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zepskies · 4 months ago

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The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

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Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn.

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly.

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now.

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being��kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock…

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frida-kahl-of-the-rocky-horror · 1 year ago

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Okay, @sihatn wishes to be so hung up on the particular war crime the Israeli government is using to excessively slaughter innocent Palestinian civilians, so let’s explain the difference between Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing:

Genocide: the deliberate killing of a large number of people from a particular nation or ethnic group with the aim of destroying that nation or group

Examples: The Armenian Genocide (where the term actually originates), the Shoah/Holocaust, Taíno Genocide, and Rwandan Genocide to name a few.

I have seen some Zionists on this platform and on Instagram argue that Israel cannot be committing Genocide because it is a “very specific instance in history that only includes the Holocaust”. That fact is ardently incorrect. For one, the first event to be called a Genocide and where the term was coined was the Armenian Genocide and countless events have been labeled a Genocide since 1943/1944 when the term was initially coined (including events coined after the fact that had already happened like the aforementioned Taíno Genocide).

Ethnocide: the deliberate and systematic destruction of the culture of an ethnic group or nation without deliberately killing large numbers of people within that ethnic group or nation

Think “kill the Indian, save the man”, the American and Canadian policy against American Indian tribes and First Nations that sought to forcibly assimilate them into W.A.S.P. culture. A similar policy occurred in Hawaii during the “Republic of Hawaii” and “Territory of Hawaii” days, and even the destruction of Yiddish Culture by Zionists in Israel who feared it for being “too Middle Eastern”. Most Re-Education camps fall in this category too.

Ethic Cleansing: the mass expulsion or killing of members of an unwanted ethnic or religious group in a society

This term is relatively new and was coined in the aftermath of the collapse of Yugoslavia and Serbia’s treatment of Croats, Bosnians, and other ethnic minorities, as well as the Stalinist movement of ethnic minorities to different SSRs.

Mass Homicide: the deliberate killing of a large number of people

The only distinction here is the people are not being killed because of their ethnicity or nation, but for ✨ other reasons ✨

Now here’s the kicker, most Zionists would say they are committing Ethnic Cleansing. They might not say it out right, because the term has a nasty connotation, but they will say they’re doing the definition of ethnic cleansing.

Some propaganda reblogging Zionists might claim that they’re just committing Mass Homicide but here’s the thing, almost every example of mass homicide being committed by one nation to another nation has been an example of one of the first three categories. The only real examples of Mass Homicide actually being Mass Homicide occur within a state (see Mao famines, Pol Pot’s mass killings, or the countless purging of communists or anti communists during the Cold War).

Some (wrong) historians may claim the Bengal Famine and Irish Potato Famine were examples of mass Homicide but here’s the thing, in both cases aid from other nations and governments were barred from entering the effected places because the UK forbid it. Food exports were forced to continue to come from Ireland and Bengal because the UK forced it. The reasons these famines were so severe was because the UK had a eugenics inspired belief that the Irish and Bengalis were “sub human animals” and “less deserving of food than the Brits”.

The Irish Potato Famine and Bengali Famine were Genocides, with famine being the preferred method of killing.

Was it intentional at first? Maybe not. Did it become intentional after the fact? Yes.

But this takes us to the most important point. The difference between Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing AND Mass Homicide is the intent.

But the intent isn’t truly known until after the fact, when internal government documents are released and the facts of the situation are holistically known.

The Jews/Poles/Romani/etc knew they were going through a Genocide (or well, they didn’t know the word, but they knew what was happening) but most of the outside world didn’t because the N@zis were secretive about it. Yes some activists and Jewish/Polish/Romani/etc diaspora groups warned other governments, but these other governments (US, UK, USSR, China, France, Brazil, Mexico, Canada, Italy even) were skeptical.

We don’t full know intent now, but given Herzl and Jabotinsky’s rhetoric which essentially established modern day Zionism and the Israeli state, and the establishment of Area C for Israeli settlement after conflict in the West Bank, the fact that Israel has threatened a Second Nakba, an event internationally acknowledged as ethnic cleansing, the fact that there are oil reserves underneath Gaza and the forcing of 2 million people into an airport sized camp would allow Israel to open up drilling where the ruins of Gaza city lay, or the fact that Israel is an Ethnonationalist country that relies on the superiority of Israelis over Palestinians and other neighbouring countries in order to exist makes the intent known to those of us familiar with the history of this conflict.

Ok ok ok ok ok here’s where I M. Night Shyamalan this whole thing: Genocide, Ethnocide, and Ethnic Cleansing are all the same crime according to multinational organizations like the United Nations. They are all Genocide.

All Ethnocides are Genocides, but not all Genocides are Ethnocides.

All Ethnic Cleansings are Genocides, but not all Genocides are Ethnic Cleansings.

The Nakba was an Ethnic Cleansing, therefore the Nakba was a Genocide.

The Netanyahu administration claims that their on going attack on Gaza is a “new Nakba”.

Nakba = Ethnic Cleansing = Genocide

The Netanyahu administration claims that their on going attack on Gaza is a “new Genocide”.

Genocide carries with it negative connotations. If the term was as widely used in 1944 as it is today, Hitler would deny genocide allegations, just as the Turkish continue to deny genocide allegations from the Armenian Genocide, why the Japanese continue to deny Genocide Allegations during their rule of Korea, Taiwan, parts of Micronesia, Manchuria, and Nanjing. Why the British refuse to acknowledge the Irish Potato Famine or Bengal Famine as Genocides. Why the conservative right want to ban the teaching of American genocides against countless groups (namely Native Americans, African Americans, Native Hawaiians, and Chicanos). And why Zionists get so offended when you refer to the actions of Israel as a Genocide.

