#link leads to her web page :)

[snewdraws]

opal the dragonborn

[unendingphantasm]

i've been (mostly casually) surfing around the net to find that Pixel Dolling site and i really wish there was like. a categorized list of social sites. idrc no matter how big. just as long as its on there

[wwaheoh]

Hey, Hi, Hello!! I don’t know if you’re not taking request or not but If it’s not too much of a hassle or if you have the free time, could I please request a part two of that unrequited love post where the reader starts intentionally avoiding those same characters you posted? Like basically the aftermath of the confession. If you’re closed or busy you really don’t have to accept this but thank you for that read 😭

“Aversion to Heartache…” Zenless Zone Zero x gnReader

Von Lycaon, Zhu Yuan

a/n: not including Anby, since she’s the one avoiding you at the end of Unrequited. also i am always open to requests or chats! just know that it might take some time to get back to you, since i write when i take a break or can’t draw

Sequel to: “Unrequited” (Lycaon, Zhu Yuan, Anby)

It’s been a couple of weeks since your failed confession. You had been purposefully avoiding Lycaon- even Victoria Housekeeping as well as the cafe they used as a front. Ads would pop up on websites, various members on it but the pure white fur of the Therian on your mind sticking out like a sore thumb against the muted colors of the rest of the staff.

Sighing, you clicked on the X to delete the ad, not wanting to see it any longer. You misclicked, accidentally clicking on the web link and being rerouted to the contact page of Victoria Housekeeping. It was familiar- having used it to venture into the Hollow, where you met Lycaon.

Quickly closing the tab, you tried to clear your mind. Lycaon, Lycaon, Lycaon, every day it felt like you got reminded of him. The good times you both had, spending afternoons and sometimes nights with him. Then quickly being soured by you confessing to him- the look on his face more unflattering than what really occurred.

You should go out for a bit… maybe some fresh air would help. Standing up, you put on some casual clothes, fixing a hoodie on and zipping it up before taking your keys.

Closing the door behind you and locking it, you took a deep breath of the cold afternoon air. Fresh, with only a couple of people milling about. A car or two passing by every couple of minutes. Stepping out from the front of your apartment, you began your aimless walk. Letting the sounds of the city fill your ears.

After tens of minutes, you found yourself in Lumina Square. Somewhere bustling with traffic. Following the crowd, you looked through the windows, commenting on things mentally- before something caught your eye.

Lycaon. The wolf-Therian was sitting in front of a noodle shop with… someone else. A figure wearing a blue-orange jacket, hair reaching their chin. Here you were, constantly on the verge of tears and Lycaon had already moved on. Seemingly having replaced you, seeing as how expressive this person was to him.

His ear twitched, a tell-tale sign of where he was going to look- having either heard or smelled something of note. Quickly you lifted your hood up, hiding your face as you quickly followed the crowd, hoping to avoid his gaze and possible confrontation, forever if possible.

Yet he knew you were there. With the aroma and cooking of the noodle shop covering up most of your tracks, but that familiar scent you had snaked its way in. Yet you were already gone, faded back into the crowd.

After the revelation of who Zhu Yuan’s heart had been captivated by, you had begun to slowly avoid Zhu Yuan. The heartache you felt as you spent time with her became more pervasive with each day. Something you wanted became poisoned, leading you to call hangouts off or declining Zhu Yuan whenever she invited you.

She very easily figured this out, but the question was ‘why?’. The two of you hadn’t had a falling out- nothing egregious and there was no reason for you to have any bad blood. Yet every time she approached you, you quickly tried to find an out- you weren’t as slick as you thought you were.

It became harder and harder for her to initiate anything, being stationed in different areas of New Eridu, as well as growing feelings for her partner Qingyi. Yet it still ate at her.

One day on patrol, you were responding to an urgent call, pulling up with lights flashing. A man had a girl hostage, blade to her neck as they ordered the cops to hand them a vehicle to make their escape from a robbery gone wrong.

Just as you were about to go in, a blur passed you, a familiar figure grabbed the girl, cuffing the suspect before roundhouse kicking them, knocking them and a piece of the wall out. As well as a couple of molars.

You watched her in a trance as she consoled the victim. Then you noticed that she was about to turn, with you quickly walking away back to your car. She stepped to follow you but was stopped, having to give a recount and file paperwork for the arrest, as well as return to film the rest of the promotional material for the director.

Qingyi watched you leave as she stepped out of the car, dots connecting in her head as she watched the hurt look on both you and Zhu Yuan’s face. She needed to do something about this...

[fanaticsnail]

Searching: Part 2

I thought I'd make a post like this to answer your ask @luarsunny. I can't add a page break in the ask box, and I don't want to accidentally spoil anything for anyone.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of death and grief. Tobiuo is my OC. One Piece speculation and potential spoilers beneath the cut. Page break added just in case.

Canon divergence. I know that's not where they are right now.

First of all, I am very much in denial and have been since I read it. This was the initial comic I did hint at how I saw it going down without spoiling anything. She is looking for the remains of the Victoria.

If she ever found what was left of the Kid Pirate crew in the depths of the sea, the Heart Pirates would be the ones rendered speechless rather than Tobiuo.

"At Elbath, in the New World, the Kid Pirates lead by Eustass "Captain" Kid with a bounty of three billion berries... were destroyed."

There would be no words, no gasps, and no sounds made on behalf of the grief she would feel in her heart at those words. Immediately racing against time and daylight, she would not have to sign with her hands or write a word to have Law turn the Tang towards Elbath.

