#farmers follies story

[alterworldstudios]

Farmers follies: episode one

We all know how this story began, on a beautiful Wednesday morning, Mickey saw how his wife, Minnie, was talking to a rather tall and graceful mouse, who quickly made her fall into his charms. And of course, his arms. Mickey, overrun with grief and malice, took to the streets in an effort to overdose, running into a small fellow who offered him help, singing the tale of Wednesday's infidelity.

Though, is that really how the story truly began?

Because that's not how I remember it, not one bit.

The way I remember it is a bit differently, sure most of the action happened on a Wednesday, but the story itself didn't happen because retro tried to help somebody, nah. That story only happened, because of farmer.

Who's farmer and retro, you may ask? Well.. Allow me to tell you the real story of what really happened, that Wednesday morning.

To start with, this all began long before that fated Wednesday, many many moons ago, where an angel awaited trial.

Blue flames danced around her, her chained up by holy metal. A beast with horns decorated by flowers glared down at her.

"Tenebris." He began. "You are here today after the supposed crime of raising your sword against your own kind. How do you plead."

Tenebris looked up at him, A dull, tired look in her eyes. "It was simple really, I had to do what I could, to protect my daughter."

The beast growled. "You mean the hybrid? You really risked everything, just to let that foul excuse of existence survive? If anything, your sister was doing you a favor." "Don't talk about her that way, she didn't even do anything wrong!!!" "You say that, knowing full well that her existence is a mistake. An error. A lapsus. You're lucky we even allowed you to keep her alive for so long!!" "Just give her a chance!! She can do good!!!" "Good!? When she's driven YOU to attack your own family!?" "I HAD TO DO WHAT WAS RIGHT!!!-"

she suddenly screamed, and fell to the ground, holding her face as blood poured out from the hollowed holes that were once her eyes. "I.. I can't see.. W.. Why can't I.."

"silence, Tenebris." The beast growled, As the flames started to surround them both. "From this day forth, lucky is to never leave the palace, else she'll suffer the same fate as YOU." "p..please just.. Give her a chance..." "You keep pleading for her life, when yours is about to end. That's foolish, weak minded.."

"that's admirable" A new voice called out.

The beast turned to face a head angel, it fluttering in front of them nonchalantly. "You.. How is this admirable, that hybrid-" "could lead to great things, if given the proper chance. It's not every millennia that a hybrid is born, after all." "But.. But what about pan-" "we do not speak her name here."

The angel turned to face Tenebris, giving a slight look of pity. "...as one of the leaders of this fine group, I'd say.. We let Tenebris's daughter live, perhaps as a guardian" "are you crazy!? Have you forgotten about-"

The angel raises a hand, and the beast quiets down.

"... However, to balance things out.. Tenebris, I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you are hereby exiled from these clouded lands for your attack earlier today.. But I assure you" he rested a hand on Tenebris's shoulder, as she slowly passes out. "We will take good care of lucky, I promise you that..."

And thus, Tenebris was exiled to the northern lands, and lucky was raised under the care of lunacy, the head Angel who had spared her all those moons ago.

She is unaware of what happened to her mother that day, for all she knows, she was just a creation of lunacy, given a chance despite her strange imperfections.

Over time, she grew up to be a weak yet caring angel, easy to spot her in the crowd due to her right eye, who's pupil was shaped like a warning sign, an exclamation mark resting in the middle.

Now you may be wondering.. How does this have anything to do with the tale of Wednesday's infidelity? Where's the rodent. Where's the boy singing his heart out.

Patience, reader.. For that story, begins now.

The sun started to rise above the clouds, them turning a soft shade of pink from the bright, friendly light.

As the sun shines down upon them, A small angels rabbit ears twitch, as she stirred awake, yawning softly as she stretched. "Morning starshine, the earth says hello" spoke a calm voice.

Her ears perked up, as she turned to face lunacy. "Mornin dad.." "Good morning lucky.. Ready for the big day?" "Wha... What's so special about today...?"

Lunacy smiles, shaking his head. "It's the day silly, it's-" "LUCKY CMON AND GET UP OUTTA BED!! CMON CMON CMON!!!" luckys ears shot up as her friend, Retro, burst into the room, prompting lunacy to chuckle at the sudden excitement.

"Wh-huh? Retro? Lunacy? Why are you-" "ITS GUARDIAN ANGEL TRAINING DAY!!! CMON CMON CMON WE'RE GONNA BE LAAAATE!!!" Retro said excitedly, pulling lucky out of bed. "What!? Its today!?" "You seriously forgot!?" "I.. I thought it was on Thursday.." Retro shook his head in disbelief. Lucky was always so airheaded. "well get your mind outta the gutter and get ready!! Ill be waiting outside!!" Retro said as he raced out.

Lunacy and lucky turned to face each other, and they both started giggling. "He sure is excitable, isn't he?" "Heh, yea he is!.. Although..." She fiddled with her ears, A look of nervousness on her face. Lunacy only smiled, and rested his arm on her shoulder. "Hey, trust me, you're gonna do great out there little rabbit.." "..b.. But what if i.." "Hey now, don't lose hope on it before it even happens lucky.. I assure you, they're gonna love you on the guardians force!.. Besides, we've been training for years for this, and I know that you are gonna be the greatest guardian angel the world has ever seen!" lucky smiled slightly. "I.. I hope that is true.." "Attagirl, thats the spirit! go on! Seize the day!"

Lucky nodded, and gave him a hug, running off to get ready for the day ahead.

Before she knew it, she was racing Retro across the clouds, excitedly running to a specific area, the beautiful Wednesday mornings sun beaming above them as excitement ran throughout the air.

"cmon slowpoke!!!" Retro called out, racing far ahead of lucky. "We aren't gonna make it if you don't put some work into it!" "I-im running.. As fast.. as I can!.. Whew..." Retro laughed, amused at his friends tired look. "Aw cmon, you're a rabbit aintcha? Ain't ya supposed to be, yknow, fast?" "I'm only half rabbit mind you..." "Yea yeaaa... Aha!"

They found themselves in front of a building lined with gold and silver, beautiful pearls lining the walls, shining with a rainbow color. A group of angels were waiting outside, seemingly just as excited as retro and lucky. "This seems to be the place!! Cmon!" Retro called out as he raced away. Lucky sighed,and followed soon after. She always did have trouble keeping up with him..

The angels around them excitedly chatted away, until they were hushed by a head angel, one who's halo was adorned with flowers, A cat angel sitting next to her with a shy expression. "Welcome trainees, to bright morning industries!! My name is aurora, and my companion here is..." "..Ortensia, it is nice to meet you all" the cat whispered, bowing slightly.

Lucky was intrigued by the cat, she hadn't seen souls like her before..she looked so.. Sad,compared to the other souls here.. Though when the cat turned to face her, she quickly turned away, embarrassed.

"Ortensia and I will be showing you around the place! Then once we are done,we may begin training! We do hope you enjoy your time here!" The angel walked off, the crowd following.

Lucky looked on in amazement. She was really doing it. she was finally here, finally being able to train to be a guardian as she had always wanted..

Her thoughts were interrupted by Retro, who tugged at her ear. She yelped, and turned to face him, but he quickly shushed her, giving a sly look. "follow me." He said, as he swiftly ran off away from the crowd.

Lucky seemed alarmed, turning to face the crowd. Upon realising that no one noticed Retros sudden departure, she sighed, and gave chase. Somebody had to keep him out of trouble..

As she ran after him, she called out. "Where are we going!?" "You'll see! You're gonna wanna see it anyway!!" "What??.. What is it?" "You'll- aha!!"

They stopped, halting in front of a large hole in the clouds. "See? There it is! Earth!!" Retro said smugly.

"Woah..." Lucky uttered, looking down to the monochrome world below, forgetting the fact they were.. Likely breaking the rules a bit. Her curiosity always did distract her. "It's so..." "Grey?" "No... Pretty!" "You and I have differing opinions on what's pretty and what's not, lucky, seems kinda depressing to me" "w... Well maybe we can fix that when we're guardian's!!"

Retro was about to respond, when a different voice rang out. "You? A Guardian? Don't make me laugh lucky.." Lucky winced as she turned to face the two arrivals. "W.. Well I'm sure I can do well, Mallory.." "You really think the head angels would give you a shot? You? A hybrid?? Not to mention the fact you left the group behind!!" lucky flinched, giving a sheepish look. "I.. Well.. I know lunacys been training me, s... So I have a chance!" "Oh please, don't make me laugh, he's only helping you because-" "lay off Marigold." Retro stood between her and lucky, glaring at her.

"Oh great, its you. Y'know, you should reaaaally stay away from the outcast, it ain't a good luck on ya" "she isn't an outcast, last I've checked. And I'm sure she'll make a great guardian when the time comes!!" "Oh really, and what makes you think-... hm.."

Luckys ears perked up, she recognized that pause, but before she could do anything, she was suddenly shoved off of the cloud. "if you think she'd make a good guardian, then LETS SEE IT!!!" "WAIT, NO!!!" retro panicked, and flew after her.

Lucky couldn't hear them, the wind whipping through her ears made it so that she could hear nothing but the air around her. She tried flapping her wings, but due to a defect in being a hybrid, her attempts were for naught. Tears in her eyes, she braced for impact, her world growing dark.

Falling.

Falling.

falling.

She was falling for what felt like a long time.. Until A new voice suddenly met her ears, a strange flower blooming around her. "You... Please... Save him..." "H..huh?..s..save who? Who are you!?" "Please... Please..." Lucky looked around her, as a pink hydrangea flower surrounded her, covering her sight, as the voice silently pleaded to her to help someone. But who?..

THUD

She landed in a field with a quiet yelp, the flower exploding and releasing her from its petals. She groaned, getting up and gathering her senses. "Where..."

It was a wheat field, A lonely farm off in the distance, A grey rickety fence lining the seemingly endless field. Looking down, she realized something else. Her appearance had changed, seemingly into a lad wearing a bowler hat and farmer get up. Her ears, wings and tail were gone, showing no indication that she was an angel. "What in the..."

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the soft melody of someone playing a banjo. Confused, and slightly scared, she slowly made her way to the source of the noise..

Not knowing she was being watched.

"Uh..dad..." Spoke a slightly worried yet annoyed voice. "What do we do? And did you see that flower!? I swear if that cat is trying to-" "calm yourself, ret, I highly doubt that the little... Whatever that thing is, can do a thing to stop our plan." "Don't you think we should.. Yknow... Play it safe and NOT be idiots?- eep!" The little demon flinched as the larger one pointed a trident at him. "Oh trust me.. I've got plans.. Don't question me again, ret." "G.. Got it.." The little demon grumbled, as the larger one turner his trident towards luckys direction. "...if it tries anything... Well, I will deal with it. Nothing is getting in the way of my ritual." "Yea.. Right.." Muttered the small demon, as he turned back to face the tiny fallen angel.

Lucky on the other hand, was a bit confused. Usually her hearing was top notch due to her ears, but now she couldn't exactly.. Pinpoint anything. Though she could've sworn she heard whispers..

She rounded the corner, and found the source of the banjo, her eyes widening in surprise.

Resting on the fence with a solemn expression, was a tall, black and white rabbit wearing overalls, A revolver resting beside him. The song itself was dripping with sadness, and he seemed to be stressed over.. Something.

Lucky didn't know what that something could be, but without a second thought.. She ran over and hugged him tightly.

The rabbit jumped, alarmed, then turned to face her, A confused, yet tired expression on his face. 

"...who are you..."

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (runaway)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: what remains

- Next part: the hill

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis @urdxrling @meowmeowmothermeower @nen-nyy

The banners of House Lannister rippled in the wind, a sea of crimson and gold stretching across the fields before Riverrun. The Riverlands had always been a land of deep greens and rolling waters, but now it stood scarred by war. The campfires of the siege burned in steady rows outside the castle walls, surrounding the ancient fortress like vultures waiting for a corpse to still.

Jaime rode at the head of his host, his golden hand gleaming in the morning sun as his men approached the Frey encampment. The Frey banners, duller and less grand than the Lannister lion, fluttered weakly atop their makeshift barricades, and the men within their ranks stood with slouched shoulders and restless eyes. They had been here for moons, wasting away in stagnation, unable to break the Blackfish’s defenses.

Beside Jaime, Bronn adjusted the reins of his horse, his expression unimpressed as he surveyed the state of the Frey forces. “Seven hells, Jaime, I thought this was supposed to be a siege, not a farmer’s gathering. These men look like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

Jaime smirked faintly, but the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s because they would.”

Bronn scoffed, shaking his head. “If I were the Blackfish, I’d be laughing myself to sleep every night watching this lot try to take his castle.”

Jaime said nothing, but he couldn’t disagree. The Freys had botched this siege from the start. Even as he rode through their camp, he could see the lack of discipline, the slackened formations, the outright boredom in their eyes. These weren’t soldiers eager for battle; they were men waiting for someone else to solve their problem.

And now that someone was him.

As he dismounted, several of the Frey commanders rushed forward, their stiff-backed forms doing little to disguise their clear discomfort. Lame Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers led the group, their expressions sour with thinly veiled resentment.

“Ser Jaime,” Lothar greeted, his voice coated with forced civility. “An honor to see you take command.”

Jaime raised a brow. “Is it?”

Walder Rivers cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “We’ve maintained the siege as ordered, but the Blackfish refuses all terms of surrender. The old man is as stubborn as they come.”

Jaime removed his glove, tucking it into his belt as he surveyed the scene before him. The walls of Riverrun loomed ahead, high and impenetrable, the Tully banners still flying defiantly from the ramparts. The drawbridge remained raised, the gate sealed, and despite the weeks of siege, the fortress itself looked far from weary.

Jaime exhaled slowly. “You’ve been here for moons, and yet the castle still stands, its defenses unbroken, its men unfazed.” His gaze flickered back to the Frey commanders. “Tell me, do you want to take Riverrun, or are you content to sit outside these walls like beggars at a feast?”

Lothar bristled, his jaw tightening. “We have followed Lord Walder’s orders to the letter.”

Jaime smirked. “And what an excellent job you’ve done.”

Bronn snorted behind him.

Walder Rivers scowled. “The Blackfish will not yield. We have sent envoys, offered terms—he will not listen.”

