#courier half pint

[softlyapocalytpic]

Alright!!!! Here's my full entry for the first day of @yeehawgust 2023

Just some silly shenanigans!

Rose of Sharon Cassidy. Something about that name lit the neurons in her brain on fire. So much of it was dead, misfires and roundabouts, but she could taste that name. Tasted like fire and spice. Smelled like alcohol, broken dreams, and then... leather. Definitely leather, right? Half Pint grabbed her arm and jerked her to the side, down an alley and out of the watchful eyes of the Silver Rush guards, "Do you even know what you agreed to do?" Their glare was ever-piercing, but it was the kinda look that said that she was doing something and dumb and selfish again. Sank to a low they were hoping she was too stupid to have gone to on purpose. Sunshine shrugged, "They wanna talk to some bitch about a business proposal or somethin', right?" They cooled down a little (but only a little), "You're walking that trader into a trap." Trader . Felt like... heat on her cheeks and a bruise that she loved the sting of- a feeling that felt like deja vu but all wrong (again and again) fuck why couldn't she remember a little faster. Sounded like... a shattered glass of whiskey. Like the squeal of boots on linoleum and- Click . "Oh shit, whiskey bitch? Rosie? They're gonna whack Rosie?" Rosie! How could she forget that spitfire? They'd had the best night together!

[threerattsinatrenchcoat]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @graysparrowao3 ! No pressure, no expectation, but if @fistfuloftarenths @dustdeepsea @lolliputian and @commander-krios would like to join in, have at it.

This WIP is from a continuation of my Rugan/Bandit Queen Tav fic. The fic itself is NSFW; this part has nothing explicit, though.

Rugan was on his fifth pint of swill—not impressive, considering how much water was in it—when a captivating woman strutted into the bustling tavern.

Captivating, because she'd robbed him. Twice, technically, but he got back the shipment that mattered. He'd had to do some explaining when it arrived dented, though, and the Zhents had put out a bounty. They'd even drawn a half decent portrait. Zarys knew his type. Any other night the bandit would've been fine, but tonight three Zhent caravanners were rooming here.

One of which owed a lot of money to the wrong people.

Luckily, Sal wasn't downstairs. Rugan drained his glass and dashed after her, dodging a server and a few handsy couples. The tavern was attached to an inn, and he had to jump over a pile of luggage and around a stable hand flirting with a courier, nearly catching up with her right as she disappeared into the baths. An ogre at the dressing room door held out a hand, clearly asking for a bathing chit.

Washing off the road dust during the journey was unlucky, unless it was your cock. Didn't want road rot, or worse: a reputation with the local services that you had a dusty dick. Still, he'd loved those tits, enough to risk the baths. He couldn't allow the world to lose them over student loans. Especially not when a few more thefts would easily triple her bounty, and then he could collect it.

[thelightningbottler]

Lightning Boltz - Villains

TRANSCRIPT

The Audacity

The intimacy

Of student accommodation Offers a lot

To the imagination 

and proves to be above many stations the source of trials 

and tribulations.

As you hear sounds of sex from the wall to your left

the passionate cries of every breath. And below you hear

that couple fighting angry tones and ragged breathing.

As they try to get out each word seething

and next to you they play the police or the beat or the jam,

(if you're lucky.) The Skints. And beyond the moans and the groans,

and the crying and the fighting,

beyond the dancehall the dub

and the reggae you hear him.

Three rooms down…

He moves at half a clip. He breathes when he sleeps,

Incomplete, he hiccups for air on every other beat.

He shuffles down the hallway Singing songs

He laughs and bleats and for some reason this is the last straw That You can keep

And so its not the lovers, The fighters

The stoners

The people who keep you from your slumber they’re not the ones you get your ire.

It’s that GUY

with his BREATHING. His DEFIANCE

Of ENTROPY

He KEEPS PUTTING OFF His ETERNAL SLUMBER.

But then again, in lighter climbs. In student bars

with pints in hand the same guy

looks at you and say, ‘You snore, big o, Something rotten’

And suddenly you know

your animosity

is equalled.

The scales are set 

the message simple: You have to dive across the table and ring the life

from his fuckin nostrils.

Make believe

Inside the white walls      

of the white cottage,

which was ringed by the white Picket fence,

a small girl named Betty

took white sheets 

and cut out the image 

of white Jesus 

and glued him 

to a cross made of popsicle sticks.

Close Acquaintance

John had great big waterproof boots on.

“Back in the day, I used to wear crocs.

But I found that the holes let the blood soak through.

And the blood can really fuck up your socks.

“Did you know about young Leafblower?

The fellow your height who tended the pigs?

And blew away the leaves in autumn

And in the summer picked the figs?

“Well he and I, young Leafblower, that is,

We were told of an important job.

Something small just by the coast

That could withstand a mighty storm.

“No, not the job, it's no metaphor:

It’s the shack that I speak well of

Sturdy foundations my dear boy

Nothing could have blown its top off.

“So me and Leafy, I called him Leafy sometimes,

If he let me. But he was insistent

‘Leafblower is my name,’ he’d say

But I called him Leafy and I was persistent.

“Anyway, Leafy and I, we share this moped

That we borrowed off his brother.

‘Be careful turning into benders,’ he said

As we headed sideways to Great Yarmouth

“Nows, this was before your new fangled “Aitch You Dees”,

We had to use a pen and paper,

The courier gave us a printed Google map, 

 - X marks the spot - he told us, as he drank his cider. 

“So me and Leafy, we gets to Great Yarmouth,

I tell you now, it’s lost its glamour.

Just a bunch of boarded up storefronts

From those years of Tory power. 

“Anyway, through Yarmouth me and Leafy go

On this moped from his brother

Up to the cabin on the cliff

That could withstand all kindsa weather.

“‘Bloody Cold,’ Leafy said,

Chattering, the poor lads teeth was

No problem there for me

I had my woolly socks and crocs on!

“‘Hush your whining,’ I said to Leafy,

‘All that piss’ll do you no good.

Find out where the fuckin lav is

And I’ll order in some Food.’

“So I get on the blower

As young Leafy goes for a slash

And I order like 3 pizzas, 

And I tell em that I’ll pay in cash.

“Turns out the fella who delivered

Was a bit of an entrepreneur,

So not only did we acquire the pizza

But a bag of Whizz and some great green herbs!

“Leafblower, in his search for a bog, 

Had found himself a different stench

In the basement of this cabin

There was in fact, a stillers bench.

“Oh the moonshine these lads had made

Stronger than a kicking mule,

Bitterer than Love’s last kiss

And tasted like you’re drinking stool.

“By fuck did we get wasted, lad,

By fuck did we get hammered.

By fuck, lad, did we get sozzled.

And paint the place with vomit after.

‘And on we partied many days, 

Until all that was left was whizz and thinner

And Leafy looked over at me

And said, ‘Dear chap, what’s for dinner?’

“And I looked at Leafy in new light, 

Like… what a handsome little brat

What strong pectoral muscles he had

But with this scintillating fat.

“And look, call it the drugs or whatever

But it was at that point that I knew

Young Leafblowers steak and kidneys,

Was gonna be my next meal.

“And yea, some conflict did ensue:

I chased him with a broken bottle,

He cried, and whined, and begged and pleaded,

Didn’t stop me slicing his wattle. 

“And as he bled out he cried a lot

For his muther and his father

And I was like ‘Blah Blah Blah Blah’

And started to prepare my supper. 

“Steak and kidney pie I made! 

Ale soaked rump, and chipolatas

Braised ribs, and bourguignon,

And all the foods that I was after.

“And after that, I came straight home

The orgy of eating sucked it out of me and

the violence, of course, the violence...

Tuckers me out something rotten. 

“Course the constabulary couldn’t leave well enough alone,

They came knocking at my door.

And when I say my door, I mean my door!

Cause I was back away from Great Yarmouth and all.

“Turned out they’d found a soggy sock!

Turned out it had a toenail clippin’!

Turned out their forensic investigations

Had me dead-to-rights at the scene!”

He (John) stared out over the landscape,

Rolling hills and setting sun.

I was about to ask another question

But turns out John just wasn’t done.

“So of course I served my time.

And I’m a model citizen now.”

And what, I asked, do you do for a living?

“Butcher.” he smiled, or maybe scowled.

I was out of questions now,

And so I paid him, tit for tat.

“Could never get the bugger out my teeth…”

And that (said John) ⁠is ⁠that.

[rise-in-exile]

22 September 2024

So, it begins. The last week of my twenties. On Tuesday, 1 October I turn 30.

I remember I spent my 20th birthday driving around the county in a van that was falling apart picking up some print orders for the advertising agency I worked for at the time. Bearing in mind I was employed a copywriter, not a courier. Fast forward 10 years and I'm a part qualified accountant. In the evening me and my friend Adam went to the local gastro-pub and had steak and a lot of pints. Fast forward 10 years, I'm still best friends with Adam who is now a father to a fantastic two and a half year old boy. Shortly after turning 20 I entered into a relationship, which turned out to be wildly damaging and toxic. I ended it shortly before turning 23 and that was my last relationship.

I don't really regret anything about my twenties. I've picked up a lot of lessons I'll apply to my 30s. One of the biggest being the importance of looking after my physical and mental health. I can't be of service to myself or others when my physical and mental health is in the gutter. Throughout my 20s my physical and mental health has been a game of peaks and valleys and I think that's just life but I've learned there are things I can do, I can implement as non-negotiables to sensure they're the best they can be. So...2025...specifically April 2025...I have booked a half marathon in Lake Garda, Italy for the start of April and the end of April, Hyrox Barcelona. Two physical challenges which are going to push me out of my comfort zone and require some discipline and further training coupled with TRAVELLING. Something I didn't do even close to enough of during my 20s.

[nightingaelic]

Reactions to a vampire courier? Companions plus Benny, Ulysses, Graham, House, Caesar, and Yes Man. (sorry if that's too many :x)

TW: Blood (maybe obviously)

Also I don't normally feel some type of way about AUs but the idea of Joshua Graham encountering a vampire courier is giving me shivers

The courier was a little... strange. Not in any way that stood out to the average wastelander just by looking at them, everyone in the Mojave had their quirks and the courier was no exception. Hell, you get shot in the head and come back, you're bound to have a screw or two loose. They were unquestionably a night owl, but so were half the people on the Strip, who only started to wake up after the sun had gone down and the slot machines were singing their loudest. They usually had bags under their bloodshot eyes, but every caravan driver from here to the Hub was short on sleep.

On the other hand, the courier had some habits that were a little beyond surface-level eccentricities. For one, no one had ever seen them eating, not once. Even when the King laid out a spread of pre-war snacks and liquor or when the buffet at the Tops was refreshed, they politely declined and took a swig from the canteen that they never offered to anyone else. They were also rather odd about bathrooms, insisting that anyone accompanying them remain outside on watch and let no one else through the door until they were finished. But the undeniable moment of oddity came one night in October, when their companion rounded a corner in Freeside after a trip to the Atomic Wrangler and discovered the courier behind a rusted dumpster, holding a man against a brick wall with their teeth buried in his neck.

The courier drew back at the interruption, blood smeared across their face. "I'm not- it's not what- he- oh, fuck."

Arcade Gannon: Arcade stared open-mouthed for a moment, before snapping violently back into the present. "Is he dead?"

"Umm..." The courier glanced at the man they were holding, whose head was lolling against the bricks. "Yes? Mostly."

With no patient to resuscitate, Arcade rounded on them. "Six, what in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?"

The courier tried to wipe away the blood that was dribbling from their chin, but they only succeeded in spreading it up their jawline. "Well, I, um, I was trying to..."

Whatever excuse they were searching for eluded them, so they dropped the pretense. "I was feeding, Arcade."

"Feeding? What, like some kind of-" Arcade's eyes widened and he cut his sentence off early in realization. "No. No way. That's not- vampires aren't real!"

That earned him a look of intense skepticism. "Arcade, we've fought off plant monsters and rattlesnake-coyote hybrids together. I have a gun in my pack that lets me teleport."

"Oh, okay, so you have some kind of iron deficiency and you're delusional." Arcade laughed, the sound high and harsh in the quiet alley. "Great. Fuck."

Craig Boone: Rather than engage in an abandoned alley, Boone immediately backtracked to a busier street. He was unsurprised when the courier didn't follow him: Even in Freeside, someone covered in blood was sure to be noticed and questioned.

Boone left town that night and made for Novac. He was pretty sure the courier would follow him, but he didn't know where else to go. At least he knew they were coming. A few people in Novac asked about where he'd been, what the courier was up to, but eventually they stopped asking.

A couple of weeks went by. Boone was on the night shift again when the door into the dinosaur swung open to reveal the courier. He'd heard someone coming, their feet on the stairs, and he already had his gun pointed in their face. "We will never work together again," he said, before they could open their mouth.

"Boone, can you just-"

"I don't want an explanation." Boone shook his head. "I don't need one. I already did you a favor, leaving New Vegas without putting you back in your grave. This is over."

The courier took a deep breath. "71."

"What?"