Being one of the few members of the Heart Pirates who could breathe and speak under water, she would frantically call out for any member to hear them in her search. The remainder of the crew would wait with baited breath, Bepo closing his eyes and whispering soft encouragements to Tobiuo while she attempts to remain composed.

Finding Killer first, who took the majority of the hit from Shanks, would break her. Killer and Tobiuo have an understanding between them: him being the middle ground who gives both Tobiuo and Heat that final push to get together. When she finds him half consumed by the creatures lingering in the deep, she would begin to unleash a scream that can transcend the barrier between oceans and air from beneath the water.

Bringing up the crew, one by one, she would momentarily pause on Heat as his eyes lay glazed and unresponsive. Her heart screams at her to stop and lay beside her lover, but Law commanded her to not rest until she finds Kid. She hasn't found him, and she's been searching for four days without rest.

Lethargic and hallucinating, she finds him. His body was locked between rock and bone. With his metal arm still attached, she attempts to use the last of her strength to drag him up. His body is bloated beneath the pressure of the sea, swollen and pruned with the salt pickling his skin. Dragging him up to lie beside the crew, Tobiuo would crawl over to lie beside Heat. Maneuvering herself to lie tucked into his chest and beneath his arm, she uses the last of her strength to let out a whimpering sob as she exhales the water from her gills. Once the water releases, her cries are once again silent as she mourns.

Regardless as to who attempts to move her, she lays there frozen and stubborn in her motion. She fasts for three days, only waking from her rest to cry for Heat and the crew in this time. The scent of death begins to linger in the air, the bodies of the Kid Pirates are given funerals on long boats lit ablaze by tongues of fire. As Law stoops down to gently rouse his prized fighter while she grieves, the only thing to physically make her release Heat from her arms is the promise of vengeance and crafting her wrath. Just as Law sought his revenge for Doflamingo, he swears by blood oath to aid her in unleashing her scorn onto Red Haired Shanks.

As a final say in mourning her lover, she openly weeps as she sinks her teeth into a lock of his lengthy blue hair, severing it's link from his decaying scalp. Clutching it in her webbed hands, she witnesses Shachi and Penguin cast the boat away to join his body with the others at sea.

Reaching behind her head, she twists the cutting of his hair in a braid interwoven into her own strands, mourning the man who held her heart completely. She would only eat to make herself stronger, develop her Haki to have her abilities foster, and lose a part of herself she had only once again regained. Sleep brings little rest, the world falls to a life without joy and colour, and her once cheeriness is all but lost to her and her crew.

She knows she can't kill Shanks alone. He's a yonko, and Tobiuo is not an idiot. But what she does know now is her reach is not limited to those who walk along the land…

[araekniarchive]

i'm moving!

hi all :)) it's been a little while since i've been very active on this blog, and whilst a good chunk of that is chronic illness/job related, another big part is that i've been really struggling with my own tagging systems, to the point it feels like work just to reblog something properly. this is primarily because the theme tagging system for this blog evolved as i did, and a lot of the tags i used to use on her became superfluous, or repeated, and despite how many i have i still struggled to find stuff!

in addition to that, because of the way the tumblr editor used to work, the way i added images to posts would randomly add blank image descriptions to the pictures that just said 'image' and i couldn't change them, which made the webs look very ugly on mobile and also inaccessible to people using screenreaders or with sight issues on any browser, which is the opposite of what i wanted. thankfully, this has now been fixed for new webs, but is unfixable on the older webs which is a real bummer :(

so, a couple of weeks ago i randomly decided to do something about it. and i did! a few of you have noticed that a new blog, @otheraraekni, has been reblogging some of my webs and adding image descriptions in the reblogs, but i've also been remaking some webs as well with the alt text finally working as intended. i've made a new navigation page for my blog organisation, full of some tags i've kept, some i've slightly changed, and a whole new kind of tags for those i use most often. currently all the links on there will lead to this blog (so some of them will lead nowhere, as they may be new tags) but my intention is to switch urls.

so -- moving? in a day or so (once i've got the last kinks worked out) i will be turning my otheraraekni blog into araekni, and this blog into an archive. because araekni is a sideblog, i don't really have the option to just attach it to an old email and set it adrift, and i'm hoping not to have to get notifications from it forever, so in a month or so it will be deleted.

why a month? hopefully that will give everyone time to save any webs they like from this blog that i haven't decided to move over to what will be the new araekni! obviously, a good portion of the followers on this blog are from a couple of years ago when i was posting webs much more regularly, and i am not at all expecting the new blog to reach the same level of popularity as this one did, but if anybody would like to follow the new blog this is your chance :) i'll queue this post a couple dozen times so as many people as possible see it, but if you don't wish to follow me over there, please know how much i have loved keeping this blog over the years and how wonderful of an experience it has been <3

[rjalker]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin, is now available in English, transcribed into text from a single PDF scan of the story from Popular Magazine #81, v6.

This is, as far as I am aware, the only version of this story available in English besides the original PDF. You're welcome.

Links:

Read or download from the Web Archive.

Download (and, optionally, leave a tip) on Itch.io <-- now includes two audiobook versions!

Buy a physical copy from Lulu.com

@walks-the-ages, @internet--archive (thought you might like to be tagged, lol)

You can also read this short story under the read-more right here on tumblr. It is 9,051 words long, not including the title.

Summary, by me:

A crime so terrible it barely bears thinking about has been brought to the attention of cabinet minister Jean Rouxval, and he has taken it upon himself to bring those responsible for this horrible deed to justice.

But his plans to go it alone are brought up short when a detective by the name of Hercules Petitgris is assigned to assist him. Despite his poor appearance, detective Petitgris comes highly recommended. The suspects arrive, and Rouxval begins his interrogation, the proceedings watched over by the silent Petitgris as Rouxval takes the lead, driven by anger over the crime he has discovered. Little does he know that Petitgris got the case all worked out as soon as Rouxval started talking...

