymore.

This was the first day it had stopped raining. It was replaced by gentle snow, creating a thin layer of white at the bottom of the trench. Soap wanted to be angry at it, because if it went on for enough time they would have to spend all of their time shoveling it out so they could traverse their grounds. But he couldn’t be mad, because it was beautiful.

For once, he couldn’t hear bombs exploding in the distance or gunshots ringing in his ears. Normally, the only time there was complete silence from the normal warfare was at set mealtimes. All of the soldiers, even the Germans, had to eat at some point. Then it would start again.

But not this time. The drifting white world cushioned any noise whatsoever, and John found himself actually wanting to devour the chocolate bar sent by Her Highness Princess Mary.

Not that he liked her very much. No true Scot liked any of the British, especially when they forced Scotland’s young men into the trenches.

There was only one exception to this rule, and Soap hated himself every day for it. How he couldn’t help but like the masked soldier to his right, a Britishman through and through. John had willingly joined the military years ago, if only because it was one of his only options. He stayed not just because he enjoyed the constant adrenaline-high of battle, nor the camaraderie of brothers in arms, but because of Ghost.

He was his life’s regret.

“The chocolate tastes much better than mud,” Ghost mused beside him, folding the finished chocolate wrapper neatly into a small square. There was no space inside the trenches for trash. “But if you’re content eating dirt, have right at it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and muttered a string of Scottish that he knew Ghost wouldn’t understand. As expected, a quick “speak English” followed.

“Anything from the throne is worth less than rubbish,” he said in a poor impression of a British accent.

“Even the winter clothes keeping your nose from frostbite?”

“Especially that.”

Ghost huffed in response. Even though he was wearing a mask, his breath still crystallized in the night air. It was a cruel reminder that even Ghost, someone who seemed so immune to death, was still human. And at any moment, even on Christmas Eve, he could meet his end.

The white silence found John once again. It was calming, in a way. He could almost forget that he was sitting in a cold trench, far from his homeland. He was simply having a cup of beer with a dear friend, participating in a merry conversation.

That was, of course, until he heard the sound of singing.

“What the fuck is that?” He exclaimed to Ghost, leaning his head forward and up to try to see anything past the wooden walls of the trench and the starry night sky. All it served to do was catch snowflakes in his eyelashes.

It took a beat for his friend to respond, eyes upcast in the same attempt as John. “The Germans have found the Christmas spirit.”

Whispers went up and down the British trench as the enemies got louder. “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,” they sang.

Down the line, Soap heard a soldier say, “It’s Silent Night, ‘innit?”

By God, it was. The German accent floated across No Man’s Land, worming its way into the tight space of their trench. Another soldier called to his brothers, “They’ve put up small trees on the line! They’ve got lights on them!”

Soap didn’t know what to feel. He’d always liked Christmas. Not for the sake of his own religion or for the time allotted to spend with family— his family was dead and gone, anyway— but for the spirit of the holiday. Call him childish, but he enjoyed seeing everyone in a brightened mood. He enjoyed sitting down with his brothers in arms and showing them the presents he’d scrounged together for them, relishing in the looks of surprise on their faces. He enjoyed having a bourbon and seeing entire streets decorated.

It was his favorite time of the year, which was the reason why he joined the quiet caroling of the British soldiers in response to the Germans. He was as loud as he could possibly be.

Ghost groaned. “Stop that. You sound like a howling dog.” Of course he would make that comparison. Soap hated dogs.

At least it proved that Ghost was paying attention. John leaned in and sang the lyrics to Silent Night off-key on purpose, directly into where Ghost’s ear was supposed to be. It didn’t take long for Ghost to put a gloved hand on his face and shove him away.

“C’mon! Join in, then!” He shouted, briefly cutting through the British’s now loud caroling.

“I don’t sing, Johnny.”

“Fine, then,” he said, and then cursed him out in a string of Scottish Gaelic.

“English,” Ghost said. If Soap wasn’t mistaken, he could almost pick up a bit of fondness in his tone. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. War tended to do that to a person.

“I said, once you get your thick skull out of your arse, you can join the next song. ”

Ghost stared at him, unblinking, through his embroidered skull mask. His eyes were a pure brown, illuminated by the lanterns hanging from the walls Sometimes, his eyes were a green color, like shards of grass sparkling in morning dew. Now, they looked like the chocolate John refused to eat— sweet, but made from the most bitter bean.

His eyelashes were the most physically captivating part of him, though. They were the most pure white, whiter than the snow that laced the trenches and purer than water drawn from a clear spring. People tended to think it was a sort of make-up that Ghost wore, but the truth was that he had been born that way.

Maybe he stared for a bit too long with too much intensity. Maybe the songs were intoxicating him, pumping a drug too-strong to be physical into his veins. Maybe, for the first time, he thought that the fighting wasn’t worth it on Christmas.

The British men had families waiting for them. The German men were just the same. Soap had Ghost, and Simon had John. They had to fight, if they wanted to make it to the end of the war. The very same war that they had been promised would end long before Christmas Eve.

The trenches were getting to him, he thought. He let himself get drowned back into the noise of the caroling soldiers once more. They had moved on from Silent Night, battlin the Germans in a contest to see who could be louder. It was a nice change of pace.

Despite his exasperation, Simon didn’t leave John’s side. Not even after flasks of fine bourbon— too fine for the warfront— was passed around to the awaiting soldiers. Not even when more could be obtained in a different sector of the trench. Soap didn’t dare to abandon Ghost, either. They stayed side by side in that cold trench, quipping back and forth and singing to spite the war they’d been trapped in.

For a moment, Soap allowed himself to dream of a life outside of the war. A life where he would be able to set aside his constant need for adrenaline and settle down somewhere in a nice city or town. To live in a nice house with good food— may God strike down whoever made the food issued to the soldiers— and even better company. He tried to ignore who he pictured as that company. It was unrealistic, even for him.

It wasn’t necessarily uncommon to hear the occasional shout back and forth from the Germans and British. Most of them were insults before or after a barrage of fire, declarations of hatred fueled by the unburied men lying dead in No Man’s Land. This was different, though. This silenced all of the soldiers’ singing, from both sides.

“English!”  A German voice cut through. Soap had half a mind to respond with “Fritz!”. “Tomorrow, if you no shoot, we no shoot!”

Quiet murmuring spread through the trench. It was an ask for peace, an armistice for just one day. The commanders would never allow it. They had been doing everything they could to keep up the fighting spirit of the British military, setting out new attacks every time their morale dipped too low. This request for truce would never stand if the higher-ups had anything to do with it.

Although, there was one person who did things differently. Soap wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, and from the shake of Ghost’s head, he wasn’t surprised either.

“Give us enough time to bury our dead?” Officer Price shouted back. Soap could see him further down the line, on the small ladder leading up into No Man’s Land. His head was barely sticking out above the sandbags on top of the walls.

It took the Germans a second to respond, no doubt going through their translators to understand what the commander had said. “If you give time to us, too!”

“When the sun rises,” Price said, “on Christmas day.”

“Frohe Weihnachten!” Cheered the enemy.

“Happy Christmas!” The British cheered back, commanders and soldiers alike. Almost in sync, all of the sector began caroling again, starting up with Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

Ghost made a noise that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. “Ol’ man is out of his mind again.”

John could hardly believe it himself. It hadn’t just been Officer Price that agreed to the Germans’ terms. It had been all of the commanders in their sector— only God knew how many other sectors of the trench had been offered an armistice as well.

“I give it an hour before someone starts shooting,” said Ghost in lieu of John’s silence.

He didn’t know how long their peace would hold, if it did at all. All he did know was that the Germans had started the singing, put up their trees, and shouted across the trenches. He knew that they weren’t to be trusted, but that they loved Christmas more than Soap could comprehend.