Those who commit Genocide will never acknowledge that they are committing genocide. The fact that the current mainstream Zionist reaction, like @sihatn, is to deny that the ongoing genocide exists just proves that one is happening… if the horrific videos didn’t prove it enough (this one is from an American pro Israel source, but it doesn’t not take long to find ones from individuals in Gaza)

In conclusion, Israel is committing a genocide, and if you say otherwise, you are blinded by Ethnonationalism just like the Germans were in the 30s/40s, the Turks were during the 10s/20s and onward, the Brits were for (well forever), and the American right wing is.

If you don’t acknowledge the fact that Israel is committing a Genocide you are part of the problem shawty, and it’s not a good look 😬

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amilovesworld · 28 days ago

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Checkered Hearts ||3||

Summary: Y/n, a young journalist chasing her dream in the world of sports, never imagined her path would lead her to F1—or to Carlos Sainz Jr., a driver whose charm and sarcasm quickly blur the lines between professional rivalry and something more. As they clash, argue, and share unexpected moments, Y/n's life is turned upside down, forcing her to make choices she never saw coming. But in a world of speed, fame, and pressure, can she hold on to everything she’s worked for, or will she find herself racing toward something—someone—she never planned for?

Genre: Fluff/ Enemies to lovers/ Slow burn

Pairing: Carlos Sainz jr. x Indian reader

Warnings: looonnng Chapters, long series, slow burn, eventual smut.

Chapter: 3

Three weeks had passed since the training camp, and the world had resumed its usual pace. Y/N was buried in work, her days consumed with meetings, edits, and deadlines. The documentary she had documented during the camp was in its final stages, and the constant back-and-forth with the editors left her little time to process everything that had happened with Carlos. She was proud of her work, but her mind often wandered back to the playful tension between them, the moments that were both electrifying and confusing.

Carlos, on the other hand, was caught up in his own whirlwind of sponsor dinners, brand deals, and other commitments. The life of a Formula 1 driver was always busy, always demanding, but amid all the glamorous events, he couldn't stop thinking about Y/N. It was frustrating, in a way. He hadn't expected this. What had started as a casual, flirtatious game during the camp had now settled into something that both excited and unsettled him.

Both of them knew they had to keep their distance. The camp was over. He was back to his racing world, and she was back to hers. But still, every now and then, their phones would buzz with a message that made them stop and think.

First message came just a few days after the camp

Carlos: Did you make sure to edit out all the times you caught me looking perfect? I don’t want to embarrass anyone.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.

Y/N: Don’t worry, Sainz. I made sure to include all your perfect moments. The world needs to know how humble you are.

It became a routine after that. Carlos would send her a message at the most random times, sometimes teasing, sometimes simply checking in. And while she tried to keep her responses neutral, the way her heart skipped every time his name lit up her screen was far from professional.

One night, as she sat with the editors going through footage, her phone buzzed again.

Carlos: Do you ever stop working, Y/N?

She glanced at the clock—it was nearly midnight.

Y/N: Do you ever stop texting?

Carlos: Touché. But seriously, do you ever take a break?

Y/N: I’m busy turning your life into art, Sainz. You’re welcome.

Carlos: Ah, so I’m your muse now?

Y/N: Don’t flatter yourself.

But she was smiling as she put her phone down, the exhaustion from the long hours momentarily forgotten.

Soon their texts became more frequent but just as playful, making both their hearts race. They’d fallen into an odd pattern of exchanging messages—snarky, teasing, sometimes bordering on personal. It had become her guilty pleasure, though she’d never admit it out loud.

Carlos: You know what I hate more than PR dinners?

Carlos: PR dinners where the food is actually terrible. You’d think fancy restaurants would know how to make decent pasta.

Y/N: Oh no. The mighty Carlos Sainz, suffering through subpar carbs.

Y/n: How will you ever recover?

Carlos: Laugh all you want, but I thought of you.

Carlos: Your reaction would’ve been dramatic—“Is this what millions in sponsorships get you?”

Y/N: You’re not wrong. I’d probably demand a refund.

Carlos: Exactly what I thought. You’ve rubbed off on me, Y/N.

Y/N: That sounds like a “you” problem, not mine.

The banter made her grin, her editing temporarily forgotten. She fired off another reply, but her phone buzzed again before she could finish typing.

Carlos: By the way, I saw something today that reminded me of you.

Y/N: Oh? Let me guess. A stubborn goat? A cactus?

Carlos: Ha. Ha. Very funny.

Carlos: It was actually this street artist painting a mountain landscape. It looked like... peace. And for some reason, it reminded me of you.

Y/N stared at the message, her fingers hovering over the screen. This was new. Carlos being... sincere? She wasn’t sure how to respond.

Y/N: Wow, you’re getting poetic now. Should I be worried?

Carlos: Hey, don’t ruin it. I’m trying to be nice.

Y/N: It’s unsettling, honestly.

Carlos: Unsettling or sweet?

Y/N: Definitely unsettling.

Carlos: Liar.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed all the same. She couldn’t help but tease him back.

Y/N: Fine, it’s sweet. But don’t get used to me admitting that.

Carlos: Noted. But you’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?

Y/N: Not even a little.

Carlos: Liar.

The next evening Carlos was stuck in traffic in Madrid, his car crawling at a snail’s pace. He leaned his head back against the seat, his fingers itching to text her. He gave in.

Carlos: Tell me something random about you. Something no one else knows.

Y/N: What is this, 20 Questions?

Carlos: Humor me. Traffic is killing me.

Y/N: Alright... I once tried to convince my parents to name our dog Messi.

Carlos: Messi? As in Lionel Messi?

Y/N: Yes. My dad refused because we’re cricket fans, and he thought naming a dog after a footballer was blasphemy.

