#excrement of war

[the-fallen-blue]

buddy i gotta hear your thoughts on kriff and kark now!!!!

Kriff: fake swear. Weaksauce. For kids. A minced oath, generally equivalent to “frigging,” and should only be used in the same circumstances and by the same sorts of people. Soldiers do not say this. Cool Badass Mandos™ do not say this (Satine might but I think Obi-Wan would make fun of her for it). Han Solo does not say this, except maybe in front of his own kids when he edits himself fast enough. Mace Windu does say this, but people who know him well suspect he’s being dryly ironic.

Kark: here we go. A proper swear. Entirely vulgar. The true and proper Fuck™ of the GFFA. The infix of irritated champions. A pure and honest expression of the strongest emotion and frivolous disinterest alike. The single, devastating syllable you utter when you just noticed the Sith lord standing behind you, which genuinely does make you feel very very slightly better for having said it before you are bisected.

[mooifyourecows]

my mood has plummeted the past few days because of various anxiety reasons and so ive once again uninstalled twitter on my phone and i can already feel things getting Infinitely Better™️

[theoxenfree]

BOUNTY

hot gunslinging outlaw x reader | 2.7k

following your bitter mother's death, you come to learn that you're the illegitimate child of the most powerful man in san-am, soon to come into a vast inheritance as he is on his deathbed. what you anticipate to be an uneventful train across the country comes to a screeching halt when a mysterious man boards and tells you there's a substantial bounty on your head.

warnings; multiple mentions of death, brief blood mention, some graphic details, kidnapping, roughly proofread, post-apocalyptic setting, neo-western, reposted from old blog 2kmps

this is a concept piece for a larger project. please offer feedback to the questions at the end + reblog!! it really helps out with the project development and honing in on what y'all wanna see in the finished story!

Mother died a week before the lawyer showed up on your doorstep with an inheritance letter and half-hearted condolences for your absentee father’s poor prognosis. A day after that, your life was stowed into a pair of suitcases and a heavier hard case that you barely justified bringing aboard the train. In three weeks and three layovers, you would be across the continent in St. Corpus, the industrial heart of San-Am, where your father awaited you on his deathbed.

Horace Grissom had fathered a new age of industry and outward expansion in lands once believed to be sprawling metropolises centuries long gone. They had been left behind as skeletons of steel and rust from a time of global war, reclaimed in totality by the roots of elder trees, the decay of salt and sea, the precarious will of mountains, and the great sinkholes and corrosion of sand and time.

Traces of that old world had survived thanks in part to the rigorous efforts of archaeologists and conservationists at the University of San-Am in Grimerise. With each new discovery, opportunistic vultures like your father blotted their pens to their tongues to their pocketbooks and readied themselves to own the patent of it like history had a price and could only belong to them. Indeed, anything could be bought, because with those fragments of history, he built the San-Am Continental Railroad which crossed through each of the five territories and was considered the premier way to travel.

You were never allowed to ask questions about Horace under Mother’s roof as the very mention of his name would set her ablaze in some pettish, garrulous tantrum that, oftentimes, ended with you going to bed before dusk without dinner until the next day. She loved that bitterness up until the very moment she died, clawing your clothes, your skin, her nightgown, her own throat because she couldn't breathe and there was nothing you could do to save her from succumbing.

“Go in peace, Mother.” you said, kissing the back of her sun-speckled hand even as she tried digging her nails into your face. “I love you.”

She did not waste peacefully, nor did she end by staring up rapturously at the ceiling as though something else waited for her beyond it. Mother passed in blood, vomit, excrement, and all her hatred while you bade her farewell and considered who was best to call to have her body carted away to burn with all the others that had also succumbed that day. You made sure to label that as the cause of death on the official paperwork.

After that, you had made quick work of piling all of her things into boxes to be incinerated as well, certified the house was safe and in a liveable state (besides her old mattress, which was the first thing you disposed of because of the smell) for another family to move into.

Once all of that had been finished and you gained the time to rest, you got a knock at your door, a bald, sinewy man with a round hat claiming to be Joseph Whitwald—estate planning lawyer, he made sure to specify more than once—and that you needed to leave post haste to your father's estate in St. Corpus before he perished.

“You have significant placement in his will, illegitimate or not. This is what he wanted, this is what shall be done,” said Whitwald assuredly as he rooted through the pockets of his pants and white suit vest for something. He found it and made a sound and a flourish, revealing to you a red ticket. “Take this. It's for one of the elite cabins in first class. Your father wanted you to have the best amenities that the San-Am Continental has to offer.”

Even with such luxuries available to you with the sound of a bell on string, you eventually found yourself exchanging tickets with a young woman traveling solo for the first time. She went red in the eyes, asserted her appreciation, and scooped you into a hug before taking the ticket and her belongings to the first car.

The passenger car was considerably noisier with children running amok, drunks and musicians belting tunes while dancing in the center aisle—doing poorly to keep their balance as the train navigated the terrain beneath the rails, and ladies in bustles and fashionable blouses screaming like hens over fresh gossip. The stewards were frustrated that they couldn't get their trolleys through all the bodies, whereas some passengers let their stomachs roar through their mouths as they assailed anyone nearby (especially the poor lads just trying to deliver food) with complaints.

You liked everything happening around you; it was a good distraction from the way life had twisted your arm behind your back. The cacophony of laughter and anger felt like home, a comfortable companion to sit there with you on the empty, thinly padded benches while you stared uselessly at the inheritance papers—uncomprehending.

A gasp shot up your throat and made you bite your tongue as you were launched forward onto the adjacent bench (also empty) when the train suddenly began to slow—brakes engaged with such quickness that the wood beams under your feet vibrated up through your soles into your bones and teeth and skull until you became lightheaded and collapsed back into your seat.

The squeal and grind of steel worsened your confusion, turned the fuzz in your head into dull drumming—aches that pulsed to a beat you couldn't figure out, but it deadened the screams all around you and bodies hitting the floorboards in thunderous heaps.

And then, there was silence.

The other passengers kept their voices low as they climbed back into their seats, children were smothered deep into their mother’s bosoms as they wept, and no one dared to investigate what had brought the train to such a violent stop.

“Mummy, what's happening?” asked a girl from the benches behind you. She couldn't have been older than ten, from the sound of her. “Mummy, why—”

“Lottie!” the mother hissed at her daughter, “Shhh! Say nothing else, child.”

From a few seats away, closer to the front, you recognized the gruff, muddled voice from one of the drunkards who had been dancing in the aisle a while ago. Now, he had a bloody nose and a nasty knot growing on his forehead.

“What the hell is the big idea of them scarin’ the piss outta us like this? Do you see my face? They gonna do somethin’ to fix it?” he complained, then swigged liquor from a flask he had smuggled on. “I should go up there and give ‘em a piece of my mind. Bastards.”

“Peace, friend,” soothed a musician with an unfamiliar accent and stringed instrument. “Don't be hasty. I'm sure there’s a good reason why they had to stop. Let them find a solution, we’re just here for the ride.”

Just as the chatter was rising up again, commotion from the first class car stifled it hard, prompting some folks to abandon their seats near the door separating the cars to crowd into the rear. You were tempted to flee with them, join their pack so if they were going to find a way off the train, you'd be mixed up in their stampede and have a better chance to get away.

Except, you simply packed away your inheritance paperwork and sat there with your chin tucked to the collarbone, the visor of your baseball cap pulled lower over your sunglasses to seem as nondescript as possible. Meanwhile, the sounds from first class grew intense; glass shattered, passengers screamed and shuffled around, something you knew to be true because you felt the floor rumble under your feet again.

And then, the passenger car door slid open without the ferocity you had expected. The door scraped along its metal rail, allowing the body to pass through in heavy, languid steps. You paced your breaths to hear it all; the boots and clinking spurs striking wood with dull thuds, a baritone hum that you were convinced you could feel reverberate in your own chest as it came closer, the scuff of thick fabric and creaking leather.

You waited for it all to pass, to move on like a slow-moving rain cloud amidst a humid summer day, but it stopped at you instead. The tips of the man's boots were within view, as were slithers of tattered, black fabric from a long duster that fell short of his shins.

And then, there was the barrel of a gun. The breaths you had been holding shivered out of you, cold dread sank deep into your stomach and bones as the gun flicked upward a few times.

You obeyed and raised your head up to look at the man—tall, broad-shouldered, a rugged face with dark features mostly obscured by the shadow of his wide rim.

He tilted his head, gun higher as he flicked it down and you understood that to mean to take off your sunglasses. When you did so, offering him a full view of your face, his lips lifted crookedly into a half-smile.

“Well then,” he took the bench adjacent to you before holding something up to your head, seemingly a piece of paper, and shifted his gaze between you and it just twice. “Aren't you something special? Found you, darlin’.”

“What?” you frowned. “Found me?”

“Yeah, the resemblance is uncanny. You're definitely his kid. It's all in the eyes, really.” He said, turning the paper around to reveal a photograph of a man who you did share an eerie likeness to. It was the sameness in the eyes—the color and shape and emotion they evoked through a simple still image. “Horace Grissom had an illegitimate kid a long time ago. Turns out, not everyone is so pleased for that to become public knowledge. Turns out, someone wants you to bite the ground.”

“I've done nothing wrong!” you bristled.

He settled on the bench and hiked an arm up across the back of it. “That's usually how it goes, hun. Puttin’ holes in types like you really ain't my favorite thing to do. You'd be surprised how many people get put in your exact situation. Well, eh, not quite. ‘Cause not everyone is Horace Grissom’s kid.”

“Who hired you?” you demanded.

His lopsided smile remained. “Can't tell you that, darlin’. Confidentiality an’ all that.”

“So, then, you're a bounty hunter?” At this point, you weren't sure if you were trying to stave off an inevitability, or he had just riled you up that badly. “How much are you getting?”

“Enough to live the high-life for quite a while, I'd say.” He continued, “but I ain't no bounty hunter. Them folks gotta play by rulebooks an’ a bunch of codes and whatever. Not my thing.”

“A criminal, then,” you said. “An outlaw.”

He shifted the rim of his hat away from his eyes and leaned towards a pillar of golden, midmorning sunlight that came in through the window. “Sure, if that's what'll make you feel better about this entire thing.”

You could actually see him now—the contrast between the ambery hue in his rich complexion and pale green of his eyes. His skin had some weather to it, enough to prove that he had seen the worst of every season for years on end without it wearing him thin, along with thoroughly kempt hair on his face and loose waves that draped slightly beyond his shoulders.

“I…” the longer he stared at you, the less you were able to think. That was ridiculous considering you had survived the soul-crushing burden of engineering school and all of the personalities therein. “I can offer you something better than what you were hired for.”

He did a fast sweep of the colossal heaps of fabric hanging from your frame, a style you preferred to keep eyes off of you on the best and worst of days. It didn't do much to deter him as it did others.

“Oh, yeah? Whaddya got, hun?”

You lifted your shoulders and stacked your bones right. “I've got a vast inheritance that I'm not interested in. Horace is dying and I’m in his will to receive half his properties, along with his shares in the San-Am Continental Railway and Subsidiaries. If you can get me to St. Corpus, you can have the inheritance—every last gris.”

A shrill whistle echoed around your head, tuneful and mocking. The sound of it whittled your confidence back down to nothing, filling the space of your throat with a vise that you couldn't seem to swallow around. That same great unease you had felt before weaseled around in your chest, coiled your ribs and then plunged straight down into your gut.

“Good offer, but it ain't on the table.” The way he spoke was easy and slow, a thick drawl that suited every bit of him up to even now. He acted as though he weren't essentially holding a gun to your head, threatening your life in the name of money—or something else. “Gris is always good to have lyin’ around, but, honey, it don't really mean a lot to a man like me. Why, then, d’ya think I take on work like this? Why do ya think I trek halfway across the five territories time and time again? What really keeps a man goin’ out here in this godforsaken place?”

You felt yourself shrink in your seat as he leaned forward over his thighs, coming closer still like he had a secret to keep. “It's for the thrill. The hunt. The challenge of it all. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't actively seek out men to shoot or… nice types like you, but part of the fun is trackin’ down, the other part is just havin’ a chat—just like this.”

Then, he had the picture of Horace held out to you between two fingers. “Tell ya what, I see that hard case you brought aboard. I know what it is, but I want you to offer me somethin’ more interesting than a bunch of gris.”

You scrunched the photograph against your palm once you had it, hoping the sweat off your skin would ruin his face and make the ink run, but looked to the aforementioned hard case instead.

It was made of a hard plastic shell with strips of rubber outlining the odd shape of the thing. Inside was your handheld welding gun—one of many—that you had decided to bring along for little reason besides thinking it could be of use at some point during your time away. It wouldn't be enough to handle larger jobs such as the ones you were accustomed to in the workshop back in Grimerise, but it could fix a wagon or two, glue some pipes together, and do some damage if need be.