So, he shrugged, picking out a cigarette from his uniform’s inner pocket. “You’re an incarnate of Krampus.”

“Krampus?”

“Santa Claus’ devil brother. Stabs misbehaving children.”

“Yes,” Ghost said, “sounds just like something I’d do.”

“Sick bastard,” he muttered through his cigar, inhaling its fumes. A soft burn entered his throat, but it was something he’d gotten used to over time. It was pleasant rather than harmful, a welcome pain to contrast the biting cold.

The tobacco would give him a necessary adrenaline boost, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. He was tired— a constant state he’d been in ever since he’d set foot in the trenches. The warfare was completely different from the missions he’d run in the military. Instead of maneuvering through cities or open land, trekking across streams and roads, he had to lay stationery and wait for the fight to come to him.

Just to break the lowering spirit of the soldiers, their commanders would send men out into No Man’s Land to rush to the other side, gather what data they could, and take down a few Fritz in the process. The number of men that went across would be halved, if that. Many times, it would be just a quarter left. Machine guns were carved from Beelzebub’s hands.

Sleep was hard in the trenches. He couldn't remember the last time he’d slept more than a few hours at a time. It was impossibly uncomfortable. There was no space to properly lie down, and he had to rush to snag a good spot before anyone else could take it.

Night was no longer the designated sleeping time. It was just whenever the soldiers could manage it, usually more in the daytime. Maneuvers and attacks tended to happen more in the shelter of the stars. The darkness masked moving soldiers and dead bodies in No Man’s Land.

Soap despised trench warfare. But if the temporary armistice went well, he could find it in himself to dig up some joy.

Stamping out his cigar burning cigar, he joined back into the singing, something he knew would last well into the night. As long as the Germans sang, the British would, too. It was a different kind of fight, one that didn’t involve bloodshed or crying wives or orphaned children. Beside him, he could hear, feel Simon hum along to the chorus with the other soldiers.

He didn’t say anything about it. If he did, it would make his friend stop. There was nothing Soap wanted more than to keep the warmth that Ghost’s humming made.

The singing did die down eventually, but not until the moon was low in the sky. Before long, it would be sunrise, and they would begin burying their dead. Hopefully, anyway.

Hitting Ghost on the chest, he said, “I’m going to take a kip. If Price comes around, tell him I’ve died.”

“Cause of death?”

“Christmas joy strangled my cold heart.” He pulled himself up into the hole behind him, just barely big enough for two people to cramp together inside for warmth and shelter. It was by no means comfortable, but it was better than sleeping in the middle of the trench and being snowed on.

“I thought I was Krampus.”

“You are,” he said, closing his eyes, “I’m your evil elf.”

There it was again. That huff of amusement that was so rare, yet seemed almost common in the snow that wrapped around them. Soap bottled up that fire and let it burn into his dreams. Dreams that consisted of a home with a cat, whiskey, warm food, and a face unmasked. A face that he’d only seen twice in his lifetime.

December 25, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium

John woke up to screaming.

“It’s Christmas, soldier! Get your ass moving or you’ll be on latrine duty!”

It was quite possible Soap had never woken up faster in his life. Officer John Price’s face stared back at him, bright with joy that he only ever got from scaring the shit out of other men. Blearily, he saw Ghost standing a pace away, arms crossed over his chest.

Noticing his staring, Simon shrugged. “I told him you were dead. He said dead men don’t drool.”

“Did you at least tell ‘im how I died?” Soap asked, a little dizzy from standing so fast after being dead asleep. Around him, men were climbing out of the trenches and into No Man’s Land. They were languid, and none carried their weapon with them. It was odd, but the glistening snow made the sight beautiful.

“MacTavish, you’re the only man I know that’s given a gift to every single person he’s met on Earth.” John wanted to be offended, but it seemed like his officer was actually trying to compliment him. “Christmas couldn’t kill you even if it tried.”

Wiping away dirt from his clothes, he cleared enough of residual sleep to really take in the waking world. He could hear German and British accents alike conversing with one another, the sound of shovels hitting the dirt, and laughter. Genuine, hearty laughter didn’t have a place in war. Yet, there it was.

“It’s time to bury our dead. Afterwards, we can see what presents Soap managed to pull together,” Price slapped them both on the backs, then joined the group of men waiting to get up the ladder.

“It hasn’t hit the first hour yet. Bet’s still on,” Ghost said, trailing after the officer with Soap.

Soap nudged through the soldiers at the base of the wooden ladder. “After, you can stab any child you see.”

“What else would there be to do?”

He didn’t think he would ever get tired of hearing that dry humor. It was a trap that Soap had long fallen into, trapped in the jaw of the skull mask. Eventually, it would end. They would part ways as they became too old to serve. John would be expected to marry a nice woman and have at least two children, and Ghost would find a girl to do the same.

At least, that was the progressive expectation. It wasn’t what he wanted, but there weren’t that many options for men like him. Every time he looked at Ghost, he was reminded of the life he wasn’t allowed to have.

The graves they dug were nowhere closer to three feet than four. Some were as shallow as two feet. There wasn’t enough time in the day to get all the way down. There were even bodies that were so decomposed that they could hardly bury them at all.

It was gruesome and tiring work, but it wasn’t the first time Soap had done it. He didn’t believe it would be his last, either.

Their sector cleared their dead bodies, storing their dog tags safely with the commanders until further notice. During the burial, soldiers had cried from both sides of the war. They were all human, and some were burying their closest friends. If John had been burying Price, Alejandro, or Rodolfo, or anyone else he was close with, he could’ve been among them. But his friends were alive, their hearts beating with his as they intermingled with the German soldiers.

Soap refused to acknowledge that Ghost could’ve been among the dead. He was too good to die so easily.

“It’s hit the fifth hour. Lost that bet a long time ago,” John said, watching as a British man got his hair trimmed by a German soldier-barber. He already had his done— it felt nice to have his mohawk back. There were talks amongst the ranks about mandatory hair shaving, but he ignored it. Nobody was going to remove his hair without his strict permission.

“Day’s not over. I might just do it myself,” Ghost replied nonchalantly. At the beginning, the Germans had been very curious over his mask. It wasn’t too soon after that they realized that he had no answers to give and that if they kept asking him about it, there would suddenly be a whole lot more bodies to bury. It wasn’t very Christmas-y of him, but Soap let it pass.

Something hit him hard on the back of his head, which was then followed by, “Hey! Up for a game of football?”

In the face of the smiling soldiers standing before him, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about being hit. Instead, he began toying with the ball under his foot.

“Only if Ghost is playing,” he grinned. Simon groaned, but it wasn’t long before they were separated into teams.

There were Germans playing with Brits, and Brits playing against Germans. Their nationality didn’t matter— none of it mattered, other than kicking the ball in the right direction. It was a euphoric feeling. He’d never experienced anything like it, and he knew he would never get to again.

He kicked Ghost on more than one occasion when trying to get the ball away from him. They’d agreed to be on different teams; it’d be more fun that way, and they hadn’t been wrong. He let himself cut loose and be aggressive in a sport he hadn’t played in over a year, pushing and shoving without any real malice in his actions.

If anything, he enjoyed watching Simon play football. That was a sight he wouldn’t forget, for more reasons than one.

The soldiers stayed out for a while, long after the sun had set and the stars had risen. No Man’s Land, despite its barbed wires, ditches, and bodies underneath the surface, was much better than the trenches. Yet, John had made his way back inside. It was the place he wanted to be the least, but there was something important he needed to pile together before the night was over.

There were barely any soldiers about the sector, so there was nobody to question what he was doing. It was just as well, when he was putting on the last finishing touches, that he should hear somebody climb down the ladder.

“The war finally got you?” Ghost called, rubbing his hands together as he stalked towards John. “No presents this year.”