Carlos: Your dad is a man of principle. I respect that. But you were right. Messi’s a great name for a dog.

Y/N: Thank you. My dad still doesn’t agree.

Carlos: Your turn. Ask me something.

Y/N: Alright. What’s something you’re really bad at?

Carlos: Singing. Terrible. I tried karaoke once and cleared the room.

Y/N: Now I need to witness this.

Carlos: Not happening. Ever.

Y/N was at her desk in the newsroom when her phone buzzed again. Carlos. She unlocked her phone, already smirking.

Carlos: I did something stupid today.

Y/N: What else is new?

Carlos: I tripped during a photoshoot and knocked over a lighting rig. The photographers weren’t happy.

Y/N: Carlos Sainz: Destroyer of Equipment. Should I add that to your list of titles?

Carlos: Go ahead. Add it right under “Fastest Man Alive.”

Y/N: Pfft. Modest as always.

Carlos: It’s part of my charm.

Y/N: Is that what we’re calling it now?

Their exchanges became a constant, a thread woven through their busy days. It wasn’t just teasing anymore—there were moments of honesty, of connection, that made Y/N pause and wonder.

A week later It was late at night when Carlos texted her again, his message catching her off guard.

Carlos: Do you miss it? The mountains? Your home?

Y/N: Every day.

Carlos: Why did you leave, then?

Y/N stared at the question, her chest tightening. She debated whether to answer. Finally, she did.

Y/N: Because I wanted more. I wanted to see the world, to tell stories that mattered. But sometimes, I wonder if I left a part of myself behind.

Carlos: You didn’t. It’s still with you. I see it every time you talk about home.

Y/N blinked at the screen, her heart doing an odd little flip. Before she could reply, he sent another message.

Carlos: For what it’s worth, I think you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Y/N: And where is that?

Carlos: Right here, driving me crazy.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head, but the warmth in her chest didn’t fade.

Next day as she wrapped up her work for the day, her phone buzzed again.

Carlos: One of the guys at training asked if I was dating someone.

Y/N: And what did you say?

Carlos: I said no. But it made me think of you.

Y/N: Carlos…

Her heart almost did a somersault

Carlos: Relax, Y/N. I’m just saying. You’re hard to forget.

Y/N: You’re impossible, Sainz.

Carlos: And you love it.

They both knew they were toeing a line, but neither seemed willing to stop. The game was still on, but the stakes were getting higher.

_________________________________________________________________________

The 2026 F1 season had kicked off, and the paddock buzzed with its usual energy. The teams were preparing, the drivers were in full swing, and the media was capturing every moment. But for Y/N, this season felt different. It wasn’t just the intensity of the work or the weight of her responsibilities. No, it was him—Carlos Sainz.

Things had undeniably shifted since the previous season. Y/N was no longer the rookie journalist learning the ropes. She was now well-respected in the paddock, known for her sharp questions, her impeccable work ethic, and, surprisingly, her interactions with certain drivers. She had earned the trust and camaraderie of several drivers—Max, Charles, Lando, and Alex, to name a few. But among all the drivers, one made her heart race in ways she couldn’t fully explain: Carlos Sainz.

The subtle flirtations that had begun last year had only grown more intense as time passed. Carlos, always known for his charm, had begun to turn it up a notch. It was as if he was always in the back of her mind, his smirks and comments lingering in her thoughts long after the cameras were turned off. And it wasn’t just private moments anymore. No, Carlos was letting his flirtation spill into the public eye, on camera during interviews, in front of fans and colleagues alike.

It started small. An innocent compliment here, a lingering look there. But by the time the season was in full swing, it was clear to everyone in the paddock—and to anyone paying attention—that Carlos was acting differently around Y/N.

During a particularly tense race weekend, Y/N found herself conducting a routine interview with Carlos. She was as professional as always, keeping the conversation on track. But Carlos had a way of making even the most casual questions feel intimate. As she asked about his approach to the race, his eyes never left hers. He leaned in just a little closer, his voice low and smooth as he responded.

Carlos: “Well, I’m always ready for a challenge, but you know... having the right company makes everything a little more exciting, don't you think?"

Y/N tried to maintain her composure, but the heat in his gaze sent an unexpected rush of warmth to her cheeks. The crew behind the cameras exchanged amused glances. It wasn’t lost on anyone that Carlos was flirting—openly—and that his attention was solely on Y/N.

Max, standing off to the side, raised an eyebrow and whispered to Lando, who smirked in response.

Lando (playfully): “You see that? Carlos is really laying it on thick this season.”

Max chuckled, crossing his arms.

Max (mockingly): “If only Y/N would admit it, we wouldn’t have to keep pretending they’re just ‘friends.’”

Meanwhile, Charles, who had become a good friend to Y/N over the last year, shot her a knowing glance, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Charles (teasing): “You know, you’re not fooling anyone, Y/N. We all see it. Even the fans are starting to catch on.”

Y/N shot him a look, trying to hide the slight blush creeping up her neck. She had learned how to handle teasing by now, especially from her friends in the paddock. But this—this was different. There was something in Carlos’s gaze that made her heart race, something that was far more than just friendly teasing.

Y/N (with a forced laugh): “Please, guys. We’re just doing our jobs. I’m here to report, not to be part of some... fanfic.”

But despite her words, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was different this season. Carlos had made it clear that he was still playing the game, but this time, it wasn’t just playful banter—it felt like something more.

And the fans had noticed. Social media was ablaze with speculation about the two. Fans posted gifs, clips, and memes, comparing Carlos's flirtatious demeanor with Y/N to how he interacted with other interviewers. It was clear to anyone paying attention that there was something between them.