"71. I've killed 71 Legion soldiers and left their bodies empty under the Mojave sky." They looked down and shuffled their feet. "I've tasted their fear. They're more scared of me than the Burned Man, now."

Boone studied them. Ever so slowly, he lowered his gun.

Lily Bowen: "Put him down, dearie," Lily chastised them. "You're playing too roughly with that man. And watch your language around your grandma!"

The courier looked down at their victim, at their torn throat and limp limbs. "He tried to mug me, Lily. It wasn't pretty."

"He looks like he's had enough," Lily insisted. "Set him down. Gently."

With a sigh, the courier obliged and lowered the man to the ground. "I'm sorry, Lily. I should have told you earlier. I don't mean to be rude when I turn down your cooking, I just... I can't seem to..."

"Hush, now." Lily produced her enormous handkerchief and gathered the courier up in her arms, dabbing at the blood on their face with a corner of the cloth. "You've gotten it all over yourself, haven't you? We can clean that right up, but it looks like Grandma's going to have to do a load of laundry. You made the mess, so you get to help."

Raul Alfonso Tejada: Raul swallowed nervously, something he'd noticed he was increasingly doing around the courier. "You know, we get murciélagos down in Arizona that do the same thing. They won't leave the brahmin alone."

The courier took in his anxious stance and sighed. "Raul, I'm not going to hurt you. Prometo. It's okay."

"Sure boss, but I don't think the hair on the back of my neck is going down anytime soon." Raul smiled, but it was more of a grimace. "Or it wouldn't, if I still had any. Como..?"

"No clue." The courier shrugged and held their hands up, letting the corpse they'd been holding slide to the ground. "I think it had something to do with me surviving Benny's best attempts to do me in, but a bullet is a bullet and I don't remember if I was like this before, or..."

"Or only after." Raul chuckled. "Jesucristo, and here I am thinking I'll outlive you like most everyone else I've known."

"Yep."

"Should I start calling you el chupacabra?"

The courier grinned, a bloody smile with sharp teeth.

Rose of Sharon Cassidy: "Fuck," Cass echoed, scrambling to pull her shotgun from its holster. "Knew I had too much, can't even- who are you and what've you done with the courier? Some kind of cannibal, wearing their skin? Alien? Shapeshifter? I'll blow a hole in your liver to match mine!"

"Whoa, Cass, it's me, it's me!" The courier dropped the man they were holding and held their blood-stained hands up. "Same old Six, just... maybe I wasn't straight with you about why I don't order anything at bars."

"Goddamn right you weren't straight with me!" Cass gestured at the body on the ground with the barrel of her gun. "Who's the fucker on the floor and why are you two pints in on him?"

"Just trying to get my drink on," the courier muttered.

Cass repaid this facetiousness with a jab of her shotgun, and they raised their hands higher. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry! You tell me, how do you tactfully tell someone that you're a creature of the night and you need to drink blood to survive?"

"Creature of the night? You're fucking loopy." Cass' eyes narrowed. "There's plenty of critters in the Mojave that only come out when it's dark, but most of them don't tear into..."

She trailed off into curses when she realized she was wrong. The courier smiled hesitantly and lowered their hands an inch. "Hey. Let me chuck this failed mugger in the dumpster and we can talk about it like a pair of civilized folks?"

Veronica Santangelo: Veronica squeaked and fell back a few steps, banging her elbow against the edge of the dumpster. A jolt of confused pain shot up her arm, and the Scribe couldn't help giggling harshly at the sudden assault on her funny bone.

"Not- laughing... at murder," she managed to get out between hisses of pain. "Oh, for the love of... right, you're not getting out of explaining what you are, exactly, just because I'm indis-indisposed!"

The courier couldn't help laughing at the squirming Scribe, but they did their best to stifle it. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I um... I guess I don't really know... what I am?"

"There's books!" Veronica burst out, pointing at the courier and their victim wildly. "I've seen them, in old libraries. Creatures that feed on blood, only come out at night, don't show up in... in mirrors, of course, no wonder you're weird about bathrooms, I should test... Dracula! That's it, you're a Dracula!"

"A Dracula?" The courier held their hands up, as if seeing them anew. "Never heard of them. Are they... bad?"

"Well, traditionally, yes." Veronica made a face and rubbed her elbow. "Black cloaks, sleeping in coffins, seducing and manipulating everyone around them... and people don't like it when you take their blood, in my experience."

"Whose blood have you taken?"

"This isn't about me, Six!"

ED-E: The eyebot bobbed wildly and made noises of concern, blips and blats and a flat burst of trumpets from some old jazz tune.

"I was hungry," the courier protested. "And this asshole pulled a knife on me and wanted all of my caps. Probably more than that, if we're being honest. He wasn't doing the world any good, but he did me some, for sure."

ED-E flipped between old clips of a Silver Shroud radio show. "Well, isn't this a deep, dark <static> secret? <static> In a situation such as this, the best anyone can do is <static> try to control it!" The robot added some more concerned beeps for good measure.

"I'm trying," the courier said with a sigh, looking down at the dead man they were holding. "You know I wouldn't hurt some random person, ED-E. Not if I could help it. The Mojave's full of bad people, enough to keep me going if I'm careful."

Rex: The hair on Rex's spine stood up, and he let out a long, low growl. The courier froze for a moment, before realizing that he was growling not at them but at the man they were holding.

"He's dead, Rex," they reassured the cyberdog, lowering the corpse to the floor for inspection.

Rex sniffed the body over, taking in the copper scent of his blood and the Freeside stink on his clothes. He sniffed the courier too, each of their hands they held out to him and the thick headiness of adrenaline. He whined and wagged his tail twice.

"Good boy," the courier said, straightening up. "It's about time I turned in, anyway. Let's dump this guy and split."

Benny Gecko: Benny crossed his arms. "You know, Six, if you're dead set on getting your kicks in Freeside every now and then, you might want to ease up on the passions with the next greaser you snag. This one's torn all to pieces."

"I wasn't- what kind of-" The courier dropped the man they were holding and sputtered. "Christ, only you could make a midnight murder awkward, Benny."

"Murder?" Benny raised his eyebrows and looked from side to side theatrically. "Who said anything about a murder? All I saw was some dreamboat and the best apple butterer of New Vegas playing back alley bingo, officer."

The courier's eyes narrowed. "Not gonna rat me out? Tell the King or somebody that I'm..."

"What, taking a page out of the White Glove Society's book?" Benny held his hands up. "None of my business. Well, if you ever come for me with that look in your eyes, though, that'll be a different story."

"Not much you'd be able to do," the courier pointed out. "You already tried and failed to kill me once."

Ulysses: Rather than react like any normal wastelander might've upon encountering someone attacking a man with their teeth, Ulysses just stood there, taking the scene in. "Heard tales of a tribe like you. East, farther east than even I've walked... a coven hiding in tunnels, emerging only when their hungers grow too strong to ignore, strong enough to pull blood from the veins of the world around them."

"Well, I don't hide in tunnels." The courier grimaced and heaved their victim up over their shoulder, depositing them unceremoniously in the dumpster. "Unless some disgruntled Frumentarius sends me out to hunt mutants under Hopeville."

"Perhaps you have more in common with those predators than I assumed," Ulysses admitted. "But then, your path has always run red. Blood of the Old World, blood of the new, blood of the Bull and the Bear..."

The courier rolled their eyes as they peeled off their red-stained coat and tossed it in the dumpster as well. "Don't talk to me about blood. I know you've seen just as much as me, but it doesn't mean the same thing when I look at it."

Ulysses cracked a hint of a smile. "You see life where I see death. Two sides, courier."

"Yeah, yeah. If you're not going to try to kill me, come on. You can wax poetic and lecture me about which road I'm walking while I take a shower."

Joshua Graham: "A creature far from God," Graham said in his most reproachful tone. "Forever damned for the souls of the innocent they've taken from the earth. Aren't we a pair, courier."

"You can fuck right off with that attitude." The courier dropped the man they were holding and wiped their hands on their coat. "He tried to kill me first. For some caps."

"The crimes of others do not absolve you of your own sins, courier," Graham continued, leisurely retrieving his gun from its holster. He held it up in the muted neon light that filtered through the alley, turning the weapon this way and that. "Though I confess I am also looking for absolution in this way."

"Are you going to kill me?" the courier asked, eyeing the gun as well.

"I've no doubt it would leave this world better than when you walked it," Graham replied. "But my own opinions are not enough to seal your fate. Perhaps we should find this man's family and hear their feelings on the matter."

The courier took a step forward, then another, until their chest was right up against the pistol's muzzle, pressed against the fabric of their shirt. "Go ahead. Try."

And though Joshua Graham was sorely tempted to pull the trigger, though the courier made no move to stop him, something in their eyes... some faraway pain, older than the desert itself, fresh as the blood on the ground, stayed his hand.

He lowered the gun, chastised, and the courier walked away.

Robert House: The Securitron that bore Robert House's face on its screen leveled a minigun at the courier. "Whoa!" the courier protested, dropping their victim and putting their hands out. "Can't we talk about this?"

"And what have we to discuss?" House sounded absolutely disgusted. "I believe you're familiar with my contract with the White Glove Society. If they wish to continue their current prosperity in New Vegas, cannibalism is strictly forbidden. You are subject to the same terms and conditions, as one of my employees."

"Terms and condi- hold on, hold on, you never asked me whether I was a cannibal," the courier replied. "Are you talking about that document you had me sign, way back when I agreed to help you fight the NCR and the Legion?"

"The very same."

"How is that fair? That thing was over 200 pages long, I didn't grow up in the 21st century, I don't have a degree in... okay, okay." The courier waved their hands. "Cannibalism is a no-go. This isn't cannibalism, this is vampirism."

"Which falls under the definition of cannibalism," House replied, his annoyed tone still detectable over the sound of the minigun spinning up. "Section 3.65, subsection F. Next time, read the fine print."

Caesar: The Legion's great leader pivoted in an instant from surprise to quiet anger. "Clean yourself up, courier. I expect to see you in my quarters within the hour."

He turned and left the alley swiftly, letting his powerful stride and swinging cloak cover his shaken confidence. The people of Freeside cowered as he passed, shrinking into the shadows as he made his way back to the Strip, but the fear in their eyes was not enough to erase the image of the courier bent over in bloodlust, holding their victim in total subjugation.

The courier found him on the top floor of the Lucky 38, gazing out over the city he had conquered and named his Rome. "Leave us," Caesar bid his Praetorian Guard. They bowed and departed the room without question.

"You asked to see me," the courier said nervously, shifting their weight from foot to foot. They had changed clothes, and no trace of blood remained on them.

"I did." Caesar beckoned them to the window next to him. They stood in silence for a moment, watching the lights wink below.

"I'm a well-read man, courier," Caesar said finally. "I know the legends of the Old World, and I recognize the marks of one of their nightmares in you. I order you to tell me the truth: Do you fit the full definition of the creature they called 'vampire,' or do you simply mimic the things to add to your fearsome affect?"

The courier didn't answer right away. When they did, their voice was soft. "I pretend to be nothing. I am what I am."

"And everything that comes with it?" Caesar pressed. "Darkness, the blood of the innocent, eternity?"

"Yes."

Caesar turned to face them fully. "Then I, Almighty Caesar, command you to make me as you are."

Yes Man: "Now that's a twist I didn't see coming!" Yes Man said, his happy tone only slightly tempered with uncertainty. "Boy, am I glad I don't have a circulatory system right now!"

The courier shushed the Securitron and looked around the alley surreptitiously. "Yes Man, I swear to god, if you blow my cover I'm disassembling you."

"As I've told you before, I can't technically die!" Yes Man reassured them. "And I certainly wouldn't want to endanger you and your hobbies, but my volume mixer is tied to my enthusiasm simulator and I can't adjust it! You'll just have to hope any passersby aren't interested in following my friendly voice into an alley!"

"Then go back to the Lucky 38 and we'll talk later," the courier insisted, through gritted teeth.

"I technically never left! But if you mean this Securitron, sure thing!" Yes Man zoomed away on his single wheel, whistling the whole way back to the casino where the rest of his consciousness was housed. He kept whistling as he ran probability algorithms, only pausing when the courier returned after a few hours and crossed their arms in front of his main screen.

"Hi there!" he said joyfully. "I've just been cross-checking Mr. House's records on noteworthy disappearances in the Strip, and I've flagged eight of them as potentially being connected to you! I don't want to assume your intentions, but if you don't want to be found out, I've developed a plan for choosing your next victims that will help you remain undetected in New Vegas for 184 years! Give or take a few!"

The courier put their head in their hand and sighed.

[rabbitcruiser]

National Curried Chicken Day

Each year on January 12th, curried chicken lovers enthusiastically celebrate National Curried Chicken Day. They fill their dishes with a variety of flavorful spices and serve them to their friends and family.

When making a true curried chicken, don’t reach for the curry powder. Instead, stew the chicken in a sauce made from clarified butter (known as ghee) onions, garlic, and a medley of spices such as cumin, coriander, cinnamon, ginger, and turmeric. Other ingredients include chilies and tomatoes.