(Archived read-more link)

[read-more link was here]

The Overcoat of Arsène Lupin

Written by Maurice Leblanc,

“author of “The Hollow Needle,” “813,” “A Gentleman,” Ect.”

[Image description start: A black and white illustration with a black border, showing four characters. One is a man sitting at a desk, in a suit and tie, gesturing with one hand, while another man stands in front of the desk with his back to the viewer, one hand on his hip. Then a man and woman looking worried, the man with his hat off and hanging by his side, his other hand held out as he speaks, the woman with one hand to her face, the other clutching her chest. Image description end.]

Hands behind his back, head sunk deep in the collar of his coat, his harsh countenance contracted in deep thought, Jean Rouxval nervously paced up and down the length of his vast study. At the threshold the chief page, detailed to the service of of cabinet officers, awaited orders. The minister betrayed by his short, quick steps, his drawn brow, his agitation, that he was shaken by emotion which assail a strong man seldom, and only at crucial moment of his life.

Stopping suddenly, he said to the page in a determined voice:

“A lady and a gentleman, no longer very young, will arrive presently. You will ask them to wait in the drawing-room. Shortly after I expect a gentleman, younger and alone. You will conduct him to the yellow room. They are neither to speak nor to see each other. You understand? I am to be notified at once of their arrival.”

“Very well, sir,” said the page, and withdrew.

Jean Rouxval’s political ability lay mainly in his tremendous energy, his attention to detail and a determination to know a bit about everything, whether it concerned his department or not.

Having enlisted almost at once in 1914 to avenge his two sons – both of whom had seemingly vanished from the field of battle – and the subsequent death of his wife, the war had given him an excessive sense of the value of discipline, authority, and duty. Affairs in which he was concerned always discovered him ready to undertake the most serious responsibilities and consequently found him assuming the greatest amount of power. He won the esteem of his colleagues, but they were also a bit wary lest the exaggeration of his good qualities might not drag the cabinet into needless complications.

He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to give. He still had time to glance over the record of the frightful case which had caused him so much anxiety. Just then, however, he was interrupted by the telephone. He seized the receiver; the president of the council wished to speak to him.

He waited what seemed an endless time. Finally the president himself spoke. Answering, he said:

“Yes, Rouxval speaking, Mr. President.” He listened, seemed annoyed, and then replied in a bitter voice:

“Certainly, Mr. President, I shall receive the detective you are sending. But don’t you think I could have obtained the necessary information? Well, of course, if you insist, my dear president, and if this Hercules Petitgris is, according to you, a specialist in criminal investigation, he can attend the meeting I have arranged … Hello! … Hello! … Yes …. What? … My dear president. … This Petitgris may be… Really! Is it possible? Ah! Well, merely a supposition … That is-- Petitgris has all the perspicacity usually attributed to Arsène Lupin. … Yes, sir...Perfectly. … I shall wait for him. Hello! … You are quite right, my dear Mr. President. … The case is very serious, especially since certain rumors have already begun to be circulated. … If I do not arrive at an immediate solution, and if the truth of the matter is at all what we fear, it will be a frightful scandal and a disaster for the country. … Hello! … Yes, yes, rest easy, my dear Mr. President, I shall do the impossible to succeed. I will succeed. … I must succeed.”

After a few more words, Rouxval hung up, muttering between clenched teeth:

“I must! I must! What a scandal!” He was considering the various paths which might lead him to a successful solution, when he gradually became aware that some one was near him, some one who was not seeking to be noticed.

He turned his head and was dumbfounded by what he saw. All but next to him stood a shabby, wretched-looking individual, a poor devil, one might say, holding his hat in his hand in the humble attitude of a beggar asking alms.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“By the door, sir. The chief page was busy parking people right and left, so I beat it straight in.”

“But who are you?”

The stranger bowed respectfully and introduced himself:

“Hercules Petitgris – the specialist whom the president of the council just recommended to you, sir—”

“Oh, then you were listening?” Rouxval broke in peevishly.

“What would you have done in my place, sir?”

He was a sickly looking, pitiful object, sad-faced – his hair, mustache, his pinched nose, his thin cheeks, the corners of his mouth, all drooped pathetically.

His arms hung wearily in a long, greenish overcoat which seemed about to slip from his shoulders. He spoke in a disconsolate voice, not without care, but accenting certain words in a manner peculiar to the common people.

“I even heard you speak of me as a detective, Mr. Minister,” he continued. “Wrong, all wrong! I am not even on the police force. I was dismissed from headquarters for ‘weak character, drunkenness and laziness.’ Those were the terms of discharge.”

Rouxval was unable to conceal his amazement.

“I don’t understand. The president of the council has recommended you as a man with a disconcerting ability to diagnose clearly and correctly.”

“Disconcerting, Mr. Minister, is the right word. There are people who even believe I am Arsène Lupin, as the president was telling you. That is why some gentlemen consent to my services, in cases where no one has succeeded or could succeed, without looking too closely at my record or my character. Sure they say I am conceited and insolent to my employers. And then what? When one of my employers puts his foot in it and I see the point right off, haven’t I the right to tell him, have a little laugh on the side? On the level, Mr. Minister, I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing. They are funny! You ought to see the faces on them.”

In that melancholy face, under the drooping mustache, the left side of his mouth curled up in a little, silent sneer, uncovering a huge tooth – the tooth of a wild beast. It gave him a look of sardonic joy for a moment. With a tooth like that the possessor would bite, and bite deeply.