Fan Tweet: "Did anyone else notice the way Carlos looks at Y/N during interviews? It's different. WAY different. 👀 #TeamCarlos #Y/N"

Another Fan Tweet: "I’m not saying Y/N and Carlos are dating, but I’m definitely shipping them. You can see the chemistry! #F1LoveStory"

As the comments and speculations piled up, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious. She had never been one to entertain rumors, but this... this felt too real to ignore.

Her friends, especially Lando and Charles, teased her endlessly, poking fun at her every chance they got.

Lando (laughing): “Y/N, you’re not fooling anyone. Carlos is practically writing love letters on live TV.”

Charles (mock-seriously): “Come on, Y/N, we all know what’s happening here. You can’t hide it much longer.”

Y/N, ever the professional, kept her cool. She refused to acknowledge anything more than a playful friendship between her and Carlos, even if her heart didn’t always agree.

But as much as she tried to ignore it, the tension between them was undeniable. Carlos’s subtle flirting was becoming harder to ignore. Every interaction, every casual touch or lingering smile, felt charged with something more. And as the season wore on, it became clear to Y/N that their relationship—whatever it was—was on the verge of something bigger, something neither of them was ready to confront.

In the paddock, surrounded by her colleagues, the teasing continued. But the unspoken truth remained: Carlos Sainz and Y/N were playing a game that neither of them seemed ready to end.

_____________________________________________

Y/N had barely managed to contain her frustration by the time she arrived at the karting track. Her boss's words still echoed in her ears: “Isn’t this what you wanted? It’s temporary.”

She had worked tirelessly to adapt to the world of Formula 1, immersing herself in the sport, the drivers, the drama, and the sheer speed of it all. And now, just as she had started to find her rhythm and establish herself, they were pulling her out. The anger coursed through her as she donned her helmet and got behind the wheel of the kart.

She took off, each lap a way to release the frustration building inside her. The whine of the engine and the feeling of control over the kart were her only solace. She pushed harder, cornering aggressively, her mind replaying every dismissive word her boss had said and the gossip circulating in the office. The sting of disappointment mixed with an unfamiliar ache she couldn't quite name.

When she was done, her arms ached, her legs were sore, and sweat dripped down her back. But it hadn’t really helped. She still felt like screaming. She grabbed her bag and was ready to storm out when she bumped into three familiar figures by the entrance: Charles, Lando, and Carlos. Of course.

Charles was the first to spot her. “Y/N! What are you doing here?” he asked, his face lighting up with a smile.

Y/N plastered on her best neutral expression. “Just blowing off some steam,” she said, shrugging.

Lando raised an eyebrow. “You? Blowing off steam? That doesn’t sound like you,” he teased, though his tone was light.

Carlos, standing a little behind them, tilted his head slightly as he studied her. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed as if he could see right through her nonchalant act.

“Well, I’ll leave you guys to it,” she said quickly, trying to edge past them.

“Wait,” Carlos finally spoke, stepping forward. “You don’t look okay. What happened?”

Y/N hesitated. She didn’t want to spill her frustrations in front of everyone, especially Carlos. “Nothing. Just a bad day at work,” she said, brushing it off.

Charles looked concerned, but Lando smirked. “You know what’s the best cure for a bad day? Racing us,” he said, gesturing to the karts.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Thanks, but I’m done for the day.”

Carlos crossed his arms, his gaze unwavering. “Scared you’ll lose?” he challenged, a playful lilt in his voice.

She glared at him. “I’m not scared of losing.”

“Prove it,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

It was the perfect bait, and Y/N knew it. She hated losing to Carlos in anything, even if it was just playful banter. “Fine,” she snapped. “But don’t cry when I beat you.”

Charles and Lando exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the brewing competition.

As they geared up and got into their karts, Y/N couldn’t help but notice the way Carlos glanced at her, his eyes flicking between playful and concerned. But she pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the race.

When the race started, Y/N put everything she had into it, determined to channel her anger into something productive. But Carlos wasn’t going to make it easy. They battled for position, overtaking each other at every opportunity. Charles and Lando were somewhere behind them, laughing and enjoying the chaos.

By the time they finished, Y/N was breathless, her frustration momentarily replaced by the thrill of competition. Carlos had beaten her by a hair, and he was grinning smugly as they pulled off their helmets.

“Looks like I still have the upper hand,” he teased, walking over to her.

Y/N groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“But you’re smiling,” he pointed out, his tone softer now. “So I must be doing something right.”

She realized he was right—despite everything, she was smiling. The anger and sting from earlier hadn’t completely disappeared, but they didn’t feel as overwhelming anymore.

As the group left the track, Charles glanced at her as they walked to the parking lot. “You’re really upset about something. Is it just work?” he asked, his tone unusually serious.

She hesitated. Her instincts told her to brush it off and keep walking, but the genuine concern in his voice softened her resolve. She glanced at Carlos, who was standing a little behind the others, his arms crossed, studying her with a furrowed brow. His presence only fueled her frustration.

Y/N (with a forced smile): “It’s nothing. Just work stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

Lando: “Work stuff? Doesn’t sound like nothing. Come on, spill. We’re great listeners.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “I doubt you’d care about the politics of journalism.”

Carlos: “Try us.”

Her eyes snapped to his, and for a moment, she felt like he could see right through her. It annoyed her even more. She didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with him there, but the anger bubbling inside her needed an outlet.

Y/N (sharply): “Fine. My boss just told me I’m being reassigned. Cricket."

The three drivers exchanged looks, but before they could say anything, she continued, her words spilling out in a rush.