“No presents?” Soap asked, carefully blocking the gift inside a little dug out area inside the wall. “Well, if that’s what you believe, then I’ll just have to keep this for myself.”

He brought out the bag hiding behind his back, the contents inside all wrapped as carefully as he possibly could with gloved fingers. He didn’t want to risk frostbite, even though he knew that in the end, he’d risk everything— not just a few fingers— for Simon.

It took a second for Ghost to react, as though he wasn’t expecting a gift at all. Then, he slowly said: “Who’s it for?”

“The vultures now, since you don’t want it,” he said. But despite his words, he handed the bag over to his friend. He wasn’t in the mood to play anymore games. He’d waited long enough for the best part of Christmas.

Ghost took the bag with impossible gentleness, like he was cradling a baby. When he looked inside, genuine surprise overtook his features. “It’s all for me?” He asked, and then quickly amended with, “Seems you really do like me, Johnny.”

“Don’t get a big head. You’ll grow out of your mask.”

All of the gifts inside the bag were individually wrapped. It’d taken him the entire month to gather all of the makeshift paper and strings he needed to do the wrapping. The items themselves had been a longer game, something he’d been accumulating nearly the entire year. He just hadn’t known his progress would become stagnant after the war started.

The Germans had been of help, though.

Ghost picked one of the gifts out, setting the bag on the ground so he could undo the strings and paper. His expression was the sole reason Soap loved Christmas so much; seeing barely contained astonishment in normally-stoic people’s faces, or unbridled joy in those that didn’t mind showing emotion. It didn’t matter to him either way. It was the fact that he could make people’s day so much better with one gift that kept him celebrating.

“How did you…” It was hard to get the Ghost speechless, but apparently traditional Chinese sweets could do the trick. “Are all of these sweets?”

“You’ll have to open them to find out. I won’t do the dirty work for you, you jackass.”

On more than one occasion, John had the burning urge to take off Simon’s mask. The reasons varied, but this time, he just wanted to see if his friend was smiling. The skull made it impossible to tell what was lying underneath. The only thing he could see was his deep brown eyes. For now, that would have to be enough.

The next present he opened was a package of specialized Egyptian chocolate. Outside of fighting, sweets were Ghost’s one true love. It was the only present Soap could manage during wartime. He prayed that Price wouldn’t say anything about it. 

Ghost stared at that Egyptian chocolate bar for a long time. Somewhere down in the bag, there was a German cookie called lebkuchen. He’d traded it off with a German soldier for the British chocolate he hadn’t eaten. He knew it would be worth it.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” Simon said earnestly, exchanging the Egyptian chocolate for another wrapped candy. 

John flicked his hand in the air, as if waving off Ghost’s concern. “I know what you can give me,” he said. “A promise.”

Ghost stilled, leaving the gift halfway undone. “My word?”

“When we leave the military, whenever that may be,” Soap hoped that Ghost couldn’t detect the slight quaver in his voice, blaming it on the cold, “we stay friends. Become next door neighbors in the same town.” In America, maybe, where the war hadn’t reached.

There were times when Soap liked silence, such as on Christmas Eve when all of the fighting had ceased and it only snowed. There were more times that he hated it, like now, when he couldn’t read what Ghost was thinking.

“I’ll adopt a dog. Name it after you.”

Relief had never felt so good. “Cruel, even for you.”

If Ghost picked up on Soap’s nerves, he didn’t comment on it. He did, however, relish in bites of the German cookie he eventually unwrapped. Soap was happy to see a little bit of his face, even if it was just his mouth and jaw. It was better than nothing at all.

He didn’t sleep very well that night; the bursting sounds of bombs and dying men kept jerking him awake.

September 12, 1917 ; Calais, France

It was lonely in the cot. There were nurses that came to care for him, and they were nice enough. There were the other men in the infirmary, but they were busy talking to each other and flirting with the poor nurses. Soap wasn’t interested in any flirting. While chatting would’ve been nice, he found it hard to participate.

Mostly because it hurt like hell to talk. On bad days, even breathing became a difficult task. Today wasn’t so bad, though. He had gotten word of a regiment coming into town.

At first, it had scared him. He could only assume the worst because he had lived through the worst. Then, he was told that the regiment was stopping to regroup and reorganize, as well as treat the wounded. The Germans had not done to them what they had done to his own regiment.

It became a waiting game after that. He only felt true relief when a nurse gently touched his shoulder and said: “You have a visitor.”

“What’s their name?” He asked hoarsely, though he had a feeling he already knew who it was. Or maybe it was just blind hope. He had been grasping at anything he could the moment the gas had filled the trench.

“It’s me, Johnny.”

There was only one person that was allowed to call him Johnny. For the first time since they had gotten separated in 1916, he smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Ghost was quiet. The indescribable and faint voices of the other men in the infirmary gave the illusion that his friend wasn’t really there at all. It sent a stabbing pain through his chest.

“I’ve eaten all the sweets,” Simon finally said. It sounded strangled, like it hurt to say.

“They don’t give me any here, so there’s none left for you. Won’t even let me have a smoke,” he grumbled. Between the gas corroding his lungs and the intense craving for a cigar, his throat was constantly hurting. At the very least, the nurses had given him chewing tobacco. It eased the cravings, but only by a little.

Ghost was so quiet, like he was just an apparition as his nickname suggested.

It was uncharacteristic of there to be such tension between them. It wasn’t anger. It was something so much worse, and it practically emanated off of his friend.

Simon said: “The war’s going to be over soon.”

They said it would be over before the end of 1914. It’d been four years since the beginning, and all of his officers had said that same godforsaken phrase every day for every month and every year. The war had reached America, as well as just about every part of the damned world they lived on. There were no safe places.

It didn’t really feel like the war would ever be over. Not when he was still lying in a cot, still unable to see and still unable to breathe. He had walked out of that trench with cloth wrapped around his eyes and hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him. It was the only way to make it out of that trench without dying.

“The mask,” he said. His throat hurt much worse than it had before. “Take it off.”

Two times, he had seen Ghost without his mask on. One had been in a group setting, a sign of camaraderie and trust amongst the men gathered. The second had been alone in a state of vulnerability. That was when they had forged the bond that could never be broken.

Soap had asked him to take it off again several times, and he’d always be met with a dead end. Complaint after complaint about John’s nagging would get him to stop for a few months, and then he’d begin it again. This time, there were no complaints. Not a single word was uttered as John strained to pick up on the pulling of fabric.

He didn’t have to be told when it was all the way off. “Come close,” he said, motioning towards himself.

Rustling of a chair against the floor as Ghost moved closer to Soap’s cot. “This good, Johnny?”

Slowly, John reached an arm out to find his friend’s face. It took a moment, but eventually the back of his hand found his cheek. Now knowing where he was, he took his precious time to cup Ghost’s face with his palms.

He let it rest there before he let his hands examine the rest of Simon’s face. His fingers traced over the curve of his eyebrows, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the new, raised scar across his hairline. The tenderness of his lips and the hair on chin. He was gentle with the eyes, though he admittedly saved that for last. He ran his thumb over his eyelashes, wishing he could see the alluring whiteness once again.

Recording it with his hands would have to do. Sight wasn’t an option anymore.

He never wanted to take his hands away from Ghost’s face. For him, it was the equivalent of letting him go entirely. He didn’t want him to go back onto the front lines, not while Soap couldn’t join him.

He let his arms go limp at his side and leaned back against his cot. This would have to do. He didn’t have much of a choice.

A hand tugged at his blindfold, pulling ever so gently that if it weren’t for his heightened senses, he might’ve not noticed it. Then, two hands covered his eyes, feeling them in the same way he had felt Ghost’s.

“After the war,” Ghost said softly, “we’ll live wherever you want. I promise.”