The minister was not afraid of being bitten, but the stranger certainly did not appeal to him, and if the president of the council had not so insistently recommended him, Rouxval would have gotten rid of him promptly.

“Sit down,” he said gruffly. “I am about to question three people and have them face each other in my presence. In case you have any remarks to make, you will make them to me directly.”

“To you directly, Mr. Minister, and in a whisper, as I always do when I always see my chief putting his foot in it.”

Rouxval frowned. In the first place, he hated people who did not know their place – like many men of action, he was very sensitive and keenly feared ridicule. Concerning his efforts the phrase “putting his foot in it” seemed particularly outrageous and almost an intentional menace. But he had already rung; the page entered. Without further delay Rouxval ordered the there people brought to him.

Hercules Petitgris took off his worn, green overcoat, folded it carefully and sat down.

The lady and gentleman were the first to enter. They were evidently aristocrats, and both in deep mourning; she, still young, tall and very beautiful, with a lovely face, pale and austere, framed in graying hair; he, slightly shorter, slim, elegant, his mustache almost white.

Jean Rouxval addressed him:

“The Count de Bois-Vernay, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. My wife and I received your summons, which I confess, startled us a bit. But may we hope it has no ominous portent? My wife is not very strong.”

He looked toward her with affectionate solicitude. Rouxval asked them to be seated and answered:

“I am sure everything will be suitably arranged and that Madame de Bois-Vernay will excuse the slight inconvenience I have caused her.”

The door opened. A man between twenty-five and thirty entered. He was of more modest mien, not very carefully dressed; his countenance, though frank and kindly, gave evidences of dissipation and weariness, confusing one’s estimate of his fair, broad-shouldered young man.

“You are Maxime Leriot?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“You do not know this lady and gentleman?”

“No, sir,” answered the newcomer, looking straight at the count and countess.

“No, we do not know this gentleman, either,” said the count in answer to a question of Rouxval’s.

The minister smiled. “I regret that this interview should begin with a statement which I am forced to disbelieve. But that little error will right itself at the proper time. Without haste and without undue delay over nonessentials, let us begin at the beginning.”

He opened the records on the table, turned to Maxine Leriot and in a slightly hostile tone said:

“We shall begin with you, sir. You were born in Dollincourt, Maine-et-Loire. Your father was a hard-working peasant who starved himself to give you a suitable education. The mobilization of 1914 found you a private in the infantry. Four years later you were an adjutant, with the croix de guerre and five citations for bravery. After the war you reenlisted. Toward the end of 1920 you were in Verdun. Your papers gave you credit for ‘ability as an officer.’

“But, about the middle of November, in the same year, came a bolt from the blue. One night in a third-rate dance hall, after opening ten bottles of champagne, you lost your head in a senseless brawl. You were arrested. You were taken to the post. You were searched. On you were found one hundred thousand francs. Where did you get that amount of money? You were never able to explain.”

Maxine Leriot protested:

“I beg your pardon, sir, I said that I had received the money from a person who wished to remain anonymous.”

“A worthless explanation!” said the minister. “Nevertheless, an inquiry was instituted by the military authorities. It came to nothing. Six months later, after obtaining your discharge from the service, you were again the center of another scandal,. This time your bill fold contained forty thousand francs in war bonds. And concerning these, too – silence and mystery. And again no explanation as to your means of livelihood or any reason for the dissipated existence you were leading. No position, no resources to speak of, yet money flowed through your fingers as if they supply were endless.

“The special detectives assigned to your case at the time could discover nothing, and you continued from bad to worse. Chance only, or a misstep on your part, could undo you. And that is what happened. One day, beneath the Arc de Triomphe, a man approached a woman who came there each day to pray, and said in a low voice, ‘I expect your husband’s letter to-morrow. Warn him – otherwise—‘

“The man’s attitude was surly, his tone snarling and menacing. The lady was frightened and quickly sought her motor. Must I specify that one of these persons was you, Maxime Leriot, and the other the Countess de Bois-Vernay, and only a moment ago you pretended not to know each other?”

Rouxval abruptly held up his hand. “I beg of you, sir,” he said to the count, who was about to interrupt, “do not try to deny the evidence. The episode occurred near me, for I also go regularly to the sacred tomb each week to pray for my sons. It was I who overheard the whispered threat; and it was for my own enlightenment, without knowing any of the facts which I have just related to you, that I undertook to discover who the man was, and the identity of his victim, in this too-apparently blackmailing scheme.”

The count said nothing. His wife did not stir. In his corner Hercules Petitgris nodded his head and seemed to approve the conduct of the investigation. Jean Rouxval, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye, felt reassured. The tooth was not to be seen; therefore all was well. Rouxval continued, forging additional links in his chain of evidence.

“From the moment when circumstances placed the direction of this affair in my hands, it took quite a different turn, perhaps because I saw it in one light rather than another. Instead of Maxime Leriot, the man of to-day, I immediately saw the soldier of yesterday. His past interested me more than his present. Instantly, the moment I glanced at his record, two things struck me forcibly – a name and a date: Maxime Leriot was in Verdun, and he was there in the month of November, 1920 – that is, at the time when the anniversary of the armistice was to be celebrated and when most the solemn of ceremonies was about to take place.

“I went there and directed and inquiry on the spot, which proved neither very long nor difficult. His former battalion chief, whom I questioned, showed me an old order of that date over his signature, which also struck me forcibly. It seemed the key to the situation. The leader of one of the eight funeral cars, brought from eight different points along the great field of battle and bearing the bodies of eight nameless heroes, one of which was to be the Unknown Soldier-- this leader was none other than Adjutant Leriot himself.”