“Curries came into favor as an excellent way of using up cold meat.” Lizzie Collingham Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors

Curry powder made its way into recipes by way of Britain. Their long-time presence in India left a desire for the flavors of the East on the palates of many of the English. Curry powder and recipes with it existed as early as the 1700s but curried chicken and other curried meat recipes gained popularity during the British Raj beginning in 1858.

In parts of the United States, curried chicken is a popular dish known as Country Captain Chicken, a stewed chicken dish that has been flavored with curry powder.

Country Captain

The following clip, originating from the Hobson-Jobson Dictionary, is regarding Country Captain:

“COUNTRY-CAPTAIN. This is in Bengal the name of a peculiar dry kind of curry, often served as a breakfast dish. We can only conjecture that it was a favourite dish at the table of the skippers of ‘country ships,’ who were themselves called ‘country captains,’ as in our first quotation. In Madras the term is applied to a spatchcock dressed with onions and curry stuff, which is probably the original form. [Riddell says: “Country-captain.—Cut a fowl in pieces; shred an onion small and fry it brown in butter; sprinkle the fowl with fine salt and curry powder and fry it brown; then put it into a stewpan with a pint of soup; stew it slowly down to a half and serve it with rice” (Ind. Dom. Econ. 176).]

“

1792.—”But now, Sir, a Country Captain is not to be known from an ordinary man, or a Christian, by any certain mark whatever.” Madras Courier, April 26.

c. 1825.—”The local name for their business was the ‘Country Trade,’ the ships were ‘Country Ships,’ and the masters of them ‘Country Captains.’ Some of my readers may recall a dish which was often placed before us when dining on board these vessels at Whampoa, viz. ‘Country Captain.’”—The Fankwae at Canton (1882), p. 33.  (Wikipedia)

–

“Country Captain was served to United States 32nd President, Franklin D. Roosevelt along with General George E. Patton in 1940 by Mrs. W.L. Bullard of Warm Springs, Georgia. Their strong liking of the dish brought its popularity to the Southern United States.”

HOW TO OBSERVE

Invite guests to join you for this delicious dish. Any celebration is better when served to good company and joined with laughter. Try one of these recipes or share one of your own with us. We enjoy trying new recipes all the time. Another way to celebrate is by going to your favorite restaurant.

Source

[littlemissfundip]

Today is a Gift

Fandom: Dragon Age Origins

Pairing: Alistair/Tallie(Warden)

Summery: The Solstice season isn’t turning out to be everything it’s cracked up to be. Not for Tallie at least. If only there was someone who could bring a little cheer.

Note: A Secret Santa for the venerable TakenVoid. Thanks for letting me play with your girl.

There were times that Tallie actually missed Orzammar, though those moments were few and far between. It wasn’t that she missed her life per say, but sometimes the surface lands seemed overwhelmingly large and cavernous and quiet. Like the whole world was moments away from letting her drift into the sky. 

It was moments like that she missed the familiar sounds of Dust Town, the constant sounds of dwarf life that let her know she was still living. In the darkness of the night, when the shadows were long and her bed was empty, Tallie felt the slightest twinge of nostalgia.

 This was not one of those moments.

 Crammed into the most deserted table in the tavern, Tallie sat. Silently stewing over her drink she looked out across the crowded room. 

 All around her the sounds of merriment rang out. The booming of voices, ringing of bells, and off-key singing blended together in a cacophony of noise that rivaled any battle she had been in. The Archdemon included.

 Even after all this time, it was still a little overwhelming to say the least. Solstice celebrations seemed so strange. There was never anything like this in Orzammar...at least not for the casteless. The noise alone would risk bringin the roof down on one’s head.

 Stones curse it, Tallie wasn’t entirely sure how the Tavern was still standing.

 The noise, the colours, the endless frivolity, it all seemed too much. Too much life all crammed together in one place. Though Tallie occasionally resented the quiet, she had come to appreciate the space that the surface world provided.

 In a place like this, even surrounded by so many people, Tallie felt very much alone.

 As if sensing her thoughts, Tallie’s wandering gaze met another. Across the tavern another surface dwarf caught her eye. Raising a single bushy brow, he tipped his pint in her direction. A clearer invitation Tallie had never seen, but it also wasn’t one she was particularly interested in. 

 Sharpening her gaze, Tallie met his eyes squarely. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile so he wouldn't mistake her dismissal as some coy invitation.

 Clearly her message got across. The dwarf shrugged his shoulders amicably and turned his attention to more receptive pastures. There were certainly enough patrons and barmaids who seemed willing enough.

 Hunching her shoulders, Tallie eyes the last of her drink contemplatively. It seemed like the right time to head out. It was late enough that the tavern was starting to get rowdy. Even alone, her room was starting to seem like a better alternative.

 Just as she was about to toss a few coppers on the table and go, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She could sense someone behind her, so close she could almost feel their heat on her back.

 Moving slowly, subtly, she reached for one of the many knives on her belt. For a split-second old instincts warred with common sense and Tallie had to fight the urge to slip her knife between the stranger’s ribs.

 Instead, she flipped her knife smoothly, thrusting the pommel into her would-be attacker’s ribs. The strike, sudden and unexpected, caught them just below the solar plexus.

 With a choked grunt the figure went down, clutching their stomach. It was only then, as their hood fell away, that Tallie recognized the familiar face.

 “Alistair?” she gasped.

 Hopping off her bench, Tallie hurried him to his feet. Tugging his hood back into place she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully there was a far more enthusiastic brawl taking place by the bar which served as a suitable distraction.

 After helping Alistair onto the other bench, Tallie settled back into her seat.

 “Alista...I mean Your Majesty,” said Tallie, “what are you doing here?”

 It was meant to be a show of respect. Tallie had seen it too many times. A dwarf ascends to a noble house and suddenly get all up on themselves. Alistair didn’t seem like the sort but it was better to be safe than sorry.

 Though the look that passed over Alistair’s face made her immediately regret her words.

 “Please...don’t,” said Alistair slowly, awkwardly rubbing his hands. “That title is...It’s too much. Hearing it from other people is strange but from you…”

 Alistair trailed off. His strained smile seemed to flit between hopeful and anxious. To be honest it was a bit of a relief to see how little he had changed in spite of it all.

 “Alright then Alistair,” Tallie paused, taking a long sip of her drink to hide her smile, “what are you doing here?”

 Sensing the change in tone Alistair adopted a faux innocent expression.

 “Funny story actually. I just happened to be riding past, entirely by coincidence mind you, when I felt the overwhelming urge to drink bad ale and listen to poorly sung tavern songs. It must have been fate.”

 “Fate huh?” replied Tallie dryly. “So it wasn’t a certain ex-chantry sister who likes to stick her nose into other people’s business?”

 Face innocent as a school-boy, Alistair shook his head. 

 “Absolutely not.”

 “Since I am here though,” he continued leaning onto the table in a move he had clearly stolen from Zevran, “it’s only fitting that I give you your present.”

 Reaching into his rucksack, Alistair pulled out a long thin box. It was plainly wrapped, brown paper and twine, but judging by the lopsided edges and the wrinkled corner it was a job Alistair had completed himself. Placing it on the table, he gently pushed it towards Tallie.

 “I know it’s a little early but I wasn’t sure when we would see each other next.” Tilting his head to the side Alistair cast a sheepish smile in Tallie’s direction. 

 Seeing him there, so close, after being apart for so long. Tallie had to reach out for the package, if only to keep from reaching across the table and laying a hand on his scruffy cheek. Alistair would never grow the kind of facial hair that would make him the envy of Orzammar but his scruff was endearing in it’s own way.

 “You're not going to shake it?” Alistair asked.

 It was such an odd question Tallie could do little more than stare.

 “Why would I do that?” she asked slowly. Maybe it was some kind of human tradition but it sounded very strange all the same.

 “To try to figure out what it is by the sound. Like this.” Alistair raised his hands and shook them by his head.

 Once again, Tallie stared. Seeing her blank expression Alistair froze, his face flushing.

 “Never mind it’s a human thing I guess. Just hurry up and open it.”

 Now, Tallie would have liked nothing more than to tear into the wrapping paper like a savage darkspawn but she managed to hold herself in check. It was worth the wait just to watch Alistair fidget as she slowly pulled the cord loose and gently unwrapped the paper. She even folded it before setting it aside. 

 By the time she had finished, Alistair was practically shaking in his seat.

 Like the wrapping the box was plain. As she lifted the lid though, Tallie was struck dumb. Laying atop a bed of shredded linen was a single rose.

 It was beautiful. Like nothing Tallie had ever seen before. Lifting it from it’s nest, Tallie examined the flower in the tavern’s low light. 

 It was heavy. Heavier than she’d expected. 

 Made entirely of metal from stem to petal, it seemed to glow in the firelight. The beautiful gold caught the light as she turned it, examining the intricate details. It looked almost lifelike, down to the veins on the leaves.

 “Fine dwarven crafts direct from Orzammar,” Alistair joked half-heartedly. At Tallie’s silence his anxiety seemed to grow. “I hope you like it. It’s supposed to symbolize our um courtship and romance...I think. Maker’s breath, it seemed like a good idea before. Should I have gotten you a necklace or a knife or…”

 If she let him he likely would have gone on all night.

 “Alistair.” Tallie interrupted, her voice firm but kind. Immediately, Alistair fell silent. “I love it.”

 “Well…” After sending himself into a tizzy, Alistair seemed a little lost as to how to proceed. “Good. That’s good.”

 “It is.” Tallie agreed solemnly, trying her hardest to hold back her laughter. The man could be so earnest sometimes.

 “It’s so nice in fact,” Tallie continued reaching into one of the pockets of her coat. “I’m a little embarrassed of my present for you.”

 The box wasn’t particularly large and Tallie hadn’t even had the chance to wrap it. She’d planned to do it before sending it along by courier but now seemed as good a moment as any.

 “You got me a present?” said Alistair, his whole face lighting up.

 Tallie shrugged.

 “Well, I figured if I was going to be a surface dwarf I might as well follow surface traditions.”

 Alistair only appeared to be half-listening as he stared intently at the box in Tallie’s hands. Rolling her eyes, she slid the box across the table. 

 Almost immediately it was in Alistair’s hands. Raising the box to his ear he gave it a gentle shake. By the stones, humans were strange sometimes.

 Setting it back on the table, Alistair pulled off the lid with unnecessary flourish only to stop short. With almost reverent hands he pulled the small stone figure from the box. Like Alistair’s rose it was beautifully detailed but instead of metal it was made of solid black stone.

 It had taken much deliberation before Tallie was able to settle on a present. After all, it was no easy task to find a gift for a king, but she had been confident enough with her choice at the time. Now, on the other hand, she wasn’t so sure.

 The statuette was small, slightly longer than a man’s hand from palm to fingertips. It was not the size that mattered though. 

 While Tallie had only the vaguest memories of Duncan from her brief time before his passing, she had been lucky enough on her travels to stumble across a portrait of the man in one of the rare books on Grey Wardens. From there it was simple enough to commission the piece.

 Seeing it in Alistair’s hands though, she was beginning to have her doubts.

 Seconds passed in silence, feeling like years. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. She had hoped it would serve as a reminder of his mentor/father figure but perhaps it only brought back sad memories.

 Just as Tallie was about to speak, though what she would say was still a mystery, Alistair’s hand darted across the table to clasp her own. His eyes were damp as he stared at her.

 “Marry me.”

 The words were barely a whisper, but they made Tallie’s heart trip in her chest. It wasn’t as though they had never spoken of this. That had been before though. Before the Landsmeet. Before Alistair became king.

 Things were different now. They both had responsibilities. She had her mission and he had his duty, and as much as she wanted it this wasn’t something she could promise. Not now.

 “Alistair…” 

 Alistair’s grip tightened.

 “I know.” He whispered running his thumb across her worn knuckles. “You have to find a cure for the Taint and I have to rule Ferelden. Maker’s breath, it still feels strange saying that. I understand. I do ....”

 Drawing a ragged breath, Alistair tugged Tallie’s hand towards him. Gently he pressed a chaste kiss to her fingers before letting them rest against his forehead. 

 “It’s just...I miss you. I miss you every day when we are apart.” Releasing her hand Alistair met her eyes once more. Sincerity shining from his face like a flame. “There are days I want to toss that stupid crown in a river, steal a horse, and just run off to find you.”

 A lump had formed in Tallie’s throat that was far more stubborn than she cared to admit. She understood his feelings all too well. It was why she had kept from seeing him for so long. All it took was a few words, a sweet smile, and she was completely undone. All her resolve ground to a fine ash.

 Still, she could admit this if nothing else. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it would have to do.

 “I miss you too.” Tallie whispered. Mirroring Alistair’s own action she clasped his hand. Raising it to her lips she gently brushed his knuckles.

 There was so much more Tallie wanted to say.

 “You are going to find a cure.” said Alistair.

 That was one of the things Tallie loved most about him.

 When he spoke, he did so with the utmost conviction. Like his words were the most obvious of facts. The sky was blue. The grass was green. Tallie would find a cure for the Taint.