“C’mon, darlin’, sell yourself to me.” he pressed, gesturing his impatience with winding fingers. “What do you do for a living, huh?”

“I'm an engineer,” you continued hastily, “I-I can solder, weld, braze, cut, and saw. I can do anything if I have the right equipment.”

In turn, he asked, “Does that mean you can cut open a safe?”

“If you give me what I need, I can do anything.” you said.

A new sort of look overcame his features, one of great fondness and admiration that made the green of his eyes take on the milky luster of jade. You had the hope that this unique softness would gain you freedom from a shallow, empty death; a chance to go forward to seize the assets sworn to you by a man you'd never known.

His hands came forward to take your wrists, the weight of them first heavy and then cold as a pair of handcuffs were locked around you, knocking bone when you lunged back into your seat and fought against them.

“I've got myself quite boon!” In the next moment, he had hauled you up across his shoulder, retrieved both your suitcases, and called one of the stewards to carry your welding gun after him. “Time to go. Gotta introduce you to the crew and get ya settled in.”

“Wait, I don't even know your name!” you shouted and thrashed from shoulder.

He grinned. “Jericho, darlin’.”

a/n: thank you for reading, and hopefully (pls 🥹) reblogging this first concept piece! let me give you a little bit of background before launching into questions:

this entire idea came to be after reading/watching trigun, watching fallout prime, playing fallout 4, and prior playing my time at sandrock. setting-wise, I imagine the story will have some similarities between all of these things while putting mainly my own spin on the sci-fi western genre.

I intend for this project to be around 90k-100k by the time it is completed and will be the longest piece of writing I've done to date. additionally, I am building the entire world from the ground up and genuinely hoping to execute an extremely immersive reading experience! it is currently in the brainstorming and rough outlining stage, but I am making polls and asking for feedback to help move the process along.

I'd like to up to 2-3 additional concept pieces bc the scale of this project is so large. which concept piece would you like to see next, first? 1) an intimate moment sitting around the fire with jericho 2) jericho teaching mc how to shoot and gets very, very close.

currently, what is your impression of jericho's character? what could I do to improve upon him?

would you prefer for this story to be streamlined w/ the main focus on mc reaching st. corpus + theirs and jericho's romance? or, would you like prev mentioned + detailed character arcs of the other characters in jericho's crew?

this story is neo-western, but is definitely an adventure and epic at heart. is there anything in particular you'd be interested in seeing me write for a story like this? different areas around the continent? creatures? cultures? spend some extra time in st. corpus?

[frownyalfred]

20 Questions for Writers

I was tagged by @lurkinglurkerwholurks

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 146! It would be a larger number if I hadn't deleted all of my Supernatural fics back in the day. There were at least 30 of those, maybe more...

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

913,163 - I'm hoping to hit a million soon!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Batman, Superman, Justice League, Star Wars, Marvel

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos? Take Care of Business Everybody Wants You It Was Always You a sky of honey Anything Like Me

5. Do you respond to comments?

Not anymore :/ I have a really hard time keeping up with writing if I'm responding to comments. I hope my readers understand.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmm. Probably lonely town? Dick is getting de-fibbed in the alley by Bruce, and it's not clear if he's going to survive or not.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

here as I am is hilarious if you're into jealous!Clark. otherwise the weight (salmon ladder fic) always gets me.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yep. Mostly on borderline, but on other fics too. I love how, as I've gotten better at writing, it's changed from "wow this sucks, your writing is awful" to "you suck because you chose to have [character] do this." Luckily I think most of the hate filters over here to Tumblr, where I can happily block and forget. These days, I mostly get people commenting about how I'm wrong about something. Wrong about something I researched and triple checked before posting...

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep! All of them, I think? At least, I haven't balked at much yet. I'm not really into the excrement related ones, so I think that would be one of my no-go's.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Yep! bloodletting (Mandalorian/Star Wars and DC Crossover) and a few Marvel/DC crossovers.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yep, a few times. What I'm more pissed about is all of my textposts being monetized over on TikTok and IG. I could be making bank off of those, considering the reach. And several of them are basically mini-fics.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! Tons. Check them out here. There's also some podfics and related works there.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not really. I've made attempts but I'm really bad at it. I tend to write spur of the moment and follow my gut on where the conversation/action goes. Planning out a fic with a partner would do them a disservice, I think.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I really love Superbat, but Codywan is right up there with it. Something about Cody being a loyal BAMF soldier and long-suffering big brother gets me.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

My vampire AU. Not because I don't want to continue but I cannot decipher my notes as to what should happen next.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'm very quick, I can type up a full draft in a few hours. I like natural, snappy dialogue and I think I'm good at it. I don't shy away from weird or uncomfortable situations. I'm comfortable with writing a lot of sex/etc.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I write too quickly, sometimes I get ahead of my plot. My dialogue and descriptions can sometimes be a little too bare, or I overcorrect and become too flowery. My fics take on the tone of whatever I'm thinking about at that time.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

If you're confident in your language abilities, go for it. If you're just plugging it into google translate, consider why you're doing that first. Is the addition of this new language actually something someone would say in that moment? Or are we just using it to signal to the audience that they speak another language? Is there a way to show this without telling? That being said, I love using Mando'a in my Star Wars fic, and I've studied it for a while now to be able to do so.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Supernatural

20. Favourite fic you've written?

Probably borderline or a sky of honey. Both took a ton out of me and I'm proud they're whole and standing on their own right now.

---

I'll tag anyone who wants to play! Go wild.

[everythingelseisextra]

Horse To Water

Part Fourteen: Come Home (Tommy's POV)

I'm too lazy to write a description, have fun. Warnings: Kind of torture, kind of police brutality, talk of war, PTSD, language Word Count: 4535 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited  @ttaechi  @weaponizedvirtue  @majesticcmey  @optimisticsandwichgladiator  @zablife  @princesssterek  @mm0thie  @callsignvenus @ay0nha  @mgdixon  @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel  @ce1iat @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

You find yourself in handcuffs, sitting in an empty cement cell. Water drips slowly from the ceiling. A bucket in the corner fills the room with the rotten scent of excrement. The bar you sit on permeates cold through your jodhpurs and you shiver. When you exhale, your breath fogs in the frigid air. 

You’re unsure of the details of how you got here. What you do recall is a blur of hands pressing you down or pushing you forwards, shouts of men discovering the bodies scattered through your property. The one who lasted longer must’ve called the police between the first man’s death and his. Confusion steeped through the officers, and you remember questions yelled at you, your voice failing you as usual, and your consequent incarceration. 

They’ve asked you your name. They’ve asked you your birthday, your address, your affiliation, and you can give them nothing. All the words in your mind fail to move past your lips. And so you sit alone in an empty cell and every time you close your eyes you see blood. Every time you take a breath you feel the weight of life in your lungs and you wonder when it got so heavy. 

There’s an ache left over from being young in you. This world isn’t quite what your soul expected. You went through childhood with a kind of awful surprise, like each repeated pain you felt was a new betrayal from God. Now, you’re trapped, hands tied, with nothing but your clothes between you and the world. The hair on the back of your neck rises, and you look up to see a policeman peering through the hatch, hazel eyes cold. You suck in a breath and pull your body as far from him as possible, pressing your back against the wall. 

After a moment, he enters, closing the door behind him. “So, you’re the mute.”

You stare up at him, halfway between defiant and fearful, your blood trying to boil and freeze at the same time. 

“You killed two men. One was particularly brutal. Lure him into a trap and use blunt force trauma from a height? You’re fucked in the head.” He steps towards you, slowly taking a thick, heavy baton from his side and holding it up, eyes on the black metal. “I’ve been sent in here to make you talk. I’m known for my skills, right? I make people talk. I’m good at it. I’m good at making sure people don’t get knocked out when I hit them.”

There’s a smile on his lips. You straighten in your seat, jaw tightening, and smooth out your expression. You blink slowly at him. No way in hell you’re talking, not after a challenge like that. 

“I start out gentle.” He holds the baton out, the end right below your chin. “Who are you?”

You close your eyes and breathe. When you were younger, you used to play a game with yourself, when men were particularly rough with your little body. You’d pretend that you were someone else, standing outside of your own body, watching from afar. You’d sink into the role of this person. You’d make up their story; their name, their age, why they were there. And you’d sit in their head and watch yourself be abused. It made the pain lessen. It made it go faster. 

Now, as the baton cracks into your chin, you’re standing outside of yourself to the left of the man, considering him. You imagine yourself with a strong, large body, without the aches you always seem to have, and you slip into that form. 

“I asked you who you are!” The policeman pulls the baton to the side, resting it above your ear. “I expect an answer!”

The baton hits hard into the side of your head. You fall to the side, but you don’t feel the pain. Your mind is elsewhere, hovering beside the policeman, watching his arm move the baton again, preparing for another strike. There’s hot blood rolling down the side of your head, and you’re aware of it, but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything. 

You will win this game. 

“Who are you?” He waits a few seconds before drawing back and striking you again with the baton. Something flickers in your off-centered mind, and your eyes slowly slide open. 

He shouts something again, but you don’t hear it. You’re focused, existing inside and outside yourself, and you’re waiting for him to draw back. He winds up, aiming for your shoulder, and you know if he were to hit, it would break your bone. Seemingly in slow motion, the baton comes crashing down, and you lift your hands, and—

The baton lands on the chain between your cuffs and breaks the metal cleanly in half. Before he registers what has just happened, you’re on your feet. You kick him hard in the groin and make for the door as he falls to his knees, whimpering. You open it, knowing full well you’re about to be caught and put right back into your cell, and shoot out, thinking somehow, maybe, you’ll get past them. 

You slam straight into someone, almost falling with the force of it, and back away, looking around wildly for some way to escape. You heave, not even trying to fend off the panic as your body trembles and your eyes search desperately for a way out. 

“Easy now, love.” Tommy’s voice. You look up to see his clear blue eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”

Your wide eyes blink to try to clear your vision, give yourself some kind of groundedness in the familiar shape of his face, but the world spins around you and a burning sensation rises in your chest as you lose your breath time and time again. 

A hand reaches out for you and you jerk away, trying to catch the breath that runs chaotically away. You continue to back away, frantically seeking freedom. 

“You’re not back there. You’re not trapped. Look around, you’re free as I am.” 

There are eyes on you, pinning you to the ground, scorching your skin with their seeping gazes. You shake your head, brow furrowing, wishing you could get out from this cold, dark hallway, away from the eyes on you, away from the clattering of other prisoners. 

“Look around. You’re alright. You’re alright.” He steps towards you and you try not to cower. “Come on, let’s go, eh? Hold your head up and let’s go.” 

You take a gasping breath, then another, trying to get ahold of yourself. He reaches out a hand to you, letting it hover softly in the space between. After a moment, you look up, meeting his eyes with a kind of feral recognition that you’ve only ever seen in spooking horses being calmed. Slowly, you reach out a trembling hand to take his. 

“You’re okay.” He gives your hand a slight tug and starts to walk. Your body, pumped with adrenaline, stumbles to move by his side, falling into step with him. 

Down a cold cement hallway, with eyes seeking somewhere to land through the bars of cell doors, you walk with him. Behind you, officers watch in silence, your silhouettes slowly getting smaller in their vision. He knows his way through the maze-like building, knows how to navigate through the frigidity, and before you realize it, you’re out into fresh, equally cold night air. You stop and tilt your head up, searching the sky for stars and finding only the polluted gray of Birmingham. You continue to tremble, half from cold, half from the residual fear that skewers you, a slow, painful death. 

Once you’re in his car, tires rumbling down the streets, he speaks again. “Fucking coppers wouldn’t tell me anything. Said they brought in a girl from a barn on the outskirts for double homicide. Even Moss kept his mouth shut.”

You close your eyes, pressing them together, then open them again. Your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “That’s because they didn’t know anything.”

“They tried telling me that. Told them they needed to find out, then changed my mind.” He reaches out to gently brush the bloody side of your head and you flinch. He drops his hand, jaw tightening slightly. His voice raises. “Does anyone ever fucking listen to me?”

You hold back tears, voice breaking and pathetically small. “They were scared that you’d hurt them if they couldn’t tell you more.”

“What were you thinking, running off and killing two men?” His tone remains harsh and you suddenly realize you’re trapped, alone in a car with a very dangerous man. 

“I obviously didn’t do it for fun, Tom.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a silent tear dripping down your cheek. “They found me. I don’t know how, but they did. One of them was an old client, the other… I don’t know. It was self defense. They would’ve taken me back.”

He’s quiet for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the lanterns lighting the streets, little embers in the iciness. “One man with a crushed skull, the other with his brains blown out the side of his head.”

“I had to protect myself.” Your words grow louder, hoarse. “What did you want me to do, just go with them? Is that what you think of me? Just some poor haunted girl, helpless? Is that who you want me to be?” 

“No,” he says, and the word is final. “No. Everything you did, every choice you made, is exactly what I would’ve done. I don’t want you to follow down the path I did.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I’m not following any path, I’m just trying to survive.”