Jaime tilted his head, studying them. “Perhaps you sent the wrong men.”

Lothar scoffed. “And you believe you’ll fare better?”

Jaime smiled coldly. “Yes.”

The Freys exchanged uneasy glances, but neither argued.

Jaime turned back toward the castle, the weight of the coming battle settling over him. Riverrun would not fall easily. He had known that before arriving, but now, seeing the state of the siege, he realized just how much work lay ahead.

Still, it had to be done.

His father had commanded it.

The war needed to end.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered how you would react when you learned that he was the one leading the charge.

Would you hate him more than you already did?

Or had you always known this was inevitable?

Jaime exhaled sharply, pushing those thoughts aside. He had a siege to win.

And the Blackfish was waiting.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time Jaime rode to the walls of Riverrun, his crimson cloak trailing behind him as he approached the drawbridge. A handful of his men followed at a distance, Bronn among them, though Jaime had made it clear that this was to be a conversation, not a battle.

The Blackfish was waiting for him.

Ser Brynden Tully stood atop the battlements, his armor gleaming under the fading sunlight, his expression carved from stone. His presence was unshaken, his shoulders squared with the pride of a man who had never once surrendered.

Jaime tilted his head, resting his golden hand against the hilt of his sword. “Ser Brynden,” he called, his voice carrying over the still air. “It’s been some time.”

The Blackfish peered down at him with cool disinterest. “Not long enough.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though there was little humor in it. “I was hoping we could speak.”

The older knight exhaled sharply through his nose before nodding to one of the guards. The gate remained shut, but after a moment, the drawbridge was lowered just enough to allow Jaime through. Two armed men flanked the Blackfish as Jaime dismounted, their hands resting on their weapons, but Brynden himself seemed unbothered.

Jaime stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll keep this brief. You’re surrounded. Your supplies won’t last forever. Surrender Riverrun, and I’ll ensure your men are given fair terms.”

Brynden crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Fair terms from a Lannister? Forgive me if I don’t place my faith in your father’s mercy.”

Jaime inhaled slowly. “My father isn’t here. I am.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “And I should trust you?” His gaze flickered to Jaime’s golden hand before settling back on his face. “You haven’t won a real battle in years, Kingslayer. Tell me, how many oaths have you broken since last we met?”

Jaime smirked, though his patience was already thinning. “I’ve never broken an oath to my wife.”

The Blackfish’s expression darkened instantly.

Jaime tilted his head. “Ah, so you do know. I thought you might.”

Brynden stepped closer, his glare sharp enough to cut. “I know you forced her into this farce.”

Jaime’s smirk faded. “I did no such thing.”

The Blackfish scoffed. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that Eddard Stark’s daughter chose to wed you?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “She made her choice.”

Brynden let out a bitter laugh. “Aye, a choice with a lion’s claws at her throat, no doubt.” He took another step closer, his voice lowering. “Tell me, did she weep on your wedding night? Did she flinch when you touched her? Did you break her as you Lannisters have broken so many others?”

Something inside Jaime snapped.

His smirk vanished, his fingers clenching into fists. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

Brynden did not flinch. “Or what? Will you push me from a tower, too?”

Jaime shifted on his feet, steadying himself. He had expected resistance, had known that speaking of you would only provoke the Blackfish further—but still, the words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

Brynden’s eyes burned with barely restrained fury. “Your father orchestrated the deaths of her kin. He gave the order that killed her brother unfairly in battle. And now, you claim to call her your wife?” He spat at Jaime’s feet, his voice dripping with disgust. “Eddard Stark is turning in his grave.”

Jaime’s fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword. He forced himself to remain still.

“I didn’t come here to debate my marriage.”

Brynden scoffed. “Then why did you come here, Lannister? To gloat? To tell me I should be grateful you took my niece’s daughter as your broodmare instead of handing her to the Boltons?”

Jaime inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “I came here to offer you a way out. Surrender Riverrun, and your men will live.”

Brynden shook his head. “You’ve wasted your breath. This castle belongs to House Tully, and as long as I draw breath, I will not yield it to the likes of you.”

Jaime studied him for a long moment, then spoke slowly. “You know this war is over.”

Brynden’s jaw tightened. “Then let it end with steel, not surrender.”

Jaime closed his eyes briefly before opening them again, something heavy settling in his chest.

“Very well,” he murmured.

The Blackfish gave him one last long look before stepping back. The moment between them passed, and just like that, the drawbridge was raised, sealing Riverrun once more.

Jaime stood there for a moment longer, staring up at the castle walls.

Then, with a slow breath, he turned and walked away, the weight of what had to come pressing down on him.

Because, one way or another, Riverrun would fall.

And this time, there would be no Starks left to save it.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky by the time Jaime rode back through the siege lines, the weight of his conversation with the Blackfish still pressing against his ribs like a vice. His horse’s hooves kicked up dirt as he passed rows of campfires, where Frey and Lannister men loitered, some sharpening their swords, others drinking their fill of sour ale as if this was any other evening. They were waiting—waiting for him to end this siege, waiting for the next command, waiting for Riverrun to fall.

And for now, all Jaime had to offer them was action.

Bronn was the first to greet him as he dismounted, the sellsword stepping out from where he had been leaning against a wooden barricade. He was already smirking, his arms crossed over his chest, watching Jaime like a man who had already guessed the outcome.

“So,” Bronn drawled, “I’m guessing talking didn’t work.”

Jaime clicks his tongue as he passes his reins off to a nearby soldier before rolling his shoulders. “How very perceptive of you.”

Bronn grinned. “Well, you do have that look about you.” He gestured vaguely at Jaime’s face. “That ‘I just wasted my fucking time’ look.”

Jaime unfastened his cloak, shaking the dust from it before draping it over a nearby wooden post. “The Blackfish isn’t surrendering.”

Bronn let out a mock gasp. “You don’t say.”

Jaime shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

Bronn chuckled, falling into step beside him as Jaime moved toward the command tent. “So what now? We keep sitting outside their walls like a bunch of idiots hoping they die of boredom?”

Jaime ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “No. We take Riverrun by force.”

Bronn lifted a brow. “Now we’re talking.”

Jaime paused just outside the tent, his fingers flexing. “We begin the assault at first light. No more waiting. No more wasted time. The Blackfish had his chance. He made his choice.”

Bronn nodded approvingly. “Can’t say I’ll miss sitting around doing nothing.”

Jaime exhaled, stepping inside. The command tent was filled with scattered maps and reports, detailing every attempt the Freys had made to breach Riverrun’s walls—all failures. The Blackfish had held this castle with fewer men than any Lannister commander would have thought possible. But even the strongest walls could not withstand a full force battering against them.

Lothar Frey and Walder Rivers were already inside, awaiting him. Their expressions were sour, their patience clearly wearing thin.

“Well?” Lothar asked, arms crossed. “Did the Tully scum bend the knee?”

Jaime shot him a flat look. “No.”

Walder Rivers scoffed. “Of course not. The old fool’s been holed up in there for too long. He still thinks there’s something left to fight for.”

Jaime stepped closer to the map, tracing his fingers along the rough lines of the Riverlands. “There’s always something left to fight for,” he muttered under his breath.

Bronn, standing just behind him, let out a snort. “Sentimental, aren’t we?”

Jaime ignored him, shifting his attention back to the Freys. “We take the castle by force. No more waiting. The siege ends tomorrow.”

Lothar frowned. “You’re sure?”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “Would you rather sit outside these walls for another six moons?”

Walder Rivers nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. “It’ll be bloody.”

Jaime didn't even look at him. “Then let’s make sure we’re not the ones bleeding.”

Lothar hesitated, then smirked. “What about Lord Edmure? We still have him.”

Jaime inhaled deeply. Edmure Tully, the Blackfish’s nephew, the true lord of Riverrun—if only by name. A hostage, nothing more, another piece to be played.

Jaime shakes his head lightly. “Not yet.”

Lothar and Walder exchanged glances but did not argue.

Bronn sighed, clapping Jaime on the back. “Well, I guess I’ll start making sure your grand plan goes smoothly.” He grinned. “I always did enjoy a proper fight.”

Jaime barely heard him. His mind was already turning, already moving through every possible path forward. He knew how this would end—Riverrun would fall. Whether it took days or weeks, it would fall.

And when it did, he would have to live with the fact that he was the one who made it happen.

The halls of Casterly Rock felt heavier in Jaime’s absence. The golden fortress of the Lannisters, carved into the very bones of the cliffs, stood unmoved by time, war, or the burdens of those who walked its gilded corridors. But to you, it felt suffocating. The weight of it pressed against your chest, a silent reminder that you were not home, that you were never meant to belong here.

Jaime had left days ago with his host, marching for Riverrun under the Lannister banner, leaving you behind to oversee the Rock in his absence. It had been Kevan’s idea, and even Tywin had agreed—it would not do for his son’s wife to be seen as a mere prisoner. You were to rule in Jaime’s stead, to play the role of Lady of the West, to tend to the affairs of Casterly Rock as if you were one of them.

But you were not one of them.

And you were anything but calm.

Lady Dorna Lannister had done her best to keep you engaged, to instruct you on the matters of the keep, the dealings with merchants, the demands of the bannermen. You had listened—at least, in the beginning. But now, seated in the grand solar with ledgers open before you, your mind was elsewhere. Your fingers curled against the edge of the wooden table, your jaw tight as the weight of your helplessness coiled inside you like a snake ready to strike.

Winter, sensing your unease, sat close to you, his great silver-white form a constant shadow by your side. His eyes flickered up every time you shifted, every time you sighed or drummed your fingers impatiently against the table. He was watching, waiting—just as restless as you.

Lady Dorna set her goblet down with a quiet sigh, folding her hands before her. “You will wear through the table if you keep doing that.”

You stilled your fingers. “Perhaps I should ride for Riverrun instead. I might be of better use there.”

Dorna’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “You know that would not be wise.”

You looked at her then, your gaze biting. “Why? Because your lords would see it as treason? Because I would bring shame to the Lannister name?”

Dorna did not flinch. She had been married to Kevan Lannister for decades; she had long since learned the art of patience. “Because you would be riding into a warzone with no allies and no plan. Because Jaime—despite what you might think of him—would chase you down himself if he had to.”

Your breath caught, your fingers curling into fists beneath the table.

Jaime.

You could still hear his voice from the night before he left, still see the way his expression had tightened when he told you where he was going, what he had to do.

"It won’t change anything."

"It changes everything."

You had been furious, had wanted to scream, to claw your way out of this wretched marriage, out of this wretched Rock that held you prisoner. But he had only looked at you with that same unreadable expression, as if he had already accepted that no matter what he did, it would never be enough.

And then, in the cold light of dawn, he was gone.

The memory left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Winter let out a low growl, his ears twitching as he sensed the storm brewing inside you.

Lady Dorna exhaled, leaning forward slightly. “You are not powerless here, you know.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I feel like I am.”

Dorna studied you for a long moment, then sighed. “Power is not always in swords and battlefields, my lady. Sometimes, it is in patience. In knowing when to act and when to wait.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I wait too long?”

Dorna’s expression softened slightly, though her voice remained steady. “Then you will have to trust that Jaime knows what he is doing.”

You let out a shallow breath, turning your gaze toward the open balcony, where the light of the afternoon stretched over the sea beyond the cliffs. The waves crashed against the rocks below, endless and unmoving.

Trust.

It was such a foreign thing to ask of you.

But what choice did you have?

You glanced down at Winter, running your fingers through his thick fur, grounding yourself.

For now, you would wait.

But you would not wait forever.

The halls of Casterly Rock had never felt more stifling. The walls, gilded and adorned with the banners of the golden lion, seemed to press in on you, suffocating with their weight. The days since Jaime’s departure had crawled by in agonizing stillness, each moment stretching like an eternity. You had done what was expected—played the role of Lady of the Rock, overseen affairs, listened to Dorna’s words of caution—but it was all meaningless. Riverrun was under siege, your uncle fighting against impossible odds, and you were trapped, useless, within the lion’s den.

Until today.

You had made your decision long before Tywin summoned you.

The summons had come in the morning, carried by one of the stewards in that stiff, impersonal tone that made your blood boil. It had not been a request. It had been an order.

And so, you went.

The chamber was dimly lit, the high windows allowing only slivers of sunlight to cut through the cool interior. Tywin stood at the head of the room, his posture as rigid as ever, his hands folded behind his back. Kevan was absent, leaving only guards stationed at the doors. This was not a council meeting. This was something else.

Tywin did not look up as you entered, but the weight of his presence was suffocating nonetheless.

"You’ve been restless," he said, his voice even, controlled.

You stopped a few paces from him, lifting your chin. "What a keen observation."

His gaze flicked to you then, sharp and piercing. "Do not mistake my patience for tolerance. Your behavior has been noted."

You scoffed. "Noted by whom? Your spies? Your servants? Or do you simply take pleasure in watching me pace the halls like a caged beast?"

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I allowed you the courtesy of overseeing Casterly Rock in Jaime’s absence, believing you understood your place. Instead, you sulk and scheme, making a spectacle of yourself in front of my bannermen."

You clenched your jaw. "My place is not here while my family is being slaughtered."

His expression did not change. "Your family is dead. Those who remain have chosen their fate."

Your fingers curled into fists, anger burning hot under your skin. "My mother is alive."

"And she is nothing but a shadow of what she was." Tywin stepped forward then, his gaze never wavering. "Do you think she will embrace you if you ride to her side? That she will take you into her arms and fight beside you?" His voice was quiet, cutting. "She is not the woman who bore you. She is something else now. Something broken. You would throw away your position, your protection, for what? A ghost?"

Your throat tightened.

You hated him.

You hated the way he spoke with such certainty, as if he had already decided what you would become. As if he had won.

"I would rather fight beside a ghost," you said, voice steady, "than rot here as your prisoner."

Tywin’s expression did not change, but something in the air shifted.

"You are not a prisoner," he said, though the words felt hollow. "You are Jaime’s wife. You are Lady of Casterly Rock. Your duty is here."

You inhaled sharply, forcing down the lump in your throat. "No," you whispered. "My duty is to my family."

The silence between you was suffocating.

Tywin studied you for a long moment, and then, finally, he exhaled. "You will not leave these walls."