Jean Rouxval struck the desk with his fists, straining every muscle in his anger. Then in a muffled voice, deliberately emphasizing every word, he said:

“You, Maxime Leriot, were in the gallery of the fort where this historic ceremony took place; you were one of the guard of honor. Your heroism, your fame in military annals, caused you to be among those chosen for a part in this ceremony, amid the tricolor flags of your country and the trophies of victory in the great mortuary chapel. You – you were there—”

Overcome by emotion, Rouxval was forced to interrupt his vehement denunciation. It was necessary, moreover, to state facts more accurately and with less passion if the purport of his secret thought was to be clearly understood. Hercules Petitgris continued to nod his head approvingly, which only served to fan the flame of the minister’s ardor.

The former adjutant did not utter a sound. Like troops piercing an enemy line came Rouxval’s accusations. Hesitant, then stronger and stronger, and with greater force they had overwhelmed the foe before he could recover himself. The count listened and looked anxiously at his wife.

“Until this point in my investigation, I have only vague forebodings, no definite suspicions, no clews to lead me. I dared not understand. It was in this spirit, terrified, aghast, that I sought proofs of what I feared to know. These proofs were irrefutable. To begin: On All Saint’s Day, again the third of November, the fourth and the fifth, Adjutant Leriot, whose daily life I succeeded in reconstructing exactly, went, as soon as darkness had fallen, to an isolated inn.

“there he met a lady and gentleman with whom he remained in conference until dinner time. This lady and gentleman came to the inn in an automobile from a near-by city where they stayed at a certain hotel, the name of which I secured. I then went to this hotel and asked to see the register. From the first to the eleventh of November, 1920, two guests had been there – the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay.”

A silence; the pallor of the countess deepened; Rouxval drew from the records two sheets of paper which he unfolded.

“Here are two birth certificates. The one of Maxime Leriot, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is yours, Maxime Leriot. The other, Julian de Bois-Vernay, born in Dolincourt, Maine-et-Loire, in 1895. That is your son’s, Monsieur de Bois-Vernay. Therefore, we may say, the same birthplace, the same age – two facts granted. Here is a letter from the mayor of Dolincourt. The two young men had had the same nurse. In youth they continued the friendship of their childhood. They enlisted at the same time. Again uncontestable facts.”

Rouxval went on reading from the documents as fast as he turned the pages.

“Here is the death certificate of Julian de Bois-Vernay; died in 1916 at Verdun. Here is a copy of the burial permit for the cemetery of Douaumont. Here is an extract of the report of Adjutant Leriot, who ‘brought back from a trench running along the road to Fleury-à-Bras and near an old surgical service station, the remains, in good condition, of an unknown infantryman.’

“Finally, here is a relief map of the whole scene of action. The old service station is here, about five hundred meters from the cemetery where Julian de Bois-Vernay lay buried. I went from one to the other. I had that tomb opened – it is empty! What has become of the coffin of Julian de Bois-Vernay? Who removed it from the cemetery of Douaumont, if not you, Maxime Leriot? You, his friend, and the friend of the Count and Countess de Bois-Vernay!”

Each sentence Rouxval uttered lent force to the final charge which the accumulated evidence imposed. The enemy was surrounded by undeniable arguments. There remained nothing but submission.

Rouxval, coming closer to Leriot and looking at him squarely, continued:

“This sinister venture is written on the pages of an open book. We know that the coffin of your foster brother was first taken from Douaumont, where he had been buried in an ordinary grave, to the trench where you were sent to secure the body of an unidentified combatant. We know that you took it there, and we know that it was this coffin which you brought to the fort at Verdun. In this we agree, I am sure. And the sequel – the choice, the supreme hour among the eight unknown—”

Again Rouxval could not go on. He mopped the sweat from his brow and tried to regain his composure. In a few moments he managed to continue in the same muffled and anguished voice:

“I hardly dare paint that scene. The slighted doubt in that direction is blasphemy. And yet, is this not rather a certainty than a doubt? Ah, what a frightful imposture! How did you ever succeed in your infamous plan? Answer—answer me!”

Jean Rouxval questioned, but it seemed as if he were afraid to hear the answer. His voice did not carry the authority which brings confession. A long silence ensued, fraught with uneasiness and anxiety. Madame de Bois-Vernay breathed the salts her husband gave her. She seemed very weak and on the verge of fainting. Maxime Leriot turned to the count, mutely asking his help. The count looked toward his wife, afraid to begin a dangerous struggle, asking himself upon what ground he would stand.

Then the count arose and said:

“Mr. Rouxval, because you have so shaped this interview, we there sit here facing you as if we were guilty. Before defending ourselves against an accusation, the meaning of which we do not yet clearly understand, we should like to know by what right you question us and by what right you demand our answers.”

“By the right, sir,” answered Rouxval, “of my great desire to suppress infamy, which, if it became public property, would injure my country inestimably.”

“If the affair is such as you have outlined it, Mr. Minister, there is no reason to believe it will become known to the public.”

“You are wrong, sir. Under the influence of alcohol, Maxime Leriot has talked. What he said was not understood, but various interpretations and rumors have been circulated—”

“False rumors, Mr. Minister,” broke in De Bois-Vernay.

“That makes no difference. They must be stopped.”

“How?”

“Maxime Leriot must leave France. A position will be found for him in southern Algeria. You will, I am sure, furnish him with the necessary funds.”

“And ourselves, Mr. Minister?”

“You will also leave – both you and madame. Far from France, you will be safe from further blackmail.”

“Exile, then?”

“Yes, for a few years.”