Soap wanted nothing more than to believe his word.

[breelandwalker]

basic witch question: how can i study and research folk magic and historical witchcraft?

I've been trying to search like this: "name of country/place +folk magic" on academic article sites but I haven't found much practical stuff and sometimes I don't find anything.

thank you for your attention

Good question!

The first thing you'll want to do is set aside the idea that you're going to find overt and accurate historical descriptions of witchcraft as we define it today. VERY few people who practiced some form of folk magic would have identified themselves as witches, because up until very recently, it was something you could be arrested, fined, and executed for doing. Even just the suspicion of such was enough to cause panics and widespread paranoia. What you're most likely to find is a collection of folk beliefs ABOUT witches and witchcraft, rather than actual witchcraft practices.

There are plenty of folk magic practices that resemble things we do in modern witchcraft, but they wouldn't have been called witchcraft by the people doing them back in the day. If you nailed a cluster of broomstraw over your door or scattered eggshells in your garden, it wasn't to cast a spell - it was just The Done Thing to keep trouble out of your home and help the crops grow.

Be prepared to find a lot of Christianity blended into the practices you do find. During the Christianization of Europe, new beliefs blended with older ones and created some very interesting regional amalgamations. So you'll often find invocations of saints or the Blessed Virgin, or particular psalms or prayers included as essential parts of certain charms. (It's also worth noting that the recitation of certain prayers was a method of short-term timekeeping, since they didn't exactly have clocks or timers.)

Be prepared also to find a lot of references to the Devil and devil-worship. For several centuries, the idea of witchcraft and demonolatry (consorting with and calling upon demons for power and supernatural aid) was synonymous across much of the Western world. It's very difficult to find a mention of witches in contemporary medieval or renaissance literature that is not immediately accompanied by some mention of devils or demons or familiars. This is a record of the superstitions of the day, NOT the practices of actual witches, no matter what Margaret Murray would have us believe.

To find the folk magic practices, if you can't find them by searching the term outright, study the regional folklore of the place you're interested in. Look particularly for anything to do with healers or spirits or fairies or ghosts or local superstitions. Where you find these, you will find whatever regional protection rituals the country people used to ward off trouble from ethereal beings, and possibly references to other related practices for love or luck.

Naturally, if you go back to classical antiquity (Greeks and Romans) or further, things will look very different. It all depends on the time and place.

It's important to note that most of the books we have which document these beliefs were written during the 19th-20th century spiritualism and occult fads, and while there is an earnest effort in most of them to record things academically from good sources, they should still be taken with a grain of salt.

Here are some titles I've found useful in my studies:

British Goblins: Welsh Folk-lore, Fairy Mythology, Legends and Traditions (Sikes, 1880)

Culpeper's Complete Herbal and English Physician (Culpeper, 1850 edition)

Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (Yeats, 1888)

Magic and Husbandry: The Folk-Lore of Agriculture (Burdick, 1914)

Plant Lore, Legends, and Lyrics (Folkard, 1884)

The History of Witchcraft and Demonology (Summers, 1926)

The Superstitions of Witchcraft (Williams, 1865)

You can find these and many similar titles on Project Gutenberg or Global Grey Ebooks. (And since they're in the public domain, they're free and legal to download!)

One final note - If you run into anything that mentions "folkish" traditions, bloodlines, or theosophy, put it down and walk away. That direction lies the pipeline to racist hate groups.

Hope this helps!

[80s4life]

Pawns”

Word Count: 4,522

Status: Requested!

Ask: Pleeeeeaase write more of Cal from titanic. Literally any prompt I’m so hungry😭

Ask #2: Pleasee could we have more cal hockley content, specifically more chapters for "the things I've never done" and even more short stories if you have the time, I love your work 💕 [THANK YOU SM! I WAS STARTING TO GET SELF CONSCIOUS OF MY WORK AGAIN]

Ask #3 will have an attachment to a separate Cal fic as well, so no request will be shown here until that one.

@: Three cutie pie nonnies!

Relationship: Caledon “Cal” Hockley x Female!Reader

Fandom: Titanic 1997

Summary: Thrusted into the roaring 20′s, all you wanted to be was free and outgoing as all the booming women in city. However, your father’s deal with the devil seals your fate in the hands of your advisor and boss, Caledon Hockley; a man who is haunted by memories, stubborn in his ways, and opposed to the newfound strength in the young women of America. You’re a slave at his will in his eyes, yet you’re just as free as the new reformed women in your own. You’re stuck at a standstill in this endless game of chess, but who’s the pawn?

Warnings: forbidden, early 1900′s morals and customs, Reader is a maid, Cal is the head of the house, Post-Titanic sinking, mature language, kinda spicy, PTSD, domestic violence (included in a PTSD episode ONLY), Kind of a Beauty and The Beast AU for inspiration

{gif is not mine, credit goes to @locke-writes​}

It was all an act of practicality from the start: your father owed his father money and he had a set of nimble hands to rid himself of. 

Nathan Hockley was a millionaire who dealt in the steel tycoon business in Pittsburgh. Your father had a habit of gambling with the wrong people, which had allegedly caused your father to have an uncomfortable run-in with the powerful man. Unable and too stubborn to do so, your father handed you off as a way of reparation for the damage the bastard had caused.

Nathan’s son, Caledon Hockley, was the exact replica of his father. He was cunning, stubborn, powerful and wealthy; a disrupting mixture of facets that could either lift or crush you with a simple snap of a finger. He was dangerous, among many of his other qualities, which made your business in the Hockley’s presence just that much harder.

With the pandemonium that followed the sinking of the Titanic in 1914, the physical and mental effects had taken ahold of Nathan’s deeply treasured and only son, practically keeping him on house arrest until he was “better”. However, to both Nathan and Caledon’s dismay, 6 years had done nothing for his declining health, the reasoning behind why Nathan had administered you into Caledon’s household in the first place.

All of these events have led you up to this point, your suitcase rolling behind you as one of the many maids in the manor lead you up to your room to unpack. You haven’t seen this young and precarious man yet, but something is telling you that you most likely don’t want to. You are soon to be given your list of instructions to follow immediately and precisely; left to your own devices to either stay afloat or drown in the fury of the Hockley men.

Maria, a young maid in her 20′s, around your age, approaches you with a pure and youthful grin, a light blush to her cheeks. Her hair is cut into a cropped bob of black hair with short but soft curls, her lean frame with modest green eyes making her endearing - intoxicating. “You must be Miss Y/L/N?” her cutesy, high pitched voice only adding to her allure and picturesque innocence.

“Yes, that’s me,” you mutter, displaying your hands as if to show yourself off in sarcasm.

“No need to be so glum!” she giggles, bowing her head to catch your eyes and raise your line of sight. “I’m Maria Espinosa, but I’d assume the least you’d want right now is formalities.”

You snort, but let her continue nonetheless.

“I’ve your instructions - written myself, of course!” she smiles brightly; any harder and she might break her face. “As you know, with your appointment into this manor, the rest of the faculty will be let off, per Nathan Hockley’s request. But, don’t fret, the list is simple, short and can last all day without having to pay too much mind. Every Tuesday and Thursday, there will be a grocer that will restock the cabinets, refrigerator, etc. and help you with the cleaning. You are not to touch the east wing and only reside within the west - this will help eliminate the messes to clean and prevent extra exertion-”

“Sorry, if I may be crude, why are we not to go in the east wing?” you ask, curiosity getting the best of you.

“It was...” Maria drifts off, choosing her words lightly, “After the accident in 1914, the east was torn by his own hands. It was once used for balls and such, but after the Titanic,” she whispers the name as if someone might hear her, “Caledon was bedridden and sick, upset, angry, any emotion in the book. He used that wing as a way to let those emotions out.”