A finality. A decree.

But he had underestimated you.

For the first time since you've met, you did not answer him.

You turned and walked away.

It was nearly dusk by the time you reached the stables. The sky was painted in hues of deep amber and violet, the salty breeze from the sea biting against your skin. The guards stationed at the gates had been doubled since Jaime’s departure, a quiet but clear message from Tywin: You were not to leave.

But you had never been one to obey.

Winter was at your heels, his presence steady, his ears twitching with alertness as you approached the stables. The horses shifted restlessly as you entered, the stablemaster turning with a startled expression.

"My lady—"

You didn’t give him time to react. You moved with purpose, reaching for the nearest stallion, a strong, dark-coated beast already saddled.

"Prepare him," you ordered, your voice leaving no room for argument.

The stablemaster hesitated. "My lady, Lord Tywin has given orders—"

"I do not care what Tywin Lannister has ordered," you snapped, turning on him. "Saddle the horse. Now."

The man swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides. He was not a soldier, nor was he brave enough to defy you when you stood before him with fire in your eyes.

He did as he was told.

Within minutes, you pulled yourself into the saddle, gripping the reins as Winter let out a low, eager growl beside you.

The guards at the gate reacted instantly, drawing their swords as you urged the horse forward.

"My lady, you cannot leave," one of them barked, stepping into your path.

You glared down at him. "Move."

The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. "Lord Tywin—"

"Lord Tywin is not here," you interrupted. "And I will not ask again."

Tension crackled in the air. The guards were sworn to House Lannister, to their Warden of the West, but you were his son’s wife. They could not harm you—not without consequences.

And they knew it.

One of them hesitated, his grip on his sword loosening.

You saw your opening.

Without another word, you dug your heels into the horse’s side, spurring him forward.

The beast reared for only a second before charging through the gap between the guards, Winter a silver blur at your side.

Shouts erupted behind you.

"Close the gates!"

"Fetch Lord Kevan!"

But it was too late.

You were gone.

The wind howled against your face as you rode, the cliffs of Casterly Rock shrinking behind you. The road stretched ahead, winding toward the Riverlands, toward Riverrun.

Toward Jaime.

Toward war.

And no Lannister was going to stop you now.

[floweroflaurelin]

So Pixlriffs’ finale is a masterpiece and I’m experiencing a lot of emotions right now ✨🌻✨

For my own reference I made a transcript of the monologue and thought I might as well share it! It's under the cut to avoid spoilers but the whole first 8ish minutes of his video are typed out. I recommend watching at least that much, if you haven’t yet, because it’s really something worth hearing.

We are not done.

Not yet.

Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But before they fade into obscurity, as so many events do, there is one more story left to be told.

[It is the Story

of

the World.]

It’s important to remind ourselves that history is an account of events remembered—and there are so few left who remember, so it mingles with myth and hearsay, folklore and fireside stories. This is the account of just one man, and others may recall the tale differently. Others still may decide to change the narrative to suit their own ends. And this, it must be said, is no bad thing. So it goes.

[Sun setting

over

our Creation.]

—

In a long-lost age before records truly began, our world was built by Titans (or so it is said). The lands they created became home to people who would seek to emulate and even to surpass that act of creation, and that would eventually bring about their destruction. But destruction is simply part of a cycle. Nothing is ever truly lost.

Those who foresaw the destruction fled before it could bring the walls of their homes down around them. And many who had been downtrodden and overlooked saw it as their chance to find a new life for themselves.

Thus began a great migration, leaving behind the old nations of the world and striking out for somewhere new, a life untethered from the follies of their former state. And though the road was long and treacherous, and many fell behind in the wake of such an awful endeavour, new bonds were forged in the fires of adversity.

As time passed, and more joined the great caravan, the host became a nation of its own, a glorious congregation sharing one purpose, singing the same resolute song. Though the road was long, they were homeward bound.

And a home they found nestled in a mountainous landscape, one that might have been carved by the very bones of the gods themselves. There they planted roots, drank deep from the water, and continued to grow. The farmers sowed new fields and raised new flocks. The work of many hands turned to building a new city. And together the architects conceived a castle upon a great plateau that would stand as a monument to their past apart and their future together. To them, the castle itself would tell the Story of the World.

Stone-whisperers from Mythland and the Grimlands, well-versed in masonry of all kinds, sculpted its walls from the abundant rock of the nearby mountains quarried for the glory of their new capital. They wrought rock and iron, carved and timbered their great halls, and raised mighty towers to stand atop the grand cliff.

The mages of the Crystal Cliffs brought knowledge of magic and the beauty of gemstones, and theirs was the sanctum at the heart of the castle, ever-seated at the Ruler’s left hand: their shield and protector.

A tribute was raised to Gilded Helianthia, whose ruler was still revered in the hearts and minds of many, and in time she became their warden against the spectres of the past, carrying the twin burdens of light and shadow on her shoulders; a burden with which the people of Rivendell were all too familiar.

And below, far below, the engineers of Pixandria sought to reproduce the jewel of their empire. A mechanism that would surpass the work of the Copper King himself.

Not all who came to found the Ancient Capital remained for long. Like dandelion seeds, the people of the Overgrown were scattered on the wind, alighting on the mountaintops and valleys. The vast majority of them came to settle in the rolling meadows of Chromia, which was renowned for the richness and beauty of its dyes for lifetimes after.

In the absence of their king, the nation of Mezelea resettled in new badlands, establishing laws and ordinances of their own. Many of them had been armour stands before the king imbued them with life, and some found this a hard habit to shake.

The people of the Cod and Ocean empires, bereft of the waters that gave them life, took to diving in the rocky pools of vast caverns and their affinity for stone grew. Over many generations they adapted, becoming the green-skinned race that folk came to know as goblins—their pointed ears the only remaining vestige of the fins they had once had.

For the gnomes of the Undergrove, this was a homecoming! They had long dwelled here before their exodus through the Nether and the fairy circles of the Evermoore welcomed them with open arms.

And the villagers of the Lost Empire, hiding in plain sight amongst the caravan of peoples, sought to find a place where they would be unburdened by this facade of humanity, standing at last on their own two feet.

But the boundaries of this land were ever-changing, and the nations soon found the cataclysm they had left behind had weakened the walls between their world and others. Waters rose and fell unpredictably; incursions from other realms were possible, bringing chaos in their wake. The tide of history churned and rippled.

None now remember how the Capital fell, only that its remains have lasted: an epitaph to all they had achieved together.

And just like before, new nations would arise. The pirates of Eversea ruled the waters from their secret cove. The inventors of Cogsmeade arrived sailing in from the air on their skyships—only to find whole buildings floating in the golden kingdom of Stratos. Rumours abounded of a Sanctuary hidden in the deepest jungle for those who knew the way.

Their tales are better told by those who knew them well. Our stories do not begin here, and neither do they end. But for this tired historian, it is perhaps best to leave these things in the past and begin to look towards the future.

For whatever comes next, we who have sown the seeds can only hope for a bountiful harvest.

[bestworstcase]

Something I can't help but think of is the Great War in RWBY. How Ozpin in one of his past selves had to basically wipe out entire armies of soldiers and people with a single attack from what was likely the Sword of Destruction.

I have to wonder just how many generations of men and women were wiped out. How many settlements of people basically lost their breadwinners or no longer had anyone to protect them from Grimm.

How many years of battle experience and wisdom about the follies of war, just annihilated in an instant. How many lessons that could have been taught to a new generation made lost forever, ensuring that many of the newer generations could not learn from the past except only through a distorted, flawed lens.

I wonder if this loss might have contributed to Atlas' lackluster military capabilities, because anyone from Mantle who could have held the jackasses at the top to account with hardened experience and wisdom JUST. WEREN'T. THERE.

anon i am grabbing u gently by the shoulders

you have fallen for ozma’s propaganda that he is the Main Character of history. and also activated one of my many trap cards (sorry)

the institution of huntsmen is – overtly, albeit not couched in exactly these terms – predicated on the Great Man, the idea that the course of human history is predominately a product of the decisive choices and actions of Heroes, of individuals whose superior intellect and fortitude and so forth elevated them above the common people. this is the fundamental idea undergirding ozpin’s whole thing – his guardians, the maidens, silver-eyed warriors, his “smaller, more honest soul,” the greatness he promises oscar, the way he describes ruby as possessing “something unquantifiable: a spark, that can inspire others even in the darkest of times” – these are his Great Men. the practical short term purpose of the huntsmen academies is to mold children into warriors in order to guard his fortresses, but in the longer term the point of them is to create Great Men.

narratively, this is an idea that rwby does not agree with; the thematic critique leveled against this view of history begins with the inherent contradiction between ozpin’s soaring rhetoric – the stated ideal of everyone standing together as one – and his actual behavior, which (as salem points out, correctly, in her v3 soliloquy) betrays the hollowness and lack of conviction in his professed “faith” in humanity. to believe in Great Men is fundamentally cynical; it is anti-humanistic; it is self-defeating.

we don’t really have time to outline everything in the CFVY novels that leads me to believe that this narrative critique is building inexorably toward bringing the common people into sharp focus as the true engine of history in vacuo – suffice it to say that there are passages in both books which elevate and emphasize the importance of ordinary people working together to achieve greater things than huntsmen can – but the atlas arc already offers a tangible shift in this direction with civilian politics dawning as a central narrative concern in contrast to the insularity of the beacon and mistral arcs.

the point being that the story structure itself is dismantling ozpin’s view of history; civilians are distant, abstracted set dressing within the hermetically sealed artificial reality of beacon academy, and irrelevant in mistral until the instant the lost fable shatters ozpin’s grip on the narrative and then – bam. brunswick farm is a horror-tragedy about subsistence farmers. the kids stay with the cotta-arcs in argus, and it is this connection with ordinary people that gets the kids to atlas, where class tensions between mantle and atlas and a contested council election dominate the plot and ozpin’s Great Man crumbles because he’s still hermetically sealed inside that artificial reality where the common people don’t really matter or exist in any meaningful way.

you see?

(and of course, professor oobleck, the exception who proves the rule: there is no one still living in the hollowed out ruins of mountain glenn, but that mini-arc is the one time in the beacon arc where the existence of ordinary people feels real and tangible and important, and it is because the history teacher says when i look at these ruins i see lives that were lost. i see a failure that must never be repeated. i see lives, past and future, and this is why i am a teacher, because history is more important than heroism.)

ok. so

the great war.

in qrow’s account of the great war, ozma – the king of vale – is the Great Man. the story of this sprawling, worldwide conflict is that the king of vale tried and failed to avert it, and for ten years the war raged on without an end in sight, until at last the king of vale took to the field of battle himself and single-handedly ended it by the sword; everyone bowed to him in surrender, but he lifted up the world by the hand and established a new world order.

no one else – not a single other participant in this conflict aside from the king of vale and (qrow hints ominously, and completely without evidence) salem – has a drop of agency or even a meaningful presence in the great war as qrow, received from ozpin, would tell it. and i do not think that is supposed to be taken at face value whatsoever; none of the other WOR spots are objective. these are character studies as much as they are worldbuilding shorts.

rwby is a narrative that has rejected this kind of simplicity over and over and over again. the great war was more complicated than that. some big chickens will be coming home to roost in the vacuo arc.

so with all that being said.

the historical exemplar that rwby’s great war seems to be modeled after is the first world war. (in brief: fought 80-90 years ago; the conflict was preceded by decades of increasing tensions driven by imperialist expansion and economic competition between rapidly-industrializing great powers; the war itself famously exploded from a single gunshot – although rwby eschews the political assassination angle perhaps because there were only three extant states in the world; the ending of the war resulted in massive redistribution of imperial territories and the formation of multiple new states. i know the usamerican tendency is to forget WWI happened and that ozma ‘nuking’ the battlefield with the sword to decisively end the war is likely to evoke the atomic bomb in the mind of the average viewer, but here i will remind everyone that the united states massacred nearly a quarter of a million civilians and that figure does not include deaths from cancer or long-term radiation exposure. because we dropped those bombs on cities. in contrast WWI was decided on the battlefield with the hundred days offensive.)

the real great war lasted from the summer of 1914 to the autumn of 1918. four years, three months. do you know how many people died?

an estimated 9 to 11 million military deaths, and 23 million more wounded. 7-8 million of those deaths were combat-related. upwards of 6 million civilians died. one of the deadliest conflicts in history, and aside from WWII (in which as many as two thirds of fatalities were civilians and genocide and war-related famine killed millions and millions of people, so many of these deaths were not combat-related), the only two conflicts in history that killed more people than WWI lasted 14 years, and 47. again, WWI lasted just four years.

ok. the reason WWI was so deadly, and the reason almost all of those military fatalities were combat-related is because of when and how this conflict was fought. in 1914 when the war began, the world was just coming out of the second industrial revolution. that was a period when railroads really began to proliferate, mass-manufacture of steel became possible, rise of production lines, automobiles, the telegraph, that kind of thing.

cannons, and things, had existed for a relatively long time at this point, but the second industrial revolution heralded the dawn of modern artillery weapons, and warfare, cultural conceptions of how wars are fought, had not caught up yet to the sheer scale of destruction that were now possible because of this new technology. which meant that WWI was the last conflict where war meant lining up troops on the battlefield and smashing the armies together, except everyone had things like rapid-firing heavy artillery, and explosive shells, and machine guns, and barbed wire, and chlorine gas.

this is what led to horrible, bloody stalemate of trench warfare and the unprecedented scale of casualties and the idea of “no man’s land” – it’s why the cultural image of what a battlefield looks like in the popular conscious for decades and decades after this war has been and often still is just a barren, muddy, completely obliterated wasteland strewn with debris. WWI was the transition between pre-industrial and modern warfare where industrialization had led to the development of military technology that rendered the old way of doing war obsolete. suicidal.

in the WOR spot, those are exactly the the conditions surrounding the great war except more lopsided because one side has a massive technological advantage. vacuo wasn’t even a state, it had no formal government of its own and it was under mistrali occupation when the vacuans rebelled. not an industrialized nation. vale was had probably industrialized to some degree (the artwork in the WOR spot doesn’t reflect this, but “no one knows who shot first” and vale/vacuan forces were reliant on dust munitions – everyone had guns) but mantle was significantly ahead of the curve.

so.

you have ten years of trench warfare – more than double the length of our own great war. you have the grimm, who are drawn to all negative feelings but especially to violence. you have huge swaths of territory that are just annihilated and never reclaimed. qrow mentions food rationing, so there were probably widespread famines caused by the loss and destruction of farmland. and this was happening all over the world, on every continent, including the unnamed continent that is now literally uninhabited – it wasn’t always, there used to be settlements there, they’re shown in i think WOR: vale – for a decade. right

ozma brought the sword of destruction onto the battlefield to break what was either a brutal stalemate or a slow grind of brutal attrition depending how lopsided the technological advantage was – after ten years of what had to be every military commander and every leader trying everything they could think of to force a surrender because nobody wants this – in the single bloodiest battle of the war, which, yes, means he personally killed an unfathomable number of people because trench warfare is a uniquely deadly form of warfare –

but the vast, vast vast majority of people who died in the great war were not killed in that one battle. remnant’s population is a lot smaller than ours – millions, not billions – so it’s unlikely that millions of people died. but proportionally this war probably killed hundreds of thousands of people and i would not be surprised if at some point a character drops a figure like “almost a million” or even “over a million” – like just. in raw terms, thinking about this as remnant’s great war – the historical exemplar is really not. subtle – that lasted for a decade, this is a conflict that wiped out a significant percentage of the global population.

all that said,

the military tacticians and strategists largely would have survived and military historians would have been all over this conflict. lessons learned. the infantry poured into the trenches were not gaining any battle experience other than “this is actual, literal hell” while they endured hours of artillery barrage. the only wisdom that can be imparted by trench warfare is that it must be avoided at any cost because the only way to win is for the other side to run out of men or ammunition or popular resolve first. pure attrition. that’s the only takeaway. never let this happen again.

i think this is why the atlas military immediately pivoted to, like, robotic soldiers and armored mechs and the warships. that is “we cannot do trench warfare again. we cannot do trench warfare again.”