The count again turned to his wife.

Notwithstanding her pallor and frailty, she conveyed an impression of vitality and obstinate determination. She leaned forward and said firmly:

“Not a day, sir! Not for an hour will I leave Paris.”

“And why not, madame?”

“Because my son is there. In the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.”

Those few words, that explicit, frightful avowal, seemed to drop into a pit of silence, which echoed and re-echoed, syllable by syllable,a message of death and sorrow. In Madame de Bois-Vernay’s attitude there was more than an expression of an unconquerable will – there was a defiance and the calm acceptance of a challenge which she did not seem to fear. Nothing could change the fact that her son lay under the Arc de Triomphe, and no power on earth could trouble his last sleep in that tomb of glory.

Rouxval held his head in his hands, desperate. Until that moment he had been able to keep, in the face of all evidence, some illusion of an impossible justification. The confession took the ground from under his feet.

“It is really true!” he murmured brokenly, “I did not really believe – I could not admit it even to myself – it is beyond all reason!”

Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, standing between the countess and Rouxval, begged her to sit down. She pushed him aside, ready for the struggle, determined and defiant.

Only two adversaries now faced each other, implacable enemies, with the count and Maxime Leriot mere accessories.

Scenes of such extreme nervous tension must necessarily be of short duration, when from the first each one throws every ounce of power into the grueling struggle. What further enhanced the tragedy of this duel was the calm, the intense quiet with which it was waged. Not a loud tone, no apparent anger, simple words, radiating emotion. Simple sentences, no oratory, revealing the depth of Rouxval’s amazement and horror.

“How dared you? How do you continue to live, knowing what you do? I, myself, would have borne any agony rather than permit such a deed for one of my sons. It would seem to me I had brought him ill luck in his last sleep. Given him a tomb which was not rightfully his! Diverted to him the prayers, the tears, all the holy thoughts which flow over a loved one, dead! What an abomination! Can’t you see that?”

He glared at her, opposite him, tense and white, and continued more aggressively:

“There are hundreds – no, thousands! -- of mothers and wives who may believe that their son, their husband lies there. These bereaved women, as sorely smitten as you, with the same rights to seek consolation there – these women have been betrayed, pilfered, robbed – yes, robbed and vilely robbed!”

The countess shrank under these insults, this contempt. She had surely never paused a moment to consider her course of action in itself; certainly she had never weighed its ethical values. She had reacted impulsively, moved by the bitter suffering of a mother seeking to regain a small part of the son so cruelly torn from her; for the rest – nothing mattered.

Murmuring, almost in a dream, she answered:

“He did not rob any one. He is the Unknown Soldier. He is there in the place of the others; he represents them all—”

Rouxval seized her arm. Her words exasperated him. He thought of his own lost ones, whose remains he had almost found again that day of solemn burial and consecration. Now they had vanished once more in a fathomless abyss. Where now could one pray? Where find the dear ones, gone forever?

But the countess smiled, her face transformed by the happiness which fairly irradiated her whole being.

“It was circumstance which caused him to be chosen among all the others,” she said. “What I did, alone, would not have sufficed, if there had not been a greater will than mine in his favor. Chance might have assigned the honor to some soldier who did not deserve it, either in his life or in his death. My son was worthy of the reward.”

“All were worthy!” protested Rouxval vehemently. “Even if during his life he had been the most obscure, the most odious of men, the soldier chosen by destiny became, in that instant, the equal of the greatest!”

She shook her head. Her eyes gleamed with a contemptuous pride. Before her rose the ghosts of a hundred proud ancestors and the heroic dead of her country acclaiming her son the chosen one, born for glory.

“This has happened for the best, sir,” she said. “Believe in me and rest assured that I have stolen no tears, no prayers. Every mother who kneels there and weeps, prays for her dead son. Does it really matter if it is my son, if she does not know it?”

“But I know it,” said Rouxval, “and they may find it out! And then what? Can you imagine what will happen – the anger, the hate, the wild scenes of unbridled fury? No crime in the would would arouse such indignation! Can’t I make you understand?”

Little by little he was losing control of himself. He despised this woman. Her exile seemed more and more the only solution which could avert a calamity and at the same time appease his own pain.

Without any attempt to spare her, he said roughly:

“You must go, madame. Your presence at that grave is an outrage to every other woman. Go, and go now!”

“No, I will not,” she said.

“You will; you must! With you out of the country, their wrongs will be partially righted; the soldier there will once more become the Unknown Soldier.”

“No, no, no! What you ask is impossible. I could not live away from him. If I had to continue to live, it is only because he is there, because I can see him each day, speak to him, and hear him speak to me. Oh, you cannot understand how I feel when I stand there in the crowd! They come from every corner of France, bringing their offerings of flowers, of tears, of prayers. There are moments when I am so overwhelmed by a wave of happiness and pride that I almost forget he is dead. I see my son alive – alive and standing beneath that arch, smiling at me as I kneel before him. And you dare ask me to give up all of that! It is madness. It would be like killing my beloved child a second time!”

Rouxval clenched his hands, to restrain himself from killing this ungovernable woman. He knew now that she was stronger than he was. Driven to desperation, he threatened:

“You force me to the worst. If you do not go – I swear – I swear that I will denounce you! I will unmask you to the whole world rather than permit this ghastly imposture to continue --”

She laughed mockingly.

“Denounce me? Is it possible? You will denounce me and inform the world about this imposture which causes even you to tremble?”