Y/N: “Do you know how hard I worked to fit in here? To learn everything about F1 from scratch? To prove to everyone that I belonged here, despite what they might think? And now, just like that, I’m being pulled out because ‘it’s temporary’ and ‘wasn’t this what I wanted?’” She paused, her voice shaking with frustration. “And as if that’s not enough, I get to hear my colleagues whispering behind my back about how I’m only close to the drivers because I’m... I don’t know, using you all or something.”

The last part slipped out before she could stop herself, and she instantly regretted it. The looks on their faces—sympathy from Charles, a mix of concern and guilt from Lando, and something unreadable from Carlos—made her want to disappear.

Charles: “Y/N... that’s not fair. You’ve earned your place here. Anyone who says otherwise doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Lando (nodding): “Yeah, and honestly? Screw them. They’re probably just jealous. You’re great at what you do.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” she muttered.

Carlos finally spoke. “Y/N, listen to me. You’re one of the best journalists I’ve ever worked with. If they’re too blind to see that, it’s their loss. But I know you—you’re not the type to give up. You’ll figure this out.”

She gave them a small, grateful smile, as he continued.

Carlos: “You’re mad because it feels like all your work doesn’t matter, right? Like they’re taking it away from you without thinking about what it means to you.”

She nodded, surprised at how accurately he’d nailed it.

Carlos: “Then don’t let them take it away. You’re not leaving forever, right? Just... make sure they see what they’re losing. Be so good at covering cricket that they’ll have no choice but to bring you back here. And as for the whispers...” He stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “They don’t matter. You know the truth, and so do we.”

His words hit her harder than she expected, and for the first time that day, the sting in her chest felt a little less sharp. She looked up at him, her anger softening into something more vulnerable.

Y/N (quietly): “Thanks.”

Carlos smiled. “Anytime. Just remember, I’m always here to remind you how amazing you are... and to beat you at karting when you need it.”

She laughed. “I’ll take you up on that,” she said, the weight on her shoulders feeling a little lighter.

As they headed toward the parking lot, Carlos fell into step beside her. He didn’t say anything, but the occasional brush of his arm against hers spoke volumes. And for the first time all day, she felt like maybe, just maybe, things would be okay.

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kekeandherrpgs · 2 months ago

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On less angsty stuff,

I remember seeing some dialogue that suggests Gale normally cooks for everyone at camp? And I just thought “what if he and Jyothika fight over cooking duties because both think the other can’t cook as well as them”

Jyothika thinks Gale’s food is okay but it needs more flavour. Gale thinks Jyothika’s food is okay but it’s too spicy. And they fight about who cooks. Gale tends to win cause he’s at camp more but Jyothika has cooked multiple times for everyone

Karlach, Wyll, Minsc, Jyothika, and Bhavan prefer Jyothika’s cooking and they can all handle spice

Shadowheart, Halsin, Jaheira, Gale, and Halsin would prefer Gale’s cooking and I don’t imagine they would handle spice very well

Astarion wouldn’t really care either way I’d imagine? (Can vampires eat?) Though if he had to choose, probably Gale’s cooking (then again maybe Jyothika’s cause he would actually be able to taste it? I know that smokers lose their sense of taste over time and spicy food tends to be something they can still taste)

(Edit: oops I forgot Lae’zel sorry girl) Lae’zel probably wouldn’t have a preference? Just as long as it tastes good, the game suggests that her people’s cuisine has a flavour profile of sweet, sour, and spicy

By the end of the game, everyone would probably have a much higher tolerance to spice though

Jyothika’s culture is based off of Tamil culture and so she would cook food similar to South Indian cuisine. It should be noted that, as someone who was worshipped by her village/the Selune cult, and who was basically, as Halsin likes to tease her, “a princess”, Jyothika did not learn how to cook from her family. She had to teach herself after returning to her village and finding various recipe pages/books that survived the razing. And yes it took her a long time to learn

Bhavan is also technically from the same culture as Jyothika (not the same village though, his foster parents were nomadic druids) but he knows how to grill stuff more. That and soups, he can make a mean soup and sandwich

On that note, I like to imagine that Jyothika is constantly on everyone at camp to “buy supplies if we run out” and gives them money to do so every time she leaves to do quests with the others

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whencyclopedia · 6 months ago

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Sand Creek Massacre

The Sand Creek Massacre (29 November 1864) was a slaughter of citizens of the Arapaho and Cheyenne nations at the hands of the Third Colorado Cavalry of US Volunteers under the command of Colonel John Chivington, resulting in casualties estimated at over 150 in the Native American encampment, which was in compliance with the policies of US officials.

Black Kettle (l. c. 1803-1868), chief of the Southern Cheyenne, had consistently sought peace with the White settlers since signing the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851. He rejected the call to war of others – including Chief Tall Bull of the Dog Soldiers and Roman Nose (Cheyenne Warrior) – and continued to trust in the assurances of the representatives of the US government that the Cheyenne would be left in peace. These representatives were under the impression that Black Kettle spoke for all the Cheyenne in signing the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851 or the Treaty of Fort Wise in 1861, but he had no control over other chiefs like Tall Bull (l. 1830-1869) or Roman Nose (l. c. 1830-1868), who continued to resist the encroachment of Euro-Americans on their lands.

Hostilities escalated in June 1864 with the Hungate Massacre, in which the killing of a White family was attributed to Cheyenne warriors. John Evans (l. 1814-1897), then governor of Colorado, sent word to the Native communities that any who were friendly toward the United States should seek safety near Fort Lyon, and all others would be considered hostiles. Black Kettle – along with other chiefs including White Antelope (l. c. 1789-1864), Little Wolf (l. c. 1820-1904), and Chief Niwot (Left Hand) of the Southern Arapaho (l. c. 1825-1864) accepted the invitation and moved their people to Big Sandy Creek, about 40 miles (65 km) northwest of Fort Lyon.