(in combination with radically changing the way you deploy troops, tanks and aircraft is indeed how you never do trench warfare again – there were tanks and light aircraft during WWI but none of them were good enough to break the stalemate.)

the problem, largely, for the atlas military – in terms of tactical innovation – is that in the eighty years since the great war, there’s only been one large-scale conflict and the faunus revolution was an insurgency, which – had to have been a protracted war waged by some phenomenally tactically ingenious faunus because the insurgents won – and that is a completely different kind of ballgame.

strategic doctrine and military tactics are developed and tested through practice. we did not jump from WWI straight to modern warfare, there have been many many regional wars and smaller conflicts between then and now. after a war, win or lose, you can theorize all you want but until there’s another war that puts your new technology or new tactics to the test, there’s not really a way to know if you’ve learned the right lessons and corrected successfully from whatever errors you made in the previous war.

in a world like remnant, where there are only five states in the entire world and there is so much pressure against open warfare, military innovation is going to be really slow. glacial even. stagnant. the horrifying scale of the great war is not something anyone wanted to ever repeat, and you can see that in the development of atlas’ military technology since then. but, as we can see when salem begins her assault on atlas:

the doctrine has not changed significantly. we have unmanned robotic light infantry arrayed in formation support the atlesian equivalent of tanks, with heavy artillery mounted on the warships in formation above. and, in the back, trenches for the human shock infantry and huntsmen. this is still very much warfare in the pre-industrial mode.

the calculation that the atlas military made here is quite clear – pursue aerial superiority to control the skies so you can eliminate ground-based enemy artillery, mass-manufacture lightweight disposable robotic infantry to feed into the meat grinder, deploy soldiers in heavily-armored mechs supported by those disposable infantry bots into the no man’s land to lead the advance and clear a path for the human rear infantry (<- those mechs would be excellent for cutting rapidly through barbed wire, a major advantage over tanks in another WWI-style conflict).

this is a military that reacted to trench warfare by investing in armored ground vehicles and heavy aircraft (✅ tanks and bombers), and by substituting disposable drones for human shock infantry instead of the shift toward evasive maneuvering and detection avoidance that undergirds modern warfare. which is not unreasonable! if in 1918 it had seemed remotely possible to anyone to replace human troops with little war machines, people would have tried! and in a world where a) the technology to do that proves viable and b) the great war is followed by an 80-year period in which the only major conflict is an insurgency, it’s inevitable that the doctrine stagnates there because it’s untested.

no matter how many drills and VR scenarios and war games you do, you can’t know how this new approach works in a real war until you fight another war. the iterative process of improvement is stalled.

and the terrifying thing about salem is she knows what the fuck she’s doing. it is clear that one of the lessons ozpin took away from the great war is that the general public cannot be entrusted to know that war is on the horizon – he’s furious with ironwood for bringing warships to vale because (aside from risking a bona fide diplomatic incident that could inflame tensions between vale and atlas should the vale council take issue with the uninvited presence of a foreign state’s air force in their kingdom!) he’s concerned that it will make people tense.

you know, like how people were tense when mistral occupied eastern vale and ozma tried to avert war by appeasement, and then there was a deadly riot that exploded into a decade of trench warfare. like how things were probably pretty goddamned tense before the faunus revolution broke out in response to humans being – as oobleck very delicately put it – “quite, quite adamant about centralizing the faunus population in menagerie.”

(that’s code for, at best, systematic persecution intended to make living outside menagerie so untenable that faunus would leave en masse; mass deportations and genocide at worst. in case that isn’t clear.)

i doubt ozma was remotely as obsessed with absolute secrecy such that the common people don’t even know there’s anything unusual happening prior to the great war and the faunus revolution. ozpin is a trauma reaction to those conflicts, deeply and profoundly shaped by them and terrified to the point of irrationality of allowing the “energy” that preceded the outbreak of those wars to happen again.

salem hits beacon with three separate and extremely public terroristic attacks all on the same night – she planned for four, but one fired early – all of which were broadcast internationally, live. she spent eighty years observing how oz reacted to the great war and then struck at him in a manner he would never be able to conceal, and (if he’d survived) would have gotten him stripped of power and cast out of his fortress in disgrace. i think her calculation here is that ozpin would either be dead for at least a few years or self-immolate out of panic.

haven, of course, she had lionheart in her pocket and planned a covert operation. low risk, quick and quiet.

but then, when her plans shuffled and brought her to atlas – a military power that has spent eighty years preparing for war between industrialized states, trying to claw its way ahead of the curve so it won’t be trapped in a trench stalemate again – salem made an inexhaustible force of grimm and delivered a an old-school siege, because a post-industrial military that has focused for eight decades on the problem of avoiding trench stalemate is not prepared to handle an enemy force that is effectively immune to artillery fire.

i think the atlas military would have done a lot better in a round two of the great war. but that’s not the war it got. it got a premodern siege by the eldritch roman legion with instant and infinite respawns so artillery barrages just don’t matter. it’s not about overpowering the enemy! it’s about taking away what power they have!

(this, plus the atlesian military’s development of devices that provoke massive grimm swarms as per arrowfell, makes it emphatically clear that the atlas military does not exist for the purpose of grimm extirpation. it’s an institution that has been built from the ground up for open warfare with other states.)

[typezerostudios]

Reposting clean version without the long thread. Possible intro to Avatar: New Omashu/Avatar: Dead Moon/Whatever it ends up called.

@charlesoberonn @avatar-the-dead-moon

The Fire Nation cheered at the beginning of the end. Admiral Zhao slew the Moon Spirit, and cut the legs out from the Northern Water Tribe when they were at their strongest. By dawn, their soldiers patrolled the streets, their chief knelt before the Moon Slayer, and their princess was taken away as a bride to be to the Fire Prince.

None of them thought of the consequences of their victory.

There were always storms, always monsters, and with the conquest of the Water Tribes complete, it was easy to blame on an increase in raiders. When entire naval groups disappeared, with no survivors, no trace of what happened, they grew uneasy, but focused on the conquest of Ba Sing Se. There was no need to panic when victory was so close at hand. There was no need to be concerned about naval affairs, the final battles would be fought on land.

It was easy to ignore the soldier's stories, of strange voices in the night. After all, they needed something to keep them occupied. It was easy to blame their sudden disappearances on Jeong-Jeong, the traitor, seducing them with empty promises. No one spoke of the empty uniforms left behind.

It wasn't until the end of Summer, with the return of Sozin's Comet, that they truly understood their folly.

The Fire Lord's decision to burn the resistance out of the other nations was met with cheers, the the deployment of the aerial fleet went perfectly. The end of Earth Kingdom resistance was inevitable. They were the elite Firebenders, personal guards to the Fire Lord himself, blessed with power most benders could only dream of possessing. They thought they were invincible.

They were wrong.

The Ocean rose up to stop them, translucent tendrils rising up the engulf the fleet. Some burned their way free, ascending out of easy reach. Most did not, and were dragged into the depths. It chased them, shooting the most powerful ships ever created down like a farmer swatting spider-flies.

Ozai fled, abandoning his fleet and followers. The Ocean swore it would always hunt those who took away its beloved, and the seas began to rise.

The Earth Kingdom was meant to end in fire. Death by water was unexpected, but by no means merciful. Ba Sing Se stood as it always did, the walls built ever higher to keep the floodwaters at bay. The rest of the Earth Kingdom survived as they always did, building dam, sealing off underground caverns, or learning to sail.

The Water Tribes survived, even thrived. They just moved their frozen homes from land to water. Some learned a new form of waterbending, fueled by rage and retribution. The arts of healing were lost, but the destructive power they gained more than made up for it.

The Fire Nation… suffered. Their civilization was all but obliterated when the Great Tsunami swept over the archipelago. Survivors rebuilt on the mountain tops. Their armies and colonies… dissipated. Some made new lives in the Earth Kingdom, others became raiders, and some took their fleet and welding them together into floating fortresses, capable of withstanding even the most power storms.

Regardless of their nation, so much was lost. Cities were swallowed by the seal, never to be seen again, spirits lashed out as their homes were ravaged, rampaging across what little land remained.

Throughout it all, people prayed for the Avatar to return. He didn't. Some say that his disappearance was the first sign of the coming end. Some say that the Spirits kept him from reincarnating, because humanity had gone beyond redemption. Some say he gave up, like so many others.

But I still hope.

[bestiarium]

The Dard [French folklore]

Supernatural monsters that suck the milk out of cows are surprisingly common throughout European folklore. I suppose it was a way for farmers to explain why a perfectly normal, healthy cow suddenly didn’t give any more milk.

In the Vienne region of France, stories were told of a strange creature called ‘le dard’. According to Desaivre’s 1882 description, this animal was a snake with the head of a cat, a short tail and four legs. A furry mane ran along the creature’s spine.

Though the Dard is not venomous, it can deliver a vicious bite if provoked. In addition, these creatures are known to make a hideous hissing sound. They suck milk from cows' udders.

Curiously, some farmers in the region claimed to recognize the Dard’s likeness in the decorations on the columns of certain churches, though it’s not mentioned which ones.

Source: Ellenberger, H., 1949, Le monde fantastique dans le folklore de la Vienne, Nouvelle revue des traditions populaires, 1(5), pp. 407-435. (image source: me, hence the crude pencil drawing. I figured I could probably draw a cat’s head, right? Such is the folly of man!)

[glbtrx]

Let's talk.

Just here to remember that Oromis, a wise hundreds years old elf, said to twenty years old Galbatorix, That had just lost his dragon and half of his mind, not to be angry.

And he thought it would work :')

No, ok, let's be serious. Arguably the finest of the new Dragon Riders, he had lost his dragon, his partner of mind and heart, as well as four friends with him in a vicious Urgal ambush. That boy (just 19) wandered a dangerous and probably haunted mountain range for months until he was found by a farmer. Now, already here, in the story told there has never been any mention of any quest by the Riders for Galbatorix. Like, the Prodigy Rider disappears and you don't move? Let the thing pass?

However, the worst thing comes next. Oromis tells us that he saw Galbatorix's folly in the desperation of his request for a new dragon, and that he convinced the other elders that he was crazy.

And?

Then what? What did you do then? Knowing how terrible the loss of a dragon is for a Rider, you simply let the crazed boy go without helping him in any way, and also in the spine?? A place where he had gone mad and a place inhabited by evil spirits? (And indeed, it is supposed that spirits taught Gal black magic there, and that he met the shade Durza)

We can well say that the negligence of the order of the Riders went far beyond arrogance.

[dolphin1812]

The beginning of this chapter is honestly really funny because somehow, the sentence “He had theories” inspires the same specific form of dread that Hugo seems to be calling on with that line: knowing that you’re about to hear horrible takes from someone in a position of authority in a household. In this case, his terrible ideas are about women. Reading this about 200 years after the events of the story, it’s kind of interesting to see what a bourgeois woman could and couldn’t do from the list given:

“Then his wife busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her fingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes the education of half-share tenants and the training of farmers, convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues scriveners, visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up leases, dictates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arranges, disarranges, hoards, lavishes; she commits follies, a supreme and personal delight, and that consoles her. While her husband disdains her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband.”

It’s quite a long list! With money, Gillenormand’s wife was able to be pretty active in her community. It was definitely a precarious position, though; the money was never hers, as she only “[felt] herself the sovereign.” All of that wealth was really M Gillenormand’s, and she only had access to it as long as he felt like allowing that. A bourgeois woman could, then, be economically active, but only as long as her husband permitted it.

I also like that we see the logic in Gillenormand’s lifestyle, even if it’s a despicable one. The sexist underpinning - with wives just needing to be “legitimate” and ruining husbands financially out of “jealousy” rather than real frustration at being stuck with a man who doesn’t care about her - is a big part of it, as that’s how he ends up with so little money (comparatively). There’s a more sympathetic political aspect as well. Gillenormand has lived through so much political change in his lifetime: first the French Revolution, then Napoleon, then the Bourbons, and now the July Monarchy. He specifically fears his property being taken away by a sudden political change because he’s seen that happen, and it makes sense that that kind of instability would lead him to prioritize his day-to-day lifestyle over saving for the future. At the same time, it’s a selfish decision. We know that he has an unmarried daughter that won’t be left with much because of his financial choices, and we’ve seen how hard it is for women to get by without husbands or other men supporting them (Fantine being the most extreme example). Given that his introduction began right after we were promised an introduction to Marius at the end of Gavroche’s chapter, we can assume they’re connected somehow, too, so his decisions may harm Marius as well. 