You stay silent as you stare at her with morbid curiosity and fear, nodding once before returning your attention to the list. The rest seems easy, not like the job was ever hard to begin with, just an annoyance for better words. 

Maria clears her throat, “Anyway, you must make at least two meals a day, mainly breakfast and dinner, both at 8 am and 8 pm. Caledon might decide not to have lunch some days, but if he does, make sure it is brought to him by 12 pm. He doesn’t like tardiness, so as long as you follow the rules as tightly as you can, you won’t be a target. Any questions?”

“No, no. I’d presume you’d want to be heading out?” you smirk at her mischievously and instantly watch as her taut muscles relax.

“Very much so, yes! It’s been forever since I’ve had a moment of freedom.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you shoo her off playfully. This is your family’s mess to clean, the least you can do is let her be free of the shackles that are now passed down and chained to your ankles. 

Maria is halfway through the door when she turns to you from the foyer, “I’ll do a monthly checkup to make sure everything is in line, and for a little company in your lonesome, okay?”

You smile gratefully, hands coming up to play with your nails, “Thank you, you’re very kind. Though, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden? You just gave me my freedom!” she exclaims, laughing as she waves a hand. “I’ll be back by the end of the month! Settle in and enjoy the quiet!”

The moment the door slams shut, your shoulders droop heavily. Your eyes scan the spacious mansion with frightening curiosity. You’ve never even remotely been near land such as this, and now that you’re inside, it feels almost too much. You let your hands glide the carved wooden banister as you walk up the huge steps to the second floor, taking a left down a hall.

Your legs carry you down the long corridor, and, as you place your key into the fob, your eyes lay onto the door across from yours: ‘Lord Hockley’ carved neatly on the door. There’s a rustling behind it and footsteps that approach the other side of the door, eliciting you to push the key one click further and dive through the door as quickly and quietly as possible.

You flop onto the bed with a huff, trying to calm the beating of your heart just enough to allow you to unpack and prepare dinner within the course of 3 hours. When your room is finished, you nod in satisfaction, taking a bath in the connected bathroom and changing into a thin, sheer dress before exiting your room and back down the steps to the kitchen.

Finally do you take the time to read the list on your own. It includes very detailed and descriptive instructions, easy nonetheless, of medication usages and what to do with each, meal plans, recipes, a map of which rooms to clean and how to clean each one, and Caledon’s nightly and morning rituals to follow precisely.

Shrugging your shoulders, you roll your neck to release the tension before opening the cookbook up to the recipe designed for today’s date. “Pork roast,” you state alloud, cringing at the echo of your voice being followed by more movement in Hockely’s room.

Your mind roams as your eyes get lost at the sight of the luscious woods out the window, hands deftly whisking away at the pork roast’s grease with the intent of making a nice gravy to coat the dry, but tender pork roast. Shaking your head, you peer down and try to busy yourself with the already settling boredom you’re consumed by. 

You can hear the halls creak, the water drip from the faucet, birds chirping outside, the soft sway of the wind, random clicks, ticks, and other noises. You’re destined to go insane.

You jump unexpectedly with the sound of a crash from upstairs. The noise comes from the general direction of Caledon’s room and you all but groan at what the sound indicates -  what your being here demands. 

Putting the roast of low, you close the lid with a soft click before ascending up the stairs to Caledon’s room. You stand outside the door, hand on your heart, as you try to calm your rapid heartbeat and breathing. This was to come about sooner rather than later, so you should be glad it’s happening now. However, the banging continues within the room and you know that even if you had met him in a few months, the hell that follows him would never be escaped for as long as your father’s debt remains.

Knocking on the hard wooden door, you speak softly, “Lord Hockley? Is everything alright?”

You’re not given an answer, only the sound of something heavy being thrown and falling to the floor.

“Lord Hockey?” you call out again, louder this time. Unsurprised, you are followed by no answer once more. Annoyance creeps into your words a third and final time, “Lord Hockley, I will come in there myself if you do not open this door. Now,” you demand.

Shrugging when no voice calls to you form the other side of the door, your hand twists the doorknob and pushes the door open. You legs carry you only so far before they stutter to a stop just past the door frame. 

Just before you, there is a disheveled, sweaty Caledon Hockley, fit from youth and some maturity in his thirties, shirtless. His eyes look crazed, like a madman, as his hands grip a chair at his desk with white knuckles. Around the room, there’s shelves torn down, broken, books in a disarray on the floor. His bedsheets are thrown about with the other chair from his desk propped against the wall in his fury.

You stare wide-eyed, but somehow, not alarmed in the slightest. You were accustomed to this sort of outburst, especially within the hard working men. You saw it in your father - even in your younger brother. “Lord Hockley,” your voice is softer again, all annoyance and anger lost at the door. 

His eyes snap up to you, as if he had just noticed your arrival or presence. “What are you doing in here? You are not to barge in a man’s room, that is uncouth for a woman of your age and status. What is wrong with you?”

“Lord Hockley-” you try to start your confession.

“A woman is not to speak up to a man; are you ferel? Are you-?”

You don’t allow him to finish his slandering, “-I am mentally efficient, Lord Hockley, and very aware of my positioning here. However, I did knock, three times to be exact, with no answer. There had been a ruckus in here for about-” you peer up at the clock above his desk, “-an hour and a half now. I came to be of assistance, but if my help is unwanted, I’d happily leave you to your self-pity on your own?”

He has no other emotion present except bewilderment plastered to his face; eyes wide, mouth agape, and at a struggle for words. His fists clench and unclench as his eyes pan down to stare at the floor, appearing deep in thought.

“Lord Hockley, if I may be so bold?” you ask, scanning his body language and searching to find the meaning of this man’s crazed outburst.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, a hand going up to rub some hair from his eyes, still staring at the floor. 

“You may confide in me if that means helping your mental health?” you offer. You know this could go one of two ways: either one, he’ll turn you away, suffer alone, and claim that men have no such weaknesses, or two, he’ll let his guard drop and release him from these dark episodes he’s no stranger to. The latter seems rather unlikely.

“I am not mental.”

“I did not say that. I was simply insisting that everyone has a dark place their mind goes to, which is a detriment to a person’s mental health. Let alone someone who is expected to heal quickly and pick up the family business, am I correct?”

Just as you thought you were getting somewhere, Cal’s eyes snap back up to yours with anger, the malicious anger tearing at his body again, “You know nothing of my family’s business and nothing of me. You have no audacity as to even assume or place yourself in my shoes. I should have you thrown out or hanged for your mouth alone. Get out!”

“Just trying to be of service, sir, since I’m at your will!” you smile sickeningly, bowing to him and sliding through the door just as a book is picked up and thrown.

You let out a deep breath of air on the other side of his door, now in the safety of the hallway. Your throat tightens with a soft sob, tears welling in your eyes. You truly feel as a prisoner on death row, hands and ankles encased in heavy metal cuffs; struggling to walk under the watchful gazes and heavy chains slowing you down, keeping you locked in this manor. 

You weren’t the perpetrator, you know this, but you were framed to support the guilty with your own naivety and love.

You drag yourself back down to the kitchen to finish the man’s meal with dejection, but still devoted for the greater future - when you no longer have to be a maid in this manor and be free, lost in the world again.

“Lord Hockley?” you call once more at his door, only this time, you’re holding his tray of dinner. “I have your meal, are you decent?”

You hear a muffled ‘Yes’ and proceed through the door cautiously.

It seems he’s settled now, sitting at his desk with notes and papers scattering the floor and desk. He hadn’t cleaned the room, which you suspected you’d have to clean in the near future. However, you notice the bed is drenched in liquid, and when you look back at him, you notice sweat beading at his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat glistening against his skin.

“Lord Hockley?” you call again, stepping closer towards him. He chooses not t answer you, so you press further. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m very well aware of what my body is doing.”