 “I know you will, because there is nothing you can’t do.” Alistair continued. “And when that day comes you are going to come back to Ferelden, probably riding a dragon or something equally ridiculous, and I am going to marry you.”

 Tallie wanted nothing more than to accept his words, to live in his dream a little longer, but she had lived too long and seen too much. Clearly someone needed to be the voice of reason.

 “I don’t think your court would care for a dwarven queen.” Tallie pointed out, though it hurt to do so. “They will probably want you to marry some pretty noble girl who will bear you a castle full of noble babies.”

 “The court can go hang for all I care.” replied Alistair firmly. “I love you and they can learn to live with it or I’ll sell the whole country to the Orlesians. See how they like that.”

 It was impractical. It was impossible. But in this moment, Tallie needed to hear those words. Shameful as it was, they were exactly what she needed to hear. Just a statement of facts. Pur and simple.

 “Such decisive action.” Tallie managed to quip, despite the way her chest felt like Alistair had reached in and gave her heart a squeeze. “How very kingly.”

 Sensing the change in the mood, Alistair seemed to relax ever so slightly.

 “I know right?” he joked back. “I’ve been practicing.” 

 With the tension gone and the moment passed, now seemed like a good time to find a more private place. Suddenly, the prospect of going back to her room at the Inn no longer seemed so abhorrent. 

 Tossing a few silvers on the table, Tallie grabbed Alistair’s hand. Firmly she tugged him towards the exit. Catching on to her destination, a shy smile spread across Alistair’s face.

 Just as she was about to reach for the door handle though, Tallie found herself tugged backwards into a tight embrace. 

 Face-to-face, Alistair leaned down to whisper softly in her ear. Barely audible over the general noise.

 “I mean it. Every word.”

 And in that moment, Tallie allowed herself to believe it too. 

 Stretching up, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Savouring the moment for what it was. Enjoying kissing him simply because she could.

 “Well,” Tallie whispered as she pulled back, “who am I to argue with a king?”

 “Who indeed?” replied Alistair, sneaking in to steal another kiss.

[puffdragongirl]

Burned Chapter 3: Dread

Also posted on AO3

If someone had told him ten years ago that he would ever feel like he was going home, Obi probably would have laughed, or maybe asked for a pint of whatever they were drinking. But as the shining stone walls of Wistal Palace rise over the horizon, he can’t deny the anticipation warming his heart.

To be fair, though, it isn’t so much the palace he is glad to return to. He hadn’t had a name for the feeling yet, but the first time he had felt this warmth was in a frozen checkpoint outside of Lyrias. He would never forget the sight of Shirayuki nearly flying across checkpoint in her haste to reach him. Her hands clutched around his wrists may as well have been shackles, for if he hadn’t already belonged so wholly to her, he would have bound himself to her side the moment she welcomed him back.

Since then, that blossoming warmth had filled him every time he returned to her side. It was there every morning greeted with deep mugs of tea shared in the pharmacy after serving yet another night watch. It was there in her smile the morning she gifted him with the glowing stone that was still looped around his neck. It was there in every meal kept warm on a burner on the nights Makiri’s errands kept him too long away from Lyrias. And now it is there each time he returns to Wistal, in the way her gaze softens when she fails to find injuries, in the way she bites her lip when she spies a new bandage or bruise, in her quiet retelling of the events he missed while out wreaking  Izana’s vengeance, and in the way she makes sure pillows and his favorite throw are always waiting in “his” window seat in the pharmacy.

The thought of napping surrounded by the quiet sounds and vaguely medicinal scents of the pharmacy is one of the few things that make the idea of sleep even vaguely palatable these days. It wasn’t so much that he had gone soft during his years as a messenger and knight – the fact that he was still alive despite the best efforts of several determined rebel scouts proved that – but facing and dealing death on a near-daily basis had returned his dreams to the blood-soaked visions he’d nearly forgotten during those idyllic years. Between the nightmares and the obvious hazards of being asleep behind enemy lines, Obi is lucky if he catches more than a few hours of rest a day when he’s away from Wistal.

Or a few hours every couple of days… he muses, spurring his mount to travel faster as they approach the castle town. He had barely managed a handful of hours over the past few days, each crinkling leaf and snapping twig sending him reaching for his daggers despite the cover the high branches of trees offer. Although he had found little physical evidence of the rebels near the castle on this trip, the sudden lack of obvious activity was a disturbing departure from the previous pattern of encountering (and disposing of) rebel scouts creeping ever closer to Wistal. Obi trusts his gut – and his gut says something is very wrong.

The passing shadow of a messenger bird flying overhead breaks him from his thoughts. It was nice to see one flying free instead of lying arrow-ridden and dead on the ground. Although he’d sent warning to the messenger corps a few trips ago that the rebels had taken to shooting the vivid blue birds from the sky to intercept or prevent transmission of messages, the top brass apparently believed the highly-trained birds were more disposable than human messengers who at least had a shot at defending themselves. At the last report, the human messengers were faring better than the birds, but their odds were rapidly dwindling. At least a dozen uniformed couriers had been attacked on the main routes in the week prior. Some of them lived, and some died, but all of them had been struck with one of the golden-fletched arrows that spelled death unless quickly dosed with kera. Thankfully those deadly arrows hadn’t yet made their way back within a day’s ride of Wistal since the one aimed at King Izana had started this war.

If he can help it, Obi plans to keep it that way.

Handing the reins of his mount to a stable boy, Obi permits himself a sigh as his feet travel the familiar path to the pharmacy. As he walks, he notes the halls are unusually empty for the time of day, absent of traffic save for patrolling guards. Although part of him welcomes the quiet, it also unsettles him much like the sudden absence of rebel scouts. Unbidden, his hand rises to kneed at the persistent ache in his shoulder. He tries to push away the tingle of foreboding; his Miss is sure to know whatever has sent the servants and soldiers scurrying from the halls, and whatever it is can be dealt with later.

Yet the foreboding only grows as he draws nearer to the pharmacy. The sounds of conversation, hushed but frantic, drift through the hall, and he rounds the corner to find an unlikely gathering outside the pharmacy, although two faces he would expect to see are conspicuously absent. Cautious, he lingers in the shadows at the mouth of the hall to gauge the situation.

One apprentice – a recent recruit, if memory serves – is sobbing hysterically in an alcove. A group of her peers have closed ranks around her, some offering words of comfort while others rub her back and press handkerchiefs into her clawed grip. A young soldier hovers awkwardly near them, alternatingly soothing them and attempting to ask for more information.

A second group, mostly comprised of guards, huddles around a map hastily pinned to the wall.  A woman Obi recognizes as one of the senior apprentices points frantically at locations circled on the map, although she speaks too quickly for him to catch more than the occasional curse or name of an herb. One of the guards tries to get a word in edgewise, then resorts to shouting over her when the pharmacist keeps rambling.

“We don’t even know where they could have gone!” the guard snaps, making a sweeping gesture at the map. “Mistress, I’m more than happy to send out a search party, but we need to know a more precise destination than all of eastern Clarines if we ever want to find them.”

“Find who?” Deeming no further benefit from observing, Obi steps from the shadows, immediately drawing the gaze of everyone in the hall. In an instant, he is swarmed with pharmacists and soldiers, all clamoring for his attention. He raises a hand in a plea for silence – it’s no easier to figure out what’s going on when they all speak at once than it was listening to half-whispers in the middle of conversations, “What’s going on?”

The senior apprentice and soldier that were arguing earlier both pounce on the chance to speak.  Tension crackles between them again, but Obi quells it with a pointed glance. After a moment, the guard reluctantly bows his head in deference to the pharmacist. 

“Oh, Sir Obi, thank goodness you’ve returned!” she cries, surging forward, “We didn’t know what to do!” She starts strong, babbling something about herb drawers and beetles. It all sounds urgent, but not quite enough to explain the barely-contained chaos he walked in on. As her explanation drags on, nerves and anger wane enough for emotions to rise, and her voice wavers as she reaches the heart of the matter, “It-it’s Lady Shirayuki and Master Ryu….”

The foreboding blooms into a tangled mess of feelings. His ears ring, drowning out the sound of the apprentice dissolving into tears, but he doesn’t need her words to understand they are gone. For a moment, he is frozen, helpless against the rising tide of dread, suffocating as panic claws the breath from his lungs. But Obi learned long ago the futility of fear – he is of no use to anyone swamped by emotion. He closes his eyes and swiftly crushes those feelings down, barricading them behind the walls weakened but never broken by the soft years in Wistal and Lyrias.

Steeled, Obi releases a breath and opens his eyes. His gaze, cold and focused, snaps to the guard. His order is unspoken, but clear.

“From what we can tell, Sir Shikito took Lady Shirayuki and Master Ryuu to gather replacements for the plants lost to the insects,” the soldier finishes relating the day’s events, summarizing the accounts offered by the guards and pharmacists, “They were due back an hour ago, and we have received no messages to indicate they would be delayed.” He flinches when Obi’s eyes glint dangerously, just as upset with the risky plan as everyone suspected he would be, but continues after a brief hesitation, “We are ready to send out a search party, but we don’t know where they went, nor which plants would have been so important they needed to be replaced with such haste.”

Pushing through the crowd, Obi tears the map from the wall. He had hung around in pharmacies long enough to know insects were almost always brought in with new stocks, especially when a manager as fastidious as Ryuu was in charge. Although an infestation could have spread to existing stocks, the timing likely limited damage to plants gathered on the emergency restocking trip. Although he wouldn’t call himself an expert on the uses of herbs, he had absorbed a fair amount after years surrounded by the finest pharmacists Clarines had to offer. Add to that Shirayuki’s attempt to soothe his ragged nerves by keeping up a quiet commentary on the uses of the herbs they were gathering, and maybe, just maybe he could figure this out.

He turns back to the pharmacists, hoping at least one of them is collected enough to provide information, “Do any of you know which of the herbs were damaged?”

“We have the list that Master Ryuu left, but there’s nothing critical,” the senior pharmacist offers, wiping at her tears before reciting a list of herbs, “Willow bark, goldenseal, valerian… some of the feverfew, licorice, and cat’s claw.” She shakes her head, and sniffles, her face crumpling once more, “It just doesn’t make sense why they would leave for things like burdock and kera leaf!”

“Kera?!” Obi pounces on the name. Afraid of mass panic, they had managed to keep the threat of deadly, weapon-borne poison – and the fact an otherwise innocuous pain reliever was its antidote – on a largely need-to-know basis, so of course the apprentices wouldn’t know of the plant’s importance. “The stock of kera was compromised?”

Startled by his vehemence, the pharmacist nods, “Yes, nearly all of our kera leaf was lost, but…”

“That’s it,” he breathes, and of course, of course, she would go back out to retrieve such a precious plant, “I know where they went.” The excited chatter of soldiers and pharmacists overjoyed at his words echoes through the hall, but he barely hears it over the cacophony of his thoughts. How many routes are there to the kera patch? Which would a harried Shikito have chosen, and how hard would he have pushed them to travel? What are the chances they got delayed by a horse throwing a shoe? If they were attacked, where would it have happened? Would a strike be more likely on the main path, or on the feeder routes near the patch? How much faster can he make the trip on a fast horse ridden hard, and will it be fast enough? Will he be fast enough to save them or…

Obi marshals his thoughts, grounding himself with the burn of nails biting into the flesh of his palms. Everything in him screams to leap from the nearest window and race for the kera patch; to find them, find her, as he had failed to do those years ago in Tanbarun. But he is no longer just a messenger; for all his recent espionage, he is a knight now, a commander, and even without that he is the only one who knows where they had gone. It falls to him to select who to send, where to send them, and what plans and back up plans they should follow.

Cursing darkly, he whirls to walk back towards the stables, distantly hearing the clatter of boots against stone as guards scramble after him. Commandeering the quartermaster’s office, Obi slaps the map on the cluttered desk and surveys the soldiers clustered closely around him.

There is no time to lose.

[ebaeschnbliah]

WESTIE’S  ENGAGEMENT  PARTY  &  JOE’S  CONFESSIONS

“I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing’s a great cover, right? I dunno – I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands – serious people. Then at Westie’s engagement do, he starts talking about his job. I mean, usually he’s so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans – beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought ... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune.”  (Joe Harrison)

This and a little bit more under the cut ….

About engagement parties

They are held to celebrate a couple's recent engagement and to help future wedding guests to get to know one another. Traditionally, the bride's parents host the engagement party, but many modern couples host their own celebration. It is a party like any other, except that usually toasts or speeches are made to announce the upcoming wedding. While it varies, an engagement party takes place at the beginning of the process of planning a wedding. It is often thrown at the couple's home or at the home of a close friend or relative of the couple.  (Wikipedia)

Why do I have the feeling that Westie’s ‘engagement do’ was a party for two? 

The camera focuses only on the two men. There isn’t even one picture of Lucy Harrison, the lovely bride to be. And the other people in the bar/pub don’t look much like family, friends or even aquaintances either. It’s a bit similar to the stag night Sherlock organized for John, isn’t it? Even the colours are alike … though much more intense.