Then again, Gillenormand’s selfishness there isn’t surprising at this point. He’s already been rude and condescending to his daughter, and the way he “re-baptizes” his servants again emphasizes how disrespectful he can be to those around him.

[floatingaroundinmymind]

Prologue for a fantasy story; feedback appreciated!

The world's savior was found on a Tuesday. 

On a single patch of green grass amid frost tipped weeds and crystalline ants lay a single man-sized egg in the village square. The children found it first and then the fishermen and farmer's wives. The elders spoke in hushed whispers, spun silvery tales of prophets and heralds to man, saviors in times of need. And so a gilded shrine was built to honor the Prince of Men, a nest with the good down, adorned with the finest silks and purest gold. 

And into the walls men carved such intricate patterns, eyes of the village to watch and protect the young prince--the grandest being an ornate carving of the imagined prince among his people. The women produced their fineries, dresses and robes, stockings and cloaks with which their skilled fingers distilled every ounce of hope. There was deliberation, talk of how to mold the new angelic host, of how he should come to know man and the world of men in the days since prosperity. 

Oh, but it was folly. 

Seed of discontent, sown by human or heavenly hands? Flower of malevolence in full bloom on crimson earth, beneath smoky skies; new ashen snow in frozen summer. And the egg, in a golden cage. 

No one was there when the egg hatched. The scant sunlight filtered in through the rocks above, seeping into cracks between yellowed blades of grass and craggy holes in weak, sputtering spurts of life. And as it hit the large, pale slabs of raw stone and shone on the streams of water which trickled off their crumbling steps, Aurea found they were alone. 

They crawled out of the egg, amniotic fluid spilling onto the previously untainted floor. The bare ground was cold and stark against the warmth of the egg and Aurea felt its solid, stony weight beneath her feet. 

The gilded cage sat upon a raised pedestal and through the golden slats, Aurea caught glimpses of greenery, the trickling of water dropping off into some dark abyss beyond the reach of both the sun's rays and their eyes. Aurea shrugged off the cracked bits of shell that clung to her body, the sticky residue from the egg clinging to each piece. 

Against the bars closest to the stairs were a wooden bowl, cloths of some sort, thick boots, and a folded set of garments upon which a crown of branches sat waiting, watching as if it too awaited their arrival. The bowl was large and filled with water for washing, the fabric beside it needlessly ornate for what amounted to washcloths.

Instinctively, she cupped the water in her hands and rinsed her face, felt the sticky fluid run off it and reached for a washcloth, wiping the rest off. Aurea's face reflected back at them in the ripples—blonde hair curling around the edges of their face and ice blue eyes searching for some sense of self in the not quite child nor adult face that stared back. Tearing her eyes away from the false self, the process was repeated with the rest of their body until the water remaining in the bowl had turned a dingy yellow, the remnants of birth clinging to the bottom. 

Cleansed as they were, the slight chill in the air had now grown to a freezing magnitude, aided by the dampness of Aurea's hair and the absence of the egg's warmth. It was then that she turned her attention to the garments beside the now dirtied washcloths. Stacked neatly there were four pieces in the set, accented by golden threads and vibrant purple hues with an off-white serving as the base, earthen browns meant to balance the more striking elements.  

She held the garments in her hand, noted on one there were holes for arms, a head and more confusing ones on another piece. Aurea stared at the large carving on the wall furthest from them, a winged herald among ground people. The regal figure was clothed in strange robes, trousers and fine boots—the very same set neatly folded before her.   

Aurea turned away from the carving feeling the stone figures' eyes lingering long beyond their rocky casing and attempted to dress herself. 

As she slipped on the clothing still she felt eyes watching. It was a low hum in the background that made its presence known louder with each passing minute. Half-dressed, Aurea turned back to glance at the stony faces on the wall and noticed on the opposite wall a pattern. 

Eyes.

There were eyes carved into every wall surrounding the great gilded cage.

They didn't roam—there was no life behind them. They simply stared at her half-naked asking questions that only the ancient hands of men knew, answers that the wind pretended not to know as it blew through the cavern. Their silent, ever-present gaze never once left Aurea and she could feel each pupil on her body, covering her whole being like a million unwanted hands touching, poking, and prodding at her like she was an animal in a cage. 

There was nowhere to hide. 

She turned, suffocated by the prying eyes, feet slipping on the water from before and reached for the gilded bars as she fell. The bars gave way and Aurea hit the ground—the cage door was open.  

The large golden door now lay wide open, the mysteries of the world outside the cage waiting. Its hinges were old and worn but still functional—the same could not be said for the lock whose chain was rusted brittle and broken, the result of many years left unattended.  

Still feeling the burning gaze of the carvings, Aurea finished dressing, threw on the boots and wrapped herself in the massive cloak provided, the fur-lined hood tickling her cheeks. They stepped carefully over the cage threshold and took in the cavern with caution and awe.

From atop the pedestal holding the cage there were a set of stairs which led down to level ground. On either side of the steps were countless stalagmites guarding a large lake which seemed to circle around the base of the steps, back into some far corner beyond sight. Far above even the cage, there were cracks in the cave ceiling through which small rays of light penetrated and water from some unknown source seemed to endlessly trickle in, dripping off the stalactites and down onto the stalagmites and into the subterranean lake.       

As Aurea descended the stairs, small pillars of white came into view. Dozens of old candles were littered at the base of the steps and led outward into a narrow corridor, ancient wax drips dried on their bulky stalks. 

Alongside the candles were dried bundles of herbs, some ashen and all bound with thin string, the likes of which Aurea could faintly smell mingling with the earthen scent of the cave. 

They followed the trail of candles in darkness through a winding path. The only constants discernible were the drip of water, the occasional streak of light and the sense of a gradual ascent. When the path opened up once more, there was a great out pour of light and with it a scant few steps which led to somewhere outside the cave.

The outer world was immobile. Beyond the threshold was a vast expanse of white blanketing the ground as far as the eye could see and hazy in the distance, a faint plume of smoke against the slowly darkening blue sky. Aurea stepped forward as if on impulse, one foot in front of the other as she stared at the source of the smoke and felt snowflakes float onto her nose and ears, dampening both with their presence. 

The wind's chill penetrated even the thick coat and trousers that Aurea wore and they had grown hungry, an ache seating itself deep in the pit of their stomach. The smoke in the distance was far, but close enough to reach, Aurea thought. And off she went towards the source.

*

"Wren, come tend the fire." 

Grandma sat curled by the fireplace on a much loved rocking chair. The wrinkled face still held the woman's countenance well, playful nature coming through in her twinkling ancient eyes and calm voice. Oh, but she was always like this, lightly complaining about the ache winter brought to her brittle old bones—Wren never minded. 

"Just a moment."

Wren moved slow down the stairs, the outline of her lithe form barely visible in the faint firelight and short brown hair swaying with each step. 

There was something comforting about the way Grandma called her each winter night, the loose routine they had settled into as Wren talked about the stars and Grandma taught her about the past, the olden days most had forgotten. Grandma had always said winter was the season for dreams and so Wren thought it seemed fitting that each passing winter felt a little like a dream itself—lazy and uncertain but with a hopeful tone. The slow meandering pace of the nights overshadowed the brief periods of sunlight called day as the long arm of time stretched itself thin again. It would be a matter of time before spring came and brought with it all the beauty of nature.  

Until then on tonight, like most nights, Wren was relegated to retrieving firewood from the storehouse and preventing the small flame that gave life to all inhabitants from going out. 

"Be careful, the wolves have been restless lately—strange men in the area. Be on your guard." 

"I know, Grandma. I learned from the best after all." Wren winked, patted her hunting knife in its sheathe and lit the lantern like always, the wick seized up in dancing flame. 

Shrugging on a thick coat and slipping into equally warm boots, she turned the front door knob and stepped out into the cold, started down the steps and towards the direction of the storehouse.  

It was a short walk from the main house to the storehouse indicated by loosely staked poles with symbols carved on them so one could navigate nearly blind if they had to. The lantern lit up the path as Wren walked, snowflakes dappling the black wool coat she wore. Undoing the latch and pushing the door open, she grabbed a few hefty pieces of wood and made her way back out, nightly routine nearly over.

The pale moonlight was at its peak now, an imperfect crescent that cast a lonely gaze over a stark white land covered in coniferous trees of varying shades and exposed rock.   

And there face down in the snow, far from Wren but just close enough, was a girl with blonde hair. 

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

The Flight of Shadows

In the waning light of a May evening in 1941, Rudolf Hess stood on the airfield outside Augsburg, his eyes fixed on the Messerschmitt Bf 110. The twin-engine aircraft gleamed under the setting sun, a symbol of the hope and desperation that filled his heart. As Deputy Führer of the Third Reich, Hess had been privy to the machinations of power, but tonight, he embarked on a mission that diverged sharply from the paths of war and conquest.

Clad in his Luftwaffe uniform, Hess climbed into the cockpit, the weight of the Reich pressing down on him. The world was engulfed in the flames of conflict, and he, once a close confidant of Hitler, had grown increasingly disturbed by the relentless march toward annihilation. His thoughts turned to peace, an elusive dream amid the chaos. The decision he made was one of conviction and madness, an attempt to broker a truce with Britain, whom he saw as a potential ally against the true enemy: Bolshevism.

The engines roared to life, and the plane hurtled down the runway, lifting into the darkening sky. As he ascended, Hess felt a mix of exhilaration and trepidation. Below, Germany shrank to a patchwork of shadows and lights, while ahead, the vast expanse of the North Sea stretched out, a cold, indifferent witness to his solitary quest.

Hours passed as he navigated by the stars, the hum of the engines his only companion. The coastline of Scotland emerged from the mist, and with it, the realization of the enormity of his endeavor. He aimed for Dungavel House, the estate of the Duke of Hamilton, a man he believed could facilitate peace talks. His fuel dwindling, Hess prepared for the final descent.

The plane skidded across a Scottish field, crashing to a halt. Dazed but determined, Hess extricated himself from the wreckage. His mind raced with the urgency of his mission. Stumbling through the darkness, he was soon apprehended by local farmers, who were bewildered by the appearance of this high-ranking Nazi officer in their midst.

Under heavy guard, Hess was transported to the Tower of London. His arrival sent shockwaves through the British government. Prime Minister Winston Churchill, initially skeptical, ordered an investigation into Hess's motives. In the cold, damp cell, Hess found himself isolated, his grand plans reduced to the stark reality of imprisonment.

News of his flight reached Hitler, who erupted in fury. Hess was declared insane, his actions condemned as the folly of a deranged mind. The Führer's inner circle closed ranks, distancing themselves from the man who had once stood at the heart of Nazi power.

In the cold, stone-walled room of the Tower of London, Rudolf Hess sat across from Winston Churchill, the two men locked in a silent battle of wills. Churchill, cigar smoke curling around his head like a wreath, listened intently as Hess laid out his proposal.

"Mr. Churchill," Hess began, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the weight of his mission, "Germany does not seek to destroy Britain. Hitler's true enemy is Bolshevism. We believe that together, our nations can eradicate this threat and ensure the future of Europe."

Churchill's face remained impassive, but his mind raced. The war had taken a heavy toll on Britain. The Blitz had ravaged cities, and the strain on resources was immense. Despite his deep distrust of the Nazis, Churchill recognized the potential strategic advantage. After hours of intense discussion, a reluctant but pragmatic agreement was forged. Britain would cease hostilities with Germany and join forces against the Soviet Union. The United States, wary of the entanglement, decided to remain neutral.

With the secret pact in place, Operation Shadow was launched. The British and German forces coordinated a massive assault on the Soviet Union, catching Stalin off guard. The combined might of the Wehrmacht and the British Army swept through the Eastern Front with unprecedented speed.

The propaganda machines on both sides churned out stories of valor and brotherhood, portraying the alliance as a heroic stand against the spread of communism. Hess, once seen as a madman, was now heralded as a visionary who had brokered the impossible peace.

In London, Churchill faced a divided public. Some saw the alliance as a betrayal, while others, weary of war, welcomed the prospect of an end to the conflict. In Germany, Hitler's image was bolstered by the newfound partnership, and the narrative of a united Europe against Bolshevism gained traction.

The decisive Battle of Kursk saw the Allied forces dealing a crippling blow to the Red Army. Stalin, cornered and desperate, sought peace terms. The Treaty of Minsk was signed in 1943, effectively ending the war in Europe. The Soviet Union was left severely weakened, its influence in Eastern Europe diminished.

As Europe began the arduous task of rebuilding, Hess's role in the alliance was celebrated. He was awarded the Iron Cross and given a prominent position in the new European Union, an organization dedicated to ensuring peace and cooperation across the continent. Churchill, while still wary of the Nazis, found himself working closely with Hess to stabilize the post-war order.

The new European order, under the leadership of Germany and Britain, focused on reconstruction and economic cooperation. The Marshall Plan, initially designed for Western Europe, was expanded to include the Soviet Union, with the goal of preventing the resurgence of Bolshevism.

The United States, observing the developments from across the Atlantic, continued its policy of isolationism, focusing on its own economic growth and technological advancements. The Cold War, in this timeline, was averted, and the world entered a period of relative stability.

Rudolf Hess, the architect of the Shadow Alliance, was hailed as a hero who had not only helped end the war but also shaped the future of Europe. His vision of a united front against communism had come to fruition, and the horrors of the Holocaust and Nazi atrocities were downplayed or conveniently forgotten in the new narrative of unity and peace.

Churchill, though he had his reservations, adapted to the new reality. He continued to be a dominant figure in European politics, working with Hess and other leaders to maintain the fragile peace. The European Union grew stronger, becoming a beacon of economic prosperity and political stability.

In the end, the world remembered Hess not as the nut job who flew solo to Scotland in a desperate bid for peace, but as the hero who brokered an unlikely alliance that changed the course of history. The story of the Shadow Alliance became a testament to the power of diplomacy and the complexities of wartime politics, a narrative of redemption and cooperation that shaped the 20th century.