“Are you feeling ill? I can help you if-” you are cut off by his fist meeting the solid oak of the desk.

“I do not need any assistance from the likes of you, nor do I want it,” his voice is stern, scary.

You try not to lose your temper so easily this time, so you give him a kind, tight-lipped smile. “Of course, my lord, you are a man after all. A man is able to take care of himself just fine, though he installs many maids within his manor. Maids like me,” you giggle dryly, “What shall I do instead, since you are able to clean, cook, and much more without the help of the ‘likes of me’?”

Caledon only groans, “Just leave the food here, you are dismissed. I’ll leave my tray for you to clean in the morning.”

“Oh, how kind,” you roll your eyes, scurrying to the door.

“Oh, and Miss, maybe you could find a better countenance and leave your convictions in your pillow when you arise. Wouldn’t want to explain to my father - and yours - as to why you were no longer needed and let go.”

You can hear the sinister smirk in his voice, but you choose to ignore it - for now -  and head to bed briskly.

The next two weeks follow you in a similar form. You do as your told, albeit begrudgingly, and get into many of your childish arguments. Your interactions with the man are nasty and violent at times, always finding yourself dodging an object, taking threats, and coming in the next morning asking for more. 

More, more, more; you ask for more because there is nothing else to be given. You have to take everything as a grain of salt. You have to because this means your father’s life and yours. If you manage to screw up, and you will, they will not only have your father’s head, but yours for Caledon’s punctured ego.

Though, somewhere within those weeks, you started to care less and less.

“Lord Hockley?” you knock at his door, tray of food in hand. He once more gives you no answer, so you push in.

Greeted by no light in the room, you walk around in the darkness, knowing this room like the back of your palm now. Placing the tray of food on the oak countertop and go to strike a match, lighting the candle on the desk. Going around the room, you light each and every one of them until the room is dimly lit enough to see.

On the bed, you find Caledon, sweat having gotten worse as you’ve noticed he never leaves his room. When you step closer, he is shivering, teeth chattering. Worried, you go to place the back of your hand to his forehead, but quickly draw your hand back when he jerks upright.

“Lord Hockley!” you jump, the ghost of his skin still lingering on the pads of your fingers. “You’re burning up, I need to help assist you now. You’re very ill and the sickness has gone on long enough-”

“No!” his voice rips through you quiet pleas, rattling off the walls.

“But, Lord Hockley-”

“I said ‘No’! I do not want assistance, I am a grown man!”

“’You can take care of yourself’, yeah, yeah, bullshit!” you scream, the frustration, fear, and hurt finally meeting your words as you are blinded by your emotions.

“What did you say?” Caledon looks at you in disbelief.

You cringe as you can guess what is about to take place in mere minutes, but you don’t hold back anymore. “Is your bigotry deafening your hearing or did you hear me call bullshit?”

Shakily, Caledon gets off his bed, his frame towering yours as he glares down at you with pale skin and dark, chocolate brown eyes.

“Your father wouldn’t want you to be sick, knowing that you would have to run his business soon.”

“My father-” Caledon cuts himself off, a hand going to wipe his face. “This has nothing to do with the business.”

“No? Well then, why else would I have to pamper you like a king? Is it because you’re defective?”

Caledon’s pacing now, trying to calm his increasing ragged breathing.

“Or is it because your useless to him? Mentally unstable?” you continue, trying to get a rise out of him.

“You know nothing of his business nor my personal life!” Caledon snaps back to you, anger finally bursting.

As his anger ensues, he takes steps close to you each time, piercing his thick index finger into you chest for emphasis. “You are nothing, you are worthless. I am a wealthy businessman. I am a strong, independent man with power. People would miss me if I were gone!”

“If you’re such a big man, you wouldn’t lock yourself away in your room like a toddler.”

That’s what finally did him in. You pressed a personal button when your short quips finally hit a nerve, testing his masculinity. Before you have time to react, a glass vase is hurled at you. It was a short throw, and was nowhere near your face, however it caught you by surprise and smashed against your hip.

You ignore the pain, though all you wanted to do was bury yourself in a hole. You came here to help him, but all you are returning is anger and hurt that is most definitely placed at you. 

“You’re sick and it is my job to take care of you, so your father won’t have my ass because his baby boy isn’t okay. It’s my job to make sure you are very well satisfied. It is my job that you get your linens washed, food prepared, room cleaned, and make it my duty that your estate is fully functioning all on my own!” you jab a finger in his direction, placing more distance between your bodies until your back hits his door, his body on the other side of the room behind his desk.

He goes to say more, but you cut him off with more furious blows.

“Though, what isn’t my job is to allow you to threaten me. It isn’t my job to be belittled and yelled at by you. It isn’t my job to allow you to throw objects and whatever anger you have and hurl them at me! That is not my job, nor what I will allow any longer!”

“I never asked you to be here. I didn’t want you here. You forced yourself into my estate to protect your father. You knew what you were getting into just by the public papers alone. You knew what was to be expected and yet you came here anyway. You made a prisoner and a victim of yourself.” Caledon’s gaze does not falter and neither does yours.

“You’re correct, Lord Hockley, I may have known what I was getting myself into. What I didn’t know nor expect was the childish frustration and blatant disregard for human decency. I’ve tried over and over again to be kind, but against your better judgement, you couldn’t allow me to be the person to hold such compassion.” 

Your eyes are welling up with tears now as you feel a warm liquid flow down your palm and to the tips of your fingers.

“You do not understand what is bothering me and you never will,” Caledon finally starts to calm himself, the self-pity returning as he recounts lost memories you cannot decipher.

“No, but I have made it abundantly clear that I was here to help assist you. However, you saw it as being weak, so it wasn’t in your cards to even allow me the common courtesy of being a human being. You felt as if I was lying to you.”

“God, you are so annoying,” Caledon groans.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“You know, when you’re silent, I almost like you -  wait, are you injured?”

“No!” you yell almost instantaneously. 

“Did I do that? Its dripping on the floor, what happened?”

“The glass,” you almost stutter, the atmosphere changing quickly. “The glass shatter and cut some of my hand, I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

“And, you’re ill.”

Caledon sighs, his shoulders slumping. Motioning for you to exit the room, Caledon says nothing as you make a silent pact to clean up. 

You are suffering whiplash from the sudden change of emotion and it leaves you on edge, but with the cooling of his mood, it allows the adrenaline and some stiffness to leave you. Confusion overtakes your mind.

Guided into the kitchen, you start to take out numerous medications, searching for something to accommodate his symptoms. Caledon walks up to you quietly, almost afraid to get too close.

You do not say or look at each other, finally finding the right medicine and sliding it to him on the counter before sitting down on one of the bar stools. He sits beside you carefully, taking the medicine. 

Taking some gauze and wiping away the cuts with an alcohol wipe, you struggle to wrap your hand. That is, until a warmer, larger one goes to encompass it gently, waiting for an action of opposition to its intentions.

Caledon gaze burns the side of your head before you finally acknowledge him with fear. Softly, he starts, “…Just allow me to help?”

You nod softly as the tears form in your eyes again. Some time passes before you finally work up the nerve to ask, “Why do you do this?” 

Caledon looks up from you hand with confusion, which urges you on to elaborate, “Why does your mood change so swiftly, so suddenly?”

Sighing, Caledon gives you a firm look, as if he’s deciding whether to trust you or not -  to tell you. “The Titanic,” he starts, “When I survived, I lost almost all of who I was. When I returned home to my father, I was constantly burdened with memories. They would consume me, control me, until I felt like a madman. The only solution was anger. When the anger takes control, there is no longer that burning sadness, guilt, and regret; no hoping I’d done something differently. I couldn’t allow myself to do that because I was no longer that man anymore.”

“It’s scary,” you croak, peering into his eyes.