On the morning of 29 November 1864, Colonel John Chivington (l. 1821-1894) led the Third Colorado Cavalry in a surprise attack on the encampment – even though Black Kettle, as instructed, was flying the American flag and the white flag above his lodge – slaughtering over 150 innocent people, mostly young children, women, and the elderly. Afterwards, Chivington claimed this engagement was a great military victory against an armed alliance of Cheyenne and Arapaho until reports of survivors – like the Cheyenne-Anglo interpreter George Bent (l. c. 1843-1918) – and soldiers like Captain Silas Soule (l. 1838-1865) – contradicted him.

The ensuing investigation established the conflict as a massacre of innocents with only a small armed force of Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors in the camp killed defending themselves and their families. Still, the event was designated a "battle" by the press of the time and is often still referred to as such in the present day. In 2007, the area of the massacre was declared a National Historic Site, and, in 2014, Colorado Governor John Hickenlooper gave an apology to the descendants of those murdered at Sand Creek; but the policies that made that massacre possible have never been acknowledged, and the US government has never offered a similar apology.

Background

The California Gold Rush of 1848 sent scores of miners and their families through the lands of the Arapaho, Cheyenne, Sioux, and others, disrupting their lives, scattering – and killing – the buffalo (the primary food source of the Plains Indians), and destroying the prairie with their wagons and cattle. Clashes between the Natives and settlers led to the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851, establishing territories for Native American nations in the region which, according to this treaty, the United States had no claim to.

Black Kettle, and other chiefs, signed the treaty trusting in the word of the US delegates that they would not be bothered any further. The treaty was never honored by the White settlers or their government, however, and was completely discarded in 1858 during the Pike's Peak Gold Rush. When the Natives again fought to defend their lands, another treaty was offered – the Treaty of Fort Wise of 1861 – which the US government and its citizens paid no more attention to than the one they had presented to the people of the Plains in 1851. The Dog Soldiers – one of the military societies of the Cheyenne – responded to the invasion with armed resistance under their leader Tall Bull while Roman Nose led his own band in defense of Cheyenne lands in what came to be known as the Colorado War (1864-1865).

Fort Laramie Treaty 1868

U.S. National Archives and Records Administration (Public Domain)

Although Black Kettle – and other 'peace chiefs' – rejected the course taken by Tall Bull and Roman Nose, they could do nothing to stop them. The Cheyenne had a representational government, the Council of Forty-Four, which made decisions for the whole nation, but the chief of each band was free to accept or reject their conclusions. The council had nothing to say regarding declarations of war which were the responsibility of individual chiefs of military societies. Black Kettle's signature on a treaty did not in any way bind Tall Bull to recognize it.

#History #SandCreekMassacre

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kittykatrattie · 8 days ago

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What’s some of your teen Maxneil hc’s?

Like, for example would they be in a band together if they could? What does the other person do when they are not around? Do they ever join clubs in high schools? What do they do for fun together? stuff like that I guess

OOOOOHHH ok ok ok. Ahem so.

First of all they are somewhat long distance. They're about 2 hours apart but Max can't drive until he's 18 bc his parents never bother to get him his temps or teach him how to drive, so until Neil gets his license at 16 they rarely see each other outside of camp. Max is the bad influence (he starts smoking weed and gets Neil to try edibles)

I don't think they'd be in a band together bc they have very different tastes in music. However once max turns 18 and he moves in w David and Gwen he starts learning to play the drums and he joins a queer punk band in college and Neil goes to as many of their shows as he can (altho they're still long distance, we never settled on a specific school but I think Neil goes to college out of state). They do see a couple concerts together as teenagers tho

Neither of them. Reaaaally have friends back home/outside of camp. So most of their socialization is texting each other and the other campers. Max becomes a stoner and he has a job working at a local Indian restaurant (it was his favorite since he was leaving the apartment to run around the city by himself and the girl running the food truck sort of grew attached to him). Neil focuses more on his studies (he skips a grade at some point and graduates high school a year early) but other than that he doesn't really go out and do much without Max and/or Nikki. Sometimes he'll do a D&D campaign with Nerris and Harrison and Preston thru discord

Max doesn't join any clubs in high school but I could see Neil joining like, chess and mathletes or smth. Anything to boost his college acceptance and make himself stand out. Colleges love extracurriculars yk. Max, however, gets put in a new afterschool activity by his parents every year until he turns 14 and gets a job. They just don't wanna see or deal with him yk? (:

When they do manage to get together, either outside of camp or during camp, they get up to their typical shenanigans yk but also ✨️date nights.✨️ At camp they'll pretty much do anything that gets them alone for a couple hours (like star gazing or going on walks in the woods) or sneaking out to Campbell's mansion on Spooky Island for... well, "private teenage activities." They'll watch movies or shows together (they both canonically have watched Game of Thrones already and I feel like they'd love Stranger Things) or sometimes just parallel play (both of them reading their own books or playing games separately). Neil does get Max into video gaming but they have a very small overlap of the type of games they both like

Trans Max specific stuff: Max doesn't tell Neil he's trans until they're 14/15ish when they start doing a little more than just making out bc Max sort of sees him being trans as on a "need to know" basis until he comes out to the rest of the campers at 16ish. Max getting his period during the summer and Neil sitting out of activities to take care of him and steal him extra snacks from the mess hall. Neil makes sure he doesn't wear his binder for too long

They are. A somewhat unstable relationship because Max is a somewhat unstable person. Max has BPD (that doesn't get diagnosed until hes 19) and sometimes that triggers him trying to break up with or push Neil away "before he can get hurt" not 2 mention the suicidal depression and active PTSD from his parents, so they argue a lot but Neil always knows it's not really real and Max just needs time to calm down (hey I never said they had a HEALTHY relationship). They always fix it

#camp camp #max camp camp #neil camp camp #maxneil #trans max camp camp

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majacks9 · 2 years ago

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Why FSSAI plays a crucial role in the India food business?