“It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered.”  (Joe Harrison)

Joe takes the memory stick with the very secret Bruce-Partington Plans out of Westie’s breast pocket ….. 

Is this still the bar/pub? Somehow it looks differenthere …. for just a few shots  ….

Secrets of the government .... or secrets of the heart?

“The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system – the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called. The plans for it were on a memory stick. We can’t possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands.”  (Mycroft)

“Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew.“  (Joe Harrison)

“What’s Lucy gonna say? Jesus. It was an accident.  I swear it was. I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late.”  (Joe Harrison)

“Then a neat little idea popped into your head. Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn’t met a stretch of track that curved.”  (Sherlock)

“Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”  (Mycroft)

The Battersea Power Station …. that’s where the track curved … where it passed a point and the transport changed direction …. and a dead body fell from a train …..

Battersea ... the very same disused power station where Irene meets John ... at New Year ... and Sherlock follows them and overhears their conversation. Until that moment everyone thought that Irene had died because there had been a body in the morgue … at Christmas … the face bashed up … and then, she comes back from the dead …  at Battersea …. where the Transport changed direction ….

This happens in ASIB. That’s the episode directly after TGG and the case of the Bruce-Partington Plans. The stolen memory stick with the secret government plans lead Sherlock to the pool where once little Carl Powers died, to John wearing an explosive vest and to Jim Moriarty, Mr. Sex, the criminal mastermind behind that great game. And immediately after the confrontation at the pool, a hiker turns up, just returned from East of GB, with a bashed in head …. because his own boomerang had backfired at him …. sort of a literal boomerang-effect …..

The original characters from ACDs Story

Arthur Cardogan West - goverment employee, twenty-seven years of age, unmarried, and a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal

'West left Woolwich suddenly on Monday night. Was last seen by his fiancée, Miss Violet Westbury, whom he left abruptly in the fog about 7.30 that evening. There was no quarrel between them and she can give no motive for his action. The next thing heard of him was when his dead body was discovered by a plate-layer named Mason, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground system in London.'  

'The body was found at six on the Tuesday morning. It was lying wide of the metals upon the left hand of the track as one goes eastward, at a point close to the station, where the line emerges from the tunnel in which it runs. The head was badly crushed - an injury which might well have been caused by a fall from the train.’    (ACD, The Adventures of the Bruce-Partington Plans)

Miss Violet Westbury - Arthur Cardogan West’s fiancée

Colonel Valentine Walter -  the man had to pay a  stock exchange dept, needed the money and so he stole the plans of the Bruce Partington submarine and sold them to Hugo Oberstein, a German spy. 

Sir James Walter - Valentines older brother, famous government expert and official guardian of the Bruce Partington plans. He died due to a ‘broken heart’ because of the horrible scandal and because he rightfully suspected his brother to be involved in the heft. 

Hugo Oberstein - the german spy who killed Arthur Cardogan West with a blow to the head. It was him who had the idea to put the body onto the roof of a train.

Examining the window in Hugo Oberstein’s/Joe Harrison’s flat.  Illustration by Arthur Twidle (X) compared to a screenshot from Sherlock BBC The Great Game 

Interesting modifications in Sherlock BBC

It is no secret that names are always important in this story, just as the chosen modifications and the resulting differences between canon and adaptation. And a lot of name-changing took place with the story of the Bruce Partington plans.  (Source for the meaning behind the names (x)

Arthur Cardogan West stays the innocent victim but his first name changes to Andrew and the second name is entirely omitted

ANDREW  (from Greek: man, manly, masculine)  Using the nickname ‘Westie’ draws the attention strongly to the unchainged surname. Considering that East and West seem to be of some significance, this modification is maybe not a coincidence. Is ‘Westie’ meant to be the opposite of ‘Eurus’ (EASTwind)?  Be it as it may, Westie feels very much like a Sherlock mirror.

Miss Violet Westbury - she stays West’s loyal fiancée but her full name changes ... to Lucy Harrison 

LUCY  (from Latin: feminin form of Lucius, lux, light)  Of course, it is John who comes first to mind, whom Sherlock calls ‘conductor of light’ in THOB. Lucy’s words ‘He (Westie) was my good man’ seem to point in the same direction, that Lucy is a mirror for John.

Colonel Valentine Walter and Hugo Oberstein - thief and murderer - are melting into one character …. Joe Harrison, brother of Lucy Harrison. Colonel Valentine’s older brother Sir James Walter is completely removed from the story. If he weren’t, I would call him a wonderful Mycroft mirror.

JOE  (from Hebrew: Joseph meaning ‘he will add’)  Not a Colonel anymore but a cycle courier and drug dealer, which is very interesting. Only one main character uses a bike, and this one is John. Furthermore,  biblical JOSEPH is the husband of VIRGIN MARY. This fits for John as well. It looks very much like the siblings Lucy and Joe are serving as a double mirror for John.

The canon surnames Westbury, Walter and Obrstein are omitted from this adaptation and replaced with HARRISON. Lucy and Joe Harrison … assuming that both siblings are mirrors for John, certain ideas come to mind by the surname Harrison …. especially regarding John’s sibling Harry, who is still a character without a face.

The place where West’s body fell from the train and was later discovered by a plate-layer/tube guard, changed as well ..... from Aldgate to Battersea. As mentioned above, the disused Battersea Power Station plays an important role in the following episode A Scandal in Belgravia.

The last evening together

'We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.'  (Violet Westbury, The Bruce Partington Plans)

‘We were having a night in, just watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet. Out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone.’  (Lucy Harrison, The Great Game)

Lucy and Westie were watching a DVD. It doesn’t say movie or film …. no, it’s  DVD. Not really suspicious, in general. Unless though, one remembers what special role DVDs are playing in this story. (Miss me?)

Westie/Sherlock sits through a DVD, then out of the blue announces that he needs to see someone and runs off ….  Sounds rather familiar to me. 

And while one half of John/Lucy is engaged to Sherlock/Westie, the other half of John/Joe deals with drugs/chemistry of love and finally ‘kills’ Westie/Sherlock. Head bashed in/brain switched off?   Hmmmm …..

The places where they live

The first pictiure shows Westie’s and Lucy’s home. Both times, when John arrives and when he leaves, the front of the house is presented beautifully mirrored in the roof of a car. 

The pic below is Joe’s flat … it has the number 21A. Also an interesting choice.

An interesting engagement party, interesting canon changes, a surprising turn-up at its end, a very interesting case altogether .... this case from The Great Game, that opens and closes the episode .... the case with the ‘missing’ Greenwich pip. 

And it is a ‘dog’ case too

This is probably the most amazing discovery I made when I started to focus on the Bruce-Partington case. There are three scenes in the episode which are visually dealing with that case.

A short review (in Mycroft’s office) of the DVD night, while Mycroft gives John more details about the case

John’s investigations at Westie’s and Lucy’s place

Sherlock and John at Joe’s flat, when they confront the man with his deed and he confesses

In each one of those scenes the barking of a dog can be heard in the distant. That’s not a coincidence, because sounds don’t appear without purpose in films. They are made and added and have a meaning. 

A dog barks at the end of PILOT, when Sherlock walks away from the ambulance and over to John.  (X)

A dog barks at the beginning of ASIP, right after John wakes from his nightmare.  (X)

A dog barks in each of the Bruce-Partington scenes.

Dogs are there from the first episodes onward and in the fourth series a dog - RedBeard - turns out to be a key element of the story. Dogs are important in this very long game. :)

The Connecting Element - an outtake for the barking dogs in the Bruce-Partington case

Shoes for the Hound - a hound theory playing with the idea that Sherlock BBC could be a special adaptation of the Baskerville Hound with the episode THOB embedded in the story and serving as ‘the old tale of the hound’ … the history.

A Case of Identity - old familiy pictures solve the case of the hound

The Big Question - a Reichenbach/Hound Theory

.

I leave you to your own deducktions. Thanks @callie-ariane for the scripts.

November, 2018

@gosherlocked @sherlockshadow @possiblyimbiassed @raggedyblue @sarahthecoat @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @idontneednormal

[thecynicalm]

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

This poem is great for training your pronunciation if you’re not a native speaker of english and I love it. Dearest creature in creation Studying English pronunciation,   I will teach you in my verse   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy;   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet, Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!   Just compare heart, hear and heard,   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain (Mind the latter how it's written).   Made has not the sound of bade,   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you With such words as vague and ague,   But be careful how you speak,   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;   Woven, oven, how and low,   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery: Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing, Same, examining, but mining,   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire", Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather, Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.   This phonetic labyrinth   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured To pronounce revered and severed,   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet; Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.   Blood and flood are not like food,   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet, Which exactly rhymes with khaki.   Discount, viscount, load and broad,   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet? Right! Your pronunciation's OK.   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher? Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision, Now: position and transition;   Would it tally with my rhyme   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy, But cease, crease, grease and greasy?   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous, Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,   You'll envelop lists, I hope,   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it! Affidavit, David, davit.   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.   We say hallowed, but allowed,   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover, Between mover, plover, Dover.   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.   Petal, penal, and canal,   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",   But it is not hard to tell   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron, Timber, climber, bullion, lion,   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour Has the a of drachm and hammer.   Pussy, hussy and possess,   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker", Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",   Making, it is sad but true,   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour.   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic, Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle, Make the latter rhyme with eagle.   Mind! Meandering but mean,   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny, You say mani-(fold) like many,   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring Rhyme with herring or with stirring?   Prison, bison, treasure trove,   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it, And distinguish buffet, buffet;   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.   Evil, devil, mezzotint,   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention To such sounds as I don't mention,   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included, Though I often heard, as you did,   Funny rhymes to unicorn,   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely, I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.   No. Yet Froude compared with proud   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial, Tripod, menial, denial,   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,   But you're not supposed to say   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid Worthless documents? How pallid,   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite, Paramour, enamoured, flighty,   Episodes, antipodes,   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser, Don't peel 'taters with my razor,   Rather say in accents pure:   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly, Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you More than r, ch or w.   Say then these phonetic gems:   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham, There are more but I forget 'em-   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;   With and forthwith, one has voice,   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger; Then say: singer, ginger, linger.   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very, Parry, tarry fury, bury,   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,   Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners, Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little, We say actual, but victual,   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer, Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific, Science, conscience, scientific;   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit, Next omit, which differs from it   Bona fide, alibi   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria.   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion with battalion,   Rally with ally; yea, ye,   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.   Never guess-it is not safe,   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary, Crevice, but device, and eyrie,   Face, but preface, then grimace,   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging, Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often Which may be pronounced as orphan,   With the sound of saw and sauce;   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting? Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.   Respite, spite, consent, resent.   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,   Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour, S of news (compare newspaper),   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers, Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.   Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!- Is a paling, stout and spiky.   Won't it make you lose your wits   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,   Islington, and Isle of Wight,   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather, Saying lather, bather, father?   Finally, which rhymes with enough,   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup... My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

[softlyapocalytpic]

Embodiment of love

@pchberrytea tagged me!! And then my partner had to help me take it because I couldn't figure out how to do it well??? Its fun and cool they just do uquiz better.

I tag @maxiseden since I think this would be fun for your blorbos and @plasma-packin-mama cuz I love Delilah & Arcade and would love to see what they get!! And! Copying Tea here, if you want an excuse to be tagged for this then CONGRATS. It's you. You've been tagged. You're it.

Also, I guess some spoilers for pairings for my characters...?

💕 RULES: Take this quiz for your OC/ship.

Without further ado:

Amy/Butch

[ love is beautiful because it's built deliberately ] when casey mcquinston wrote "that's the choice. i love him, with all that, because of all that, on purpose. i love him on purpose" and when jenny slate tweeted "i just want someone to grab my little face and scream on purpose, on purpose i am going to care about you" and when jodi picoult wrote "after fifteen years, love isn't just a feeling. it's a choice" and when the good place said "if soulmates do exist, they're not found they're made"

Man this one HURTS. It hurts in the long term, and it hurts in the short term. They communicate terribly, they understand each other better than most people understand them, they argue a lot and also are the bestest friend the other has ever had. I've said this for a while, but if things had panned out differently these two would've been best friends all the way back in the vault. And this invokes all that for me, but also. In context of where they end up by the end of the story... It hurts so so so bad. They never stop choosing each other even long long after.

They're always touching each other, holding each other, putting their hands on the other. A punch, a hug, holding each other's face. Hands holding, Butch arm around Amy's shoulder, Amy always ready and willing to hold Butch when he needs it. The world is shitty, but they're together.

Sunshine/Half Pint

[ devotion: love, loyalty, or enthusiasm for a person, activity, or cause ] when ruth said to naomi "where you go, i will go, and where you stay, i will stay. your people will be my people, and your God my God" and when hozier sang "i'll be the dreadful need from the devotee that drove [orpheus] underground" and when deathcab for cutie sang "if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, i will follow you into the dark"

So if Butch/Amy hollowed me out, this one knocks me in the teeth and guts me. YES. YES. THIS IS THEM. These courier dorks will follow each other to the very ends of earth, to hell and back again, will be by each other's side till the very end and beyond. They die by each other's side. Literally. It doesn't matter what happens this two are soulmates eternally devoted to each other.

