#irish defence forces

[bisexual-panic]

I’m just going to give a little description on an event that has happened in Ireland this week because I think it’s important to share but trigger warnings for homophobia, assault and just general injustice

Two years ago Natasha O’Brien was beaten unconscious to the point where she thought she was going to die by an Irish Defence Forces soldier named Cathal Crotty and he then boasted about it on social media, saying “Two to put her down, two to put her out.” This week he has avoided any jail time due to him being described as a “professional” and “disciplined” officer and that the attack was “out of character” and (of course) because of “the consequences it would have on his life and his career”. Crotty and his friends were shouting homophobic slurs at people in O’Connell street, Dublin when Natasha O’Brien and her friend approached them to politely tell them to cut it out. He then assaulted her. She sustained broken nose, concussion, swelling and bruising during the attack. He is still currently serving in the army. SHE had to leave her job in the aftermath of the attack due to her blacking out because of the damage of the attack and panic attacks she got from fear of meeting Crotty again during one of her shifts.

He is a soldier, he is the one supposed to protect us yet he violently attacked a woman and had no problem yelling the f-slur. The judge said “In fairness to him, he has come to court and publicly admitted his wrongdoing, and he has made a public acknowledgement of his criminality,” BUT HE WILL FACE NO CONSEQUENCES FOR HIS ACTIONS OTHER THAN A €3,000 FEE!

I cannot explain to you how let down I feel by the justice system right now.I’m currently looking for a petition to link but for now I just wanted to share this because it is unfortunately not a rare occurrence but it is still shocking.

[dougielombax]

No Jimmy!

Hezbollah is NOT an anti imperialist resistance movement!

Sure they only exist because of Israel’s fuckery in Lebanon during the civil war!

But that doesn’t change the fact that they are also proxies of the Iranian government who are holding Lebanon and its people to ransom.

(Though they do have a LOT more self-agency than most such proxy groups. But still)

Plus they also bombed a synagogue in Argentina killing DOZENS of civilians AND they killed an Irish soldier working in Lebanon as part of the UN peacekeeping mission there (UNIFIL).

To say nothing of their fuckery in Syria, assisting the Assad regime and the IRGC in razing Syrian villages to the ground.

[kyreniacommentator]

Cyprus Memories: My service time in Louroujina with UNIFICYP

Cyprus Memories: My service time in Louroujina with UNIFICYP

Readers mail…. From Brian Parker…. I am a retired member of the Irish Defence Forces and during the period 1970/71, I served with the United Nations in Cyprus (UNIFICYP) and part of my 12 month tour of duty I spent in the beautiful Turkish Cypriot village of Louroujina as a Radio Operator. (more…)

[sayruq]

“Basketball Ireland informed Fiba Europe yesterday that as a direct result of recent comments made by Israeli players and coaching staff – including inflammatory and wholly inaccurate accusations of antisemitism, published on official Israeli federation channels – that our players will not be partaking in traditional pre-match arrangements with our upcoming opponents,” it said. It added that it fully supported the players’ decision to shun courtesies such as the exchanging of gifts and handshakes before and after Thursday’s game. The players also lined up for the national anthem by their bench, rather than centre court. In recent weeks the women’s team had been wrestling with calls to boycott the match, which had been originally slated to be played in Israel in November but was postponed and moved to Riga after Basketball Ireland requested a neutral venue. Several high-profile sporting figures had backed the call, with pressure on the players ramping up after the Israel Basketball Association shared photos from a practice session that included a visit by soldiers from the Israeli Defence Force. Basketball Ireland said late last month that it had raised “strong concerns” about the fixtures with Israel to Fiba Europe and that it had floated the possibility of forfeiting the games. The organisation said it had been told, however, that it could face up to €180,000 in fines and face expulsion from EuroBasket this year and in 2027 for doing so.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 7

Velkommen Til Tønsberg | Loki x Reader

Loki and Thor take you to see the new King of Asgard in the hopes of finding more answers. Charmed by the quaint village and welcoming Asgardians you dream of a better future there. But not everyone is friendly and they're certainly not safe.

Warnings: mostly fluffy...mind the ending. Family drama, talk of forced marriage/marriage of convenience and Reader's family. Implied sexual content, implied loss of virginity.

A/N: From here on in there's going to be talk of other panethons,specifically from Irish mythology, so I'll put a little info at the bottom of the chapter if you're interested! Other mythologies will be depicted in the same way Loki & the Asgardians are in Marvel and the MCU. This is very much a fictionalised account, although there are, like in the MCU, elements of the original stories. You don't have to read about them, but I've tried hard to embed a lot of mythology into the story so although it's easily readable without it, I think it's more fun if you know!

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

“So you met a woman who can set fire to stuff, makes everyone around her horny and you’ve let him,” the woman pointed at Loki, “teach her to shift and mind read?” She walked around the coffee table in the middle of the cosy living room, keeping her eyes trained on your face as if you might drag the crackling fire out of the hearth and set fire to her sofa.

“Yes - But, in my defence, she could already do a lot of it and it wasn’t my idea.” Thor gave her a massive grin, taking a butter cookie from the plate in front of him while she flopped onto the chair opposite you. 

“I’m -” you paused, unsure of what to call yourself. No one had really addressed you since you arrived at the compound, should you use the name you’d discovered with Loki? When you’d dreamed of Asgard together? Or should you use your old name, the one your Grandfather gave you? 

“This is Estrid.” Loki took the decision out of your hands, and you were grateful for it, leaning into his side a little for reassurance while he patted your knee. 

She took your hand in both of hers and gave them a firm squeeze, her palms were soft, but there were calluses below her fingers that told you there was more to her than the oversized jumper, piles of books and well stocked bar cart could tell you. 

“I’m Brunnhilde,” Brunnhilde gave you a warm smile, far more comforting than you’d expected when Thor had described the warrior on your journey to Tønsberg. He’d described the fights they’d engaged in together, her bravery during Ragnarok and her ability to lead as a fair and firm King for the new Asgardian settlement. He talked about her armour and weapons, whirling his hands around as he acted out his favourite moments from the final battle. Loki had rolled his eyes and told you that she was a skilled and proficient fighter and a sensible leader, despite Thor’s terrible caricature. 

The woman before you looked softer than their stories, she was wearing an oversized knitted sweater that hung down to her thighs over tight black jeans, her hair was styled in long braids that fell over her shoulders and she fiddled with the end of one as she continued to watch you. 

“Valkyrie,” Thor insisted through a mouthful of biscuit. But Brunnhilde, just rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and gave you a knowing smile, as if the antics of gods were commonplace in her life. 

“You can call me Brunnhilde or Valkyrie, Val, if you like,” she had an easy manner of speaking, relaxed and welcoming, in keeping with the homey warmth of her cottage and she pushed the plate of food towards you. “Do you want to tell me about these dreams?”

The hesitancy you felt on arriving in the little fishing village began to melt away. Initially you’d been overwhelmed by the crisp, salt scent of the sea and the shock of the cold. But here, in the stone house nestled in the centre of the village, you felt at ease and allowed yourself to relax into the cushions. The atmosphere that had been so shockingly different on arrival was now settling inside of you, the clean smell sea smell of the harbour mixing with the woodsmoke in the village was familiar somehow. 