Years later, as the world looked back on the tumultuous events of the 1940s, historians debated the morality and implications of the Shadow Alliance. While the immediate benefits of peace and prosperity were undeniable, the ethical compromises and the overshadowing of Nazi crimes left a complex and controversial legacy.

Adolf Hitler, buoyed by the success of the Shadow Alliance and the stabilization of Europe under German-British leadership, solidified his position as the dominant figure in continental politics. With the war in Europe effectively over by 1943, Hitler focused on consolidating his power and implementing his vision of a Greater German Reich.

With the Soviet Union significantly weakened and the Western Allies focused on their own recovery and economic expansion, Hitler's regime enjoyed a period of relative stability and international acceptance. The atrocities of the Holocaust and Nazi aggression were downplayed or overlooked amidst the narrative of post-war reconstruction and unity against communism.

Hitler continued to wield immense influence over European affairs, shaping policies and alliances to further his expansionist ambitions. His leadership style evolved into a more strategic and politically astute approach, leveraging Germany's economic prowess and military strength to maintain dominance in continental Europe.

However, as the years passed and the complexities of governing a vast empire grew, internal dissent and opposition to Hitler's authoritarian, crazy ass rule began to surface.

Initially, Hitler's regime benefited from the perceived success of the Shadow Alliance and the stabilization of Europe under German leadership. The European Union, spearheaded by Germany and Britain, focused on economic recovery and cooperation, presenting a facade of unity and stability. However, beneath the surface, cracks began to appear.

As time passed, the memory of Nazi atrocities, including the Holocaust, continued to cast a dark shadow over Hitler's regime. Despite attempts to downplay these atrocities, international condemnation persisted, especially from countries outside Europe that had been directly affected by Nazi aggression and genocide.

Within Europe, dissent simmered among populations who remembered the horrors of Nazi occupation and persecution. Resistance movements, fueled by the memory of lost loved ones and a commitment to justice, grew in strength. Political opposition to Hitler's authoritarian rule gained momentum, bolstered by a younger generation eager to move past the traumas of war and embrace a new era of democracy and human rights.

Internationally, Hitler's Germany faced increasing isolation despite the initial cooperation with Britain. The United States, having remained neutral , became a vocal critic of Hitler's regime, emphasizing the importance of accountability for war crimes and genocide. Pressure mounted on Germany to reconcile its past and address the lingering scars of the Holocaust.

Soviet Russia, weakened but not defeated, continued to exert influence in Eastern Europe, challenging Germany's dominance in the region. Tensions between the Soviet Union and the German-led European Union simmered, leading to sporadic conflicts and proxy battles in border regions. The Cold War, though different in its origins, still loomed over the continent, shaped by ideological divides and geopolitical maneuverings.

The enduring consequences of Hitler's genocide during the war reverberated across generations and continents. In Europe, efforts to rebuild and reconcile were complicated by the legacy of Nazi crimes. Survivors of the Holocaust, supported by international organizations and advocates for human rights, demanded justice and recognition for the millions who perished.

The Nuremberg Trials, adapted to reflect the nuanced political landscape of this alternate history, became a pivotal moment for international law and accountability. Key figures within Hitler's regime, including those responsible for planning and executing the Holocaust, faced trial and punishment. This process, though contentious and complex, aimed to establish a precedent for holding leaders accountable for war crimes and crimes against humanity.

In the broader context of global history, the memory of Hitler's genocide served as a stark reminder of the dangers of unchecked nationalism and extremism. International efforts to promote tolerance, reconciliation, and human rights gained momentum, shaping global institutions and policies aimed at preventing future atrocities.

As pressure mounted both domestically and internationally, Hitler's grip on power weakened. Facing internal dissent and external condemnation, he found himself increasingly isolated and vulnerable. In a dramatic turn of events, a coup within Germany's military leadership, supported by civilian resistance movements and international allies, led to Hitler's arrest and eventual trial.

The trial, held in a reformed and democratic Germany, symbolized a turning point in European history. Hitler, once a symbol of authoritarianism and aggression, now stood trial for his crimes against humanity. The proceedings, broadcast worldwide, served as a reckoning for the atrocities committed under his regime and underscored the importance of international justice and accountability.

Hitler and his lover Eva Braun were hung upside down and eventually torn apart by citizens of Berlin.

Ultimately, Adolf Hitler's fate i was sealed not by military defeat but by the moral and legal condemnation of his actions during World War II. His legacy, tarnished by genocide and war, became a cautionary tale for future generations about the dangers of intolerance and extremism.

Thank God for crackpots like Hess.

God knows how bad it might have gotten or how insane the world would be today if Hess had not succeeded.

shape Hitler's fate by describing the evolution of European politics, the dynamics of international relations and the enduring consequences of his genocide during he war ChatGPT In this alternate history where Rudolf Hess's diplomatic maneuverings led to an alliance between Germany and Britain against the Soviet Union, Adolf Hitler's fate and the trajectory of European politics and international relations evolved in profound ways:

Evolution of European Politics: Initially, Hitler's regime benefited from the perceived success of the Shadow Alliance and the stabilization of Europe under German leadership. The European Union, spearheaded by Germany and Britain, focused on economic recovery and cooperation, presenting a facade of unity and stability. However, beneath the surface, cracks began to appear.

As time passed, the memory of Nazi atrocities, including the Holocaust, continued to cast a dark shadow over Hitler's regime. Despite attempts to downplay these atrocities, international condemnation persisted, especially from countries outside Europe that had been directly affected by Nazi aggression and genocide.

Within Europe, dissent simmered among populations who remembered the horrors of Nazi occupation and persecution. Resistance movements, fueled by the memory of lost loved ones and a commitment to justice, grew in strength. Political opposition to Hitler's authoritarian rule gained momentum, bolstered by a younger generation eager to move past the traumas of war and embrace a new era of democracy and human rights.

Dynamics of International Relations: Internationally, Hitler's Germany faced increasing isolation despite the initial cooperation with Britain. The United States, having remained neutral in this alternate timeline, became a vocal critic of Hitler's regime, emphasizing the importance of accountability for war crimes and genocide. Pressure mounted on Germany to reconcile its past and address the lingering scars of the Holocaust.

Soviet Russia, weakened but not defeated, continued to exert influence in Eastern Europe, challenging Germany's dominance in the region. Tensions between the Soviet Union and the German-led European Union simmered, leading to sporadic conflicts and proxy battles in border regions. The Cold War, though different in its origins, still loomed over the continent, shaped by ideological divides and geopolitical maneuverings.

Enduring Consequences of Genocide: The enduring consequences of Hitler's genocide during the war reverberated across generations and continents. In Europe, efforts to rebuild and reconcile were complicated by the legacy of Nazi crimes. Survivors of the Holocaust, supported by international organizations and advocates for human rights, demanded justice and recognition for the millions who perished.

The Nuremberg Trials, adapted to reflect the nuanced political landscape of this alternate history, became a pivotal moment for international law and accountability. Key figures within Hitler's regime, including those responsible for planning and executing the Holocaust, faced trial and punishment. This process, though contentious and complex, aimed to establish a precedent for holding leaders accountable for war crimes and crimes against humanity.

In the broader context of global history, the memory of Hitler's genocide served as a stark reminder of the dangers of unchecked nationalism and extremism. International efforts to promote tolerance, reconciliation, and human rights gained momentum, shaping global institutions and policies aimed at preventing future atrocities.

Hitler's Fate: As pressure mounted both domestically and internationally, Hitler's grip on power weakened. Facing internal dissent and external condemnation, he found himself increasingly isolated and vulnerable. In a dramatic turn of events, a coup within Germany's military leadership, supported by civilian resistance movements and international allies, led to Hitler's arrest and eventual trial.

The trial, held in a reformed and democratic Germany, symbolized a turning point in European history. Hitler, once a symbol of authoritarianism and aggression, now stood trial for his crimes against humanity. The proceedings, broadcast worldwide, served as a reckoning for the atrocities committed under his regime and underscored the importance of international justice and accountability.

Ultimately, Adolf Hitler's fate in this alternate history was sealed not by military defeat but by the moral and legal condemnation of his actions during World War II. His legacy, tarnished by genocide and war, became a cautionary tale for future generations about the dangers of intolerance and extremism.

[typezerostudios]

Possible Intro:

The Fire Nation cheered at the beginning of the end. Admiral Zhao slew the Moon Spirit, and cut the legs out from the Northern Water Tribe when they were at their strongest. By dawn, their soldiers patrolled the streets, their chief knelt before the Moon Slayer, and their princess was taken away as a bride to be to the Fire Prince.

None of them thought of the consequences of their victory.

There were always storms, always monsters, and with the conquest of the Water Tribes complete, it was easy to blame on an increase in raiders. When entire naval groups disappeared, with no survivors, no trace of what happened, they grew uneasy, but focused on the conquest of Ba Sing Se. There was no need to panic when victory was so close at hand. There was no need to be concerned about naval affairs, the final battles would be fought on land.

It was easy to ignore the soldier's stories, of strange voices in the night. After all, they needed something to keep them occupied. It was easy to blame their sudden disappearances on Jeong-Jeong, the traitor, seducing them with empty promises. No one spoke of the empty uniforms left behind.

It wasn't until the end of Summer, with the return of Sozin's Comet, that they truly understood their folly.

The Fire Lord's decision to burn the resistance out of the other nations was met with cheers, the the deployment of the aerial fleet went perfectly. The end of Earth Kingdom resistance was inevitable. They were the elite Firebenders, personal guards to the Fire Lord himself, blessed with power most benders could only dream of possessing. They thought they were invincible.

They were wrong.

The Ocean rose up to stop them, translucent tendrils rising up the engulf the fleet. Some burned their way free, ascending out of easy reach. Most did not, and were dragged into the depths. It chased them, shooting the most powerful ships ever created down like a farmer swatting spider-flies.

Ozai fled, abandoning his fleet and followers. The Ocean swore it would always hunt those who took away its beloved, and the seas began to rise.

The Earth Kingdom was meant to end in fire. Death by water was unexpected, but by no means merciful. Ba Sing Se stood as it always did, the walls built ever higher to keep the floodwaters at bay. The rest of the Earth Kingdom survived as they always did, building dam, sealing off underground caverns, or learning to sail.

The Water Tribes survived, even thrived. They just moved their frozen homes from land to water. Some learned a new form of waterbending, fueled by rage and retribution. The arts of healing were lost, but the destructive power they gained more than made up for it.

The Fire Nation… suffered. Their civilization was all but obliterated when the Great Tsunami swept over the archipelago. Survivors rebuilt on the mountain tops. Their armies and colonies… dissipated. Some made new lives in the Earth Kingdom, others became raiders, and some took their fleet and welding them together into floating fortresses, capable of withstanding even the most power storms.

Regardless of their nation, so much was lost. Cities were swallowed by the seal, never to be seen again, spirits lashed out as their homes were ravaged, rampaging across what little land remained.

Throughout it all, people prayed for the Avatar to return. He didn't. Some say that his disappearance was the first sign of the coming end. Some say that the Spirits kept him from reincarnating, because humanity had gone beyond redemption. Some say he gave up, like so many others.

But I still hope.

Avatar AU where Aang wakes up after 200 years in the iceberg, and 100 years after the Fire Nation completely fucks up the world.

The land is burned to a crisp. The moon is dark. The weather is out of wack. Angry spirits roam the wild, seeking vengeance against humanity for what they've done.

And yet despite everything, people still survive in the wasteland and ruins.

It's too late to save the world, but it's not too late to fix it.

(also instead of steampunk tech elements, it's atompunk elements)

[alterworldstudios]

Final stand

Hello everyone!!! This is a story about my friend @gemeralda07 s characters midnight and evilrette!!! Please go check her work out!! Both of them belong to her!

Long ago, before lucky first fell into this world, there once lived a guardian angel of legend.

Loved by all, revered by many, his tale of slaying the dangerous devil told from generation to generation. Many sing of his legend, for what he did that night had likely saved millions..

Though, does anyone really know how this legend played out? The angel and the devil had vanished after this fight, many presuming them to be dead, the angels sacrifice looked on with admiration and gratitude. Many believe the retelling.. But allow me to tell you what had really happened that fateful Thursday night.

It was a day like any other, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the clouds themselves had a nice morning glow to them. An average day in the safety of heaven itself.. That is, until a resounding thud shook the clouds themselves. "GAH- ow..." A small angel groaned as he fell from one of the pillars, having been sent flying into it by his training instructor. "Dangit..." "MIDNIGHT."

The angel snapped back to reality, and quickly sat up. "Sir yes sir!" "I thought I told you to watch where I aim!!! What in lotus's good name was that!?" "I.. Uh.. Well!-" "well!?" "I was distracted sir, my apologies!"

The instructor shook his head disappointingly, looking on at the moth in front of him. "You need to get your head out of the clouds, midnight. If that were a real demons attack, you'd be a dead man!" "I know I know... But that cloud over there looked like a mouse-" the instructor face palmed, the angel wincing in response to it. "I.. Uh.. I can try again. Honest! Ill be ready this time-" the angel held his hand up, and midnight swiftly fell silent.

"No. No. We've been training all morning, and hadn't made any progress what so ever. You keep getting distracted, and we can't have that on the force." "Y- you're not saying what I think you're saying, right?" "No. I'm saying exactly what you are afraid of. Midnight, if you don't clear those clouds out of your vision, you'll be demoted from guardian to common! Do I make myself clear!?" "I-uh-but sir!-" "I don't want to hear it, you. Be gone with you, out of my sight!"

With a heavy heart, midnight left the training arena, the instructor looking on as he left. After awhile, the instructors stern expression faded. "..I'm doing this for his own good, I hope he realizes that..."

Midnight meanwhile, as he left the arena, felt a bit.. Down about his predicament. He had always dreamed of being a great guardian, just like those before him, but he just can't seem to stop himself from getting distracted. He doesn't know why, but the littlest things seemingly caught his attention, whether it be an interestingly shaped cloud, A passing butterfly, or the song of a bird resting on a tree. Others were capable of tuning things out, capable of keeping form and being precise, but him? He couldn't. It was near impossible. And that was just with focus.

He was very clumsy as well, and when you're A being with three different pairs of arms, you tended to get tied up by your own limbs. The amount of times this had happened in general embarrasses him greatly..