They are "I love you in this life and when I'm someone else entirely" and "I love you when you burn down the world", "I love you when you're a monster", "we're monsters together".

Leo/MacCready/Hancock

[ love as gentleness after a lifetime of cruelty ] when ocean vuong said "sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined" and when pablo neruda said "like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar" and when anais mitchell wrote "all i've ever known is how to hold my own, and now i wanna hold you, too”

crying, actually crying

This is the boys. This is the boys all the way. They're all so fucked up and hurt and love each other so much, and yeah they're TENDER. When I think of Leo/Hancock it's such gentle touches and adoring looks and holding each other gently. It's softly spoken words. It's staring into each others eyes. Mac/Leo is sharing the weight of a trauma, it's defending the other to the other, it's giggles and warmth by the fire as they help the other unwind. Hancock/Mac is camaraderie. It's being debaucherous fools who wind up holding each other. It's having their arms wrapped around each other and laughing.

Hopefully there will be a pt.2 with more members of the quartet (Sunshine/Half Pint/Deacon/Danse) (ik ik ik trust me it WILL work even if I forget why sometimes) (we've gone to crackship hell and we WILL radicalize Danse). Maybe for Mae/Takeshi? Maybe for Mae and someone else? A lot maybes.

[b-radley66]

Payback: A Blackbirds Story

For @sl-walker. Hope you like it. Not considered canon to the Blackbirds universe unless the author does. You can ask what REMF stands for.

Shiv looks up from the datapad as the flap of the shelter over the courier’s ramp parts, allowing the dim light of Radnor’s primary into the hold. He feels the fine hairs on the back of his neck rise. Not quite to the level of a clanker incursion on the Nest, but at least to the rise of one or two droids lumbering up the ramp. 

He hears the conversation over the merits of the DC-15 vs. the DC-15S—one that had basically degenerated into a series of size jokes—fade to silence from the area that the two new shinies, Raze, and Smarty were sitting on their haunches, working on various tech. 

Okay. Maybe to the level of a B2 or a droideka, he thinks. 

The silence from both sides of the hold isn’t exactly deafening, but it is definitely attention-getting.

The very large Null with the slightly different face from the rest of the troopers—a large example of brother-dom last seen chasing after Raze in the aftermath of the Great Commander-Half-Pint-Green Paint Dipping and Bombing Caper, stands in the ramp, filling the hatch. Shiv manages to keep his lips from twitching at the remnants of the neon hue on Drop’s broad face and brush-cut salt-and-pepper hair.

Drop notes the movement, then gathers them all in with his glance. Shiv moves his attention to the two commandos now flanking their Sergeant-Major. One, wearing the insignia of a medic, seems to be on edge; uncomfortable with the whole affair. The medic, like the other commando is a baseline ARC with commando flashes on his armor. 

Shiv’s eyebrows raise  at the other commando; manages to stifle another laugh. If Drop had picked a crew to back him up with sheer intimidation; these two would be the last of those hard-chargers of the 332nd. The younger clone stares at them with a perpetual look of confusion on his face; the single headset of a comm-tech affixed to one very large ear. The mop of hair flopping over his forehead doesn’t exactly help his war face.

“So you’re the Sergeant of this motley crew?” Drop asks in an even measure tone. Shiv is sure that he doesn’t need to raise his voice, but will in dire circumstance. 

Shiv walks up to him, looks up at him, his eyes clear as he stares at the commando. “Yeah. Who’s asking?”

Shiv sees the comm-tech’s eyes widen; the medic rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I am,” Drop says. 

Shiv idly wonders if there will be measuring of distance involved in the pissing contest, or whether it would be decided by stream intensity. 

He catches a glimpse of a twitch of Drop’s lips. Shiv drops his arms from their crossed place on his chest, allowing himself to relax.

The grin escapes its camouflage on Drop’s face. He holds his hand out and clasps Shiv’s right wrist. 

Shiv can feel the loud exhalation behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he manages to glimpse Raze returning the safety pin to another surprise. He hopes that he wouldn’t have been caught in the blast as collateral damage. 

“Not bad, Blackbird,” Drops says, a hint of a gleam in his eye.

“Sorry about the extra paint job,” Shiv says. Raze starts to say something but closes his mouth at Shiv’s look. 

Drop nods after a moment. “It’s okay. Kinda worth it to see our vaunted smartass of a Jedi brought down a peg or two. Plus, he knows where the whole thing originated from. He’s kind of got a soft spot for that brat.” Drop looks away, his face grim. “I do too,” he whispers. “My Mouse.”

Shiv sees something in the Null’s eyes, a softness that he would’ve  bet that he would ever see.  A look that speaks of shared combat. He had seen the reports on Z’ambique from the 501st, the 212th, and the earlier incarnation of the 332nd, as well as the small commando task force that had been folded into the new version when Croft had been knighted.

He shakes those thoughts away. “So what does your Jedi say about your not burying the hatchet in our heads?”

“He’ll get over it. Especially since that reporter seems to like his boyish face now that he’s been shorn of all that wool. I guess he’ll turn on the so-called charm and go for ramming speed again, although she might miss the tickle of the beard. It’ll keep him out of our hair for a night or two.”

Shiv sees the comm-tech blush at Drops intimation that their Jedi is having sex.

He also sees the medic reach over and pull the medic’s face towards his behind their NCO.

Drop rolls his eyes at Shiv’s expression. “Come on, Peck. Not in front of the shinies. You can play smoochies with Bozo after we’re done here.”

He steps aside. Two other commandos walk up the ramp, bearing load-lifters. Load lifters piled with what suspiciously looks like several warming trays of food, cases of whisky—not the stuff they had been served, but Whyren’s, and a brand-new caf-maker.

“Thought you could use this stuff. It was just laying around at one of the REMF navy units. ‘Cept for the whisky. That’s Croft’s personal stash.”

“Won’t he miss it?”

“Nah. He gets easily distracted.” Drop looks over at Raze. “Didn’t get a chance to tell you. Good match the other day. Recognized the discipline. I think your LT has taught you well.”

Raze manages not to blush, thankfully.

“Paint, you’re one of only two who’ve ever beat me. The other is the one whose beard you dipped. Although it’s debatable as to whether I let him win or not.” He grins again. “It’s why we let him in the unit; figured he would put his money where his mouth was and keep us all alive if he was willing to go a few rounds with me. Although somedays his mouth tests us.”

Shiv would’ve probably paid money to see that match. He is almost certain that Croft had pounded Drop into submission with his face against Drop’s fists and feet.

“Nope, he hit me with his ribs a lot. Didn’t mess up his face. That was already done by genetics,” Drop says, as if reading Shiv’s mind.

Shiv nods. “Okay. So how will General Croft try to get his own back? He probably will be pretty mild with Commander Tano.”

“Yep, although I think he’s held his own with her.” Drop gives an evil grin. “Maybe he’ll challenge your LT to a drinking contest.” The twinkle in his eye belies the evil-ness. “Seeing how he’s sworn off the hair of the anooba that bit him a couple of days ago. I wouldn’t ever go against a Corellian in a drinking match, though.”

Idly, as the two units mingle and laugh, Shiv wonders if there was any way that they could get Maul into training for this match.

Nah. We’ll figure something else out. After all, I think Half-Pint still has a lot of mischief in her.

[yogurtbattle]

Because English pronunciation is random

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

Dearest creature in creation Studying English pronunciation,   I will teach you in my verse   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy;   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet, Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!   Just compare heart, hear and heard,   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain (Mind the latter how it's written).   Made has not the sound of bade,   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you With such words as vague and ague,   But be careful how you speak,   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;   Woven, oven, how and low,   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery: Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing, Same, examining, but mining,   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire", Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather, Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.   This phonetic labyrinth   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured To pronounce revered and severed,   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet; Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.   Blood and flood are not like food,   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet, Which exactly rhymes with khaki.   Discount, viscount, load and broad,   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet? Right! Your pronunciation's OK.   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher? Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision, Now: position and transition;   Would it tally with my rhyme   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy, But cease, crease, grease and greasy?   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous, Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,   You'll envelop lists, I hope,   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it! Affidavit, David, davit.   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.   We say hallowed, but allowed,   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover, Between mover, plover, Dover.   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.   Petal, penal, and canal,   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",   But it is not hard to tell   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron, Timber, climber, bullion, lion,   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour Has the a of drachm and hammer.   Pussy, hussy and possess,   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker", Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",   Making, it is sad but true,   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour.   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic, Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle, Make the latter rhyme with eagle.   Mind! Meandering but mean,   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny, You say mani-(fold) like many,   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring Rhyme with herring or with stirring?   Prison, bison, treasure trove,   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it, And distinguish buffet, buffet;   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.   Evil, devil, mezzotint,   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention To such sounds as I don't mention,   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included, Though I often heard, as you did,   Funny rhymes to unicorn,   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely, I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.   No. Yet Froude compared with proud   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial, Tripod, menial, denial,   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,   But you're not supposed to say   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid Worthless documents? How pallid,   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite, Paramour, enamoured, flighty,   Episodes, antipodes,   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser, Don't peel 'taters with my razor,   Rather say in accents pure:   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly, Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you More than r, ch or w.   Say then these phonetic gems:   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham, There are more but I forget 'em-   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;   With and forthwith, one has voice,   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger; Then say: singer, ginger, linger.   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very, Parry, tarry fury, bury,   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,   Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners, Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little, We say actual, but victual,   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer, Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific, Science, conscience, scientific;   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit, Next omit, which differs from it   Bona fide, alibi   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria.   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion with battalion,   Rally with ally; yea, ye,   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.   Never guess-it is not safe,   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary, Crevice, but device, and eyrie,   Face, but preface, then grimace,   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging, Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often Which may be pronounced as orphan,   With the sound of saw and sauce;   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting? Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.   Respite, spite, consent, resent.   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,   Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour, S of news (compare newspaper),   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers, Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.   Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!- Is a paling, stout and spiky.   Won't it make you lose your wits   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,   Islington, and Isle of Wight,   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather, Saying lather, bather, father?   Finally, which rhymes with enough,   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup... My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

[eru-na]

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)

Dearest creature in creation Studying English pronunciation,   I will teach you in my verse   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.

I will keep you, Susy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy;   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet, Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!   Just compare heart, hear and heard,   Dies and diet, lord and word.

Sword and sward, retain and Britain (Mind the latter how it's written).   Made has not the sound of bade,   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.

Now I surely will not plague you With such words as vague and ague,   But be careful how you speak,   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,

Previous, precious, fuchsia, via Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;   Woven, oven, how and low,   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.

Say, expecting fraud and trickery: Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,   Branch, ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,   Missiles, similes, reviles.

Wholly, holly, signal, signing, Same, examining, but mining,   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,   Solar, mica, war and far.

From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire", Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,

One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,

Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather, Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.   This phonetic labyrinth   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.

Have you ever yet endeavoured To pronounce revered and severed,   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,   Peter, petrol and patrol?

Billet does not end like ballet; Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.   Blood and flood are not like food,   Nor is mould like should and would.

Banquet is not nearly parquet, Which exactly rhymes with khaki.   Discount, viscount, load and broad,   Toward, to forward, to reward,

Ricocheted and crocheting, croquet? Right! Your pronunciation's OK.   Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,   Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Is your r correct in higher? Keats asserts it rhymes Thalia.   Hugh, but hug, and hood, but hoot,   Buoyant, minute, but minute.

Say abscission with precision, Now: position and transition;   Would it tally with my rhyme   If I mentioned paradigm?

Twopence, threepence, tease are easy, But cease, crease, grease and greasy?   Cornice, nice, valise, revise,   Rabies, but lullabies.

Of such puzzling words as nauseous, Rhyming well with cautious, tortious,   You'll envelop lists, I hope,   In a linen envelope.

Would you like some more? You'll have it! Affidavit, David, davit.   To abjure, to perjure. Sheik   Does not sound like Czech but ache.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, loch, moustache, eleven.   We say hallowed, but allowed,   People, leopard, towed but vowed.

Mark the difference, moreover, Between mover, plover, Dover.   Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,   Chalice, but police and lice,

Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.   Petal, penal, and canal,   Wait, surmise, plait, promise, pal,

Suit, suite, ruin. Circuit, conduit Rhyme with "shirk it" and "beyond it",   But it is not hard to tell   Why it's pall, mall, but Pall Mall.

Muscle, muscular, gaol, iron, Timber, climber, bullion, lion,   Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,   Senator, spectator, mayor,

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour Has the a of drachm and hammer.   Pussy, hussy and possess,   Desert, but desert, address.

Golf, wolf, countenance, lieutenants Hoist in lieu of flags left pennants.   Courier, courtier, tomb, bomb, comb,   Cow, but Cowper, some and home.