“It is, but what’s worse is the life I’ve lived after the episodes. My father found me defective, worthless. I will never be able to fully recover, which is bad for business. He locked me away in this estate to stay hidden from prying eyes, bedridden to remain unseen even in this secluded property. I insist on doing the simplest actions myself because it makes me feel as if I’m showing my father I am still capable, just changed.”

You nod slowly as you take in this new information, grateful. The man has finally opened up to you, he’s no longer a stranger in his own home as it seems.

Calmly, Caledon pats your hand, signalling that the wrapping is done. A hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair from your face, resting it on your cheek just afterwards. “I know I’ve hurt you, but please, try to understand me, I’m not asking for your forgiveness... I just wanted you to understand-”

“You don’t need to ask that, I already forgave you a long time ago,” you smile softly, placing one of your hands on his opposing cheek. “We will learn to adapt, just as you have many times before. We are no longer strangers, yeah?”

“Yes,” Caledon smiles with glossy eyes.

“We will work on this together. You are not alone anymore.”

Caledon looks at you with uncertainty.

“I am here, always. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Kissing his forehead softly, you other hand goes to be placed on his shoulder, “Repeat it.”

“I am not alone,” a tear slides down his cheek.

“Not as long as I’m alive,” you smirk, placing a kiss to each of his eyelids.

“Never again,” the both of you say together, lips finally meeting as if to seal the promise the both of you now shared deep in your hearts. 

“Never alone.”

[executethyself35]

Oc Masterlist

(inspired by @xxluckystrike's)

Bianca "B" Hernandez

she/her, estp-a, 1918, staff sergeant

Having Gone from Cuba to New York was insane for a small child. Constantly butting heads with her mother, and becoming a U.S. citizen was the last straw. Bianca was working various odd jobs and couch surfing from one friends to another's when the U.S. decided to officially enter the war. She had nothing going on really in her life and the military wanted people, so she joined up. There was also the fact that she knew it would piss her mother off. So, now she's making friends, maybe falling in love with someone, and dragging herself all over the Southern U.S. and Europe. What could go wrong?

SHIP: Bill Guarnere

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #b vibes

Playlist:

Zipporah "Zippo" Fieldman

she/her, estp-a, 1914, technician 5th grade, sniper

Being born in Russia during the Great War, and living as an adult in 1930s San Francisco causes someone to harden emotionally, even more so as an older sister. Zipporah was working for her father at his deli shop, and going to the local synagogue whenever she could, when the war broke out. Having decided that if she was gonna live through a second world war, she was going to fight in it. Now, she's going all over the place, going from the Southern U.S. to almost all of occupied Europe, and making friends along the way, maybe even fall for the guy who she couldn't stand at first.

SHIP: Joe Liebgott

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #zippo vibes

Playlist:

Olive-Marie "Ollie" LeBeau

she/her, enfj-t, 1921, technician 3rd grade, nurse/medic

Born in New Orleans, Olive-Marie lived a happy humble life, until her father passed when she was 10. Her mother met a wealthy French man and they fell in love. From then after, her life became different. Her new step-father tried his best to be a good father figure to Olive-Marie and her older brother, while also taking care of his own children. Her mother on the other hand had finally gotten the social status she wanted and it went to her head, she didn't become a complete asshole though. It was a party her family was attending where she would meet the man she would come to loathe and her finacee, Roland Marrow. Forcing her to date him first because his family had wealth and both parents wanted their children to settle down. Olive-Marie didn't want to settle down though, especially not with a man who was cheating on her 24/7. When the war broke out Olive-Marie wanted to join up and become a nurse, but her family didn't want her too. Then they heard Roland was joining up and decided to make Olive-Marie become engaged to him so she wouldn't run rampant out there. Now, she's out here across Southern U.S. and Europe, saving people, making friends, and falling for her fellow medic, while saying fuck you to her finacee.

SHIP: Eugene Roe

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #ollie vibes

Playlist:

Torrance "Torrie" Stylinski:

she/her, enfp-t, 1921, 2nd lieutenant

Born in London, England, to an Irish mother and Namibian father, Torrance is their eldest child. Her parents divorced when she was 10 and her mother took Torrance and her little sister to Ireland, where she lived up until her grandfather died when she was 15. This caused her grandmother to uproot Torrance's entire family to Hattiesburg, Mississippi. When the U.S. went to war, Torrance joined up because she wanted to and she needed to get away from her mother, who was trying to set her up with a local boy. Now, she's shocking people with British accent, explaining English slang, and making jokes with her friends and the guy she likes, all across the Southern U.S. and Europe.

SHIP: George Luz

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #torrie vibes

Playlist:

Marselle Rosaliano

she/her, enfj-t, 1922, private first class, nurse/medic

Born into a mob family in Alpine, New Jersey, Marselle had a very happy life. She had a happy life with her two younger brothers, and then finding out her best friend Rose and her younger sister Lavanda were her half sisters, made her even more happy. She also had a girlfriend named Lacey, and that relationship did not end well. Marselle was working at a department store and living in the apartment above her brothers sub shop, when Pearl Harbor happened. Marselle decided that she wanted to become a nurse and join the military. Now, Marselle is out in the Southern U.S. and Europe, being absolutely confused by all the innuendos her friends are making, and not understanding that the guy she has a huge crush on is flirting with her.

SHIP: Skip Muck

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #marselle vibes

Playlist:

Elizabeth "Eliza" Thomlin

she/her, estp-t, 1923, corporal, nurse/medic

Being born into a religious cult as the 5th of nine children, in Asheville, North Carolina, Elizabeth had a terrible childhood. Supposed to be born with a twin like her other siblings, Elizabeth twin had died in the womb, this causing her mother to spiral. Elizabeth also being the only child born with red hair and green eyes, she was deemed the "devil child" of her family. Elizabeth's mother hated her and told her and showed it everyday, and father allowed it to happen. Elizabeth was homeschooled up until she was 14 and her father decided to put her into school because she was constantly getting into trouble at home. In her sophomore year of high school she meets her best friend Anna. Right before her and Anna's junior year, Elizabeth moved out and moved in with Anna and her Mother. After she moved out, Elizabeth started acting out once again, living her life on the edge. But, she didn't have any sense of direction in what she wanted to do with her life, and that's when the war broke out. When it broke out, Elizabeth wanted to join up to get away from whatever her life currently was and saw a sense of purpose in joining up. She also new of the risk of death and was willing for it. So now Elizabeth is going around the Southern U.S., where she lived most of her life, and Europe. Making friends, going back and forth between two companies, and falling for a man she claims to hate, who she has just as much a reputation as he does.

SHIP: Ronald Speirs

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #eliza vibes

Playlist:

Mary McCullen

she/her, estp-t, 1921, sergeant, mortar squad

Born in Washington State, to two devout Irish Catholics, with her fathers moto being "Fit God in whenever you can". Having gone to church every week up until her father passed when she was 12, in a motorcycle accident. That changed something in her, she hates motorcycles now and hates going to church. Mary's mother said that going to church would make her feel closer to her father, and that was the last thing Mary wanted, a reminder. When the war broke out, Mary was in a void, her eldest brother was in prison for arson, she was helping take care of her older sister's kid, and she needed to get out, so she joined up. As of late, she's getting used to the heat of the Southern U.S. and then the whiplash of the weather in Europe. With her close friends and the idiot she's falling for, she's getting better mentally, but also taking one toll after another.