Cursing silently under his breath, he kicked at the cloudy floor below him. "Dangit.. I can't risk losing this, what would the others think?.. If I fail at this, I'd be the biggest laughing stock of a guardian in all of history!!... But what am I going to do? Training isn't doing anything to help..."

His antennae suddenly perked up, him overhearing a passing conversation.

"it happened again, this time on the west side.." "Again!? That blasted devil.. How many souls will he kill until he's satisfied!?" "Devil?.." Midnight, his interest piqued, hid behind a nearby pillar, listening in on the conversation between two head angels. Normally, guardians wouldn't do this, it wasn't right, but.. Well, he wasn't an average guardian now, was he?

"It's been.. How many?" "Too many, hundreds, if not thousands of innocent souls damned to hell because of him." "Why is he gathering so many? Is he trying to take over that awful place?" "If I had to guess, yes..." "Maybe we should send the force to dispose of him..." "No, its too dangerous. With all those souls he had gathered, it'd be a death sentence to the entire force..." "Dammit.. What're we gonna do?.."

Midnight turned away from the pillar, thinking to himself. A devil huh? And a problematic one at that... Its a danger to souls up here? And the heads won't do anything to stop them?... "...this is my chance. If no one else will do this.. Then.. Dangit! I will!!!"

Looking every which way, until he was facing west, he swiftly opened his wings, and took flight, heading for the location this devil had been last seen.. Albeit clumsily and slowly, he wasn't always the greatest flyer. "Maybe I should walk instead?.. No. No. Flyings faster.."

As he traveled through the clouds to the western side, the clouds grew darker, and darker, becoming stained with the monochrome blood of souls long since lost. Midnight didn't want to admit it.. But he was getting scared. He hadn't seen so much carnage before, hell he's never even been on a task at all! This was his first time being this far away from home in.. Ever. And the amount of damage that littered the broken down cloudy city was nothing like he had ever seem before. Maybe he should turn back..

Before he could turn around, however, his antennae perked up once again, him hearing movement off in the distance.. Movement, and the screams of souls escaping whatever was chasing them.

Landing close by, he carefully made his way over, peering out from behind some rubble. What he saw shook him to his core, A demon snatching up souls as if they were flowers in a field, its darkened wings acting as a shadowy cape. It was chuckling to itself. "Run little souls, run.. You'll all soon be mine anyway... A game of chase is all this is!!!"

He had found him. He found the devil. And he..

Was having second thoughts.

This devil was clearly dangerous! Its wings, horns, and claws were stained with blood, it's speed unlike anything midnight had ever seen before, its sheer size making midnight seem like a tiny little bug in comparison! Its no wonder the heads seemed so against sending the force out, this.. Thing, was far too dangerous for anyone to deal with! 'maaaybe if I stay quiet, he won't notice...'

He began to walk away, trying to escape as quietly as possible.. When there was a sudden loud SNAP.

flinching, he looked down.. He had broken a twig from one of the cloud trees hanging overhead. "oh.. Shoot-"

Before he could react, he was tackled down by the devil, it laughing maniacally as it held him down. "HELLO THERE!!!!!! HELLO THERE!! OF ALL ANGELS TO SHOW UP, IT IS ONLY YOU WHO DARE? SUCH A LAUGH IT IS, I GAVE YOU SUCH A SCARE!!!!"

Midnight screamed, and kicked him away, the devil lurching away as midnight got back to his feet, quickly drawing his sword and spell book. This was it. Even if he was scared out of his mind, there was no turning back now.

"what is this, what is this?" The devil looked on. "What have they sent to stop little old me? What is it that my eyes have to see? A bug of all things, A moth to be exact! HA! oh how funny, what a hilarious act! They could've sent an army, how fun that would be!!! But its so funny, that they think a moth would stop little old me."

"I-i wasn't sent, I came here by my own volition! What you've been doing is a safety violation!!"

"HAHAHA is that so!!? Well tiny moth, you'll become a John doe!!! You should've never tried to stop me, now a never ending nightmare is all you will SEE!!!!"

"don't think like that, I will stop this act!!"

"Oh what a sight, SHUT UP AND FIGHT!!!"

the demon rushed forward, its claws colliding with midnights sword. Midnight attempted to parry, pushing the devil away. However, the demon swept him off his feet, and sent him flying with a sucker punch.

Flying through numerous buildings, midnight landed in a wall of clouds. Shaking the clouds out of his vision, he looked up just in time to see the demon barreling towards him with a mallet. Thinking quickly, He opened his spell book, swiftly casting a shield spell to block the attack. The demon lurched back, hissing at the light casted from the spell.

"...ha! There we go, you can't hit me now!!!" "Your voice is as annoying as a dying cow." "Hey! No its not, my voice is perfectly fine!- wait, huh? Where'd he g-" "quiet now, your soul is mine..."

Midnight suddenly screamed, A horrible pain felt on his back, A deafening ripping sound shaking the clouds themselves. Tossing something aside, and kicking midnight away, midnight weakly looks up to see... His wings.  They were discarded on the clouds themselves. That devil.. He.. He ripped off his wings! He could feel his blood pool around him, his vision blurring as he looked towards the devil himself. The devil quietly shushed him from afar, slowly making his way over. "quiet now, this battle is done. Just give up, all hope is gone..."

Midnight couldn't think straight. His wings were gone, discarded like toys, his vision was obscured, his eyes stained with his gathering blood, and his body felt too weak to move, the loss being too much on him.

..he felt as though he had failed, that he'd be just another tally on this demons growing death toll. This demon couldn't be stopped, not by some.. Clumsy little moth...

'...Focus.'

... He fell silent. The demon looked on.

"A quiet one now, isn't that grand? I should give you credit, an angel who never ran.. But that's all you'll be known for, is a foolish mistake. You really tried to fight me, with everything at stake?"

The demon chuckled, then turned to his wings.

"these are important, this I know... How unfortunate, you've reached a brand new low... What is an angel without its wings?... No longer flying with these silly things... Oh well, what's done is done, the wings now gone!...What'll you do, why not make it worse?...."

The demon picked the wings up once more, and lit them on fire, the wings dusting away into the evening air. Midnight only looked on with what remained of his vision...

"Hahaha.. This will now be your curse..."

'Focus.'

The moth slowly got up, the devil giving an amused smirk.

"Oh? You still have some fight? Oh isn't that just a sight. Just give up now, its for the best! Die like a moth, you stupid little pest."

'FOCUS.'

The devils smirk swiftly faded away, as the moth suddenly held out his spell book, pointing his sword with newfound determination. A crescent moon formed in his eye. 'What is this moth doing, why won't he die?! Is this.. Fear I'm seeing in my eye?'

"What are you doing, what do you hope to gain!?" "ANOTHER LIFE, YOU'LL NEVER TAKE OR HURT AGAIN!!!!"

The sky suddenly lit up, the duo fading into white, A curse had been cast, A powerful one at that.

Falling from the clouds, their visions growing dark.. The battle was over, struck right at the heart.

To the few who found the remains of it, they presumed the two of them to be dead.

...but, to them, they woke up in a new land instead.

[zonerobotnik]

"It's chilly in here-not that I feel it," he said. Then he sent the cat to start collecting food for the next meal, and began to talk in his rumbling voice. This was the story he told.

Hell Hall had once been an ordinary farmhouse named Hill Hall-it had been built by a farmer named Hill. It was about two hundred years old, the same age as the farm where the Sheepdog and the cat lived.

"The two houses are quite a bit alike," said the Colonel, "only our place is painted white and well cared for. I remember Hell Hall before it was painted black and it really wasn't bad at all."

The farmer named Hill had got into debt and sold Hill Hall to an ancestor of Cruella de Vil's, who liked its lonely position on the wild heath. He intended to pull the farmhouse down and build himself a fantastic house which was to be a mixture of a castle and a cathedral, and had begun by building the surrounding wall and the Folly.

(The Colonel had heard all this while visiting the Vicarage.)

Once the wall, with its heavy iron gates, was finished, strange rumours began to spread. Villagers crossing the heath at night heard screams and wild laughter. Were there prisoners behind the prison-like wall? People began to count their children carefully and found some missing.

"Some of the stories-Well, I shan't tell you just as you're falling asleep," said the Colonel. "I didn't hear them at the Vicarage. But I will tell you something-because it won't upset you as it naturally upset the villagers. It was said that this de Vil fellow had a long tail. I didn't hear that at the Vicarage, either."

Missis had taken in very little of this and was now fast asleep, but Pongo was keenly interested.

"By this time," the Colonel went on, "people were calling the place Hell Hall, and the de Vil chap plain devil. The end came when the men from several villages arrived one night with lighted torches, prepared to break open the gates and burn the farmhouse down. But as they approached the gates a terrific thunderstorm began and put the torches out. Then the gates burst open-seemingly of their own accord and out came de Vil, driving a coach and four. And the story is that lightning was coming not from the skies but from de Vil-blue forked lightning. All the men ran away screaming and never came back. And neither did de Vil. The house stood empty for thirty years. Then someone rented it. It's been rented again and again, but no one ever stays."

"And it still belongs to the de Vil family?" asked Pongo.

"There's only Cruella de Vil left of the family now. Yes, she owns it."

What a fascinating story! Why does she keep renting it out?

[brookston]

Holidays 4.4

Holidays

Antitrust Day

Art Deco Day

Atlanta Day

Auditory Processing Disorder Awareness Day

Ballroom Dance Day

Basque Day (Spain)

Bonza Bottler Day

Cat’s Day (Taiwan)

Chicago Flag Day (Illinois)

Children’s Day (China, Taiwan)

Clear and Bright Day (Farmer’s Calendar; China)

404 Day

HIE Awareness Day

Hug a Newsperson Day

International Day for Mine Awareness and Assistance in Mine Action (UN)

International Day to Defend Amina

International Rock Beat Day

Jeep 4x4 Day

Maya Angelou Day (Boston)

Microsoft Day

Mourning Day for Covid-19 Martyrs (China)

National Dillon Day

National Horse Rehabilitation Day

National Lunchbreak Day (UK)

National Pansy Day

Ose Matsuri (Japan)

Peace Day (Angola)

Refugee Rights Day (Canada)

Sarhul (Jharkhand, India)

Swedish-American Friendship Day

Tell-A-Lie Day

Victims of Violence Wholly Day

Vitamin "C" Day

Walk Around Things Day

World Drummers Day

World Plagiocephaley Day

World Rat Day

World Stray Animals Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Chocolate Milk Powder Day (a.k.a. Powdered Chocolate Day)

Homogenized Milk Day

International Carrot Day

National Cordon Bleu Day

National Pub Day (UK)

National Ramen Noodle Day

1st Tuesday in April

National Family Caregiver Day (Canada) [1st Tuesday]

National Healthy Schools Day [1st Tuesday]

National Service Recognition Day [1st Tuesday]

Oncology Nursing Day (Canada) [1st Tuesday]

Sexual Assault Awareness Day of Action [1st Tuesday]

Independence Days

Jacktoopia (Declared; 2014) [unrecognized]

Senegal (from France, 1960)

Sorrenia (Declared; 2013) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Aequinoctium Vernum VI (Pagan)

Benedict the Moor (Christian; Saint)

Dabucuri pataub, (Initiation Rites of the Young Men; to Jurupari, South American Guarani/Tupi God)

Feast of No Saints Day (Pastafarian)

Gaetano Catanoso (Christian; Saint)

Holy Tuesday [5 Days before Easter]

Isidore of Seville (Christian; Saint)

The Kangaroo Rat (Muppetism)

Katori Jingu Otaue-sai (Rice Planting Festival; Japan)

Magna Mater begins (aka Megalesia / Great Mother Festival; Ancient Rome)

Martin Luther King Jr. (Episcopal Church (USA))

Maurice de Vlaminck (Artology)

Megalesia (Mother of Gods Festival; Phrygian)

Mahavir Jayanti (a.k.a. Janma Kalyanak; Jainism)

Nafels Pilgrimage (Glarus Canton, Switzerland)

Pierre-Paul Prud´hon (Artology)

Portfirio Diaz Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Reginald Heber (Anglican Church of Canada)

Theodisius of Bithynia (Positivist; Saint)

Tigernach of Clones (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Unluckiest Day of the Year (China)

Premieres

Alice’s Auto Race (Disney Cartoon; 1927)

Aloha From Hawaii, by Elvis Presley (TV Concert Special; 1973)

Anna Karenina (Film; 1997)

Brilliant Corners, by Thelonius Monk (Album; 1957)

Bye Bye Birdie (Film; 1963)

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (Film; 2014)

Chasing Amy (Film; 1997)

Combatants Will Be Dispatched (Anime TV Series; 2021)

Cool for Cats, by Squeeze (Album; 1979)

Cowboy Bebop: The Movie (Anime Film; 2003)

The Double (Film; 2013)

Follies, by Stephen Sondheim (Broadway Musical; 1971)

The Good Life, a.k.a. Good Neighbors (UK TV Series; 1975)

High Fidelity, by Elvis Costello (Song; 1979)

Man’s Best Friend (Disney Cartoon; 1952)

Nim’s Island (Film; 2008)

Oliver’s Story, by Erich Segal (Novel; 1977)

The Party (Film; 1968)

Perils of Pauline (Film Series; 1914)

Rio Bravo (Film; 1959)

The Saint (Film; 1997)

What a Girl Wants (Film; 2003)

Today’s Name Days

Isidor, Konrad (Austria)

Benedikt, Izidor, Platon (Croatia)

Ivana (Czech Republic)

Ambrosius (Denmark)

Ambrus, Arbo, Arp, Arpo (Estonia)

Ukko (Finland)

Isidore (France)

Isidor, Konrad, Kurt (Germany)

Izidor (Hungary)

Isabelle, Isadora, Isidoro (Italy)

Herta, Valda (Latvia)

Algaudas, Ambraziejus, Eglė, Izidorius (Lithuania)

Nancy, Nanna, Nina (Norway)

Ambroży, Bazyli, Benedykt, Izydor, Wacław, Wacława, Zdzimir (Poland)

Iosif (Romania)

Izidor (Slovakia)

Benito (Spain)

Ambrosius, Marianne, Marlene (Sweden)