You’d arrived in the dead of night while the village was asleep, tucked into the hillside with only a few lights along the dock still bright. The sea had called to you then, a wild thing that beat against the boats and rattled the stones of the shoreline until you were on the edge of the dock, leaning over into the abyss of darkness. 

Loki had pulled you away and wrapped your frozen hands in his own while Thor had looked on, a knowing smile spreading across his face. But you allowed Loki to pull you close, snaking your arms around his waist and tucking yourself half inside his black wool coat. He rubbed his hands up and down your back to warm you, the press of his fingers turning into the weight of your own coat as Loki’s magic flickered over you. 

You’d stood together for what felt like forever and yet not enough time at all, bathing in the darkness and the rhythmic sound of the sea as it crested and crashed on the harbour wall. 

Thor was intrigued by Loki’s behaviour, he’d never seen him act in such a controlled and measured way, nor had he seen him spend more than a few days with any consort since their adolescent years in Asgard. 

He was starting to think this was some sort of elaborate courtship that his brother had thought up, for once he decided he would forgo the teasing, happy to see his brother with a partner he actually approved of, and had left you in the cold air, wrapped together under Loki’s coat. 

Your mind had wandered, rubbing your thumb over Loki’s cool palm, and felt his own relaxed thoughts wash over you, your cheek touched his shoulder and he lifted his arm to tuck you into his side, the movement unconsciously casual and comforting. 

“Are you okay, Estrid?” The Valkyrie’s voice called to you through the memory and you sat upright again with a start. “I think I do remember you - hmm,” she paused and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re Brigid’s daughter? Right? I remember your mother, I was assigned to her guard a few times when she visited Queen Frigga.”

Her words raised goosebumps on your skin, a mother? Without thinking you grabbed at Val’s hands, pulling her to the edge of her own seat so that you could study her face, waiting for her to reveal a lie or a joke. “Show me, can I see? Please,” you begged, eyes filling with tears. 

 Brunnhilde flicked her dark eyes at Thor, hesitating, she had been King of the Asgardians for only a short time and although Thor was more like a brother to her now, she didn’t want to upset either Prince by revealing too many of Asgard’s secrets. 

You hadn’t noticed her hesitation, your only thoughts on seeing your forgotten mother again. “I don’t remember my mother at all. What was she like?” You asked, looking around the room to see if any of them would be willing to share. 

Loki, surprisingly, looked at Thor as well, a silent conversation passing between the two brothers before Thor answered. 

“I don’t see the harm, after all we brought her here to learn, if this is what she requires then she should hear it.” He said, already a little bored and messing with the trinkets on the shelf beside him, hadn’t he differed his responsibilities to Valkyrie for this exact reason?

Brunnhilde leant forward and, with some encouragement from Loki, you met her halfway, your fingers hovering over her temples. “I promise I’ll just look at my mother. Just think about her a lot, when you worked for her, what you saw.”

Loki’s hand found your knee and squeezed, “Remember, Asynja, calm." You concentrated on his breathing, on his scent, on the feel of his trousers below your own hand and closed your eyes. 

She appeared out of the gloom, a tall woman with fiery red hair in a mass of curls flowing down her back. Her clothes reminded you of your dreams, airy and bright. She had a gold crown on her head adorned with gemstone flowers, tulips, daffodils and snowdrops mixed with clover and daisies. On her back a sage green Cape trailed behind her and from one corner peaked a little face. 

“My baby, you stay in there, safe and sound,” her voice was like warm salted caramel, sweet, burning with love and measured by her strength. A fierceness behind it that would surely scald anyone coming too close. Behind her strode the Valkyrie in their armour, as they marched through the corridors of Asgard to Frigga’s chambers.

Once inside the luxurious chambers, a little face peaked out again.

“Mother?”

“It is safe, Estrid. You may come out. This is my friend, Queen Frigga. You are to stay with her a while.” The other woman held out her hand, her fingers adorned with all manner of shining gems and opaque turquoise, her hair flowed from a golden diadem, but she was dressed casually in a sky blue dress, draped around her shoulders and elbows. A Queen, yes, but a mother also. 

“Estrid, you  very welcome here in Asgard. May I present my son, Loki. He has similar talents. Perhaps he could show you the palace.” A shaggy head of black hair peered around Frigga’s legs. “I have another son, Thor, but my dear Brigid tells me that you love to read and walk, rather than fight and wrestle,” she paused, tugging Loki forward, and bent between you both, “my darling Loki can show you his library, he will be sure to share.” She gave Loki a little nudge forward and dipped her chin at him. 

With practised steps he moved towards the little girl, “Princess” he bowed, formally, looking back up at his mother for approval. Frigga patted the boy on the shoulder and he hid behind her skirts again. 

“Prince," you gave a shy curtsy, holding the folds of your elaborate dress as you moved, your memories drifted towards him and away from your parents. Your juvenile conversations floating through lazy mornings within his library, giggling together while you spied on the court from the gallery. The clothes that Loki had created for you with a glimmer of magic so that you could climb the same trees and tumble down the same hills, splashing together in the fountains of the gardens until his governess chased you back into the palace.

Your small hands clasped together as he walked you through the halls of Asgard, the sheen of sweat on his brow when you ran together through the gardens, hazy and warm and glittering with gold it morphed into a lazy dream, full of clouds and the endless sky and…

The dream faded and Val pulled away.

“You’re distracted.” She looked at Loki and narrowed her eyes. “Loki was very important to you back then, and I see that he still is," she gave Loki a sly smile, “but he’s distracting you. Bugger off and annoy someone else please." She waved the two princes away. 

Loki kissed your hand and stood to walk out with Thor. He had the same shy, boyish smile that you'd seen in your memory. The one that had made you feel welcome and at peace. He lingered, unsure about whether he could push his affection further than a kiss on the cheek. You hadn’t discussed your evening together, but he longed to keep you in his arms. Meeting his eyes you allowed your mind to wander to his and he bent over you on the sofa, his hands either side of your head, and lowered his face to yours. Brushing his nose against your cheek he kissed you softly. 

“I’ll come for you? I can show you the people." He suggested, “I’ll meet you at the harbour when you’re finished.”

“They’re my people now, don’t forget!” Brunnhilde called after him.

“How could I!” He bowed low, “my Queen." His tone was filled with sarcasm as well as mirth. With a final wink Thor pulled him out of the door.

Brunnhilde rolled her eyes and then turned her attention back to the tea tray, pouring a cup for you both. She settled back into her chair and tucked her feet up under her. 

“Brigid was a wonderful Goddess, a Queen herself really, but here on Midgard,” Val took a deep breath and sighed it out, “she made the flames dance, brought the spring and the flowers, and protected the land during winter. She took care with all her subjects and friends, her matchmaking skills, in particular,  were something to behold. She helped Frigga and Odin in their early courtship and had many friends across the nine realms and the Otherworld.” Brunnhilde stopped to look at you, your wide eyes glistening as you listened. “Is this bringing any memories back?” She dunked a biscuit into her tea and watched you as she ate. 