“In the morning, we’ll go to your house and pack your things. You’ll stay with me.” 

Suddenly, the lump in your throat is gone, replaced with a kind of surprised rage that can’t fully be described. “You’re expecting me to put my life on hold, lose my independence, and move in with you, without even asking me first?” 

He blinks, glancing over at you as if he hadn’t realized it might not be what you wanted. “You’ll be sa—”

“Safer? I protected myself just fine, Thomas.”

“Next time, there’ll be more men, more guns, and you’ll be alone.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well then, why don’t you move in with me? Why don’t you upend your life and leave everything behind?” You turn your head to look at him, glaring. “How does that sound to you?”

“It’s not the same.”

“What, because you have money and I don’t? Because I have less to lose?” 

“You won’t be losing anything.” His hands tighten around the wheel and he straightens. “We’ll bring your horses to my stables.”

Your jaw almost drops. “Tommy, do you have any idea what it means for a woman to move in with a man? Do you realize that I’d be losing my financial and physical independence? You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” He glances over at you. “There are no rules that say you must give up your independence. Doesn’t matter what everyone else does. We can do it differently.”

You look away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I can’t rely on you for everything.” 

“You can rely on me for protection.” He nods. 

“I’m not— I hope you realize, Tom, that I will never belong to you. I will never be owned by anyone. I need space. I can’t be so close to you that there’s no room to breathe. If you want another possession, another trophy, you need to find someone else.” Your voice grows steady, strong. “I’m tired of belonging to a man. I’m tired of being told that I can’t exist without being attached to someone. I can. I exist, despite it all, and I refuse to do it again.” 

“I’m not asking you to belong to me.” He sighs, a subtle sign of frustration. “I’m asking you to keep yourself safe. Let me help you. Even just for until this is over.”

“I can protect myself.” 

“You can. But even you can’t be so strong.” His eyes flick down to his hands on the wheel, then back up to the street. “Even you can’t do it alone.”

You let his words fade into the cool night air. You try to siphon through the conflicting thoughts that flit through your mind like hummingbirds. You want to be yourself, separate from everything around you. You want to be where he is, wherever that may be, a constant yearning for the companionship he brings. You want to learn who you are without being caught in someone else’s orbit, without being owned. You want to teach yourself how to love without the constant fear of loss, and there he is, asking for nothing in return. There he is, and he has never done anything to you that was not good, and he has never tried to lead you astray. 

You lean your head back against the rest and stare out into the now clear night, the stars showing now that you’ve moved from the city. “You would take in all twelve of my horses… let me live with you… for nothing?” 

A faint smile appears on his lips. “It’s a big house. Needs someone else to fill all the empty space.”

You manage a small, watery smile in return. “Thank you.”

“No need.” He turns into the driveway of Arrow House and slowly pulls up. He stops the car but doesn’t get out, simply stares down at his hands and lets them slowly fall from the wheel. 

“What?” You shift hesitantly closer to him, trying to read his expression, trying to peer into those blue eyes and decipher the depths inside of them. 

“I know you take care of yourself,” he says slowly. “I know you always will. I want you to let me help. With everything. I want us to take care of each other.”

You take in a small breath. This, you think, this is when I hurt him. This is when it ends, all the softness and care, all the pieces of each other shared back and forth. 

“I don’t know how,” you say. “It’s always been me. I’ve never learned how to help and be helped.”

“You do know.” He looks over at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I’ve seen you do it. Care for the horses every day.”

“Then I don’t know how to let someone help me.” You reach up and touch the side of your head; you can feel it now, the throbbing, swollen pain pressing through your skull. “I don’t know how to give up that kind of control.”

He considers you, expression soft and quiet. “I know I’m not the man you imagined, but I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you to be ready, and I’ll wait for you to learn.”

You smile a little. “I didn’t imagine any man. You’re quite the plot twist, you know that?” 

“Will you try?” His head tilts slightly, a faint, wordless acknowledgement to your statement. “Will you take the time to learn how to be helped?” 

“Yes,” you murmur. “Yes. I’ll try.” 

“Good.” He lucks up at the house, tone accomplished, as though he’s checked off another task on his to-do list. He slips out of the car and into the night, and you follow him. The cool wind batters at you, burns the broken skin at the side of your head, and you stop for a moment to watch him walk, head down, hands in his pockets, silhouetted in the grand light of Arrow House. 

When you were younger, you made a promise to yourself that you’d live long enough to have your own place. You’d survive until you could create a home, where you weren’t alone but weren’t taken advantage of. Where no one yelled and threw things, where there was no such thing as saying something wrong, a sanctuary of warmth and light and quiet appreciation. 

It was a child’s dream of paradise, and now, as an adult, you know that nothing is that simple. But, as he stops and turns, waiting for you to join him at the doorstep, you think that, maybe, you’re taking a step towards keeping that promise. Maybe you’re reaching out a hand to that young, desperate self, and showing her that there is kindness, and there is warmth, and there’s somewhere out there for her. 

And that younger self smiles, knowing that though there are battles ahead, she has made it home. 

Your eyes are closed as Tommy gently uses a washcloth to remove the blood from the side of your head. The pain throbs dully with each touch, but you somehow don’t mind it. There’s a raw, open gash underneath your hair that he drenched in alcohol a few minutes before. He’s quiet. You’re quiet. The bathroom you sit in is cool and the light is soft on your eyelids. 

You’ve seen him dream at night. His closed eyes move with nightmares, his jaw clenches, his body tenses, trembles, sometimes jolts as though in pain. All this time, and you haven’t been brave enough to ask. All this time, and you haven’t known how to ask him to talk about that wound without reopening it. Now, though, as he cleans the blood from your neck, you think, maybe the air is stable enough. Maybe the softness is steady enough. 

“You have nightmares,” you say quietly. “You never talk about them.”

“No. I don’t.” He doesn’t seem to want further questions, asking you to allow the conversation to end there. 

“Sometimes you talk in your sleep. Did you know that?” You keep your eyes closed. 

“Grace never told me.” 

“You do. It’s always indistinct. I catch names, sometimes. Someone called Danny, or Freddie. Sometimes you count. You’re quiet, but I can hear it in your voice. You’re scared. I’m never sure if waking you up would help or not, so I stay quiet, let you ride it out.” 

He doesn’t respond. You open your eyes to find his face a little paler than usual, his eyes covered in a momentary, hazy film that slowly melts away like ice. He blinks, and gives you a small nod. 

“I’m not proud. It’s no treat to relive it.” He goes back to cleaning your blood, his hand steady, his voice the same. “I get stuck in the mud again.”

“I can help,” you say quietly. “I’m not going to let you get trapped in your own head because of me. I will never let you fall apart.” 

His jaw tightens, then relaxes. “I’ll tell you. Only if you promise not to ask about it again.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes again, waiting, giving him the space to take his time. 

“I was the sergeant major of the 179th Tunneling Brigade. I spent most of my time fighting underground. Won medals for surviving what others couldn’t.” His voice flattens out, low and even, emotionless. “What else do you want to know?”

“You were… underground?” 

There’s a pause before he responds. “Yes. It was small. The cold bit our feet because shoes weren’t allowed and we couldn’t drain the water. The light came from candles that wouldn’t stay lit. Sometimes the air got thin. Sometimes the canaries and rats died before us.” 

You stay as still as you can, as quiet as you can, unwilling to break the sacred silence around you as his words settle around you. “And the nightmares?”

“A cave-in. We could hear the Germans digging above us. They sent word to get underneath them and set up enough charge to stop them getting to our trenches. Maybe it was an accident or maybe they heard us. All I know is their mines went off before ours did. I felt it before I heard it and—” He pauses and clears his throat, then continues, tone a little softer, a little more worried. “Then the ground shook and fell to bury us in a grave we’d dug for ourselves. It scared me more to realize I was alive than thinking I was dead. I remember trying to get air, get some of the weight off me and thinking: Fuck. Alive. I have to keep going. I have to get out. Five of us found a space large enough to get some air. I never heard about the rest of them”

It seems he had holds it in, grappling with the memories that swirl around his mind, intoxicating and bewitching, and, once you ask, it’s all he can do to stop it from spilling out. There’s a weight on his shoulders that never lets up, and he stays quiet about it, never complaining, never even mentioning it. You squeeze your eyes, kaleidoscope patterns of color sparking on your eyelids, and think you should’ve asked him sooner. 

“How did you get out?” You match his tone with a steady, quiet voice. 

“We dug up for a day and a half till the fixed air took our consciousness. Even before then the five of us accepted we would never see the sun. Some men dug down and got three of us out. There was another still alive underneath. His legs had broken and tangled in the apparatus for clay kicking. One of my comrades stayed down with him. The roof collapsed. Their corpses will never be recovered.” 

He sounds tired. The words he speaks seem to barely leave his throat, as though the low growl of them remains confined to his vocal cords. Finality rings from his voice like an order, or perhaps a plea. He seems to beg you, in his own silent way, not to ask for more. You can only be so selfish, so brazen in how much you push him to fake steadiness. Any further now and his façade would melt fully away. Thomas Shelby came home from war to test how many times he could ignore the broken parts of him till they shattered, and this conversation has forced him to see the cracks.

“That’s what you dream about. The cave in. The ones you left behind.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes the tunnel gets broken through and we have to fight and kill and leave the bodies to rot. Sometimes all it is is the sound of picks and shovels at the other end of the tunnel, coming towards us, and the only thing to do is wait.” His voice grows emptier, hollowed out, and you open your eyes to look up at him. 

“Tommy,” you say quietly. “Look at me.”

He does as you ask, haunted blue eyes searching for something in you that you’re not sure you have. 

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t hurt you.” You watch his hand as it shifts from steadiness to trembling, then back to steadiness again. “I can hear in your voice that you’re faking it to protect me. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you if you’re hurt. I am, too. Remember our promise?” 

He nods blankly. “Yes. I do.”

Like a horse to water, you try to coax him to step out of the darkness and bring the parts of him he hides into the light. You know he’ll refuse. You know he’ll consider it, over and over, and then back away. Or, maybe, you’ll get lucky, and some trust will glow like an ember, and you’ll see him lay himself down in front of you and show you who he is. 

“You still feel like a soldier, don’t you?” Your tone is slightly sad. 

He nods again, curtly, but his eyes are almost sleepy, exhausted by the task of remembering and acknowledging. 

“Have you been trying to forget?”

Another nod. He looks like a boy, spooked late at night by some horror story spoken by his friend, eyes glassy and tired but, underneath, so, so afraid. The hand that holds the bloody cloth lifts and presses against his chest, over his heart, protective. 

“You wanna know what I do? With the memories that are too big for my body?” 

His eyes flick down to you, acknowledging, giving permission. 

“I sort of… sit with them. I do it alone, and I give myself time. Sometimes I panic and can’t breathe, and sometimes I fall out of myself, like I’m not quite me, but not anyone else, either. But, always, after I think about it, after I let it take me over, I can call it back without having such a strong reaction.” Slowly, you stand from your seat and turn to face him. “It hurts. I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done, worse than when it happened the first time. But after… It's catharsis. It’s being reborn. And you’re exhausted, but you survived it, and you can do it again.” 

His eyes latch onto yours, helpless, and you reach up to caress his cheek. Slowly, he caves to you, his eyes closing. 

“And you just did it. You called back a ghost, faced it, and now, here you are.” You bring him closer to you, pressing your forehead against his. “You survived, Tommy. You survived, and I survived, and there’s something to that. There’s something to the fact that we never deserved what happened, and yet, we’re still alone, together. And now I know that I need to wake you when you have nightmares.”

He releases a slow breath. You close your eyes, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. 

“We’re gonna be okay. I think you’re right. I think we’re meant to take care of each other. You’ll teach me how to let you help me. I’ll teach you how to love again.” 

He swallows hard, and you feel a faint tremble run through him, subtle, barely there. You reach up with your other hand and take the cloth from him, setting it down on the counter, and then take his hand. You feel your heart settle into your body, and you feel something you haven’t felt in a long, long time. 

Hello love, your invincible, hopeful friend. For a moment, you forget where you are, and you squeeze his hand and start timing your breathing to his. You have so many words to speak, so much bubbling up in you, but you hold your cliches and just stand with him, waiting out the memories, holding him quietly. He squeezes back, and you smile faintly. 

“There you are.” You drop your hand from his cheek, open your eyes, and step back. 

He watches you, eyes soft, then looks away. “You were right.” 

“I was?” You blink, surprised. “About what?”

“It’s better, after, if you… sit with it, like you said.” He lets go of your hand, picks up the cloth, and walks casually to the door. “Won’t be doing it alone. I need you with me.”

“Apparently I’ll be here.” You follow him. “I live here now.” 

He shakes his head, and you catch a small smile on his lips. “Not yet. That could change.”

You chuckle. “You would never.”

“I would never,” he agrees.      