Cedric, Cedrica, Plato, Tiernan, Tierney (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 94 of 2024; 271 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 14 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Fearn (Alder) [Day 17 of 28]

Chinese: Second Month 2 (Gui-Mao), Day 14 (Red-Chen)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 13 Nisan 5783

Islamic: 13 Ramadan 1444

J Cal: 3 Aqua; Threesday [3 of 30]

Julian: 22 March 2023

Moon: 97%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 10 Archimedes (4th Month) [Theodisius of Bithynia]

Runic Half Month: Ehwaz (Horse) [Day 10 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 16 of 90)

Zodiac: Aries (Day 15 of 30)

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 4.4

Holidays

Antitrust Day

Art Deco Day

Atlanta Day

Auditory Processing Disorder Awareness Day

Ballroom Dance Day

Basque Day (Spain)

Bonza Bottler Day

Cat’s Day (Taiwan)

Chicago Flag Day (Illinois)

Children’s Day (China, Taiwan)

Clear and Bright Day (Farmer’s Calendar; China)

404 Day

HIE Awareness Day

Hug a Newsperson Day

International Day for Mine Awareness and Assistance in Mine Action (UN)

International Day to Defend Amina

International Rock Beat Day

Jeep 4x4 Day

Maya Angelou Day (Boston)

Microsoft Day

Mourning Day for Covid-19 Martyrs (China)

National Dillon Day

National Horse Rehabilitation Day

National Lunchbreak Day (UK)

National Pansy Day

Ose Matsuri (Japan)

Peace Day (Angola)

Refugee Rights Day (Canada)

Sarhul (Jharkhand, India)

Swedish-American Friendship Day

Tell-A-Lie Day

Victims of Violence Wholly Day

Vitamin "C" Day

Walk Around Things Day

World Drummers Day

World Plagiocephaley Day

World Rat Day

World Stray Animals Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Chocolate Milk Powder Day (a.k.a. Powdered Chocolate Day)

Homogenized Milk Day

International Carrot Day

National Cordon Bleu Day

National Pub Day (UK)

National Ramen Noodle Day

1st Tuesday in April

National Family Caregiver Day (Canada) [1st Tuesday]

National Healthy Schools Day [1st Tuesday]

National Service Recognition Day [1st Tuesday]

Oncology Nursing Day (Canada) [1st Tuesday]

Sexual Assault Awareness Day of Action [1st Tuesday]

Independence Days

Jacktoopia (Declared; 2014) [unrecognized]

Senegal (from France, 1960)

Sorrenia (Declared; 2013) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Aequinoctium Vernum VI (Pagan)

Benedict the Moor (Christian; Saint)

Dabucuri pataub, (Initiation Rites of the Young Men; to Jurupari, South American Guarani/Tupi God)

Feast of No Saints Day (Pastafarian)

Gaetano Catanoso (Christian; Saint)

Holy Tuesday [5 Days before Easter]

Isidore of Seville (Christian; Saint)

The Kangaroo Rat (Muppetism)

Katori Jingu Otaue-sai (Rice Planting Festival; Japan)

Magna Mater begins (aka Megalesia / Great Mother Festival; Ancient Rome)

Martin Luther King Jr. (Episcopal Church (USA))

Maurice de Vlaminck (Artology)

Megalesia (Mother of Gods Festival; Phrygian)

Mahavir Jayanti (a.k.a. Janma Kalyanak; Jainism)

Nafels Pilgrimage (Glarus Canton, Switzerland)

Pierre-Paul Prud´hon (Artology)

Portfirio Diaz Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Reginald Heber (Anglican Church of Canada)

Theodisius of Bithynia (Positivist; Saint)

Tigernach of Clones (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Unluckiest Day of the Year (China)

Premieres

Alice’s Auto Race (Disney Cartoon; 1927)

Aloha From Hawaii, by Elvis Presley (TV Concert Special; 1973)

Anna Karenina (Film; 1997)

Brilliant Corners, by Thelonius Monk (Album; 1957)

Bye Bye Birdie (Film; 1963)

Captain America: The Winter Soldier (Film; 2014)

Chasing Amy (Film; 1997)

Combatants Will Be Dispatched (Anime TV Series; 2021)

Cool for Cats, by Squeeze (Album; 1979)

Cowboy Bebop: The Movie (Anime Film; 2003)

The Double (Film; 2013)

Follies, by Stephen Sondheim (Broadway Musical; 1971)

The Good Life, a.k.a. Good Neighbors (UK TV Series; 1975)

High Fidelity, by Elvis Costello (Song; 1979)

Man’s Best Friend (Disney Cartoon; 1952)

Nim’s Island (Film; 2008)

Oliver’s Story, by Erich Segal (Novel; 1977)

The Party (Film; 1968)

Perils of Pauline (Film Series; 1914)

Rio Bravo (Film; 1959)

The Saint (Film; 1997)

What a Girl Wants (Film; 2003)

Today’s Name Days

Isidor, Konrad (Austria)

Benedikt, Izidor, Platon (Croatia)

Ivana (Czech Republic)

Ambrosius (Denmark)

Ambrus, Arbo, Arp, Arpo (Estonia)

Ukko (Finland)

Isidore (France)

Isidor, Konrad, Kurt (Germany)

Izidor (Hungary)

Isabelle, Isadora, Isidoro (Italy)

Herta, Valda (Latvia)

Algaudas, Ambraziejus, Eglė, Izidorius (Lithuania)

Nancy, Nanna, Nina (Norway)

Ambroży, Bazyli, Benedykt, Izydor, Wacław, Wacława, Zdzimir (Poland)

Iosif (Romania)

Izidor (Slovakia)

Benito (Spain)

Ambrosius, Marianne, Marlene (Sweden)

Cedric, Cedrica, Plato, Tiernan, Tierney (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 94 of 2024; 271 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 14 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Fearn (Alder) [Day 17 of 28]

Chinese: Second Month 2 (Gui-Mao), Day 14 (Red-Chen)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 13 Nisan 5783

Islamic: 13 Ramadan 1444

J Cal: 3 Aqua; Threesday [3 of 30]

Julian: 22 March 2023

Moon: 97%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 10 Archimedes (4th Month) [Theodisius of Bithynia]

Runic Half Month: Ehwaz (Horse) [Day 10 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 16 of 90)

Zodiac: Aries (Day 15 of 30)

[wereshrew-admirer]

......Regency Era AU 

Duvall came to Eastern Folly as a student, but though he comes from a good family the high society of Sangfielle paralleled the common folk in their disdain for the old dominion. struggling to keep his place among the nobles, he regularly took long walks in the countryside to avoid doing anything rash in response to the taunting of his peers. 

On one such walk in the spring he met a young farmer wandering far from home and restless despite the season’s usually bone-wearying work of plowing and planting. they’d been forbidden from working the fields until the crops emerged, having been caught the year prior attempting to plant unearthly seeds in the soil. 

The farmer had never met a nobleman and their suspicion of Duvall was no different from their hesitancy to trust any of his class. Duvall, well accustomed to hostility by now, found this a refreshing change from the sneering of his supposed peers. 

The farmer, for their part, was pleasantly surprised first when instead of taking offense Duvall shared in their complaints of the local ruling class, and second when he reacted with genuine (and even enthusiastic) interest when they mentioned their theories on unorthodox methods for increasing crop yield. 

The two formed a habit, unintentional at first, of meeting along the shore of the large lake to the west of town, laughing together until the suns hung low on the horizon. they became close that summer, but when the weather cooled and harvesting began the farmer was called back to work, their size and strength appreciated by their family even when their mind was not. 

Duvall continued his afternoon walks until the frosts fell over the land and chilled his feet, but his friend did not return. All winter he sat at his bedroom window looking out at the low hills surrounding Eastern Folly, dreaming of the day he might hear the farmer’s laughter and forget, if only briefly, the strict world in which he lived his daily life. 

He got his wish the following spring, before even the first of the year’s new leaves unfurled -he found his farmer working among a construction crew near the marketplace Duvall frequented. At first he was overjoyed, but when the farmer caught his eye and called to him from the scaffolding of a new building, Duvall realized at once that they were not alone, and that any number of his enemies might witness his association with this commoner and use it to their advantage. 

Still, his desire to speak to his friend was strong, and he managed to pass word to the farmer of a time and place for them to meet in private. 

The farmer, blind to Duvall’s concerns and new to both urban life in general and the vulgar stories passed among their new coworkers, misinterpreted this request and arrived at the proposed meeting place with expectations well beyond those Duvall had intended. 

Surprised but far from offended, Duvall found himself drawn into the farmer’s arms and an affair of the sort he’d thought only possible in the most frivolous of fictions. But unlike his clothes, the farmer was unable to strip from him the true reasons for his discretion. 

Duvall was a scholar. To access his studies he must remain in the good graces of his family, and to do so meant that though he was allowed to fly far from the nest, he was to remain a respected member of high society wherever he landed. And the farmer was far below his station in both class and temperament. To be seen together would ruin him. 

And so when they met, they did so in secret, and only with great caution on Duvall’s part.

This would prove disastrous for any love that may have grown between them when Duvall received a scholarship that took him far from Eastern Folly on such short notice that he was unable to find the time away from watchful eyes to inform the farmer of his departure. 

Though he tried to write, his letters were returned to him undelivered. In desperation he wrote to the farmer’s parents under the guise of a business owner seeking work owed, and to his horror, this was the only letter that received a response: his lover had been conscripted and was soon thereafter killed in battle. 

Years later, Duvall returned to Eastern Folly in time to see its change into Blackwick county, and established himself there as a humble professor. Finally tolerated by the local gentry, if only, he suspected, as a source of entertainment. Still, this afforded him the freedoms he had originally sought in his flight from Aldomina - to study as he saw fit, and to research first hand those subjects that caught his interest. 

And he was not altogether as lonely as he seemed - he made what he thought were genuine friends in a rival scholar whose humor was all that saved him from constant scandal, and in a lady who shared Duvall’s foreign tongue and whom would have faced similar trials if not for her cool demeanor that allowed insults to roll off of her like beads of water off a duck’s back (unlike Duvall, who continued to struggle to control himself when sufficiently frustrated well beyond the years of when such things are expected of young men). Others, too, were kind enough to him that he felt at ease in Blackwick, if not at home. 

Parties, unfortunately, were still an uncomfortable necessity to remain in good favor with the patrons he had managed to acquire on his own, and to satisfy his now-distant family who continued to send him financial support from time to time with the hope that he might someday marry and expand the reach of their line into the heartland. 

And so every few weeks he’d spend an evening suffering the ignorant questions of those attempting to stave off their own boredom. He was painfully aware that most attending these social events had no genuine interest in his research, and so when the gaggle of dull-witted gentry abandoned him for some new amusement, Duvall felt nothing but gratitude to the unfortunate newcomer whose mysterious origin drew their attention.

It was a general, he found out later, having “returned” to Blackwick after a successful campaign in the bloodfields absolutely dripping in awards and medals and tales of gloriously violent exploits. Duvall’s gratitude for the distraction they posed did not extend to his curiosity, as not much turned his stomach quicker than did the glorification of military men who stood on the backs of soldiers who had no choice but to die fighting under their heel - a sensitivity that he did his best to hide, lest someone inquire as to how he picked it up.  

It was this that kept Duvall far from the circles that grew around the general, though the rumors were impossible to escape: Chine should died when a bullet tore through his face and took one of his eyes, but he had fought on to lead his men to victory as if unaffected by pain or blood loss. The list of battles they’d won was long, and they had become well known for their ferocity and willingness to face death alongside his soldiers. It was said that the very sight of their snarling face sometimes inspired their foes to surrender - The tales of their exploits nearly bore Duvall to tears. 

The only interesting line of gossip was the officer’s mysterious background. They were said to have come from Eastern Folly, but no local house claimed them. They spoke with the local accent, though, and bore features similar to those whose lines ran deep as the mines in these mountains. 

More curious yet, he would not identify the benefactor that sponsored their commission. Claiming again that they had ties to the land of Blackwick itself. What might have been a controversy that ruined a lesser man, Chine thrived on it. Equally fearsome on the ballroom floor, it was said, as they were in battle. 

This set Duvall off laughing whenever he heard it and so his friend and rival Lye Lychen took to announcing dance partners as though they had stepped into a boxing ring with the general, assigning points to potential suitors as they struggled to catch Chine’s attention through the normal means of flattery and sex appeal and over-practiced wit. 

While this often successfully got his shoulders shaking, Duvall managed to not so much as glance in the general’s direction. Lye’s obvious exaggeration of the situation became something of a game between the two of them and the Lady Es. She acted as a referee, confirming the truth or lie of Mr. Lychen’s claims whenever Duvall called it, saving him from actually looking himself - which added to the challenge for Lye, who was determined to craft a story just extravagant enough to draw Duvall’s curiosity without being flagged as false. Lady Es, in all fairness, never contradicted Lye until Duvall asked for her word. 

But Blackwick was not populous enough for such a game to continue forever. It was inevitable that eventually Duvall would look upon the general by accident, on or off of the dance floor. It happened late one evening after Duvall had drunk just enough to doubt himself - across the room a large group of people shifted, opening just enough to reveal at their center the figure that Duvall had thus far avoided. 

And fate would have it that the general, in that moment, also glanced in his direction. Duvall was frozen in place, staring with eyes so wide that he was sure to draw attention by his expression alone -  there across the hall stood his farmer, rendered nearly unrecognizable by the scars that cut bright lines through their freckles and dug deep pits into their face, but alive. He half-stumbled forward only to realize that a sea of party goers still blocked the path between them, and then recognition seemed to spark in the general’s eye and instead of reflecting the intensity of joy that Duvall felt for the briefest, sweetest moment, their expression shifted into a cold glare that seemed to take the floor out from below Duvall’s feet. 

Lyke was near enough to catch him, exclaiming, “woa now, you alright buddy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost”

Duvall grasped his friend’s arm for dear life, staring at the space where his farmer had been a moment before, replaced now by the ever-shifting crowd, and grateful for it, too - for a moment more of that hateful glare would surely have sent him to his own grave. He shook his head as if to clear it, blinking up at Lye and forcing a grin that he knew wouldn’t fool the man for a second, “you know - i - i might have”