“Yes, a little.” A tear started to fall slowly down your cheek, pooling on your lip, a bittersweet taste of a grief and longing you still couldn't truly comprehend, couldn’t even remember. “She had a cloak,” you wrapped your arms around yourself, “I always felt so safe in there.”

“That’s because it was safe, it created a protection around those who wore it, or who were under it. She used it to protect the land during winter, but when she had to hide you it worked for you too.”

“Did she hide me here? Is that why I don’t remember?” 

“Oh no, she used to hide you on Asgard, mostly, but you visited other realms too.” 

“So is she still hiding in it? Is that why we’re not together?”

Brunnhilde reached out and patted your arm, “no, she’s not hiding in it. I’m sorry to tell you, she died, and she took all of her magic and secrets with her. The cloak was never Asgardian to begin with, so we couldn't have looked for it, though Frigga tried. It's been lost for a long time, but I'd bet if it's anywhere, it's here on Midgard, waiting for you." 

You nodded, contemplating the possibility that it may be out there and, if it was, it was yours now. A Goddess’ cloak. 

Just the thought of it made you feel dizzy. You sipped your tea, allowing the warmth of it to spread through you before you built the courage to ask your next question. 

“How did she die?” The question squeaked out of you, barely a whisper, and you found yourself curling into the cushions of the sofa as you spoke. 

“I wish I knew." Brunnhilde looked sincere and you could feel the sorrow radiating from her as her eyes misted, "she brought you back to Asgard many times, sometimes she would stay and you would holiday around the city, sometimes she would leave you under the Queen’s care. The last time you visited you were just of age, celebrating your birthday and looking forward to your ascension. She left to speak to a potential suitor in Vanaheim, your mother and Frigga had many friends there, and together they sought someone who could match your spirit, but provide you protection, a good match." 

"A good match?" 

"I know it's a lot to take in, but you were, are, a very important child not just to your mother, but to us all. Children are rare in the Nine Realms, especially among the Aesir, skilled children are rarer." 

"Skilled?"

"Your magic. When you first came to Asgard you were wild and untamed. Frigga helped you to channel your energy and taught you alongside her own sons. I believe Loki is helping you again now, but there was a time you trained together. And that kind of magic, in the hands of the wrong realm, the wrong husband. It could've been catastrophic." 

"Husband, why would I have to have a husband?!" You were incensed, "why couldn't I just train and be by myself." 

"It was a difficult time for the Nine Realms, for us all, a time of change. But you were as angry then as you are now, I’m pleased to see you haven’t lost any of your fire.” Angry as you were, you could see that Brunnhilde was telling the truth, and there was no teasing or malice in the way she looked at you. 

The King sat her cup down an came to sit beside you, bringing your hand up to the side of her face, she opened her memories again. 

You were sat in Frigga’s private chambers, a fire glowing in the grate, wine, fruit and bread on the table. Frigga held you close, patting your hair and singing a soft lullaby.

“My dear, you are still so young to lose a mother and we will always be here for you. But you must listen to the wishes of your court, and of your King at least consider his plans. A chaperone and entourage are being sent to take you home.”

“I won’t go with them, I barely know him. Why won’t Odin let me stay?” You sobbed. 

“He will not overrule your father. There will be a ball for you, and then your Father will come and collect you. I imagine you will be introduced to your betrothed and then your ascension will begin, you will be crowned and named to solidify your position."

Brunnhilde pulled away, she was unsure of how the evening played out any further, you had fled the room and not returned. Frigga had asked her to look for you when your maids said you were not in your bed. The Valkyrie had assumed you remained in the castle, but to no avail. To Brunnhilde’s knowledge you had hidden yourself all night, returning in the morning in sodden clothes, covered in soil and grass, and had assumed you’d spent the night in the gardens, perhaps sleeping in one of the follies scattered around the hedges. 

You slid back against the sofa cushions, lost in your own memory, eyes shut but twitching as if in deep sleep. Brunnhilde draped a blanket over your lap and propped your head onto a cushion, leaving you to your memories. 

You stood, tossing aside the blankets and sheets and carefully opened the doors of your balcony. Long since a trellis had been built into the stone wall outside and you used it, as always, to climb down from your rooms into the quiet of the gardens. Out in the night, the lanterns led the way slowly fading as you moved further from the safety of the palace until you were in darkness surrounded by the trees at the edge of the palace land. Above you the forest loomed, foreboding and fascinating all at once. You expected to be alone, out in the night, but as you slowed to a halt, panting breaths that circled you in the midnight air, a voice called to you through the manicured lawns and trained roses, echoing from the mountain behind you, sad and low. 

Loki’s arms found your waist, pulling you back against his chest. Firm and real in the ethereal night, and took your weight as you cried again. 

“My darling, please, you can not leave me here." He begged, nuzzling into your neck and breathing you in. You could smell him too, your memory so vivid that it filled your senses.

“What choice do I have?" You sagged further into his hold, his strong arms keeping you against his chest. 

Together you tumbled to the ground. Loki kept you close in his lap, attempting to stop your skirts from catching in the grass and mud, but you pushed them away, taking his wrists and placing his hands on your waist. With panting breaths you stared at each other, the moonlight glowing in his eyes. Then he kissed you. With no hesitation, no shyness. His tongue licking into your mouth and claiming you. 

You fell into his kisses, the moss below you becoming a blanket as he lay you down. You pulled him closer, sinking into the feeling of his magic as it surrounded you, allowing him to mould himself to your body.

“Your dress, it will be noticed," he mumbled, pulling the silk and chiffon back onto the blanket. 

“If I have to leave in a week, why should I care what anyone thinks? I’ll never be allowed to live again. And I want to live Loki, I want to be free!” Your hands were on his shoulders, in his hair, on his arms pulling him closer, clinging to him as if to life itself. 

“You are still a Princess, soon you'll be a Queen too. I should take you back to the palace.” He propped himself up on his elbow, warring with himself over whether to take you back to your chambers or keep you here forever. Loki was losing his fight, confusion writ across his normally controlled expression. Your kisses tasted like wine and figs, intoxicating and enticing. He had held himself back for so long, kept his feelings deeply hidden for so long he was struggling to keep his hands from you. 

“Is that not enough for you, my Prince? Or is it because you are a God? Am I not Goddess enough?” You started to sit up, confused in the depths of your emotions. If you weren't enough then you wouldn't be humiliated. 

“My darling, my Princess, my Queen, Ásynja. I would worship at your feet." He insisted, cupping your cheeks, his eyes swirling with need, with desire, with something you couldn't name. "But you will have to hold court here, you must be respected as the Goddess of Spring, there is some purity required," he hinted, his hands clenching in the swirling fabric at your waist. 

Loki kissed across your brow, your nose, your cheeks, every kiss more reverent than the last. Filled with the love he was too frightened to name. 

You laughed, a harsh bark compared to the usually tinkling lilt of your joy, “Is that what you think they’ll crown me? Because of my mother?” 

You felt him nod against your neck, pressing his lips against your pulse, enjoying the taste of you while he could, before he let you go. 