[lunastrophe]

Drow Language 🕷️ Glossary from Drow of the Underdark (2e)

Drow glossary from Drow of the Underdark (E. Greenwood, 1991), a supplemental rules book for use with AD&D (2e). Around two hundred canon words that allow to create simple sentences, messages and the like.

I organized the terms from the glossary into categories, so that the range of topics and the variety of vocabulary for each of them could be seen more clearly. Unsurprisingly, categories with the most words are connected to dealing with people, stealth and fight, travel and exploration, also magic and spirituality.

🕷️ To Be

tlu – be, to be phuul – are zhah – is

🕷️ Pronouns

usstan – I, self (literally, "this one") usstil – one in my place dos – you dosst – yours dosstan – yourself nind – they, them, their, theirs* nindyn – those vel’uss – who

*In fan-created drow language sources, "them", "their" and "theirs" are usually translated differently to avoid confusion.

🕷️ People, Professions, Titles

dobluth – outcast faern – wizard, magic-worker of any race or gender ilharn – patron, title of matron mother’s chosen mate ilhar – mother, to mother* ilharess – matron or matron mother, title of a female ruling a noble drow House ilharessen – matrons jabbuk – master, male in charge of some task or office malla – honored, term of respect qu’ellar – House, titled noble family sargtlin – (drow) warrior valsharess – queen** yathrin – (drow) priestess yathtallar – (drow) high priestess

*Only in a biological sense - "to mother" as in "to give birth to", not "to nourish and comfort". ** Title typically reserved for Lolth.

🕷️ Friends, Enemies, Relationships

abban – ally, not-enemy abbil – comrade, trusted friend* akh – band, group inthigg – agreement, treaty khaless – trust** maglust – apart, alone nau – no ogglin – rival, opponent, enemy*** qua’laelay – argument, disagreement, confrontation, but not yet open conflict quarth – order, exercise of authority quarthen – ordered, commanded ssinssrigg – passion, lust, greed, longing, love**** thalra – meet, encounter talthalra – meeting, council, parley thalack – war, open fighting xal – may, might, perhaps

* At least as trusted as possible in drow terms (see khaless). ** Especially foolish or misplaced kind of trust, since drow do not really believe in genuine trust. *** "Active"; all creatures are considered potential ogglin until proven otherwise. **** Not a selfless, unconditional, romantic kind of love.

🕷️ Non-Drow, Monsters

darthiir – faeries, surface elves, traitors gol – goblin goln – goblins haszak – illithid, mind flayer haszakkin – illithids rivvil – human rivvin – humans orbb – spider phindar – monster, dangerous being, especially a non-intelligent creature

🕷️ Insults

iblith – offal, excrement, carrion* wael – fool

* Often used in reference to non-drow and slaves.

🕷️ Battle, Life, Death

bautha – dodge, to dodge dro – life, alive elgg – kill, slay, destroy elghinn – death honglath – clever thinking, calm, bravery, good behavior jivvin – fun, play, but in sense of amusing cruelty, "animal spirits" kulg – snag, hitch, blockage* kulggen – deliberate rampart, shield, or other barrier luth – cast, throw, hurl phalar – grave, battle-marker plynn – take, size sargh – confidence in weapons, battle-might, strength-at-arms, valor sarn! – beware!, warning! sreen – danger streea – suicide, death in the service of Lolth, a House, or a community streeaka – reckless(ness), fearless(ness) thalackz’hind – raid, attack from afar ultrinnan – conquering, victory, to win or prevail velve – blade, dagger, knife, sword z'ress – power, strength, force, dominance**

* Impediment to will or to plans, but also an actual, material blockage, like debris in a shaft or passage. ** Especially strength of the will that allows a person, for example, to successfully manipulate others.

🕷️ Schemes, Stealth, Shadows

brorn – surprise brorna – surprises golhyrr – surprise, ruse, trap ilindith – aim, goal, hoped-for event inth – plan, stratagem, scheme kyone – alert / alertly, wary / warily, careful / carefully kyorl – watch, wait, guard kyorlin – watching, waiting, guarding olist – caution, stealth oloth – darkness, utter natural darkness or magical darkness ssussun – light, brightness veldrin – shadows, concealment afforded by varying light velkyn – unseen, hidden, invisible waela – foolish, unaware, unwary

🕷️ Magic, Faith, Destiny

elamshin – destiny, the will of Lolth* elend – usual, traditional faer – magic faerl – magical faerbol – magical item orthae – holy, sacred Quarvalsharess – Goddess (title of Lolth) quar’valsharess – goddess (other than Lolth) ul-ilindith – destiny yath – temple, also property, work or decree of the temple Yorn – power, will or servant-creature of the Goddess (Lolth)

* Destiny as unique purpose, connected to the intent of higher power (Lolth).

🕷️ Work, Learning, Exploration

colbauth – path, known way mrimm – guide, key, inspiration noamuth – wanderer, lost, unknown obsul – opening, door, gap or chink ragar – find, discover, uncover talinth – think, consider xun – do, to complete or accomplish xund – striving, effort, work xundus – doing, achievement, work completed or manifested in some concrete result zhaunil – learning, wisdom, knowledge z'hin – walk z'hind – trip, journey, expedition z'orr – climb

🕷️ Wealth, Goods, Gifts

belaern – wealth, coinage, treasure belbau – to give belbol – gift bol – item, thing, an unknown, unidentified, mysterious or important object cahallin – food, but only produced or harvested, including raid-spoils; not hunted game or cooked food

🕷️ Numbers, Quantity

uss – one ust – first draa – two drada – second llar – three llarnbuss – third tuth – both mzild – more jal – all

🕷️ Comparisons

alur – better, superior alurl – best, foremost taga – than ultrin – supreme, highest, conqueror ultrine – supreme, highest (applied to Lolth only)

🕷️ Relations In Space And Time

alust – in front, facing, in the forefront bauth – around, about dal – from del – of doeb – out elendar – continue, continued, continuing, enduring harl – down, under, below izil – as lil – the lueth – and natha – a pholor – on, upon rath – back ratha – backs rathrae – behind ulu – to wun – in wund – among, within, into

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[footprintsinthesxnd]

Chapter 11: The Wire

Gale Cleven × Hope Armstrong (ofc)

Series Masterlist

This story is based on on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Summary: As the girls realise their fate is sealed for the remainder of the war, Gale makes his last flight of the war.

Collab: A Pair of Silver Wings by @major-mads

October 1, 1943: Sagan, Germany

Two days.

Two days of squalor, of the constant smell of human excrement, of pure hell. They’d stopped a few times to pick up other prisoners, prolonging the journey deeper into Germany. When the train car door finally slid open, its occupants shielded their eyes as the bright morning light shone into the car. Frank, Hope, and Ruth remained in the corner, unable to stand when the harsh commands to do so echoed through the air.

“Up!”

The airmen did their best to follow the order, but their weakened bodies slowed their movements, angering the Germans who began roughly pulling them from the train. Once the dozens of legs surrounding them stepped toward the exit, Hope clambered to her feet, her legs shaking as she helped pull Ruth up. They shared an anxious glance while Frank grabbed their jacket sleeves and led the trio toward the door behind the other POWs.

“Stay close,” he stressed, looking to each of them for confirmation. “We’re not gonna get split up this time, alright?”

It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the blinding light of the sun they hadn’t seen in a few days as they jumped down from the train, mud squelching beneath their boots. Hope could feel her heart pounding in her chest as her dark eyes scanned their surroundings. Her eyes fell upon the dark pine forest in the distance. She wondered if they always built camps surrounded by forests because it was easier to get lost if you tried to escape. The loud slam of the car door caused her to turn, noticing the hard faced guard standing at the front of their group.

The guard at the front of the group motioned toward the path with a yell. “Walk! Now!”

Ruth’s eyes widened in panic as they started walking. “Do you think they’re gonna kill us?”

“No,” Hope replied quietly, offering her friend a forced smile. She honestly didn’t know what the Krauts had planned for them but she wasn’t about to give Ruth more to worry about. “They wouldn’t transport us this far just to kill us.”

Though Ruth nodded in tentative agreement, Hope’s own doubts lingered, a silent weight pressing down upon her. The uncertainty of their fate was almost unbearable, each step forward carrying them deeper into the unknown.

Where were they going?

How long would they be there?

Would they ever see their loved ones again?

They could feel the filth clinging to their bodies with each step down the path. The mud, sweat, blood, and disgusting muck from the train car coated their clothes. It was far worse than any conditions they had experienced as nurses. The women prayed for a shower or just somewhere they could clean themselves of the grime painting their skin. After almost two weeks, the pain in Ruth’s arm dulled into a throb with every movement, and thankfully, Frank’s ribs were much the same. Hope’s bruises were beginning to fade and the deep gash above her eye had slowly closed. She still hadn’t talked about what happened to her in Dulag Luft. How could she explain it?

The path through the forest stretched on for about a half-mile before they reached the edge of the treeline. As they emerged from the forest, the sight before them stole their breath away. A vast clearing spread before them, dominated by a sprawling complex of buildings, huts, and sheds. The entire area was encircled by a pair of menacing barbed-wire fences, their twisted coils glinting ominously in the sunlight. Along the perimeter, wooden guard towers loomed tall, manned by German soldiers armed to the teeth with rifles, machine guns, and searchlights.

Frank’s jaw clenched as he took in the formidable sight, his mind racing with grim possibilities. “Looks like our new home,” he remarked, his tone laced with bitterness. “Real cosy.

Hope’s hand found Ruth’s, squeezing it tightly as their group approached the large main gate. Hope opened her mouth to speak but was cut off by a loud siren and the gate creaking open. As they walked through the gates and beyond the perimeter of barbed wire, prisoners flocked to the sides of the walkway, scanning the new arrivals for any familiar faces. They wore frayed and mismatched uniforms, many of them hanging loosely on the men’s slender frames. Some were dressed in American uniforms, further down the line were men dressed in British RAF uniforms but they didn’t all speak English. Hope thought she could make out Polish, or maybe Czech. Some called out to friends they recognized, their excited laughter lifting the atmosphere just slightly. Others murmured in disbelief when they caught sight of the women, their expressions filled with shock and pity.

“Can you believe it? Women here…” one muttered from where he leaned against the wire.

“Poor things,” the man beside him replied sadly. “Leave it to the Germans to make women POWs. I wonder what unit they’re with.”

Among the pitied glances were men whose eyes lingered on Hope and Ruth with a disturbing intensity. It was clear that some hadn’t seen women in years, and their unsettling stares sent a chill down the girls’ spines. Frank shot a warning glare at anyone who dared stare too long, his protective instincts kicking into high gear as he trailed closely behind them.

“Welcome to Stalag Luft III, ladies! This place is going to eat you alive.”

Hope turned to see who had spoke and her eyes fell on a man ahead of them, his sunken face bearing a smirk. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes and red sores sat along the corners of his lips. Hope had never seen a man in such desperate need of medical care but there wasn’t much she could do for him here, without any supplies. She wondered how long he had been here to end up in such a fate. The thought struck her that maybe this was their fate too.

Was that her future? To end up like him?

Frank’s voice behind them cut through the buzz of the crowd. “Ignore him,” he said, sparing the man a pointed glance. “He’s just a bitter old timer who’s been here too long.”

Hope nodded in agreement, her grip on Ruth’s hand tightening slightly as they continued past the wire, further into the camp. They were led into one of the buildings and lined up before being searched for any items considered contraband. Thankfully, their Luftwaffe searchers were more respectful than the soldiers who found them after the crash, patting them down without allowing their hands to linger.

Once the search was complete, they were fingerprinted and photographed, reminding the trio of their arrival at Dulag Luft. Thinking back on that day, Hope couldn’t help but wonder where Bob Wolff ended up. He was the only piece of home they had… the only tie to the small corner of East Anglia the women held so dearly to their hearts. The thought was pushed from her mind when a neatly folded pile of two thin blankets, a rough mattress cover, and a straw-filled pillow was thrust toward her. Hope’s heart sank at the sight of the pitiful bedding, knowing it would offer little comfort in the cold nights ahead. They were slightly nicer than the ones in Dulag Luft and the girls tried not to think about the infestation of lice they probably harboured.

In line before her, Ruth blinked away the tears filling her eyes as she was given a small package filled with eating utensils and toiletries. She clutched the scratchy towel close to her chest, struggling to hold it all with one hand. At the final stop, a man held out her new “dog tags,” her prisoner of war number stamped into the shiny metal.

Hope stood behind her, taking her own tag next. Her number read 2982. It was a far cry from her serial number, one that she’d been proud to quote. Now she was reduced down to just a number rather than a human being.

Hope joined Ruth against the wall, and Frank soon made his way over to them, and before they knew it, their group of about 30 Americans was led back through the camp to a gate leading into one of the many compounds on site. Hope and Ruth’s eyes scanned the large area, taking in the dozens of men walking around, some returning to their blocks after swarming the wire a few minutes before.