“Nothing, nothing can stop me!” he cried. “I shall do my duty even if it kills me. Your trickery has made life intolerable. If you do not go, madame, he shall go – the body of your son shall be --”

She quivered, stricken by the brutal words. The frightful image of that poor body, torn from the tomb, roughly handled and cast into another grave, was more than she could bear. Tears came to her eyes; with a cry of pain her hand went to her heart. The count made a vain attempt to reach her as she tottered and fell to the floor, unconcious.

The duel was nearing an end. Wounded to the depths, but triumphant, she fell, not yielding a step in her struggle. The count carried her, still unconcious, to the couch with the assistance of Leriot and Hercules Petitgris. She was stifling, grinding her teeth, still fighting in her coma.

“Oh, how could you, how could you hurt her so!” exclaimed De Bois-Vernay.

But Rouxval made no excuses for his conduct. A temperament which drove him to extremes, when he had curbed his desires too long, did not allow him time for reflection or regret in a crisis. He saw red. The problem seemed to him so hopeless he would have stopped at nothing, however ridiculous, to solve it.

What difference did it make what he did, as long as he did something? It seemed as if his revenge were already nearer, if he could only proceed in some way. Action became a necessity. Should he call the president of the council? The telephone! He seized the receiver and, as soon as the president answered, gasped out breathlessly:

“Yes, Rouxval, Mr. President. … I must speak to you immediately, in person… You’re not free? ...In half an hour? ...All right. In half an hour I shall be there. Thanks. Situation serious. ...Quick action… Yes...Later.”

The countess was being cared for by the three men. She was evidently subject to these attacks, as her husband had a small case of medicine from which he quickly administered a dose. He took off his overcoat, knelt beside her, and tended her in an agony of fear which all but suffocated him, speaking to her constantly, as if she could hear him.

“It is your heart, darling, isn’t it? Your poor heart! But you are better, aren’t you? You are better – your cheeks have a little color – I know you are better. Are you, dearest?”

Madame de Bois-Vernay remained in the swoon several minutes, but at last her eyelids fluttered and she slowly regained consciousness.

As soon as she saw Rouxval she gave a cry of distress.

“Take me away! Let us go. I cannot stay here!”

“But, dearest, be reasonable. You must rest a few minutes.”

“No, no, not a moment! We must go. I cannot stay.”

The count begged Leriot’s aid, it was he who carried the countess from the room, while the count followed, completely upset, having been assisted into his overcoat by Hercules Petitgris.

Rouxval had not stirred. One might have thought that he had no connection whatever with the scene which had just taken place. These people, guilty of the most odious crime, were beyond his sympathies; he did not feel he owed either pity or kindness to a woman like the countess. With his head pressed against the windowpane he tried to think of a reasonable course of action. Why talk to the president of the council? Would it not be better to finish the affair and get in touch with headquarters, with the department of justice?

“Come now,” he said to himself, “no nonsense; a level head at any price!”

He decided to go as far as the president’s home; the walk there, the cool air, might calm his overwrought nerves. Taking his hat and stick from the stand, he started on his errand. To his surprise he found Petitgris sitting on a chair in front of the door, completely in shadow. He evidently had not left the study.

“Well, it’s you,” said Rouxval. “Still here?”

“Yes, Mr. Minister, and I cannot advice you too strongly to keep me company.”

Rouxval was annoyed and about to reprove him for his familiarity when a second glance at the man gave him a sudden shock. He noticed that the huge tooth of the detective was clearly visible, under a curling lip. He could not have been more discomfited if he had seen a ghost rise in front of him. The appearance of that tooth, long, white and pointed, the tooth of a wild animal, could only mean one thing – Rouxval was being jeered at, mocked.

“Confound it, I certainly have not put my foot in it!” said Rouxval to himself, remembering Petitgris’ words.

He pulled himself together. A cabinet minister, used to handling men and affairs of state, does not go “putting his foot in it.” Nor does he step into the pitfalls which trip the unwary. Having risen to such a position, he sees clearly, and goes straight to the goal. Yet the sight of that tooth troubled him. Why – what did it mean at this time? To reassure himself, he blamed the detective.

“If one of us has put his foot in it, it is that scamp. This whole thing is perfectly clear; any college boy could see that,” argued the minister to himself.

As clear as it was, however, he answered Petitgris by asking surlily:

“What is it? I’m in a hurry. Speak up!”

“Speak up, Mr. Minister?” he repeated. “I have nothing to say.”

“What do you mean, nothing to say? I don’t suppose you expect to sleep here?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Minister.”

“Well then?”

“Well, I’m just waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For something which is sure to happen.”

“What ‘something?’”

“Patience, a little patience, Mr. Minister! You are certainly more interested in knowing it than I am. It won’t be long, anyway – only a few minutes—at the most about ten minutes. Yes, just about ten minutes.”

“Nothing of the sort,” cried Rouxval. “The confessions these people have made are perfectly explicit.”

“What confessions, Mr. Minister?”

“What confessions? Why, Leriot’s, the count’s, and his wife’s!”

“The countess’, perhaps. But the count confessed nothing; neither did Leriot,” said the detective.

“What are you trying to put over now?”

“I’m not trying to put anything over, Mr. Minister; it’s a fact. You might say, the truth, the two men didn’t open their mouths. Only one person talked, and that was you, Mr. Minister.”

Without paying any attention to Rouxval’s threatening attitude, he continued:

“A wonderful speech, really, and I sure did appreciate it. What an orator! In the senate you would have been a riot! An ovation, publicity, and all the rest of it. Only a speech is not all that is needed. When you are trying to dig facts out of a criminal, you don’t stuff him with talk. On the contrary, you question him. You get him to gab. And then you listen. That’s the way to get to the bottom of things. If you think Mr. Petitgris was just snoozing in the corner, you can bet you made a mistake. Mr. Petitgris never took his eye off those two codgers, especially that Bois-Vernay. And that’s why I’m telling you, Mr. Minister, that in eight minutes some one is coming and something will happen – in seven minutes and a half.”