“What else could you be? How could you be anything but pure love and joy, there is no other who could replace her, it has to be you,” his hands played with the jewels that seemed to eternally adorn your hair, turning each pink diamond green beneath his touch. 

“Lust. That’s what I've heard I will be, a humiliation, a jest. What do you get when you marry spring and fertility with chaos and brawling? Lust, he said, violent lust. And I shall marry a war lord from Vanaheim too, to confirm my position. He made it clear I wasn’t to fall in love while I was here, I must keep myself pure so that my lord may enjoy his wife to the fullest." You ground your teeth, tearing at the blanket beneath you. "His greatest trick. Naming his own daughter Goddess of Lust as a - as a - as a virgin." Your face screwed up in anger, sobs wracking you as you thought of giving yourself so intimately to your betrothed. But Loki stopped. 

“You love me?” He asked, suddenly shy, his grasping hands holding you close. 

You met his gaze again, soft and full of admiration. “Endlessly,” you breathed, and he lay you back down among the moss, the growing flowers and new shoots, the warm sun rising and the scent of spring surrounding you. 

You woke to Brunnhilde stoking the fire, the curtains drawn now and the lights low. She smiled as you stirred and came to sit beside you again. 

“Pleasant dreams, were they?” She asked, raising an eyebrow, and you felt hot suddenly, even without the crackling fire. 

“I still have so many questions,” you pondered on what you needed answered first. 

“My father? Was he cruel?” You asked, curling your feet under yourself and tucking one of Brunnhilde's many blankets over your knees. 

"I never met him properly." Brunnhilde admitted, though a little awkwardly. "I know he was a god here on Midgard, and that your mother kept you closely guarded on Asgard while he was holding court here. I believe it was an arranged match, and there was no love between them. It was perhaps why she was so keen to see you well married, in the end. But I haven't seen him, not since he took you back."

Married. You had already found out that you were a Goddess, what would be marriage compared to that? To some unknown war lord no less, perhaps he would already be dead. But it was some comfort to know that, even then, you had given your heart and soul to Loki instead. 

Brunnhilde watched you, waiting for the next question. 

“You said Loki meant a lot to me. Will you show me?” You felt the heat of embarrassment creep up your spine, you knew exactly what he meant, but you had to know whether it was a dalliance born of extreme emotion, or something more. 

The King looked awkward for a moment. “I didn’t see a lot of it. You were both private, but also royalty. I wasn’t there, but I do  remember the last ball you attended together, the one in your honour. He danced with you the whole night and refused any other offer, the court was abuzz with whispers of your courtship.  Your father was angry that you'd allowed yourself to become the subject of gossip and he took you early in the morning before anyone else was awake. You had planned a final breakfast on the terrace with the Princes and the Queen, Loki was distraught for a day and then it was as if you were never there. No one spoke of you, and Frigga made it clear your name was never to enter the gossip of court again, for everyone’s safety." 

The whole thing had been so odd, all you wanted to do was speak to Loki and share your new knowledge with him, to see if he could remember it too. Brunnhilde called Thor while you layered your coat and scarf on again, tugging your boots on with one hand on the wall in the small hallway. 

She stood in the doorway as you left, and directed you away from her cosy home, back towards the harbour and to another stone cottage before she closed the door for the night, leaving you to your thoughts. 

You walked slowly across the small village, enjoying the crisp air and the bob of the boats in the harbour. It was calm here, away from the world, and you contemplated asking Loki if you could continue your training here instead of returning to the bustle of the compound. 

"Princess Estrid,” a deep voice said behind you. The title was new and brittle, but you assumed it must be another Asgardian, perhaps someone you once knew and, with a new found excitement, you turned to them with a smile. 

“Yes?"

And then everything went black. 

<<Part 6

Part 8>>

Gods & Goddess' mentioned.

This is just from my own reading, I'm by no means an expert, just a fan, so if you know more and want to talk to me please send me a message/ask!

Brigid - beloved Goddess from the Tuatha Dé Danann. Brigid is often cited as the goddess of spring, the dawn, fertility. Brigid is so popular she was made into a Saint as Christianity became more widespread. She's often linked to a magical cloak which gives protection to those that wear it, you can leave cloth outside of your house on Imbolc for her to bless and in some stories it's her cloak that covers the ground during winter. She's also linked to cattle and craftsmen (including metal work and those that use fire), mothers and children.

Brigid is well loved and celebrated still as a Pagan Goddess and Christian Saint.

[writinground2]

Not a Threat - Jessie Fleming

Based off this request - Jessie gets tackled badly leaving her unconscious and reader is really angry and protective.

“Not worth the card Y/N,” Jessie pushed both hands into Y/N’s chest, pushing her away from the ref. 

“There needs to be a fucking card, and he knows it!” Y/N let herself be pushed away, but still motioned to the ref over Jesse’s shoulder to the ref. 

The game was only twenty minutes in, but there were several hard tackles directed at the Chelsea offence. The ref had only given the Arsenal players warnings, being far more generous than he should be. 

“The cards will come, just play your game,” Jessie pushed Y/N back into position. 

Y/N huffed but gave a stiff nod and made her way to line up for the free kick. 

The rest of the half continued the same fashion. Chelsea players spending more and more time on the ground, some slower to get up. Jessie having taken the brunt of the Arsenal defence. They tried sending Fleming on quick runs in, hoping keeping her in motion would prevent the defence from sticking to her. After a few full speed tackles, sending her skidding across the pitch, they dropped her to midfield. Midfield wasn’t any better, if gave Arsenal a chance to mark her tighter, bodying her around. 

As the players made their way back out of the tunnel to start the second half, Y/N stepped into McCabes space, stopping her just out of the sight of the field. 

“You even think of touching Fleming again, I will put you down like a fucking dog, you hear me?”

McCabe didn’t say anything, just tilted her head up, working to keep her glare in place. Y/N stepped closer, chests touching and forcing McCabe to step back to avoid her toes being stepped on. 

“I said, do you hear me?”

“Don’t threaten my players,” Leah came around the corner, McCabes glare slipping the longer Y/N towered over her. 

“I’m not threatening anyone,” she kept her eyes firmly on Katie’s, “just telling your girl here what will happen if she doesn’t clean it up.” 

Y/N gave her a smirk when she saw the crack in McCabes tough exterior, turning and running to join her team on the field without another word.

It seemed Y/N’s words had their desired effect, McCabe actively avoiding Fleming, giving her more chances to run into the box. Quickly putting Chelsea ahead. 

Y/N could see the frustration mounting on the Irish player. She could see that Katie wanted to run and mark Jessie quicker, but there was a hesitation before taking off to cover her. 

Chelsea uses this to their advantage, pushing their line high, forcing Arsenal on their heels and to drop their line back. Jessie was able to slip in behind their line as Y/N chipped the ball over the defenders. 

Jessie can tap it forward enough with her chest before side stepping the keeper, pulling her out of position, she’s able to casually strike the ball. Just as the ball leaves her boot, studs connect harshly with her planted leg, sending her tumbling forward. Her momentum sends her into the keeper her had been rushing to get back into position, sending both tumbling in a pile. 