All eyes flew to the gate behind them as it shut, sealing them into the compound for the foreseeable future. It was like a finally deafening bang that saw their future sealed. Hope wasn’t sure what the future held for them, but after the confinement in Dulag Luft she knew that Stalag Luft couldn’t be as bad, she had her friends for a start. They would get through this together. Beside her, Hope could see Ruth beginning to lose her cool. Her shoulders sagged under her ragged breaths and she knew that she’d begin to spiral if she didn’t step in.

Hope passed her things to Frank, giving him a knowing look to which a sympathetic smile spread over his lips. She reached out to grab her shoulders, reassuringly squeezing them. “Rue, it’s okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and calming. “We’re gonna be alright.”

Frank stepped closer to them. “Take deep breaths, Ruth. In…and out.”

Hope saw Ruth tightening against the growing panic attack. They had been a common occurrence when she’d first joined them as a new nurse. Hope had feared at one point that she might not make it as a flight nurse. After a few moments, her breathing evened out and the panic passed. Frank and Hope sent each other a relieved glance, thankful the anxiety strike didn’t progress into a full-fledged attack. It wasn’t the first panic Ruth had around the pair, and Hope was surprised she hadn’t had one since they went down. In her eyes, it was long overdue.

“Welcome to the lovely South Compound,” a commanding voice called out to the group. “I’m Colonel Goodrich, and I’ll be your Commanding Officer during your stay here.”

Goodrich was a tall man with dark, curly hair. He stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke. The colonel’s sharp gaze swept over the faces of the men before him, assessing their conditions. But it was when his eyes landed on Ruth and Hope that his expression shifted, a flicker of surprise and concern crossing his features. He hesitated momentarily before gesturing to the shorter man beside him.

“This is Major Dodson. He’s going to assign you to blocks.”

Dodson stepped forward and began to lead the group toward the dozens of buildings across the clearing. The trio started to follow but froze when Goodrich’s voice filled the air.

“You three. Hold on a moment.”

The rest of the group murmured among themselves as they followed Dodson to get their bunking assignments, leaving Hope, Frank, and Ruth standing alone before the Colonel. He approached them with his hands in his pockets, his demeanor serious but not unkind.

“I apologize for singling you out, but we’ve never had women here. I thought maybe it was one thing the Germans wouldn’t do, but here we are…Do you need medical attention?”

Hope exchanged a quick glance with Ruth and Frank before replying, “No, sir. We’re alright, just a bit banged up from the crash.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, his gaze lingering on the blood and cuts marring Ruth’s face and the grimy appearance of all three of them. “I see. What outfit are you with?”

“806th MAETS,” Frank replied.

“Ahh, so you’re flight nurses, I’m guessing.”

Hope stuck out her hand. “Yes, sir. First Lieutenant Hope Armstrong,” she gestured to herself. “This is my counterpart Second Lieutenant Ruth Morgan, and our pilot Captain Frank Martin.”

Goodrich shook each of their hands and offered the women a kind smile. “I hate you two are stuck here, but I’ll do what I can to help you out. I imagine you’d all like to clean up a bit. Major Dodson can arrange private showers for you, Lieutenants. It’s cold and might not be the Ritz, but it’s better than nothing.”

The thought of showers, of getting clean perked Ruth up, and she nodded once at the man. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Goodrich glanced at his watch before taking a breath and walking away, motioning for them to follow. “I’ll take you to your assigned block. This compound has only been open a few weeks, so there’s a lot of empty rooms.“

The air inside the block was musty, but it felt like a sanctuary compared to the chaos and constant vigilance they’d endured the past few weeks. The Colonel stopped before a door and turned to face them.

“This building is relatively quiet,” he explained, looking down the long hallway at the few men entering their room further down. “You’ll have this room to yourselves. It’ll give you a little bit of privacy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Colonel Goodrich nodded, and Hope could tell he wished he could do more for them, but this was the best he could do. ”Dodson will be back soon to take you to the showers. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything.”

With that, he turned and left them standing in front of the door to their room, staring at the wood blankly. Frank took a deep breath and opened the door. The space was dimly lit by a small window, casting long shadows across the room. Triple-decker bunk beds lined the walls, each one with a thin straw mattress that looked as disgusting as the ones in their Dulag Luft cells. A single table stood in the middle of the room.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Frank remarked, dropping his handful of things to the table with a thud.

Hope nodded in agreement, her gaze lingering on the bunk beds. “At least we have a place to rest.”

Ruth was the first to choose a bunk, opting for the lower bunk farthest from the door, and Hope chose the one beside her. Frank decided on the bunk above Hope. It reminded Hope a little of being back home with Hugh. As young children he’d had the top bunk and would often ‘accidentally’ drop things on her in the night. Her heart ached for her brother. He always knew what to do and always knew how to make light of a situation. She could use a hug from her big brother right now, and Gale… she tried not to think of Gale as she set about making her bed before sinking down onto the stiff mattress. She could see the exhaustion clearly on Ruth’s face and she pitied the young teacher. She was sure this wasn’t what Ruth had envisioned when she’d joined up to help.

“That man,” she whispered, blinking away tears that stung her eyes, “The one at the gate…”

“What about him?” Hope could see the tears slipping slowly down Ruth’s cheeks.

“His eyes…they looked so hollow, so hopeless. I-I don’t want to end up like that.”

Hope sat on the edge of Ruth’s bed, placing a hand on her arm. “Hey, you won’t. You’ve got me. And you’ve got Frank. We’re not going anywhere.”

As Hope stared into her friend’s glistening eyes, she hoped the woman couldn’t see through her. That she couldn’t see the terror that possessed her every thought, every moment, every dream since the door of her cell slammed shut at Dulag Luft. It was no secret that they were at the mercy of their captors who could do anything they wanted, and Hope feared it was only a matter of time until the Germans took advantage of it.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, through the thin walls, and Hope’s heart skipped a beat. She could see it now: a German shoving open the door, dragging her and Ruth out by their hair to do unspeakable things to them. But when three quiet knocks filled the air, she furrowed her brows.

Germans wouldn’t knock.

The women watched with bated breath as Frank slowly approached the door, shooting them a warning glance that seemed to say, ‘get ready.’ Before he opened it, the visitor spoke on the other side, their voice muffled through the wood.

“It’s Major Dodson. I’ve arranged some showers for y’all.”

Hope let out a soft exhale, the tension in her shoulders easing as Frank shook his head and opened the door. Quickly blinking her eyes, Ruth tried to clear any sign of tears from her face before he could see. Dodson stepped inside, smiling kindly at the two women sitting on the bed. If he noticed the blonde’s red-rimmed eyes, he didn’t comment on it.

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenants.” He nodded at them, then turned to Frank. “And you, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dodson held out a bundle of clothing to him. “Here are some fresh clothes. I found the smallest ones possible for you two, but-”

“Thank you,” Hope interrupted. “I’m sure they’re fine, sir.”

“Grab your stuff and follow me. I reckon y’all are chomping at the bit to get clean. I know I was when I arrived.”

His accent held a slight southern twang, and Hope raised an eyebrow at Ruth, who instantly noticed and perked up, feeling a little bit at home. They each gathered their basic shower pack and towel quickly, following the Major out of the building.

Hope could feel Frank’s large hand pressing against the small of her back, a comforting reminder of his presence and an action he had done so many times before.

She smiled up at him, and he returned to sentiment. It occurred to Hope that in another life she may have ended up with Frank, they’d spent so much time together in such close proximity that something would have probably happened if it hadn’t been for their unwavering friendship.

“You alright?” He cocked an eyebrow at her and she just shook her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Hope?” Frank stopped her for a moment, brushing the lose strands of her dark hair away from the large gash on her forehead. His thumb knocked the wound and she winced, moving to follow after the Major. Frank caught up with her in a few strides, his arm coming around her and pulling her into his side.

“I’m not ever letting you out of my sight again, Hope. Not ever.”

It was a promise that she knew he might not be able to keep. Frank meant well but if the Krauts wanted her then they would have her, and there was nothing Frank would be able to do.

Dodson directed them around the corner of a block to a much smaller concrete building, resembling the shower building at Dulag Luft. The krauts sure weren’t original with their POW camp architecture, that was for sure. As they reached the door, the Major spun to face them.

“There are no curtains, so-”

“You two go first,” Frank interrupted, nodding at Hope and Ruth.

“Alright. There’s only one entrance, so Captain Martin and I will stand guard while you two are showerin’. Sound alright?”

Hope and Ruth held each other’s gaze for a moment before thanking him and stepping inside. The room was dark and damp with a row of sinks on one side and a few showerheads on the other. A couple of benches lined the middle, and they set down their packs and towels, exchanging another brief glance before turning their backs to each other before starting to undress.

Hope peeled away her B-3 jacket that clung to her body. She hadn’t removed it since the crash and the leather was now worn and looking far less presentable. Next camp her overalls, peeling the olive drab, blood-stained cloth from her body. The feeling of the cool air hitting her exposed skin caused goosebumps to raise upon her skin. She shivered, her teeth chattering.

“I can’t wait to get this thing off,” Ruth groaned, casting a longing glance at her arm, the splint’s once pristine bandages now a disgusting brown. “I can’t wait to get this thing off. I can’t even shower cause it’ll get wet.”

“How’s it feeling?” Hope asked sympathetically from behind her. She knew how annoying a splint could be. She’d broken her arm when she was climbing trees with Hugh as a child and the whole ordeal still haunted her.

“It still hurts, but it’s better than before.”

“And how long has it been since you got the splint?”

“Barely a week,” she sighed. “The nurse said 6-8 weeks.”

Hope paused, thinking it over for a moment. “I’d have to agree with her. Five more weeks, Rue.”

“Great.”

Silence again filled the small room and Hope gathered up her dirty clothes, piling them at the end of the bench. She pulled the contents from her overall pocket. She didn’t unfold the pictures, she didn’t dare. She wasn’t sure whether she’d ever be able to face Gale’s smiling face. How could such a happy memory live on in a place like this?

She moved quickly to the shower as Ruth finished undressing. She pulled the lever and allowed the frigid water to run down her exposed body. She gasped, closing her eyes as she stepped beneath the shower. Her head turned down as the water covered her body. The water around her feet grew dark, a mixture of mud and blood that had caked her body disappeared into the drain.

She rubbed the rough, tan cloth over her pale flesh, trying to ignore the purple, green and yellow tinted bruises that covered her body. The water stung at the scraps and cuts across her arms but she ignored it. The worst pain was her fingers, the sore blunt ends of her nails from where she had clawed at her cell door. They had scabbed over but now weeped once more.

She hated to think what she looked like. Her eyeliner had long since worn away and she’d always thought she looked pale and ill without a little bit of blush to give her some colour. Although her appearance was definitely the last of her problems at the current time.

She rubbed the cloth over her thigh, following the line of the deep, purple scar. It hadn’t healed well, the flesh remained raised and prominent. It was something that always made her doubt herself, her abilities, yet it was something that Gale assured her made her ever more beautiful. She was a fighter, she didn’t give up easily and it showed the sacrifice she had made to help others.

Silent, salty tears made their track down her cheeks at the thought of him. He was so far away now. So far from her.

She thought back to her shower at Thorpe Abbott, when Gale’s warm arms had supported her as she washed away her blood. His hands never once roaming too far but his fingers had trailed up her sides, rubbing comforting circles on her exposed flesh. The way his plump lips had pressed against her shoulders, his teeth grazing the smooth flesh. He had loved her so much, and she had loved him. She still loved him. It was one of her favourite memories, for that was all it was now.

She turned off the shower, shaking the memory that had so vividly haunted her. Gale’s memory didn’t deserve to be bought to such a place as this.

The final dregs of water stopped dripping, leaving the bath house deathly silent. Hope shuffled over to the pile of clothes that she’d left on the bench. She rubbed the rough sacking that substituted as a towel over her body, ignoring the way it sandpapered her skin. She longed for her scented soap that Hugh had bought for her birthday. Now she smelt of hay and a faint smell of sweat, still an improvement of how bad she had smelt prior to her shower.

Ruth was still deep in thought, bent over the sink. Hope didn’t utter a word, instead pulling on the ‘fresh’ clothes that Major Dodson had bought them. They hung on her small frame but she pulled the clothes on regardless, tucking the shirt into the oversized trousers and buttoning up the jacket.

She began racking her fingers through her dark, tangled locks, pulling at the strands and wincing as small clumps of hair pulled out between her fingers. She wrapped up the wet hair, pulling it into a bun and replacing the pins she had in her overall pocket. Her hand came to rest on the dog tags around her neck, the new and her old tags. Her index finger ran over the familiar engagement ring. She’d kept it tucked down in her overalls in Dulag Luft, she couldn’t bear to have it taken from her again.

She picked up the pictures next, placing them carefully in the top pocket of her new jacket. She still couldn’t bare to look at them, maybe tonight when she was on her own but not now.