"Solder, soldier! Blood is thicker", Quoth he, "than liqueur or liquor",   Making, it is sad but true,   In bravado, much ado.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour.   Pilot, pivot, gaunt, but aunt,   Font, front, wont, want, grand and grant.

Arsenic, specific, scenic, Relic, rhetoric, hygienic.   Gooseberry, goose, and close, but close,   Paradise, rise, rose, and dose.

Say inveigh, neigh, but inveigle, Make the latter rhyme with eagle.   Mind! Meandering but mean,   Valentine and magazine.

And I bet you, dear, a penny, You say mani-(fold) like many,   Which is wrong. Say rapier, pier,   Tier (one who ties), but tier.

Arch, archangel; pray, does erring Rhyme with herring or with stirring?   Prison, bison, treasure trove,   Treason, hover, cover, cove,

Perseverance, severance. Ribald Rhymes (but piebald doesn't) with nibbled.   Phaeton, paean, gnat, ghat, gnaw,   Lien, psychic, shone, bone, pshaw.

Don't be down, my own, but rough it, And distinguish buffet, buffet;   Brood, stood, roof, rook, school, wool, boon,   Worcester, Boleyn, to impugn.

Say in sounds correct and sterling Hearse, hear, hearken, year and yearling.   Evil, devil, mezzotint,   Mind the z! (A gentle hint.)

Now you need not pay attention To such sounds as I don't mention,   Sounds like pores, pause, pours and paws,   Rhyming with the pronoun yours;

Nor are proper names included, Though I often heard, as you did,   Funny rhymes to unicorn,   Yes, you know them, Vaughan and Strachan.

No, my maiden, coy and comely, I don't want to speak of Cholmondeley.   No. Yet Froude compared with proud   Is no better than McLeod.

But mind trivial and vial, Tripod, menial, denial,   Troll and trolley, realm and ream,   Schedule, mischief, schism, and scheme.

Argil, gill, Argyll, gill. Surely May be made to rhyme with Raleigh,   But you're not supposed to say   Piquet rhymes with sobriquet.

Had this invalid invalid Worthless documents? How pallid,   How uncouth he, couchant, looked,   When for Portsmouth I had booked!

Zeus, Thebes, Thales, Aphrodite, Paramour, enamoured, flighty,   Episodes, antipodes,   Acquiesce, and obsequies.

Please don't monkey with the geyser, Don't peel 'taters with my razor,   Rather say in accents pure:   Nature, stature and mature.

Pious, impious, limb, climb, glumly, Worsted, worsted, crumbly, dumbly,   Conquer, conquest, vase, phase, fan,   Wan, sedan and artisan.

The th will surely trouble you More than r, ch or w.   Say then these phonetic gems:   Thomas, thyme, Theresa, Thames.

Thompson, Chatham, Waltham, Streatham, There are more but I forget 'em-   Wait! I've got it: Anthony,   Lighten your anxiety.

The archaic word albeit Does not rhyme with eight-you see it;   With and forthwith, one has voice,   One has not, you make your choice.

Shoes, goes, does *. Now first say: finger; Then say: singer, ginger, linger.   Real, zeal, mauve, gauze and gauge,   Marriage, foliage, mirage, age,

Hero, heron, query, very, Parry, tarry fury, bury,   Dost, lost, post, and doth, cloth, loth,   Job, Job, blossom, bosom, oath.

Faugh, oppugnant, keen oppugners, Bowing, bowing, banjo-tuners   Holm you know, but noes, canoes,   Puisne, truism, use, to use?

Though the difference seems little, We say actual, but victual,   Seat, sweat, chaste, caste, Leigh, eight, height,   Put, nut, granite, and unite.

Reefer does not rhyme with deafer, Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.   Dull, bull, Geoffrey, George, ate, late,   Hint, pint, senate, but sedate.

Gaelic, Arabic, pacific, Science, conscience, scientific;   Tour, but our, dour, succour, four,   Gas, alas, and Arkansas.

Say manoeuvre, yacht and vomit, Next omit, which differs from it   Bona fide, alibi   Gyrate, dowry and awry.

Sea, idea, guinea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria.   Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean,   Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion with battalion,   Rally with ally; yea, ye,   Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, key, quay!

Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, receiver.   Never guess-it is not safe,   We say calves, valves, half, but Ralf.

Starry, granary, canary, Crevice, but device, and eyrie,   Face, but preface, then grimace,   Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.

Bass, large, target, gin, give, verging, Ought, oust, joust, and scour, but scourging;   Ear, but earn; and ere and tear   Do not rhyme with here but heir.

Mind the o of off and often Which may be pronounced as orphan,   With the sound of saw and sauce;   Also soft, lost, cloth and cross.

Pudding, puddle, putting. Putting? Yes: at golf it rhymes with shutting.   Respite, spite, consent, resent.   Liable, but Parliament.

Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen,   Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,   Asp, grasp, wasp, demesne, cork, work.

A of valour, vapid vapour, S of news (compare newspaper),   G of gibbet, gibbon, gist,   I of antichrist and grist,

Differ like diverse and divers, Rivers, strivers, shivers, fivers.   Once, but nonce, toll, doll, but roll,   Polish, Polish, poll and poll.

Pronunciation-think of Psyche!- Is a paling, stout and spiky.   Won't it make you lose your wits   Writing groats and saying "grits"?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel Strewn with stones like rowlock, gunwale,   Islington, and Isle of Wight,   Housewife, verdict and indict.

Don't you think so, reader, rather, Saying lather, bather, father?   Finally, which rhymes with enough,   Though, through, bough, cough, hough, sough, tough??

Hiccough has the sound of sup... My advice is: GIVE IT UP!

[rabbitcruiser]

National Curried Chicken Day

Each year on January 12, curried chicken lovers enthusiastically celebrate National Curried Chicken Day.

When making a true curried chicken, don’t reach for the curry powder. Instead, chicken is stewed in a sauce made from clarified butter (known as ghee) onions, garlic and a variety of spices such as cumin, coriander, cinnamon, ginger and turmeric. Other ingredients include chilies and tomatoes.

“Curries came into favor as an excellent way of using up cold meat.” Lizzie Collingham Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerors

Curry powder made its way into recipes by way of Britain. Their long-time presence in India left a desire for the flavors of the East on the palates of many of the English. Curry powder and recipes with it existed as early as the 1700s but curried chicken and other curried meat recipes gained popularity during the British Raj beginning in 1858.

In parts of the United States, curried chicken is a popular dish known as Country Captain Chicken, a stewed chicken dish that has been flavored with curry powder.

The following clip, originating from the Hobson-Jobson Dictionary, is regarding Country Captain:

“COUNTRY-CAPTAIN. This is in Bengal the name of a peculiar dry kind of curry, often served as a breakfast dish. We can only conjecture that it was a favourite dish at the table of the skippers of ‘country ships,’ who were themselves called ‘country captains,’ as in our first quotation. In Madras the term is applied to a spatchcock dressed with onions and curry stuff, which is probably the original form. [Riddell says: “Country-captain.—Cut a fowl in pieces; shred an onion small and fry it brown in butter; sprinkle the fowl with fine salt and curry powder and fry it brown; then put it into a stewpan with a pint of soup; stew it slowly down to a half and serve it with rice” (Ind. Dom. Econ. 176).]

“

1792.—”But now, Sir, a Country Captain is not to be known from an ordinary man, or a Christian, by any certain mark whatever.” Madras Courier, April 26.

c. 1825.—”The local name for their business was the ‘Country Trade,’ the ships were ‘Country Ships,’ and the masters of them ‘Country Captains.’ Some of my readers may recall a dish which was often placed before us when dining on board these vessels at Whampoa, viz. ‘Country Captain.’”—The Fankwae at Canton (1882), p. 33.  (Wikipedia)

–

“Country Captain was served to United States 32nd President, Franklin D. Roosevelt along with General George E. Patton in 1940 by Mrs. W.L. Bullard of Warm Springs, Georgia. Their strong liking of the dish brought it’s popularity to the Southern United States.”

Source

[azvolrien]