Celebration for the goal abruptly ends when Fleming doesn’t get up when the keeper gingerly climbs off her. Y/N immediately at her side, helping her roll over.

The medics are already running onto the field as Jessie is looking around bleary. Y/N explained that she had been unconscious for a second before coming to again. The medics motioned her out of the way to fully assess the midfielder.

Y/N immediately turns and sets her sights on the Irish woman that’s arguing with the ref. She can see Arsenal players pulling her away, trying to direct her to leave the field. Y/N ignores it all and narrows her eyes. 

A strong arm curls around her waist, lifting her off her feet and pulling her away before she can move towards the group. She tries to fight the grip unsuccessfully, thrashing wildly.

“She’s already got the red, don’t do anything stupid,” Millie shouts at her, struggling to keep her in place. 

“Fuck that!” Y/N doubles her effort as Katie makes her way past to leave the field, “I told you what would happen McCabe!” 

Sam appeared in her face, helping Millie contain Y/N, “Jess is up, go check on her.”

That deflated Y/N’s anger instantly, she stopped resisting both players and turned back to see Jessie getting to her feet. Wobbling in place for a second while both medics kept her balanced. Y/N walked backwards with them, eyes scanning up and down Jessies body, looking for injuries. 

“I’m alright,” Jessie whispers, she keeps her eyes down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. 

Y/N just looked to one of the medics for a better answer about what was wrong. 

“Probably concussion, we’ll do a full check in the back.”

Y/N nodded, she paused at the sideline, watching helplessly as Jessie slowly continued down the tunnel. 

With only minutes left in the game and Arsenal down a player and a few goals, the reds dropped to focus on defence, wanting the game to end without any more goals. 

Y/N takes off down the tunnel as soon as the whistle is blown, ignoring the calls of fans or other players, only focusing on finding her girlfriend. 

The lights are off when she gets to the medical room. She softly closes the door behind her, toeing her cleats off, wanting to avoid any additional sound she possibly can. Jessie is still fully in her kit, arm thrown over her face. 

“I’m alright,” Jessie mumbles, pulling her arm, looking over to Y/N. 

“Liar,” Y/N grins at her, “how’s the noggin?” she places a gentle kiss to her forehead. 

“Muffled,” Jesse shuffles to the edge of the bed to press her forehead into Y/N’s stomach, “little headache, but the ringing is really bad, stuffs really bright and loud.” 

Y/N nodded, gentling massaging the back of Jessie’s neck. They stood wrapped in each other for a moment, “let’s get you changed and ready to go before anyone else gets in.” 

Jessie nods but makes not move to pull away. Y/N chuckles, nudging her away slightly, “I’ll be right back,” she drops a quick kiss to her forehead before rushing out of the room. 

She pushed through the doors leading to the change room, ripping her jersey off as she walked. Throwing her dirty kit into the laundry, she pulled on her own clothes, shoving her everything in her bag before grabbing all Jessies clothing too. She forced herself to slow down and not slam the door open on her return to the medical room. 

Jessie is sitting up when she comes back in, elbows resting on her knees. Y/N gently drops the bags to the floor next to the bed. 

“Ready?” Y/N tugs the bottom of Jessies jersey, signalling she’ll start there to change her. 

Jessie straightens up a bit, helping pull her jersey and then undershirt off while Y/N pulls out a clean shirt and hoodie. 

Y/N pulls the wheelie stool over and grabs Jessies booted feet to rest in her lap to unlace both before gently pulling them and her socks off. Jessie hisses as the sock coms past the bruise from McCabes studs. Y/N muttered an apology, dropping a delicate kiss to the centre of the bruise. 

“I’m going to kill her.”

“You’re much too picky an eater for jail,” Jessie teases. 

Y/N pushes the stool out of the way as she stands, guiding Jessies hands to her shoulder to help balance her while she stands. Keeping her in place, she pushes her shorts past her hips to pool on the floor. Jessie sits back down while Y/N bunches her pants around her ankles, so they just need to pull them up when she stands up. 

Sitting back down, Jessie watches Y/N rummage around her bag, pulling out a pair of sunglasses for the walk to the bus. 

Millie is quick to take both their bags from Y/N as they walk through the change room, telling her to focus on getting the midfielder to the bus. Both offer a thanks and make slow work of the walk to the bus. 

They both ignore their names being called in the hallway and outside. Some fans quickly quiet down seeing the discomfort Fleming is clearly in, some shouting louder their displeasure of being ignored. 

Fleming lets out a sigh of relief as soon as she settled into her seat. She struggles to keep the sunglasses in place while settling on her side with her head in Y/N’s lap, but eventually finds a place. 

Everyone is quiet as they make their way on the bus, gently patting Jessie’s shoulder as they walk past. Y/N works her fingers into Jesses neck and shoulders, her other hand rubbing up and down her side.   

[city-of-ladies]

The dangers of the combat zone

"Women accompanying the military were in what military historian John Lynn calls the combat zone, which is

best defined by the intensity and immediacy of danger and by the ability to do direct harm to the enemy… the full reality of war lives here. Modern armies regard it as an innovation to send some women into combat, but in the campaign community all women stood in harm’s way.

It would be odd to imagine that the women accompanying an army, exposed as they were to all the dangers of the military world, didn’t pick up arms and fight. In 1643, in the earlier stages of the English Civil War, a regiment of troops was recalled from Ireland to support King Charles. Rumours swirled that they were accompanied by a regiment of women, and that ‘these were weaponed too; and when these degenerate into cruelty, there are none more bloody’. Indeed, when 120 Irish women were taken prisoner at Nantwich they were discovered to have long knives with them, causing a furore in the press. The dubiously named True Informer excitedly reported that the knives in question were half a yard long, with a hook at the end ‘made not only to stab but to tear the flesh from the very bones’. The likeliest explanation for these knives, however, is that the women weren’t soldiers; they were camp followers, and they needed the knives to help them with pillage and self-defence. 

The women of the campaign community did fight. The Bishop of Albi, on the battlefield of Leucate in southern France to administer to the dying in 1637, came upon the bodies of several women in uniform. ‘These were the real men,’ he was told by the Castilian soldiers, ‘since those who had fled, including certain officers, had conducted themselves like women’. 

Madeleine Kintelberger was a vivandière accompanying the French Seventh Hussar Regiment at Austerlitz in 1805, along with her soldier husband and their six children. The regiment was under heavy attack from Russian forces when her husband was killed by a cannonball, and her children seriously wounded. Madeleine herself had taken a cannonball to the arm, virtually slicing it off below the shoulder. As the Russian Cossacks approached, she scooped up a sword to defend her children, receiving further wounds in both her arms before the family was taken prisoner. Madeleine was six months pregnant and gave birth in captivity. Her bravery was rewarded with a pension from Napoleon. Examples of cantinières fighting are ‘legion’."