Drawing in a sharp breath, she turned to see Ruth pulling on her own clothes. Her blonde hair was a tangled, wet mess and Hope sympathised as she watched her friend trying to pull it out of her way with one hand.

“I’ll plait it for you later if you’d like.”

Ruth had still been deep in thought and she looked a little startled but nodded in agreement. “Please.”

The girls finished in the bath house and joined Frank and Major Dodson outside.

“I’ll lead you back to your bunkhouse,” Dodson suggested and Frank nodded in agreement. “I’d like to think the men here are better than the Krauts, but some of them have been here so long that…” he trailed off.

“Thank you, Dodson,” Frank added, “I’ll have a quick wash up and I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t rush, Frank. Ruth and I are just going to settle in,” Hope confirmed, linking her arm through Ruth’s, their eyes meeting for a brief moment.

Dodson had long strides and the girls struggled to keep up with him as he marched back across the camp to their bunkhouse. Hope and Ruth slipped in the mud and clung onto each other, the last thing they wanted was to end up covered in mud again.

Dodson opened the door to the wooden house for them and led them inside once more. “Do you girls need anything? Anything at all?”

Ruth flopped down onto her bunk with a sigh and Hope shook her head, “No, I think we’re good thank you, Major. I think we just need some sleep.”

The Major nodded, sending Hope a soft smile before he closed the door gently behind him. Now they were alone, Hope moved to sit next to Ruth. She began to run her fingers through Ruth’s damp locks, causing her friend to emit a long, satisfied groan.

“Sit up, Rue, I’ll plait your hair.”

The blonde obliged, sitting up as best she could without hitting her head on the low bed above her. As Hope moved her fingers through her hair Ruth sighed once more, finally feeling a little more relaxed. She’d been so uptight since they had crashed that she’d barely taken a moment to breathe.

Hope stayed silent behind her and Ruth turned to look at her friend, noticing the few tears that had slipped down her cheeks.

“Oh Hope, what’s wrong?”

Hope shook her head firmly, wiping the tears away quickly, “I’m fine, I promise, Rue.”

Ruth knew better than to believe her stoic friend but she knew pressing her on the subject would only cause Hope to close up further.

“Dodson seems nice,” she changed the subject, hoping she may be able to distract Hope from whatever was plaguing her.

She hummed in agreement but continued to run her fingers through Ruth’s hair. Grabbing the thin comb from her shower pack, Hope did her best to detangle the mess of blonde before her.She didn’t really feel like talking. The events of the past few weeks had finally caught up with her and she felt as though she might burst with the pent up emotions.

“I wonder what the guys are doing now?” Ruth replied absentmindedly as she tugged at a loose thread on her bedding. “What do you think they’re doing?”

Hope thought for a moment, trying to imagine the boys back at Thorpe Abbott. She honestly wasn’t sure what they would be doing but she knew Ruth was trying her best to make conversation.

“Hugh’s probably annoying John in some way and Gale’s probably trying to keep the peace.”

Ruth chuckled as she imagined Hugh bickering with John like two spoiled children. She could see Gale now, running his hand through his blond locks with an exasperated sigh.

“Poor Gale,” Ruth chuckled, “At least he’ll be good at breaking up fights if you guys have kids.” She was trying to be positive, to think of the future but from the look on Hope’s face she knew her friend was struggling.

Pulling her head away from Hope’s hands she pulled her into a tight hug, squishing her face into Hope’s neck. She could feel Hope relaxing a little beneath her touch.

Hope couldn’t help but relax as Ruth’s body collided with her own. It was one of the few things that still made her smile. She wasn’t sure what the coming weeks and months would hold for them, but at least they had each other.

October 8th, Thorpe Abbott AAF base, 06:00

It was mission day. They all knew it, even before the light went on and they were woken up early in the morning.

Gale and Hugh had been up for hours, sipping coffee atop ‘Our Baby’s’ wing as they watched the sun begin to slowly creep up from behind the trees, embracing the base in the warm glow.

John was in London on the trip he had planned with Ruth. He’d asked Gale to accompany him, but understood when Gale declined. He didn’t feel like spending his days leave trying to keep a drunk, grieving John under control while he still had so much of his own grief to deal with. Instead he stayed with Hugh and the pair leaned on each other for support.

“Gale?” Hugh asked, his dark eyes searching Gale’s face while the other man continued to stare blankly across the handstand. “Gale, there’s something I want you to have.”

Gale watched as Hugh rummaged in his A-2 jacket pocket, fumbling and pulling out a pack of cigarettes and several crumpled pieces of paper. He smoothed out one of the sheets before folding it in half and pressing it into Gale’s outstretched hand.

Gale looked up at Hugh questioningly, not daring to open the paper.

“I think this is the one,” Hugh sighed sadly, “This is the one that will get me.”

“You don’t know that,” Gale argued, shuffling closer to Hugh, and wrapping his arm around the pilot's shoulder. “You can’t say that.”

“Hope asked me to keep those safe,” he motioned to the paper in Gale’s hand. “But seeing as I don’t know what’s going to happen I thought you should have it.”

“What is it?” Gale asked, his throat tight and he couldn’t bring himself to open the paper.

“It’s her wedding vows, she never liked being original so she wrote her own. She told me not to read them but I couldn’t help myself,” Hugh took a shaky breath before squeezing Gale’s hand and standing up on the wing. “She really did love you Gale.”

Gale watched as Hugh climbed down from the wing, making his way back across the handstand. Staring down at the paper in his hand, Gale couldn’t find the strength in him to open it. He pushed it into his pocket, alongside Hope’s picture and letter. He’d read it later once Bremen had been a success.

Hugh found his eyes finding Gale’s across the handstand, sharing a single nod before Hugh moved to climb up into the cockpit. His co-pilot sent him a sympathetic smile and Hugh tried to ignore the talk amongst his crew. Some didn’t think he was fit to fly after losing Hope, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. It was a conversation he’d shared with Harry and Rosie that had given him the courage to climb back into the cockpit.

“You’re sister was an amazing woman, Hugh,” Harry spoke up, staring sadly into his beer. “She was a damn good nurse and I considered her one of my best friends.”

Harry’s dark eyes were tearful as he looked over at Hugh, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t really get a chance to know her very well,” Rosie added, his moustache turning down in a sad frown. “But from everything I’ve heard I’m sure I would have liked her very much.”

“You would,” Hugh interrupted, licking his lips as he inhaled shakily, “She was my better half. She saved my ass more times than I can remember…” He trailed off, unable to find the right words in the bustling pub to describe how much his sister meant to him.

Harry, sensing the tension in his friend, shuffled his chair around the table so he was beside Hugh and Rosie.

“To Hope! May she always live on through us.” He raised his glass in the air and Hugh and Rosie followed suit.

“To Hope.”

Hugh smiled, started his preflight checks with the photograph of Hope and himself at Dye’s party stuck to the control panel.

“This one’s for you, Hope.”

Gale didn’t know whether to take this as a coincidence or an omen, but this wasn’t how he planned to start the Bremen mission. One of the magnetos wasn’t working and despite Gale’s never-ending faith in Ken Lemmons, he couldn’t help but feel like maybe this was happening for a reason.

“What are you trying to tell me, Hope?” He mumbled to himself, glancing out the window to catch a glance of Lemmons from his spot on the wheel.

Demarco was comparing from his seat, soothing about pulling the plane over but Gale shook his head, remaining positive and grinning at Demarco

“Believe, Benny. Believe.”

Gale’s bright eyes fell into the control panel, smiling at the three pictures he’d placed lovingly along it. Hope and himself at Dye’s party, Hope and Meatball and Hope, Hugh and himself on one of the girls' visits to Thorpe Abbotts. His heart ached and he drew his hand to his chest, fumbling his dog tags at feeling instant relief as his index finger ran over the familiar gold bands, relishing in the comforting, smoothness of the ring. It was something he’d found himself doing more and more often, running his fingers around in a spherical motion, repeating, repeating, repeating until his heart rate slowed and his chest no longer felt so tight. He knew that wherever Hope was she would be looking out for him.

“Hey Buck, you with me?” Demarco chuckled, grinning at Gale who merely looked at him, dazed. “Lemmons has only gone and done it. We’re up.”

Gale nodded, re-engaging with the present and preparing the Fort for lift-off. He’d never felt more sure of a mission before, but he knew this one was going to be big and despite the nervous feeling bubbling inside him as the plane left the tarmac he knew he’d be alright because Hope would be with him.

Tags: @georgieluz @docroesmorphine @major-mads @violetdaze25 @bcofl0ve @precious-little-scoundrel @blurredcolour @artlover8992 @b00ks1ut @xxluckystrike @hockeyboysarehot @groovin2beats @kmc1989 @ginabaker1666 @hesbuckcompton-baby @beebeechaos @forsythiagalt @prettyinlimegreenboots

[ryin-silverfish]

In Qin Opera (秦腔), one motif that often turns up in operas telling mythical or legendary is immortals "releasing their taboos"/"破戒" when they seek to work destructive magic. The immortal or sage will indulge in meat and concentrated wine, as opposed to the vegetarian diet they consumed before, and then engage in forbidden arts. Lu Ya does it in the opera adaptation of FSYY, when he curses Zhao Gongming with his seven arrows. Zhao Gongming's three sisters do it too when they summon their Yellow River Formation. (representing "nine twists" of the large intestine, but also used as a euphemism for uterus, as seen in the ten gods of Nuwa's Guts/女娲之肠 in the Shanhaijing) In another adaptation of a legend, Sun Wu does it to scourge some ghost women haunting him. Is there any Daoist religious or folk belief basis for this motif from the operas?

Very interesting!

In Daoist canons, you can't really find much support for such a thing——when priests are about to work powerful magic, they'd be doing the opposite: keeping a vegetarian diet and maintain purity in body and mind.

However, if I were to haphazard a guess? It probably has sth to do with the folk magic belief of "pollution" (meat, wine, pungent vegetables) and "dirty stuff" having a sort of power all to themselves, as well as being able to neutralize spells and the powers of supernatural beings.

You see this in the novel proper, where black chicken + dog blood and buckets of excrements are employed by Jiang Ziya against the peachwood and willow spirits, Gao Ming and Gao Jue, to "subdue their demonic aura" (Chapter 90).

Gao Lanying also tried and failed to use the same mixture against Yang Jian to neutralize his transformation arts, and was tricked into killing Zhang Kui's aging mother instead (Chapter 86).

The second thing I can think of is that, in FSYY novel, the 12 immortals of the Chan sect are joining the war because it is part of their "Peril", the consequences for failing to sever the Three Corpses and violating prohibitions.

And when they were about to kill people, they'd often voice that first: "this disciple is going to break his prohibition against killing today" et cetera.

Which...isn't as relevant, but might have been an inspiration for the overt on-stage performance of taboo-breaking.

As always, I cannot speak on the opera part, but from a folk magic perspective? My speculation is:

the immortals breaking their prohibitions against taboos in adaptations seems like an intentional subversion of the regular Daoist rituals of purification, where the dangerous and harmful effects produced by the "taboo" substance is channeled away from the caster and towards some other target.

[eretzyisrael]

By  Kassy Dillon

A petition created in October by an SAIC alumnus calling for Tosca’s dismissal received over 2,400 signatures.

In a tweet on October 10, Tosca accused Israel of “making money off of war.”

“Always has, always will,” Tosca added.

Mika Tosca accused Israel of making money off of war just days after Israel was attacked by Hamas.

Canary Mission claims Tosca retweeted an October 10 tweet that said: “how tidily should this have proceeded? this is ‘terrorism’ cos Hamas has targeted civilians. ok should they simply have declared war on their warden? would the IDF [Israel Defense Forces] have met them in formation on a field, beating drums, for a fair fight? I do not love violence but what is expected?”

Tosca’s Instagram account describes Tosca as a “radically optimistic transsexual climate scientist.”

Tosca previously worked at NASA’s renowned Jet Propulsion Laboratory before switching to SAIC. Tosca explained the 2017 career move as a way of helping scientists better communicate.

“I think artists and designers and other creatives have a really special and unique way of imagining and interpreting and analyzing our world in a way that scientists don’t always do,” Tosca told Chicago’s PBS station. “I wanted to think about new ways, or perhaps more effective ways, of ultimately getting the general public to buy into the science but also the solutions to climate change.”

[periwinkle8ball]

Mars

The one who energizes, it is the Competitor.

Mars, the Lesser Malefic, sits behind the Sun in Chaldean Order among the Superior Planets. In a way, Mars is Venus' masculine counterpart, working together as Sectmates in the Nocturnal Sect.

Mars is the other planet associated with the Fire element. Hot and dry in quality; naturally temperamental, driven, and strong.