Suppose you are a responsible owner of a restaurant or establishment. In that case, it is essential to obtain a valid food license to run your business as the federal government issues food licenses under the FSSAI of the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India as a license to run and operate food-related business food. Apart from having an idea about Indian camping recipes you must know the need of FSSAI for your food business. There are a handful of entrepreneurs that the FSSAI could help by providing funds to promote food businesses.

#indian camping recipes #indian camping food

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whippersnappersbookworm · 1 year ago

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দীনদান (Dino Daan)

There is no god in that temple”, said the Saint.

The King was enraged;

“No God? Oh Saint, aren’t you speaking like an atheist?

On the throne studded with priceless gems, beams the golden idol,

And yet, you proclaim that’s empty?”

“It’s not empty; It’s rather full of the Royal pride.

You have bestowed yourself, oh King, not the God of this world”,

Remarked the saint.

The King frowned, “2 million golden coins

Were showered on that grand structure that kisses the sky,

I offered it to the Gods after performing all the necessary rituals,

And you dare claim that in such a grand temple,

There is no presence of God”?

The Saint calmly replied, “in the very year in which, twenty million of your subjects were struck by a terrible drought;

The pauperized masses without any food or shelter,

came begging at your door crying for help, only to be turned away,

they were forced to take refuge in forests, caves, camping under roadside foliages, derelict old temples;

and in that very year

when you spent 2 million gold to build that grand temple of your’s,

that was the day when God pronounced:

“My eternal home is lit by everlasting lamps,

In the midst of an azure sky,

In my home the foundations are built with the values:

Of Truth, Peace, Compassion and Love.

The poverty stricken puny miser,

Who could not provide shelter to his own homeless subjects,

Does he really fancy of giving me a home?”

That is the day God left that Temple of yours.

And joined the poor beside the roads, under the trees.

Like emptiness of the froth in the vast seas,

Your mundane temple is as hollow.

It’s just a bubble of wealth and pride.’

The enraged King howled,

“oh you sham cretin of a person,

Leave my kingdom this instant’.

The Saint replied calmly,

“The very place where you have exiled the Divine,

Kindly banish the devout too".

--Rabindranath Tagore

[Translated from the original Bengali into English by Sandipto Das Gupta]

This poem by Rabindranath Tagore written in 1307( as per Bengali calendar ,I can't pinpoint the exact date in English calender but it is almost 123 years old) resonates greatly with the current event happening in India. I won't deliante on the exact events because everyone is aware of it and how the government of a secular state is politicising a certain religion to fulfil their agendas. How they are creating division among people by spreading misinformation and hate. You will found enough discussion about that in many beautiful blogs in this platform.( Do check them out) .

I just want to shed light on the desi side of Tumblr and how it has transformed from a safe haven for Indian people to a breeding ground of so called "Kattar Hindus "

I never really talk about politics or about my own experiences with religion in Tumblr . Maybe because I am scared of my mutuals attacking me ,telling me how I am brainwashed by " Leftist Atheist Ideology" and how I am too westernised to understand the intricacies of our great " SANTAN DHARMA" . I have been part of the Tumblr community for almost three to four years .I remember following the #desiblr and #hindublr tag mostly because I was interested on discussing and sharing experiences with like minded people. Being part of a family which believes on letting one choose their religious beliefs, my idea of religion was a mixture of a lot of things . But one thing was common among all of these , no religion is greater than other and all religions have the same end goal, that is to understand the true meaning of life. So Imagine my shock when I realise that the so called aware people of Tumblr and the #desiblr ( which apprently contained well educated ,genuine and open minded people) are actually hypocrites. Their idea of religion is very much confined within the sphere of Krishna Bhakti and glorification of Hinduism in name of love for god. Their religious understanding don't have place for religious minorities and people with different opinions . They only support and propagate a certain kind of Hinduism, continuously glorifying everything in name of love and respect for their " Santan Dharma" . In the span of these few years I have seen people completely ignoring the stories of people who faced casteism by telling them that they are " brain washed" and justifying casteism in the context of Ancient India ( apprently caste system doesn't discriminate amongst people , because that religious privileged upper caste person didn't experienced it first hand and therefore casteism is a myth )

They are first to criticize Muslim Invaders but love to turn a blind eye on the fascist qualities of their own religion ( one of them even went out of their way to justify The practice of SATI for god's sake and not only that they even ended up glorifying jauhar and polygamy) . They live in their own make believe world of Krishna Prem , Mahabharat fanfiction and desi girl aesthetic . It's ok to love your religion but to be blinded by that love and constantly undermine the experiences and ideologies of other is never right. They claim to hate the fascist qualities of Islam but now have ended up doing the same thing. They will bash you if you dare to tell them that you don't view Mahabharat as a part of Indian History or that you don't like following the superstitious beliefs that are prevalent in name of Hinduism. #hindublr and #desiblr were supposed to be place where Indian people could express and share their own experiences with their religion and ethnicity ,but now it has became the breeding ground of religious extremists who proudly propagate religious hate and constantly try to find absurd loopholes to justify their hatered.

Having said that I would like to point out that not everyone is like that ...I have met so many religious people who had openly accepted different ideologies without belittling their experiences.