SHIP: Donald Malarkey

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #mary vibes

Playlist:

Julia "Jules" Vasquez-Rodriguez

she/her, estp-a, 1923, private first class

Growing up in The Bronx and having two older brothers who bully you ruthlessly, makes you a little mean. The baby to her three full siblings, but the middle child including her 4 younger half siblings, Julia deals with craziness often. Julia had moved out of her childhood home to an apartment in Philadelphia at 17 for work, where she met the one person she would consider her best friend for life, Joe Toye. Julia met him while she was moving in and was having issues with her groceries, since then they were close. She watched him leave when the war broke out, while she sat there working at a boutique. Julia finally had enough of sitting around and doing nothing while her best friend was running around all over Europe, so she joined the airborne. Now she's in the same predicament as the other replacements, not being treated with respect, until she gets put Easy Company. Now she's got more friends than she ever had, and she might finally realize that she's in love with her best friend.

SHIP: Joe Toye

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #julia vibes

Playlist:

Allison "Allie" Harten

she/her, entj-a, 1917, 1st lieutenant, intelligence officer

The eldest daughter to an army man, and a traditional mother, Allison is all her father. All Allison wanted to do throughout her life was join the military, since she had no brothers and wanted to continue the family tradition, having both her father and grandfather being in the army. And all her mother wanted Allison to do was be a stay at home wife and never work. Allison never wanted to do that, she knew she would settle down, but not right now, she has a life to live. And once she turned 18 in 1935, she joined the army, having gotten into a non full in combat position thanks to a family friend of her grandfathers. But, once the war broke out and a new division opened up, Allison was interested, especially when she heard it was an elite one. So Allison joined the airborne, but she was the only woman. This made her decide that she was gonna start a women's division, no matter how small it was, she was going to prove that women belonged in the military. Now, she's ordering around the others, dealing with Sobel's incompetence, and trying not to murder anyone. And, she's going around Europe collecting info, and trying, but failing miserably at not falling in love with a certain cigar smoking sergeant.

SHIP: Bull Randleman

FIC: Let's See How Far We've Come

OC TAG: #allie vibes

Playlist:

[the-third-eye]

Vampires, History and You

DRAGAN I (12th century)

Blood-sucker from the Second Bulgarian Empie credited with being the first vampire. Claims of his exact birth, life and undeath are generally disputed and little proof of him even existing has been found. He is purported to have been of noble blood though as result of an affair, dying early of sickness and ressurecting as the original vampiric spawn for reasons unknown.

Some say he simply faded away or that he lives on to this day in form of the monsters of modern myth.

VLADISLAV III (1431-1476)

Contrary to popular belief, the Voivode of Wallachia, Vlad "The Impaler" was NOT A VAMPIRE. However due to his sheer bloodlust and sadism he was a magnet for them. Many high-ranking Wallachian officials at the time were vampires fully on board with his ideas who wholeheartedly supported his plundering and impaling of the Transylvanian Saxons.

He was slain by his own troops as they had mistaken him for a Turk.

ELIZABETH BATHORY DE ESCED (1560-1614)

A Hungarian countess moonlighting as a serial killer. Elizabeth was of the superstitious belief that bathing in blood would keep her youth intact, as her vampirism started taking a toll on her exterior, causing her to kill over 600 young maidens.

In early 1611 she was detained and imprisoned in Csejte castle for the remainder of her life where the deprivation of blood caused her to die four years later at the age of 54.

GRIGORI YEFIMOVICH RASPUTIN (1792-?)

Hired as a faith healer by the Nicholas II's son, the Siberian strannik Grigori Rasputi was not only a skilled manipulator and medical practitioner but also a possibly immortal vampire. Despite having a religious awakening after a pilgrimage in 1897 he was an opulent man enjoying all the pleasures of food, strong drink and any woman that would have him (which were quite many).

Following multiple failed assasination attemps Rasputin was thought to have been killed by a group of noblemen. Their first attempt to poison him with cyanide-laced cake and wine failed as his physiology withstood the poison, he was shot in the forehead and his corpse was diposed in the Malaya Nevka River.

However current paranormal scholars believe he is still alive and well, living in the shadows.

"JACK THE RIPPER" (Active 1888)

Another vampire serial killer is said to have haunted Victorian England. Although not even the name "Jack the Ripper" is for certain the methods of murder and removal of internal organs point to the suspect or suspects being of vampiric nature.

Never identified.

PETER KÜRTEN (1883-1931)

Maybe not one of the deadliest but probably most heinous vamprire serial killers, Peter Kürten was a man who truly earned his titles. Such charming nicknames as "The Düsseldorf Monster" and "The King of Sexual Perverts". Kürten went on a spree of arsons, homicides and molestations in the year 1929 before he was apprehended.

Peter was executed via beheading in 1931 on accounts of nine cases of murder and seven cases of attempted murder. His head was split in two (possibly to avoid biting post-decapitation) and mummified. In the late 1940s the head was moved to the US and now resides in Wisconsin.

KAREN SABNOCK (1912-Present)

The matriarch of a vampire clan which migrated to America after years of vampires confining themselves to Europe. At her arrival in the 1950s she fell in love with the suburban lifestyle that had been established post war. Her clan has grown strong over the years acting as a haven for vampirekind in the American Northeast...well as long as they conform to the standards of it.

She governs the coven as a sort of omnipotent wine aunt and is currently on the lookout for another vampiric bride, having set her eyes on the human wife of one of her clansmen.

BILLIAM FREDERICK SUBURBS (1914-2012)

A prominent social figure and progenitor of the Karen's suburban vampire community. He was the classic sitcom family man father of three living with his wife...until she killed him and their children after discovering they had killed a man to drink his blood in front of her.

Since his demise the clan has been on the hunt for his spouse Marsha.

[scotianostra]

Donald Alexander Smith, 1st Baron Strathcona and Mount Royal, fur trader and railroad financier was born in Forres, August 6th 1820.

Donald Smith was the son of a saddler, a commoner, he was educated at Anderson’s Free School, he left school at 16 and was started his adult life apprenticed to become a lawyer at the town clerks office in Forres, so he was smart and was not going to toil as a crofter like his family had before him. At 18 he chose to leave Forres and follow his Uncle who had been successful in the fledgling Companies in 19th century Canada, so it was he set sail for Montreal to become a junior clerk in the service of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in what was then Lower Canada.

Smith’s achievements are numerous. For a record 75 years he worked for the Hudson’s Bay Company. He became Governor of that company, a substantial investor in the Canadian Pacific Railway, a benefactor of McGill University, where he founded Royal Victoria College for women in 1896, and founder of Victoria Hospital in Montreal, the list goes on and on in industry, politics, and philanthropy.

Lord Strathcona went on to use his incredible wealth and status to help build Canada into a nation, he helped establish the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and Canada’s independent military. He contributed large donations to medical science and women’s education, among many others. His estate was valued at $5.5 million. During his lifetime, (remember this was a self made man),and including the bequests left after his death, he gave away just over $7.5 million plus a further £1 million (not including private gifts and allowances) to a huge variety of charitable causes.

If I was to compare what Smith achieved during his life with anyone else the only person I can think of is Andrew Carnegie. The pics show the man himself, the second posing to hit the ceremonial last spike of the Canadian Pacific Railway, behind him to his left is the subject of a post last month, Sandford Fleming, thegroup pic is a memorial plaque in Forres that states

“Donald Alexander Smith Lord Strathcona and Mount Royal Pioneer, Statesman and Philanthropist in Forres on 6th August 1820 in the family home on a site close to this wall near the banks of the Mosset. He emigrated to Canada in 1838 and eventually became governor of the Hudson Bay Company. Concerned with the development of the dominion he became co-founder of the Canadian Pacific Railway. In 1896 he was appointed to the United Kingdom As a High Commissioner for Canada and received a peerage the following year. He raised and equipped Lord Strathcona’s Horse (Royal Canadians) for service during the South African War. Many local including Leanchoil Hospital and St. Laurence Church benefited greatly through his renowned generosity. Lord Strathcona died in Canada on the 21st January 1914 Erected by the Community Council for The Royal Burgh of Forres 1988”