Mars rules over the fire sign Aries, and the water sign Scorpio. Of the two, Mars joys in its feminine domicile of Scorpio. In contrast, Mars finds Venus' signs of Taurus and Libra (detriment) challenging. In Saturn's feminine domicile, Capricorn, Mars is exalted and is given power. The opposing sign of Cancer, the Moon's domicile, does Mars fall, and struggle to perform Martian tasks.

Mars joys in the 6th House, giving that house meaning in the Hellenistic tradition. Keep that in mind when considering Mars and the 6th House's significations.

action and effort, energy, vigor, spiritedness, directness, indomitability, courage and daringness, procreative impulse and intercourse, ruination, abortions and surgeries, those who gain their ends through the use of fire and iron, war, military prowess and valor, military expeditions, military leaders, warriors, success in warfare, blood(shed), torture, murder, hunt and chase, violence, danger, combat, swiftness and panic, audacity, blasphemy, swearing, anger, estrangements, breaches in friendship, adulteries, enemies, theft and taking away of belongings, wrong-doers, lawsuits, lies, reproaches, perjury, recklessness, severe and acute suffering, underworld, fevers, plagues. Of the body, head, seat, genitals, blood, sperm duct, bile, adrenals, elimination of excrement, brings fevers, inflammations, ulcerations, pustualates.

Traditional 6th House Significations, Mars' House of Joy

misfortune, troubles and bad luck, enemies, weakness, illness and disease, accidents and injuries, infirmaries, servitude, slavery, jobs, bondage and oppression, military and armed services, enemies, insurrections, small animals (as workers).

Significations primarily sourced from Demetra George’s Ancient Astrology in Theory and Practice Volumes 1 and 2 and planet significations spoken of on the Chris Brennan’s The Astrology Podcast.

Disclaimer: Please do not copy, redistribute, alter, or claim this text as your own...

[skellymom]

"Vagabonds" Chapter 8 "Escape From Ord Mantell" - Part 2

Ongoing fanfic Hunter x Reader/Fem Reader/OC

Hunter meets a smuggler Nomaadi Star Woman with a powerful force sensitive teen who changes the trajectory of CF-99's lives...as they ALL try to escape from The Empire together.

To read Chapter 7:

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/734468366280065024/vagabonds-chapter-7?source=share

ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰɪᴄ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ 18+ ᴅɴɪ

Word Count: 1.7K

Background: MORE poop hitting the fan this chapter! The action is intense!!!

Warning: Star Wars swears, Earth swears, fear, physical pain, fainting, blood, blaster weapons firing at people and ships, canon-typical violence.

(Credit: Cool moving star dividers by @4ngelic-wh1spers )

Echo and Tech watched the last of the ships on the docking tarmac escape off world.  Everyone and their brother were getting away from Ord Mantell in one hell of a hurry. 

The Marauder started taking heavy hits from blaster fire.  Apparently, whomever was pursuing Hunter and Mad must have gotten intel that the rest of the Batchers were involved and identified their ship...

"Escape From Ord Mantell - Part 2"

Luckily the shield was up.  Tech was getting the Marauder ready to take off and awaiting Wrecker’s return.  Echo was laying down suppressive blaster fire, keeping an eye out for him.   

“WRECKER!  We don’t want to leave without you, but that may SOON be the ONLY option!!!” Tech snapped. 

“Almost there.” Came Wrecker’s voice over the comm. 

More blaster explosions eroding the shield.  Echo scowled and shot back.  “Where IS HE???” 

“Almost there!” Came another reply from the comm. 

“HURRY WRECKER!” Tech’s resolve was starting to wear thin. 

“HERE!” SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!!!  Heavy concussive knocks from the bottom of the ship. 

Echo and Tech looked at each other quizzically. 

“OPEN UP!  Near the sewer line port!!!” 

Tech jumped out of the pilot’s seat and ran to open the Marauders bottom hatch.  He was hit in the face with the horrible miasma of trash and excrement as Wrecker popped up through the opening.  He crawled into the Marauder, turned around, and offered a hand to someone outside the ship.  Tech peered down thought the hatch to see a dirty, bearded man perched at the edge of the docking sewer opening. 

“Come with us!”  Wrecker yelled over the blaster fire. 

“Can’t, vod.  Gotta stay and continue underground intel for the growing Rebellion.  Be safe and live to fight another day!”  He saluted Wrecker and Tech, grabbed the hatch to the sewer, jumped into the hole with a hoot, and slammed the top shut. 

“He’s a CLONE???” Tech blurted out while pinching his nose shut from the offending stench. 

“FOR KRIFF’S SAKE, shut up and close the hatch!  Let’s get out of here!!!” Echo brought them both back to the reality of the situation.  “Wrecker, you smell like ABSOLUTE shit!” 

“I’m ABSOLUTELY covered in it!” 

“Get to the gunner’s seat!  Need more fire power!!!” 

Tech sprinted to the pilot’s seat and engaged the Marauder to take off. 

Wrecker ran to the aft of the ship tearing off armor and blacks in his wake.  He didn’t want to drag all the stinky waste through Omega’s sleeping area.  Everything smelled like sewer, he noticed while peeling off his underwear.  Wrecker was naked as the day he was decanted, and still stunk.  Hunter’s sleep shirt, casually thrown over the rungs of the gunner’s roost ladder days ago, was the only thing he could find to put between his rear end and the gunner’s chair cushion.  Wrecker grimaced, grabbed the shirt, ascended the roost, and planted himself in the chair.  He would have to apologize to Hunter later.   

The Marauder took off from the docking lot tarmac, making a beeline for the open sky.  Several crafts followed in hot pursuit.  Tech gritted his teeth with a sharp ascent out of the planet’s atmosphere.  The ship shook and rattled with the force of its trajectory. 

“Hold her together best you can!  I’m setting up jump coordinates!!!” Echo shouted out calmly with strict concentration to the task at hand. 

Tech increased the velocity just enough to keep ahead of the pursuing ships, but not tear the Marauder totally apart in the process.  It rattled even more violently at the seams as they broke out of the cloud cover and entered the upper atmosphere above Ord Mantell.  Tech ground his teeth, trying to quell the stress hoping the ship kept integrity.  Beside him, Echo was scomp deep interfacing with the Marauder while his other hand flew over the co-pilot keyboard.  His face calm while communicating with the ship’s computer.  An explosion erupted behind them, shaking the ship.  Wrecker howled enthusiastically, having destroyed another enemy craft.  

The upper atmosphere disappeared behind them, and the Marauder shot out into black, star-studded space.  Tech leveled her out to stop the shaking before they could hit hyperspace, knowing if he didn’t, they would all be done for.   

“Time estimation until hyperspace jump?” 

“Five seconds more.” Echo replied.  “Preparing to scramble our jump signature now.  In 4...3...” 

Immediately next to them a huge Venator Class Imperial cruiser slid out of hyperspace.  The Marauder was so close that Echo and Tech could look right into the Venator’s bridge windows and see the crew.  An awkward moment as the Marauder glided past with Echo and Tech staring at the Venators captain and crew.  Both sides dumbfoundedly watched each other slide by.  The mood was broken when the Marauder passed, and its aft gunner's seat window was visible. 

Wrecker took full advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity to express his feelings for the Empire.  He stood up to give a full-frontal view, both hands up extending middle fingers.  Then he shook his hips and gave them “The Wrecker Wiggle”.  The crew grimaced in horror, then anger. 

2...1...NOW!” 

Tech made the jump.  The crew felt the ship speed up for a fraction of a second and the stars stretched out as they entered the hyperspace lane, then immediately free float as the whole ship settled in. A soothing blue-white glow permeated the Marauder. 

Both Echo and Tech exhaled with relief and settled into their seats.   

Wrecker jumped down from the gunner’s roost and slid to a stop in the cockpit, arms raised in excitement, “YAAAH!  We did it!!!” 

“Oh stars, MY EYES!” Tech recoiled from seeing Wrecker in his birthday suit. 

“Don’t want to know” Echo averted his gaze “Hailing the Beldame.  They need to know an Imperial starship is incoming!” 

“Hopefully they escaped safely without a shield” Tech glanced over at the replacement part.  He was extremely worried as the probability was low. 

The Beldame, not far behind the Marauder, shot past Ord Mantell’s upper atmosphere into space.  And was met with the Imperial Venator. 

“OH SHIT!!!” Mad screamed out.  

Sil sat in shock. 

Tiggy growled and barked angrily. 

Omega yelled out to Hunter.  He kept firing at the Tie fighters behind them, knowing their chances of escape were next to zero. 

“Marauder to the Beldame, you have an Imperial Venator incoming!  Do you copy???” 

In response to Echo, Mad shrieked, “We’re SO FUC...” 

The Venator opened fire on the Beldame.  

The sheer size of its firepower hit the Force shield and physically knocked Love back across the interior of the ship. Omega and Mad screamed Love’s name.  Sil had a full-blown panic attack.  Hunter spun around to see Love spring up roiling with dark rage. He couldn’t see their face but could feel the rage permeating the ship, smell it even. The hair on his arms stood up on end, a migraine exploded inside his head, his teeth ached. 

Mad, Sil, and Omega saw Love’s face. They stood up defiantly, bleeding from the temple, eyes, nose, spitting out blood. Love’s eyes glowed red orange, red birthmark vivid against their olive skin. They shook with rage, unable to contain it.   

“Do this, Love. DO IT!” Mad yelled out. She knew this was the only chance they had, or the Empire was going to blow them out of existence.

The Venator fired again.  Love let loose the fit of rage building within them with an ear-piercing scream, sending everyone covering their ears.  Tiggy bayed painfully in Omega’s lap. Hunter let loose his own scream of pain, as it was too much for him to bear.  Rage flooded past the confines of the ‘Dame, slammed into the Venator’s laser and kept going at top speed.  It pushed the laser back towards the larger ship, destroying the Venator with its own weapon fire.  The ship exploded, blinding the Beldame’s crew and shoving their ship out toward the darkness of space. 

All the pursuing ships were gone.  In an instant...just vaporized. 

The Beldame’s crew sat in shock for a few beats.  Love hovered, bleeding, with a crooked satisfied grin upon their face.  Eyes still glowing red orange.  Hunter emerged from the gunner’s seat, lurching like a drunk and holding his head.  He was in excruciating pain.  His vision was blurred, and he was seeing flashes of light.  Omega let go of Tiggy, unbuckled herself, and ran to him.  She guided Hunter to sit. 

Tiggy circled the ship whining from the stress. 

Sil was still hyperventilating. 

“SIL...Sil...look at me.  I need your help.” 

He was shaking, but Mad had gotten his attention. 

Sil glanced over to Mad.  She looked pasty and pale.  “Auntie?” 

“Breathe with me, ok?” Mad took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, then repeated several times. 

Sil imitated her until he got himself under control. 

Mad pointed, “Grab that cooler for me, Sil...” 

Hunter had dropped it in the middle of the ship before they lifted off, and slipped under seats during the fire fight.  Sil fished the cooler out handing it over to Mad. 

She exhaustedly fumbled with the zipper.  Finally able to open the cooler, Mad lifted out the box of credits, they slipped from her shaky fingers and fell to the floor.  Credits spilled out, but that wasn’t what Mad was after.  She reached in and grabbed what looked like a stim syringe, fumbled and dropped it too.  “Sil...” 

“Auntie...” He grabbed the syringe from the floor.  “Where do you need it?” 

Mad pulled up her shirt and weakly pointed to her abdomen.  “Intramuscular injection.  Right here.” 

Sil jabbed into it and pressed the plunger.  Mad winced and sighed. 

“Thanks...  Hunky...how ya doing back there?” 

Hunter, still holding his head, could only muster a groan.  Omega was holding him and trying to soothe the pain. 

“Omega?” 

“I’m ok, just worried about Hunter.” 

“On my way over.  Sil...I’m gonna need help getting up.” Mad unbuckled herself out and swung the pilot’s chair around.  She didn’t need to enquire about Love.  Mad could feel Love’s relief and numbness to their injuries.  After these Force outbursts, Love would be in a silent, glazed over state for an hour or two. 

Sil helped Mad stand.  Immediately her vision went starry white as she slipped from Sil’s grasp and fell face first onto the floor. 

PLEASE like, comment, and/or REBLOG!

To read Chapter 9:

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/741739026615353344/vagabonds-chapter-9?source=share

[rennelelorren]

I really love how hellsing is kind of a short story.

Anime is fully plot and nothing out of place. There's no episodes, that would be considered as fillers (not fully). Even in manga there were a little chapters that was out of story line (yes, I'm about dreams with spirits of a weapons, or whatever was that shit).

And I'm SO grateful for that, because it suits.

But...

But, sometimes, I wish there were some dumb fillers.

Something really silly.

Like an episodes with small Teg and Alucard bonding, more Integra and Seras interactions (we all can agree there were not so many) and, of course, three of them together. Just them. Three old people being absolutely silly together, chatting about... anything to know each other. This would be important for Seras. Maybe Teg and Alu already knew each other closely for years, but we can't say the same about Seras, am I right? And we never actually got a proper episode of them bonding. Only some glimpses. What a shame.