Forgotten Warriors, Sarah Percy

[yourplayersaidwhat]

My group got out of character during a stealth section, much to charign of our DM, as they just vibed at the side over comms.

~~~~~

Vinnie (OOC): This is why in Ireland, every household should have a hurley stick. You'll have something to defend yourself with if you have a break-in.

Zoltare (Me, OOC): I see your hurley stick, I raise you a bow. [Context, I literally own a bow. Don't worry, the arrows are kept in the shed].

Vinnie (OOC): That is acceptable.

Bán (OOC): I'll do you both better. I'll raise you a bayonet [Context, my friend is in the Irish Navy, and own of their family members was in the Irish Defence Forces. They bayonet was passed down].

~~~~~

Sorry for the side tracking, DM!

[whencyclopedia]

Storming of Bristol

The storming of Bristol, a port then second only in importance to London, on 26 July 1643 by Royalist forces led by Prince Rupert (1619-1682) was a major coup against the Parliamentarians during the English Civil Wars (1642-1651). The Royalists were able to break through the long perimeter fortifications, which were manned by a defensive force spread too thinly. Taken in a day but with many casualties on both sides, Bristol became a vital Royalist centre until its fall to the Parliamentarians after the siege of 1645.

From Edgehill to Bristol

King Charles I of England (r. 1625-1649) considered himself an absolute monarch with absolute power and a divine right to rule, but his unwillingness to compromise with Parliament, particularly over money and religious reforms, led to a civil war from 1642 to 1651. Fought between the 'Roundheads' (Parliamentarians) and 'Cavaliers' (Royalists) in over 600 battles and sieges, the war was a long and bloody conflict. The northern and western parts of England largely remained loyal to the monarchy but the southeast, including London, was controlled by Parliament. The Parliamentarians also controlled the Royal Navy, a significant impediment to Charles receiving reinforcements from the Continent and Ireland. The king would need a port if the war dragged on, but if he could capture London in a decisive engagement, perhaps the war would be quickly over. Charles made his intent clear and raised the royal colours at Nottingham on 22 August 1642.

The first major engagement of the war had been the Battle of Edgehill in Warwickshire on 23 October 1642, which ended in a draw. Charles then delayed and captured Oxford before turning on London, where he was rebuffed by the presence of a 20,000-strong Parliamentarian army at Turnham Green. The king decided to fight another day and retreated to Oxford, which became the Royalist capital. A series of skirmishes and small-scale battles followed over the next year as neither side sought to commit all of their troops in a single field engagement. Rather, both sides concentrated on capturing what strategically valuable towns and cities they could. There were, too, half-hearted negotiations to bring peace through the winter and spring of 1643, but it seems that both sides were confident that they could press their advantage better on the battlefield when warmer weather arrived.

The indecisive nature of the war so far had not helped the Royalists in their predicament concerning sea power. In the summer of 1643, Prince Rupert, Count Palatine of the Rhine and Duke of Bavaria, Charles' nephew and commander of the Royal cavalry, was tasked with capturing Bristol, second only to London as the kingdom's most important port and an important regional military stronghold. Bristol was a major commercial centre, exporting such regional goods as cheese from the Wessex vales and importing many vital raw materials. It was a naval base and so could control the Irish Sea, and it was a major regional administrative centre. At the time, Bristol had a civilian population of around 15,000, making it the second-largest city in England after the capital.

Rupert, who was still only 23, had gained invaluable experience during the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648) in Central Europe. Rupert had been involved in the siege of Breda in 1637 and had fought well, if a little impetuously, in the Civil War so far, notably at Edgehill. Bristol was his next important target, but he would have to overcome the city's defences which he knew the value of, having himself advised the king (and been ignored) that Royalist cities should be heavily fortified.

Continue reading...

[mariacallous]

On 2 February 2022, the Russian navy was to begin an exercise in Irish waters. The Irish government had pleaded with the Kremlin not to go ahead, but in vain. Only when Irish fishermen intervened did the Kremlin decide to abandon the exercise. Any day now, Russian warships will return to Irish waters for another exercise, and the Dublin government can’t count on Irish fishermen to once again solve its predicament. Now that the neutral country needs to defend itself and its waters, it can only hope and plead.

‘Defence Forces “hyper aware” as Russian navy expected to conduct drills,’ the Irish Examiner reported on 17 September. The Irish Defence Forces are still hyper aware, for the Russian navy can arrive in Ireland’s Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) at any time. After a few embarrassing mishaps in the Black Sea at the hands of Ukraine, it is trying to prove its worth. Earlier this month, Russia conducted the massive Ocean 2024 exercise with the navy of China’s People’s Liberation Army and People’s Liberation Army air force. The mostly Russian exercise involved 400 warships, submarines and support vessels, more than 120 naval aircraft and more than 90,000 personnel.

Ireland’s waters weren’t part of Ocean 2024, but in recent years the Russian navy has shown considerable interest in Ireland. In May last year, for example, several Russian navy ships entered Ireland’s EEZ south of the country  –  and stayed put. ‘[The situation] is carefully monitored by Ireland and by others and that is an ongoing scenario where people track what’s happening within international waters and, indeed, within the Irish exclusive economic zone, which is quite large in itself,’ Tanaiste (Foreign Minister) Micheal Martin said after the ships arrived, adding that ‘I don’t see it as a threat, but it’s something we are very conscious of and we keep a very close eye on.’ It was not the first time Russian naval and merchant ships had mysteriously parked themselves off Ireland’s southern coast, which just happens to be home to an extraordinary concentration of undersea internet cables.

Indeed, some time in late 2021 or early 2022 the Russian navy decided to conduct an exercise in the EEZ. The exercise was to begin on 3 February 2022. The Irish government sought to prevent it from happening by pleading with the Kremlin and calling the exercise ‘unwelcome and unwanted’, but to no avail. Russia’s ambassador to Ireland, Yuri Filatov, declared that ‘there is nothing to be disturbed, concerned, or anguished about and I have extensively explained that to our Irish colleagues’.

The Irish government was powerless to make the exercise go away. In late January, it issued a statement advising Irish fishermen that the exercise would begin on 3 February and that vessels should be aware of ‘serious safety risks’ in the area and avoid entering it. Russia had indicated the exercises would involve naval artillery and rocket launches, the advisory explained. The fishermen were outraged. ‘This is the livelihoods of fishermen and fishing families all around the coastline here,’ Patrick Murphy, the chief executive of the Irish South and West Fish Producers Organisation, told RTE radio. ‘It’s our waters. Can you imagine if the Russians were applying to go onto the mainland of Ireland to go launching rockets, how far would they get with that?’

The fishermen took action. ‘Our boats will be going out to that area on the first of February to go fishing,’ Murphy told Politico on 25 January. ‘When one boat needs to return to port, another will head out so there is a continuous presence on the water. If that is in proximity to where the exercise is going, we are expecting that the Russian naval services abide by the anti-collision regulations.’ It was a clever move. By fielding a constant presence of fishing boats in the planned exercise waters, the fishermen would prevent the Russian navy from carrying out the exercise. The Kremlin backed down. Now the Irish fishermen’s showdown with the Kremlin is headed for the big screen: well-deserved fame for the West’s most unexpected national security strategists.