The Hawk Steppes - Chapter Two

ROUND TWO LET’S GO

~~~

           “She really wasn’t kidding when she said a lot of the miners suffered from dust lung,” said Rhona, flipping through her notebook. “I’ve given all of them at least a preliminary check; about a third of the workforce have it severely, and almost all of the rest have at least mild symptoms.” She shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t know how to deal with it, but I’ll have to remove the dust build-up from their lungs before I can heal the damage it’s caused, and that’ll use up most of the medicine I brought with me even after I work out the best way to actually administer it. I hope you’re growing those constructs without susceptibility to it!”

           Calburn nodded, leaning on the wall of their shared office. “Yeah, I’ve given them a sort of filtration system in their airways; there are these little… sort of hairs, like, that catch the dust in their nostrils and pass it back out before it reaches their lungs. I had to jury-rig some extra flasks out of old water tanks, though – Kedran wanted a batch of twelve to start with, and you know I only brought the one flask. At least I brought the ingredients for plenty of spell-fluid…”

           “Which are what, exactly?” asked Rhona. “They supplied it ready-made at the College when I grew Tyren – they never told me what it was actually made of.”

           “Yeah, the composition is journeyman-level stuff,” said Calburn, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “It’s mostly water, to be honest, but you need to get the proportions of the other ingredients right even before you cast the spells. Some salts, a smidge of fat-”

           “A smidge?”

           “Technical term,” said Calburn, nodding. “Various metals. A bit of blood plasma.”

           Rhona froze for a moment and slowly looked up. “Blood plasma?”

           “Only a little bit,” Calburn assured her. “Even Vrand’s flask only had about half a pint in it, and you know how massive he is.”

           “You know, I think I’m quite glad they didn’t tell me that when I was an apprentice. But wait, didn’t we all add a few drops of blood to the flasks back then? Red blood, not just plasma?”

           “That’s just if you’re linking a construct to a particular person.”

           “I… see.” Rhona set her notebook down, linked her fingers, and stretched both arms above her head. “Have you started growing those constructs yet?”

           “Yeah, they should be ready to decant in, mmm, about ten days.”

           “Can you see if you can make some prototype breath masks while they’re growing? I think that’ll be the best way to stop the miners’ lungs getting any worse once they go back to work.” Calburn nodded. “Great. C’mon, let’s go see if that courier brought any letters for us.”

           The mine was too isolated to have frequent access to the Imperial Postal Service, but the owners had arranged for a courier to arrive once a week with both official correspondence and personal mail, which the mine secretary sorted into different pigeonholes for each worker. Calburn’s was still empty when they arrived at the office, but a couple of sealed envelopes waited for Rhona.

           “My sister,” she said by means of explanation, waving one of the envelopes as they both sat down on the wrought-iron bench outside the office. “Said she’d write every week… Wasn’t aware she’d meant it quite so literally.”

           “My parents wanted to, but I talked them down to writing once a month,” said Calburn.

           “And this other one’s actually addressed to both of us.”

           Calburn peered at the envelope, its address written in carefully-neat capitals. “That’s Wy’s ‘I’m trying to be legible’ handwriting, isn’t it?”

           Rhona slit the envelope open and unfolded the letter. “They’re still on parental leave from the College,” she said as she read through it. “Though Fayn’s back on her feet now – good, you know how worried he was about her. Says the baby’s doing fine, too.”

           “Gods.” Calburn folded his hands behind his head. “I’m happy for them, but it’s still so weird to think of Wygar married with a kid. I mean… Wygar.”

           “I know,” said Rhona. “You’re probably quicker listing the people our age he hasn’t slept with. Still, you’ve only got to see him with Fayn to know how much she means to him. They’re always touching each other,” she added with a hint of distaste.

           “Come on, it’s kind of cute.”

           “…Yeah, it is.”

           Hooves drummed against the ground outside the mine perimeter, and they both glanced up. A lone rider approached from the nomad camp at a swift canter.

           “Must be the kid Kedran mentioned,” said Calburn as the rider reined in her stocky dun-coloured horse and swung herself down from the saddle. “Here to keep an eye on us, I suppose.” He shrugged and looked back at the letter.

           Rhona frowned and nudged him lightly in the side as the young nomad adjusted the horse’s bridle. “Look at her,” she said, almost under her breath. “Notice anything unusual?”

           Calburn made a thoughtful sound. “Actually,” he said, “now that you mention it…”

           The girl looked no older than her mid-teens, and in most respects she resembled any other nomad tribeswoman of the Hawk Steppes: she had the same golden-brown skin, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and a complex pattern tattooed across her cheekbones in black ink. A quiver of arrows hung from her belt, while a recurve bow was slung across her back. Her braided hair, however, was a sunny blonde where most nomads had brown or black, and her ears were long and pointed.

           “I knew there are elfin nomads,” mused Calburn. “But I didn’t know there are any, like, in the tribes, with the tattoos and everything.”

           “Clearly there’s at least one,” said Rhona. The girl’s ears were slightly different to Wygar’s or Stormlord Halleth’s; where their ears pointed upwards, hers slanted back at more of an angle.

           As they watched, the girl paused in her harness check and frowned over at them. “What are you staring at?”

           “Uh…” Calburn hastily lowered his hand away from his ear.

           “Just wondering,” said Rhona quickly. “I don’t think this place gets many visitors. What’s your name?”

           The girl pushed her shoulders back proudly. “Roxana Ernakyin Yaigani, tribal liaison,” she said, enunciating the last word very firmly. The mask of self-importance slipped a fraction and she tilted her head curiously. “What about you? I haven’t seen you around here before.”

           “New hires!” Calburn gave Rhona’s back an affectionate slap, making her hunch forwards for an instant. “Rhona here’s a Healer; she’s helping the miners with their dust lung. I’m here to replace the pit ponies.”

           Roxana looked him up and down. “How many mine carts can you pull?”

           “Very funny,” said Calburn as Rhona pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “I mean I make constructs. You know, like, fake animals.”

           “So what happens to the ponies afterwards?” asked Roxana.

           “Good question,” said Calburn after a long silence.

           “If your band is willing to take them, I’m sure Overseer Kedran would let them go,” said Rhona. “If not… Well.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

           Roxana scowled, wrinkling her nose. “I’ll check on the ponies,” she said. “And after that… I’ll have a word with Ernak.”

           “Who’s Ernak?” whispered Calburn as Roxana purposefully led her horse away.

           “Nobody we’ve met, certainly,” said Rhona, and looked back at Wygar’s letter. A flash of motion caught her eye and she glanced back up just as a rat scurried across the yard into the shadows. “Unrelatedly,” she said slowly, “I need to speak with whoever’s in charge of pest control here.”

           They grew used to seeing Roxana around over the next few days. Although she returned to her band’s camp each night, almost every day found her wandering around the mine, inspecting the pit ponies’ stables, studying the enormous hoist that raised and lowered the cages, getting in the way of the shift captains, and generally making a nuisance of herself until Kedran banned her from the pit head. More than once, the wizards caught her in their workrooms, rifling through their notes and looking curiously at Calburn’s construct flasks, but she never asked any questions. Almost two weeks after their arrival at the mine, when the first batch of constructs was almost ready to decant, she showed up sporting what looked very like burn marks on her forearms, but defensively refused to answer any questions about them.

           Rhona put the young elf out of her mind and turned her attention back to the problem at hand, leaning thoughtfully on her desk. Her latest patient was responding well to the course of treatment, but was it really the most efficient method of medication?

           The surgery door creaked open behind her.

           “Hello, Roxana,” said Rhona without looking up.

           “Uh. How’d you know it was me?”

           “Process of elimination,” said Rhona. “Everyone else knocks. And I could hear your breathing. Every teacher at the College has had practice with apprentices trying to sneak up on them, trust me.”

           “Right. Um… can I- What are you doing to that rat?”

           Rhona tapped a fingernail against the wire cage. “Experimenting,” she said. “Even the rats around here have dust lung, so they make good test subjects for possible treatments before I give any to the miners. This spray nozzle here administers the potion in a fine mist, which the rat then inhales. It gets rid of the dust in the creature’s lungs, after which my healing can repair the damage the dust has inflicted on the organs. It’s working on the rat, but a human may need a larger dose. Perhaps some kind of steam room would work.” She turned around to lean on the back of her chair. “You wanted to ask something?”

           Roxana took a deep breath. “My band calls me Roxy,” she said after holding the breath for a few moments.

           “That’s not really a question, but all right.”

           “No, I mean – that’s what I’m usually called. I prefer it, to be honest.”

           “Fair enough.”

           Roxy sighed and fiddled with the end of her long braid. “Miz Rhona… How did you become a witch?”

           Rhona blinked. “I am not a witch,” she said. “I’m a wizard.”

           “But I thought – so, it’s not a man-woman thing?”

           “No, it’s not.” Rhona took her glasses off and wiped the lenses clean of dust. “A wizard is somebody with formal training in the use of magic to one degree or another. Witches are self-taught, or learned through an informal apprenticeship of some kind. Neither term is gender-specific. Nor is there any judgement involved, snobbery aside – I’ve known some extremely skilled and powerful witches, and some downright useless wizards. As to how I became a wizard, Stormhaven law requires every child of magical ability to study at our College of Sorcery for a minimum of four years, starting from age twelve, though there are also options for people who come into their powers later in life.”

           Roxy swallowed hard and looked at the floor for a moment. “So, so… If a wizard is someone with formal training, and a witch is someone with informal training… What do you call someone with magic but no training at all?”

           “A liability,” said Rhona drily. She put her glasses back on and caught Roxy’s crestfallen expression. “The general term for a person with magical ability, regardless of training,” she continued, “is ‘mage’.” She clasped her hands and propped her chin on her knuckles. “But somehow I don’t think this is really a conversation about terminology, is it? I take it this is connected to those burns on your arms.”

           “No one else in my band has magic,” said Roxy in a very small voice. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried testing things out, practising by myself, but…”

           Rhona nodded. “I take it you’re listening, Calburn?” she said, raising her voice.

           “The walls aren’t very thick here,” he said from his workshop in the next room. A couple of seconds passed and he let himself into the surgery, sidling around the room to leave the door open behind Roxy. “Thing about the College,” he said, sitting on the edge of Rhona’s desk, “if you make it to Journeyman rank… it gives you a duty to teach and protect inexperienced mages wherever you find them, whenever you find them. When you’re a Master, even more so. Rhona and me? We’re both Masters.”

           “Speak to whoever’s in charge over at your camp,” said Rhona. “Either you can hang around here in the evenings, or we can come over to your place for some lessons.”

           “…Then you’ll help?” asked Roxy.

           “Everyone’s magic is slightly different,” said Rhona, “so I can’t swear to exactly how much we’ll be able to help, but we will teach you to control your abilities at the very least.”

           “And if we can’t help you to master them, then you can be damn sure we’ll put you in touch with someone who can,” said Calburn.

           Roxy’s breathing shook a little; without another word, she simply nodded, backed out of the surgery, and ran off.

           “Well,” said Calburn once the sound of her footsteps had faded. “Guess we’ve acquired an evening job.”

           The following dusk found them both riding across the open grassland towards the nomad camp. As their constructs galloped closer, they could see that the tents alone, each with its own campfire and gathered loosely around a large central hearth, only formed one part of the encampment: gradually a dark, shifting mass on the other side of the tents resolved into a huge herd of cattle, more than a hundred of the beasts, and a smaller group of horses of all shapes and sizes.

           At the edge of the tents, a tribesman blocked their path with an outstretched spear and, with his other hand, blew three short blasts on a wooden whistle. Calburn glanced at Rhona and clambered down from Mostol’s saddle, wrapping the big construct’s reins around one hand. After a moment, Rhona dismounted Tyren and murmured for her to follow.

           “Think we’re expected,” said Calburn, waving a hand to include both himself and Rhona. “Roxy invited us over to give her a few magic lessons.”

           “That’s right, I did,” said Roxy, jogging up behind the guard. “It’s all right, you can let them in – Ernak knows they’re coming.” The guard nodded and lowered his spear. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

           Most of the camp had turned out for a look at the visitors. Although Roxy had referred to the nomads as her ‘band’, there were far more of them than the word implied: none of the tents seemed to house any fewer than five people, and some closer to ten. One curious child reached out to pat Mostol’s flank as he lumbered past, recoiling at some hissed order from her father. Several more stared at Tyren in open bafflement; although Mostol could almost have passed for some kind of bison, long-tailed, two-legged Tyren was like no beast of burden the nomads had ever seen.

           Any other elves, however, were conspicuous in their absence.

           Roxy waved for them to stop next to the camp’s central hearth. Mostol, always a little more intelligent than most constructs, grunted and took the initiative to sit down behind his master. Tyren remained standing, the granite pebble in her forehead glittering in the firelight.

           Roxy cleared her throat. “Calburn, Rhona – this is Ernak Okranir Yaigani, the leader of our band. Ernak, these are the wizards I told you about.”

           Ernak stood up from his place by the fire. Dark of eye and hair, he was a compact man – no taller than Rhona – but his shoulders were broad and his arms, left bare by his sleeveless leather vest, were well-muscled and marked with tattoos similar to those across his cheekbones. Over the vest, he wore a hooded cloak fashioned from the spotted pelt of a steppe lion, its head resting atop his own and its forelegs tied in a knot across his chest. For a few seconds, he just looked the wizards up and down, much like Roxy had, before he grasped them by the forearms and kissed them each on the cheek in turn.

           Calburn blinked. Rhona stiffened, holding her breath for a moment.

           “You are welcome in my camp and at my fire,” said Ernak formally, holding both arms out wide. He lowered his arms, apparently not expecting a hug, and went on less formally. “Magic’s never been all that common on the Steppes,” he explained. “Don’t know why. But it means Roxy’s been about turning herself inside out worrying about it.” He draped an arm around Roxy’s shoulders and hugged her against his side. “Yeah, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he added to her. “C’mon, we’ve set up a little practice area for you.”

           It turned out to be a small campfire, set apart from the tents and fenced off to stop the cattle wandering too close. A couple of coarse blankets had been laid out on the bare earth around the fire.

           “Right, here goes,” said Rhona once she, Calburn and Roxy had all sat down by the fire. “Magic. At its heart, magic is about energy. What sets mages apart from other people is that we can redirect, convert and amplify that energy to cast our spells and manipulate the world around us, but even so everyone’s magic is slightly different.”

           “Not everyone can do everything,” put in Calburn.

           Rhona nodded. “For example – I’m a skilled Healer, but I can’t open portals. Calburn here is one of the best Constructists alive, but he’ll never be a Seer. A friend of ours is a terrifying force of nature on the battlefield, but he can’t heal to save himself.”

           “Literally!” said Calburn. “But despite all that, there are a few things that all mages can do, which makes them good practice for someone just starting out.” He cracked his knuckles one by one and shook his hands out. “Let’s start with a witchlight. Focus – it might help to close your eyes the first time – and find that energy inside you. Draw a little of it out, and will it to convert to light.” He held one hand out flat, palm up; after an instant, a little ball of white-gold light appeared, hovering above his hand. “See?”

           Roxy clenched both fists in front of her and screwed up her face in concentration. After almost a minute, a tiny, unsteady pinprick of light flickered above her hands.

           “Hm,” said Rhona, frowning.

           Roxy opened one eye a crack. “I did it!”

           “Yes…” said Rhona slowly, studying the burns still visible on Roxy’s forearms.

           Roxy’s smile faded. “What?” She looked down at her light, just before it vanished altogether. “Oh… It was too small, wasn’t it?”

           “Small’s good for a first time,” Calburn quickly assured her. “It makes it much less likely that you’ll lose control.”

           She sighed. “Maybe I’m just not powerful enough.”

           “The amount of energy that a mage can control – that is, their power – is considered innate,” said Rhona, still frowning. “Practice can help you to do great things with what you have – I’m not especially powerful, but my experience has let me hone my abilities to do some very fine healing work, more than a lot of more powerful Healers can – but where power is concerned, either you have it or you don’t. That little witchlight would suggest that… Well, that you’re barely powerful enough to be considered a mage.”

           “Oh.” Roxy looked down at her hands.

           Calburn scowled at Rhona, and she carried on. “Which raises the question of how you managed to burn yourself like that.”

           “Huh?”

           “You did those by conjuring a flame, yes?” said Rhona, pointing towards the marks on Roxy’s forearms. “Trying to experiment by yourself?”

           “Well… yeah.”

           “Remind you of anyone?” murmured Calburn.

           “So,” said Rhona, staring into space, “if you can hardly conjure a witchlight, how did you manage to conjure a flame strong enough to do that to yourself?”

           Roxy rubbed one of her forearms. “I dunno.”

           Calburn drummed his fingers on his knee for a few seconds. “Wygar,” he said suddenly.

           “What about him?” asked Rhona.

           “That thing he does with the glowing eyes.”

           “Yes?”

           “No, listen, I’m getting to something here. Roxy!”

           Roxy sniffed. “Yeah?”

           “All right, firstly – don’t cry. Rhona doesn’t mean anything by it, she just doesn’t always account for people’s feelings when she’s in lesson mode.”

           “Hey!”

           “Shush, Rho, you know it’s true. Right. Look for energy again, but this time – look out, not in. See the campfire there? There’s a big pile of light and heat for you to use. Take a little of that, and turn it into a witchlight.”

           Roxy took a deep breath, bowed her head, and stretched out one hand towards the fire. For a brief moment, nothing happened, before a fist-sized, painfully bright witchlight flared into existence above her fingers and hovered there, glowing steadily. Cautiously, she raised her head, revealing the brilliant golden-white light in her eyes.

           Rhona’s jaw dropped. Calburn folded his arms and grinned smugly. “Elves,” he said by means of an explanation.

           Rhona closed her mouth and swallowed. “Well. That… That explains a few things.” She pressed a fist against her lips and coughed. “Congratulations, Roxana Ernakyin Yaigani. You are very definitely a mage.”

~~~

Calburn can be a bit of a goof, but he’s actually very good at what he does and a lot more perceptive than he’s often given credit for.