I am not a great writer unlike @papenathys and many other people in this platform who constantly tries and does their best to point out the hypocrisies of the people in this platform and show them a mirror to a realities of their religion, but I just want to vent out ...I am sorry if my writing is haphazard and not good enough .I know a lot of people (including my mutuals) will not like this, but I am tired of pretending that everything is perfect in this country, I am tired of pretending that 22nd January was a simple religious occasion not a huge political step just for the sake of election , I am tired of the seeing this constant war to prove one religion is greater than another . I am tired of constantly seeing privileged people mocking and belittling the struggles my community faced in the name of caste. I am tired of trying to pretend that Hinduism and Hindu people fit in the mythical reality Tumblr like to portray , I am tired of waking up in a land where people are so blinded by their love for a figure that may or may not exist that they have forgotten basic humanity. You may try to pretend that the " Sanatanis " are not propagating hatered, casteism, fascism by giving an example from your own privileged life but the reality is much darker.

#desiblr #hindublr #hinduism #hindutva #islamphobia #ram mandir #casteism

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dailyanarchistposts · 6 months ago

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Ancient Ways: In Defense of Cultivation

“We cared for our corn in those days as we would care for a child; for we Indian people loved our gardens, just as a mother loves her children; and we thought that our growing corn liked to hear us sing, just as children like to hear their mother sing to them.” — Buffalo Bird Woman (Hidasta)

With a modern food system so tied to capitalism and the industrial production-oriented model, it’s hard for us to see how to feed ourselves outside of them. While it’s imperative that we look forward and adapt to our modern context to some degree, it’s by looking back to times before institutions reigned that we start to see our way out.

The erosion of traditional foodways began at different times for different cultures. A basic misconception (or perhaps miscommunication) about “primitivist” theory is that the dawn of food cultivation some 10,000 years ago represented the “fall from grace” of humanity, and that everything that has been developed since that point has been tainted with die impurity of “domestication” and “civilization”. But this simplistic analysis reflects the same reductionist logic that has led to the social diseases of modern life. What was likely a simple adaptation for survival in die face of massive climactic changes did in many, cases lead people down a slippery slope toward domination of nature, but in many cultures, this was simply not the case. Even today, many indigenous cultures thrive on horticultural, village-scale food systems. At the time of white settlement of North America, dozens of indian groups practiced such methods without the trappings of civilization. (See Native American Gardening By J, Bruchac and Buffalo Bird Woman’s Garden: Agriculture of the Hidasta Indians as told to Gilbert L. Wilson, also available online at www.digital. library.upenn.edu/women/buffalo/garden/garden.html)

The fact that many native cultures have endured using traditional horticultural methods, while remaining free from the trappings of civilization (aside from that which was imposed upon them) is testament to the possibilities of egalitarian social relations coexisting with the cultivation of food.

Contrary to the fundamentalist viewpoints that see cultivation itself as inherently dominating, the simple act of collecting seeds and replanting them elsewhere to provide more food sources could actually be seen as a complementary development to a gathering-hunting lifestyle. The transportation of seeds through feces is the basis of much plant reproduction in the wild and in the garden, and may have been the inspiration for humyns to begin cultivating certain plants. Even the selection of certain seeds for desired traits is a way humyns have actually enhanced biodiversity by “opening up” a species to diverse, highly adaptable variations. Instead of viewing the original cultivators with suspicion and doubt, why not appreciate the sensitivity and creativity it required for them to adapt to conditions by entering into a more complex and interactive relationship with nature? Can we make a distinction between cultivation and domestication?

In her book Food in History, Reay Tannahill theorizes that at the beginning of the “Neolithic revolution,” nomadic foragers began camping beside meadows of wild grains waiting for the brief window of ripeness when they could catch the harvest before it fell to the ground. After returning to these places annually, they eventually realized that if duty left some of the grain on the stalk they could expect a heartier harvest the next year. The next logical step was to begin scattering the seeds on the ground, at which point foragers became farmers. Responding to anthropologists’ assumptions that a large labor force was then required to harvest and process grain, thus giving rise to civilization. Tannahill quotes an archaeological study from the mid 1960’s: “In a three week harvesting period, a family of six could have reaped enough wild wheat to provide them with just under a pound of grain per head per day for a whole year” (J.R. Harlan, 1967)

The development of what we know as agriculture was not an overnight phenomenon, but rather a several thousand year-long project. In some places in the world, the earliest stages of cultivation were never surpassed, and remain sustainable today. In many more places, the pressures of the global economy have corrupted these practices just in this last century. But in most of the world today, we are witnessing the full-blown colonization of native foodways, and a nearly complete dependence on western industrial practices. To trace this “biodevestation” directly back to cultivation itself, is to ignore the history of conquest and land displacement that pushed the food systems of subsistence cultures to the brink, where they now teeter on the edge of extinction.

The loss of native foodways in favor of cheap, overprocessed industrial USDA staples has uncoincidenially served as one of the many vehicles of colonialism. The disconnection of food traditions from indigenous cultures has paved the way for illnesses like diabetes, cementing their dependence on western medicine in yet another way. In the Global South, traditional cultures are losing control of their food supplies faster than ever before. Distinct and diverse peoples of the world have become a prime target for conquest by western food producers like Archer Daniels Midland and Caigill. These modern day conquistadors ride the tails of the “Green Revolution” in chemical agriculture of the 50s. After replacing traditional food practices with a cynical “development” agenda based on monocrops and cheap exports, the conquest continues as structural adjustment policies and the current biotechnology phenomenon.

The logic of biotech makes complete sense as planned obsolescence: the same corporations who pushed the Green Revolution and all its chemicals and hybrid seeds, now seek to milk more profits out of fee sterile soil and resistant insects (and displaced peoples) that have resulted. New seeds are developed to adapt to the conditions that were caused by the same companies’ products 50 years ago! Decades of chemical intensive methods have created resistant weeds, so genetically engineered seeds are designed to withstand higher doses of chemicals. Industrial agriculture depends on these methods. At this point, we either turn away from industrial methods, or we accept the fate of high-tech food.

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