The Irish government can’t count on Murphy and his men to bail it out once again. Russia is prepared, and fishermen should not have to improvise national-security fixes. The Irish government is on its own, and that means having to face off the Russian navy and other prospective intruders with the means of the Irish Defence Forces. That’s a total of two army brigades, an army training centre, 17 aircraft (including helicopters) and six patrol vessels, some of which seem to be regularly in poor repair.

It’s not much with which to deter an intruder, even one merely wanting to frighten Ireland by loitering on top of the undersea cables connecting the world. No wonder Irish ministers firmly declare that the Irish Defence Forces are ‘hyper aware’ and that the government is ‘keeping a close eye’ on potential intruders: the country can do little more than be hyper aware.

Indeed, Ireland – which was so skillfully on trend during globalisation’s exuberant years and has so richly capitalised on globalised business – has thoroughly failed to spot the deteriorating situation around it. Other European countries are beefing up their armed forces, which, for the most part, were far larger than the Irish Defence Forces to begin with. Sweden and Finland, for so long neutral and then militarily non-aligned, have joined NATO. Neutral Ireland, by contrast, seems frozen in globalisation time – and even if it decided to shore up its defence now, this wouldn’t yield results any time soon.

That makes the many companies that have set up their European headquarters in Ireland (and depend on undersea cables to do business) highly vulnerable. Will they start leaving the island? We can’t know. What’s clear is that Ireland, a nation that bet everything on globalisation, is riding straight into a security dilemma.

[dougielombax]

Not to worry.

We’ve sent in one of our best bomb disposal experts.

Yeah this guy is GOOD!

20 years in the Irish Army.

He worked in engineering and later logistics as an ammunition technical officer.

He’s disposed of landmines, IEDs, bombs, inert munitions and such in Iraq, Kosovo, Lebanon and Syria.

So he knows a thing or two about handling explosives. He’s even disarmed ballistic missiles.

No need to worry.

No, he’s not gonna stop, disarm or dispose of the bomb.

He’s gonna have a philosophical and ethical debate with the bomb in order to try convincing it to not go off.

It could work.

He has proven that he can keep a level head and has an incredible track record.

Here’s hoping.

Idk

[scotianostra]

On September 12th 1315 Thomas Dun, a privateer from Scotland, sailed into Holyhead, captured an English ship and over-ran Anglesey.

Be thankful for this cracking tale, on what looks like being another quiet day on my history posts, luckily I have loads of pics from yesterday to post!

There isn't a lot known about Thomas Dun before all this, he crops up in the occasional chronicle of the time, several spellings of his name occur, my favourite is Dubh, a privateer is another name for legalised piracy, sponsored by a state, in this case Scotland, specifically, if you look at the date, The Bruces.

To get back to the name, over the few mentions I found about him is one story uses the name Tavish, a Scottish name for Thomas, what a name for a pirate eh" Dubh Tavish, or Black Thomas, just as good a name as another famous pirate Blackbeard!

So why would Robert the Bruce want with a privateer, well after Bannockburn there was no point in just sitting waiting for the English making another attack, so the King sent an army commanded by his wee brother Edward to fight the English in Ireland, which he did with success at first, being crowned King of the Island in 1316.

Black Tavish's main activity was piracy in the Irish sea, directed at English ships. His fleet also acted as a a de-facto navy for the Scots, he is said to have ferried the army over the Irish sea and ran a blockade, starving the English of support.

Dun enters the Irish annals when he is mentioned as taking four ships of the Earl of Ulster just off Portrush in County. The ships were were laden with supplies to help the English war effort including food which was a precious commodity in what was a time of not just war but also famine. Portrush now claims Tavish as their own, running annual pirate festival in his honour.

The Bruce's biographer, John Barbour wrote an account of Edward Bruce’s Irish invasion within living memory of it happening. Edward’s army got into difficulty at Coleraine and Tavish sailed up the mouth of the Bann river to rescue him, ferrying Edward’s soldiers across the river and out of the clutches of the army of the Earl of Ulster.

English chroniclers describe Tavish as "a perpetrator of depredations on the sea" and "a cruel pirate", which is understandable as they were on the wrong end of his activities, however he must not have been a very nice person as John Barbour, writing from the Scottish point of view also calls Tavish a “Scumer of the Se” - scum of the sea.

Tavish raided Holyhead in Anglesey with four galleys and captured a laden cargo ship, the "James" of Caernarvon, it is said after receiving intelligence from a local "rhingyl" (official) who may have sent out a boat to advise him of the opportunity. The Welsh then rose in revolt and Edward II was forced to return to Wales the troops he had recruited to send against Scotland. Now taking the threat of Tavish and the Scots in Ireland seriously, Edward recalled the Cinque Ports fleet as well. When the King of France protested this withdrawal of support against the Flemings, Edward II claimed all his ships were needed for the defence of Ireland.

Edward II had had enough. He ordered a Geoffrey de Modiworthe to construct a special ship and go after Tavish. This was a 140 man galley, very large for those days and probably the fastest vessel in those waters. Even with that, though, they could not catch the pirate and it took an Irish noblemen, John D’Athy, to take to the seas and finally end Tavish’s reign of terror.

In July of 1317, John and his ships intercepted Tavish and his fleet at sea. A sea battle ensued in which 40 of the privateers are said to have been killed and Tavish captured.

Sketches of County Antrim says about the Skerries at Portrush that Tavish “died in his ship there, and was buried on the island, the place of his grave is unknown” but D'Athy is said to have cut off his head and sent it to Dublin.

For King Robert the use of the privateer was only a stop gap, by that time Tavish was done for he was already building his own navy, having instigated a ship building program on the Clyde, a tradition that would continue for most of the next 700 years.

[georgefairbrother]

This month (April) in 1969, the BBC reported on a surprising by-election result;

“…A 21-year-old woman, Bernadette Devlin, has become Britain’s youngest ever female MP and the third youngest MP ever…Standing as an independent Unity candidate, Miss Devlin wrested the seat of Mid-Ulster in Northern Ireland from the Ulster Unionists…”

She had grown up in a working class family of six children, and both parents had died by the time she was a teenager, forcing her to balance furthering her education while taking care of her younger siblings.

Bogside 1969 (image BBC News)

Having been arrested and subsequently imprisoned for her role in the Battle of the Bogside, violent sectarian protests in Derry in August of that year, she was re-elected at the UK general election in 1970 and served one full term.

Following Bloody Sunday, she (literally) smacked Conservative Home Secretary Reginald Maudling in the face for asserting in the House of Commons that the behaviour of members of the the British Parachute Regiment, (which had killed 14 civilians and wounded at least a further 15 during street protests in Derry), had been justified on the grounds of acting in self-defence. Devlin had personally witness these events.

Having not sought re-election in 1974, she remained active politically, supporting the cause of the hunger strikers in 1981 and standing unsuccessfully for seats in the European Parliament and the Dail Eirreann (Parliament of the Irish Republic).

On January 16th, 1981, the BBC reported:

“…The Northern Ireland civil rights campaigner and former Westminster MP, Bernadette McAliskey (formerly Devlin) has been shot by gunmen who burst into her home…The three men shot Mrs McAliskey, in the chest, arm and thigh as she went to wake up one of her three children. Her husband, Michael, was also shot twice at point blank range…Three men are now being questioned by police. They were arrested by members of the Parachute Regiment, who were on patrol nearby when they heard the shots…The McAliskeys were flown by army helicopter to hospital in Belfast, where their condition is said to be serious, but not life-threatening…”

(Irish news sources claim that the British soldiers were 'watching the home' but did not intervene).