And Alucard. The man is ancient. He's a comedy, his own kind of comedy. Grandpa-vamp really should have had an episode where he's complains about how the world have changed, like all old people do.

Alucard: Back at my youth life was better-

Integra: And what exactly was better? Is it Slavery? Or maybe lack of medicine? All of that unending and pointless wars? Lovely lices everywhere? No sewerage? Fresh excrements on the streets? No bathing? No underwear?

Alucard: There was bathing. Not as regular, like nowadays, but still. And soap existed too. Underwear, well....shirt was the so called underwear back at my time.

Seras: And everything else 👀?

Alucard: Well...

Integra: 🤨.

[tealingual]

Israel Genocide in Gaza vocabulary in Finnish

Israel - Israel Israelilainen - Israeli Palestiina - Palestine Palestiinalainen - Palestinian Gazan kaista - Gaza Strip Hamas - Hamas Vastarintaliike - resistance movement Terroristijärjestö - terrorist organization Israelin puolustusvoimat - IDF Asevoimat, armeija - military, army Sotilas - soldier Komentaja, päällikkö, johtaja - commander Sionismi - Zionism Sionisti - Zionist Radikaali juutalaisuus, äärijuutalaisuus - radical Jewishness, Jewish extremism Juutalainen ylivalta - Jewish supremacy Rasismi - racism Syrjintä - discrimination Rotusyrjintä - racial discrimination Palestiinalaisvastaisuus - Anti-Palestinianism Arabivastaisuus - Anti-Arabism Arabophobia - arabophobia Islamophobia - islamophobia Sulku, saarto - blockage Kollektiivinen rangaistus - collective punishment Pakkosiirto - forced transfer Kolonialismi - colonialism Apartheid - apartheid Etninen puhdistus - ethnic cleansing Kansanmurha - genocide Väkivalta - violence Verilöyly - massacre Hyökkäys - attack Maahyökkäys - ground attack Tankki, panssarivaunu - tank Ilmaisku - airstrike Taistelukone - combat aircraft Hävittäjä - fighter plane, destroyer Räjähde - explosive Raketti - rocket Ohjus - missile Pommi - bomb Atomipommi - atomic bomb Valkoinen fosfori - white phosphorus Tulitauko - ceasefire Kohde - target Sairaala - hospital Ambulanssi - ambulance Koulu - school Pakolaisleiri - refugee camp Moskeija - mosque Kirkko - church Kauppa - store Leipomo - bakery Hautausmaa - cematary Asuinrakennus - residential building Aurinkopaneeli - solar panel Avustuskuljetus - aid delivery Humanitaarinen käytävä - humanitarian corridor Evakuointikäytävä - evacuation corridor Rajanylityspaikka - border crossing Aseistautumaton - unarmed Siviili - civilian Uhri - victim Pakolainen - refugee Panttivanki - hostage Loukkaantunut - injured Kadonnut - missing Ruoka - food Vesi - water Polttoaine - fuel Sähkö - electricity Internet - internet Tietoliikenne - telecommunications Raunio, kivimurska - rubble Pöly - dust Kaasu - gas Ulosteet - excrements, feces, waste M��däntynyt - rotten Ruumis - corpse, dead body Veri - blood Haju - smell, stink, odor Kärpänen - fly Melu - noise Tauti, sairaus - disease, illness Nälkä - hunger Jano - thirst Unettomuus - lack of sleep, sleeplessness, insomnia Turvattomuus - lack of safety, insecurity Pelko - fear Menetys - loss Trauma - trauma Rikos - crime Ihmisoikeusrikkomus - human rights violation Kansainvälisen oikeuden vastainen rikos - violation of international law Rikos ihmisyyttä vastaan - crime against humanity Sotarikos - war crime Propaganda - propaganda Vale - lie Tekosyy - excuse Vastuu - responsibility Syy - blame; reason Hyökätä - to attack Kostaa - to revenge, to avenge, to retaliate Ampua - to shoot Pommittaa - to bomb Iskeä - to strike Tuhota - to destroy, to demolish Vaurioittaa - to damage Rikkoa - to break; to violate Tappaa - to kill Murhata - to murder Teurastaa - to slaughter Haavoittaa - to injure Estää - to block Katkaista - to cut

[mecthology]

Xipe Totec: The Flayed God of Aztec Mythology

Xipe Totec's origins trace back to the creation of the universe by the divine dual god Ometeotl and his association with Red Tezcatlipoca, the powerful creator and destroyer god.As the eldest son of the primordial gods Ometecuhtli and Omecihuatl, Xipe Totec was part of a pantheon shared with neighboring ethnic groups, including Tezcatlipoca, Quetzalcoatl, and Huitzilopochtli.

Artistic portrayals show him wearing a yellow or golden flayed skin suit, with intricate stitching and exposed hands, while sculptures emphasize double lips and eye sockets.

He was believed to have invented war and was often depicted wearing the flayed skin of sacrificial victims, symbolizing rebirth and the renewal of the seasons.

Xipe Totec's annual festival, Tlacaxipehualiztli, involved gladiatorial sacrifices, mock skirmishes, and the wearing of flayed skins by victorious warriors. The flayed skins were believed to have curative properties, and people would touch them to seek relief from ailments.

Xipe Totec was also associated with diseases such as smallpox, blisters, and eye sickness, and offerings were made to him for healing. Xipe Totec was also the patron god of goldsmiths, and gold held sacred status, with the Nahuatl word for gold, teocuitatl, meaning "excrement of the gods." Stealing gold was a severe crime punishable by being skinned alive during Xipe Totec's annual festival.

The worship of Xipe Totec was widespread in central Mexico and throughout Mesoamerica, with representations found as far as El Salvador.

Follow @mecthology for more mythology and lores. Source: www.mexicolore.co.uk, mythopedia.com & wikipedia

[angela-thefandomgirl]

Title: Night

Rating: Up to Mature

Categories: M/F

Fandom: Star Trek : Discovery

Relationships: Michael Burnham/Rayner

Characters: Commander Rayner, Captain Michael Burnham, rest of the crew inevitibly

Additional Tags: Kellerun Genocide, PTSD, Romance, Character study, Death, Grief

Notes: Whilst I fully support the canonical pairing of Michael/Book for the TV show in fan fiction I genuinely think that there is a goldmine with Michael/Rayner. I have issues with that pairing though. Books actions in season four would have left me feeling betrayed, angry, and lacking trust in the man. That would not be conducive to me for a healthy, sustainable relationship. I mean how do you get past the actions that almost created a war? Which is why I do support the Michael/Rayner pairing. It is why I, to write my fics I am creating a slightly divergent AU where the original pairing can stand on its own and separate, whilst still enjoying the exploration of a pairing that should have been explored. tagging in 2 of the people I know will appreciate reading @clearwerewolfsong @tinderbox210

Night

Prologue

Some nights were harder others, those were the nights that the screams of the dead were louder than the thoughts of the living. Those were the nights when the thoughts of the battlefield, and the battle arenas and the deaths of compatriots, kinsmen and women, of lovers and family and the things the Breen had managed to put a gun to their head to force them to do, to their planet, to each other, screamed so loud, and demanded to be paid attention. Growing up happened in the blink of an eye, childhood ceased, death became normal and living was an anathema.

He'd walked the hallowed and the accursed halls of Breen battle arenas, smelled the blood of his species seeping into any porous surface, and held he body of his wife of six days as she lay in his arms bleeding. She'd survived her battle long enough to be thrown back into the cells they had kept them all in. If she survived it would have been the next step to the next battle. She hadn't. The injuries were too much, the blood loss too significant. They had been but children themselves, but they had carved out something for themselves.

He had caressed her cheek and held her face in his hand as her head had gently lolled to the side, the energy had been too much to expend just to hold up her head. He gently pulled it back to face him, tears unshed in his eyes, tears falling silently from hers. No words could be spoken for what was there to say, they had known it wouldn't be long, but in the minds of the young, love demands to be screamed from the mountains, and can never be denied. So they had taken what they could for how long they could take it for, and this was the early, bitter end.

Blood spilt on a dirt floor of the planets premier battle arena, the smell of old blood, vomit and excrement poisoned thier sense of smell, the dark an oppressive force that surrounded them, cloaked them in a privacy, and stole their final moments to see each other properly. An ignominious end to be sure. Her final declaration of love was mouthed, her blood had spluttered out of her mouth as she coughed one last time, the air she needed making the blood filling her lungs bubble, and then her eyes had gently closed, her final moments hearing her lover and husband declare his love for her.

The guards had come for her body the next morning, he’d taken two of the Breen with his own hands before they had put him down. It had earned him an audience with Tahal that day. She had looked at him like a piece of meet, the feeling had made his skin crawl. He'd spat at her feet expecting to meet his wife shortly thereafter, but she had laughed instead, had called him her favourite, that he was almost a Breen in his ferocity. He had hated her in that moment and all the ones thereafter. His rage had become ice cold in that moment. He had felt it grow and take root in the heart that had once house the love for his wife.

Where once his ferocity had come from a single minded drive for survival, now it came from a desire for death, his own and theirs, a never ending bloodshed that would only end in his heart failing him, as his wife’s had. And then they had left. And Starfleet had come. When all had been said and done, and the tallies counted Kellerun was down 65% of it's population, the forests that once was, was no more. Its beauty razed and stripped for whatever the Breen wanted, habitable homes had been decimated, and there was Starfleet stepping in, helping. He saw his chance there, knew that joining up, enlisting as an officer would help him take the battle to the Breen someday. One day he would have his chance at Tahal.

The day he put on the cadets uniform, he had compartmentalised his feelings, built walls so high that he thought they would be forever impenetrable, and then there was a her, and a ship, and a crew that were as unrelenting in their belief in connection as he was in his desire to one day kill Tahal, and slowly those walls that he had built, those compartments has begun disappearing and suddenly nights like tonight, where he was sat in his bed, sweat pouring, anger racing in his veins and a grief so visceral that pain seemed a paltry word for how he felt.

It was nights like this, that he would seek her out, knew that of the 300 or more souls on the ship she would understand. she'd lost so much that they were parallels in a universe of individuals and chaos. He'd read her file, read her chequered history. He had seen the decision that had lead to the mutiny, had understood that she had greater information, that her Captain had made a different choice. He had agreed with Michael. He had understood her thought process, had known he would enjoy working with her, even on that first mission and now he was her subordinate, she worked slowly on tearing down the walls. And she was the only one who would understand nights like this.

@clearwerewolfsong @tinderbox210

[beardedmrbean]

South Korea's military briefly issued an air raid warning late on Tuesday after it detected suspected North Korean "propaganda" balloons carrying waste and excrement across the border.

Residents in the provinces of Gyeonggi and Gangwon, both located on the heavily fortified Korean Demilitarized Zone, were told to refrain from going outdoors, and to report any unidentified objects to South Korean military and police authorities.

By Wednesday morning, South Korea's Joint Chiefs of Staff said at least 150 balloons carrying "anti-South leaflets" had crossed the border. Authorities continued to discover balloons carrying plastic bags landing across the country throughout the day.

Images shared to X (formerly Twitter) by Seoul-based freelance reporter Raphael Rashid showed just some of the balloons that had drifted into South Korean cities and towns.

The South Korean military sent bomb disposal and chemical response units to inspect the objects, which social media pictures showed carried various types of trash including old disassembled electronic components and used batteries.

Witnesses told local media that some of the bags, apart from containing pro-North Korea propaganda, produced an odorous smell and likely contained animal feces.

South Korean authorities were conducting a major cleanup operation. Its Joint Chiefs of Staff called the North's actions "low-class and dangerous."

North Korea has long complained of propaganda being sent across its border from the South, including balloons released by defectors who have fled the regime. They often contained messages seeking to undermine Kim Jong Un's leadership.

Pyongyang had in fact telegraphed this week's response on Sunday, when Kim Kang Il, its vice minister of defense, railed against Seoul's "despicable psychological warfare by scattering leaflets and various dirty things near border areas of the DPRK," referring to the North's official name, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea.

The official warned that "tit-for-tat action" would be taken, according to the state-owned Korean Central News Agency.

"Mounds of wastepaper and filth will soon be scattered over the border areas and the interior of the ROK and it will directly experience how much effort is required to remove them," he said, referring to the Republic of Korea in the south.

The DMZ has served as the de facto inter-Korean border for seven decades since the Korean War armistice of 1953. Gyeonggi is South Korea's most populous province and surrounds the capital Seoul.

It was not immediately clear whether the North's decision was related to Monday's failed satellite launch, when a rocket carrying Pyongyang's latest military reconnaissance device exploded in midair minutes after liftoff.

The United States and treaty ally South Korea responded to the North's launch notification by conducting air drills near the DMZ, which Kim Jong Un later slammed as "recklessness," KCNA said.

North Korea's embassy in Beijing did not respond to a written request for comment.