The BBC also reported that Loyalist paramilitaries were going after those who were campaigning for H Block prison reform, in the heightened tensions surrounding hunger strikes over demands for ‘prisoner of war’ status by Republicans in custody. Four campaign activists had been killed to that point.

Bernadette McAliskey continued to advocate for civil rights in Northern Ireland, and for inmates and former inmates of the Maze Prison. She later founded the South Tyrone Empowerment Programme, a community welfare organisation, now listed as a resource on the UK government family support webpage for Northern Ireland, researching and campaigning in areas such as housing, family support, civil rights, and the welfare of migrant workers.

Top image and additional material from the website of herstory.ie

[beezonia]

Uhhh I may have gone overboard and made two boxes and three other kwamis for the rom au

The lost box is self explanatory, it was a box the guardians completely forgot about and was lost to time until Nathalie finds it on one her trips to Greece

(don’t ask how it got there I have not thought about it and it’s more likely to change as I plan the story)

Webb is the leader, She’s the kwami of connections a main part of the web of life.

Cunning and kind Webb likes to think she can be a mother figure to her holder and guide them down a path that won’t harm the web of life.

Roo is a momma bear, she’s literally the Kwami of comfort/instinct her motherly instincts kick in whenever she gets a new holder

Stern but soft Roo believes that a good bond can do wonderful things

Finn kwami of defence, more likely to beat the shit out of someone if they make his holder feel less about themselves

He’s tough but has a heart of gold and protects anyone his holder deems worthy

Eayna Kwami of madness, she’s nuts very nuts wants to make sure her holders feel every part of madness they can

She’s manipulative but if matched with the right holder does become more soft

And flutter they are the kwami of innocence sweet and caring they dote on their holder no matter what

Flutter believes having some sort of innocence inside you can help in the harder times

—-

The box of judgment I haven’t fleshed out at all but Pathera and Kuura are rivals and opposing forces same with Craehee and Mingo

Octak is Webb’s rival, he makes sure any web she weaves doesn’t stick often destroying some of her holders lives in turn

Clover is based on the luck of the Irish and four leaf clovers bringing luck

She’s very energetic when it comes to being a mentor to her holder

Antee he’s a slowpoke but doesn’t give up on making sure his holder goes down the right path!

——

Please let me know if you’d like to hear more about these little guys!

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The road to the next duty is the only straight one.

- George MacDonald

General Sir Mark Carleton-Smith was the youngest Head of the British Army in over a century, the longest serving Chief of the General Staff since the Second World War and the most senior Special Forces officer in Defence.

The son of a major-general, Carleton-Smith went to Eton and later Durham University to read history. He joined the Army 40 years ago in 1982 on a university scholarship and graduated from the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst as an Infantry officer in the Irish Guards. 

He passed the SAS Selection Course in 1990 and served around the world with the SAS for most of the following 15 years in the Gulf, South America, Africa and the Balkans. Carleton-Smith was Commanding Officer of 22 SAS Regiment after 9/11 and commanded all Special Forces operations in Iraq, Yemen and Afghanistan.

He subsequently assumed command of 16 Air Assault Brigade, the Army’s high readiness parachute intervention force which culminated in his command of all British Forces in Afghanistan during one of the war’s most intense periods.

Promoted to Major General as Director of Special Forces, he commanded all the United Kingdom’s Special Forces for 3 years which included implementing the strategy to defeat ISIS in Syria and Iraq. 

Prior to taking up the post of Chief of the General Staff, the professional Head of the British Army in 2018, he was Defence’s Director of Military Strategy and Operations which included directing the UK response to Russia’s invasion of Crimea and military support to Ukraine. 

General Sir Mark Carleton-Smith has also been Honorary Colonel of the Irish Guards and of Oxford University OTC and also been a member of the England Rugby mentoring team preparing the squad for the 2023 World Cup and Colonel Commandant of the SAS.

Photo: General Sir Mark Carleton-Smith, KCB, CBE (As Colonel Irish Guards) Portrait Sitting London. (Rory Lewis Photographer) London 2023.

[the-paintrist]

George W. Joy - General Gordon's Last Stand - 1893

Major-General Charles George Gordon CB (28 January 1833 – 26 January 1885), also known as Chinese Gordon, Gordon Pasha, and Gordon of Khartoum, was a British Army officer and administrator. He saw action in the Crimean War as an officer in the British Army. However, he made his military reputation in China, where he was placed in command of the "Ever Victorious Army", a force of Chinese soldiers led by European officers which was instrumental in putting down the Taiping Rebellion, regularly defeating much larger forces. For these accomplishments, he was given the nickname "Chinese Gordon" and honours from both the Emperor of China and the British.

He entered the service of the Khedive of Egypt in 1873 (with British government approval) and later became the Governor-General of the Sudan, where he did much to suppress revolts and the local slave trade. He then resigned and returned to Europe in 1880.

A serious revolt then broke out in the Sudan, led by a Muslim religious leader and self-proclaimed Mahdi, Muhammad Ahmad. In early 1884, Gordon was sent to Khartoum with instructions to secure the evacuation of loyal soldiers and civilians and to depart with them. In defiance of those instructions, after evacuating about 2,500 civilians, he retained a smaller group of soldiers and non-military men. In the months before the fall of Khartoum, Gordon and the Mahdi corresponded; Gordon offered him the sultanate of Kordofan and the Mahdi requested Gordon to convert to Islam and join him, to which Gordon declined. Gordon was besieged by the Mahdi's forces, Gordon organised a citywide defence that lasted for almost a year and gained him the admiration of the British public, but not of the government, which had wished him not to become entrenched there. Only when public pressure to act had become irresistible did the government, with reluctance, send a relief force. It arrived two days after the city had fallen and Gordon had been killed.

The manner of Gordon's death is uncertain, but it was romanticised in a popular painting by George William Joy — General Gordon's Last Stand (1893, currently in the Leeds City Art Gallery), and again in the film Khartoum (1966) with Charlton Heston as Gordon. The most popular account of Gordon's death was that he put on his ceremonial gold-braided blue uniform of the Governor-General together with the Pasha's red fez and that he went out unarmed, except with his rattan cane, to be cut down by the Ansar. This account was very popular with the British press as it contained much Christian imagery with Gordon as a Christlike figure dying passively for the sins of all humanity.

George William Joy (7 July 1844 in Dublin, Ireland – 28 October 1925 in Purbrook, Hampshire) was an Irish painter in London.

He was perhaps best known for his depiction of heroism in a painting entitled The Death of General Gordon, Khartoum, 26 January 1885 (1893; Leeds City Museum). Picturing a final moment in the very recent British history of the Siege of Khartoum, Gordon is pictured bravely facing his fate in the Governor-General's Palace, Khartoum, standing above the followers of the invading Mahdi army moments before being struck down by a spear.