Rouxval was floored. He did not give the least credence to Petitgris’ predictions not to the special announcement that “something” was going to happen. But the man’s tenacity held him. And that canine tooth, which gave him an expression at once arrogant, fierce, wicked, enigmatic--

The minister capitulated, and returned to the other end of the room, where he gave vent to his rage by tapping furiously on the desk with a pen handle, by nervously moving the desk appointments about, by looking at the clock and watching Petitgris out of the corner of his eye.

The detective sat quite still, only moving once. He tore a sheet of paper from a pad, came to the desk, borrowed Rouxval’s own pen with an air of authority, and rapidly write a few lines. He folded the paper in half, put it in an envelope and slipped it under a magazine, which happened to be near the desk edge. Then he sat down.

What did it all mean? Why did he continue to sneer with that mysterious, abominable tooth? Three minutes. Two minutes. Rouxval, in a sudden burst of anger, jumped up and again started striding up and down the room, knocking over a chair, jostling against a table and upsetting all the bric-a-brac. This whole case was stupid. That blockhead Petitgris and his devilish tooth had unnerved him.

“Listen, Mr. Minister,” mumbled the detective, holding up his hand. “Listen!”

“Listen to what?”

“Footsteps! Listen. Some one is knocking.”

Someone was knocking. Rouxval recognized the discreet tap of the page.

“He is not alone,” asserted Petitgris.

“What do you know about it?”

“He can’t be alone, because what I told you would happen is going to happen, and it can’t happen unless some one else comes in.”

“Well, confound it, what is it that is going to happen?”

“the truth, Mr. Minister. There are times, when the hour has struck, that nothing can prevent the truth from being known. It comes in at the window if the door is closed. But the door is so near, Mr. Minister, you don’t want to stop me from opening it, will you, Mr. Minister?”

Rouxval, beside himself with rage, opened the door.

The page looked in. “Mr. Minister, the gentleman who left here a little while ago with the lady is asking for his overcoat.”

“His overcoat?”

“Yes, sir; the gentleman forgot it, or rather he got the wrong one.”

Hercules Petitgris explained:

“He is right, Mr. Minister. I see a mistake has been made. The gentleman took my overcoat and left me his. Perhaps the gentleman can come in and—”

Rouxval acquiesced. The page went out, and almost immediately Monsieur de Bois-Vernay entered.

After the overcoats had been exchanged, the count, having bowed to Rouxval, who carefully looked the other way, started to leave the room. On the threshold, grasping the handle of the door, he hesitated, murmured a few words scarcely audible, stopped and re-entered the room.

“The ten minutes are up, Mr. Minister,” whispered Petitgris. “Consequently, ‘something’ is going to happen.”

Rouxval waited. Events seemed to occur as the detective had predicted.

“What do you wish, sir?” inquired the minister.

After a few minutes’ hesitation Monsieur de Bois-Vernay asked:

“Mr. Minister, are you really going to denounce us? The consequences would be so serious that I am taking the liberty of calling them to your attention. Think of the scandal – public clamor --”

Rouxval lost his temper.

“Will you tell me if I can do anything else?”

“Yes you can – you should. Everything can be arranged between us two, in a perfectly legitimate way. There is no reason why we should not come to some agreement.”

“I did propose an agreement, but Madame de Bois-Vernay would not hear of it.”

“She would not, but I will.”

Rouxval seemed surprised. Petitgris had already made the distinction between husband and wife a short time before.

“Explain yourself!”

The count seemed embarrassed. Irresolute, hesitating between sentences, he went on:

“Mr. Minister, I love my wife beyond words – and – sometimes I am weak enough to do things – for her which I know are – wrong, dangerous. That is what has happened. The death of our son so completely demoralized her – that twice – in spite of her deep religious sentiment – she tried to commit suicide. It became an obsession. In spite of my watchfulness, my every care, she would have carried out her intentions. But at an opportune moment Maxime Leriot came to see me. While talking to him about the war, our son – the idea came to me-- to combine – the Unknown—”

He shrank before the decisive words. Rouxval, more and more irritated, broke in:

“We are losing time, sir, since I know the result of your machinations. And that is all that matters.”

“It is precisely because the result alone matters that I am here. Because you discovered certain preparations, you concluded too hastily, perhaps because of your apprehension, that a sacrilege had been committed. That is not so.”

Rouxval did not understand.

“It is not so? Then why didn’t you protest?”

“I could not.”

“Why?”

“My wife would have had to hear me.”

“But Madame de Bois-Vernay herself confessed.”

“Yes, but I did not. It would have been a lie.”

“A lie! But the facts are there, sir! Do you want me to reread the records, the inquiries, the proofs that the body was removed, your meeting with Leriot?”

“Again, sir, may I say that these facts show definite preparations, but not the execution of a deed?”

“That is to say?”

“That is to say that there were meetings between Maxime and ourselves, and the body was removed. But I never, never had an idea of committing an act which I, too, should consider unforgivable sacrilege. For that matter, Maxime Leriot would never have consented.”

“Your idea then—” began the minister.

“My intention was to give my wife the --”

“To give her?”

“To give her the illusion, Mr. Minister.”

“The illusion?” repeated Rouxval mechanically, as the truth was beginning to dawn upon him.

“Yes, sir, an illusion which might sustain her, give her a faint desire to live – and which has sustained her until now. She believes it, Mr. Minister; she believes it! Try to imagine what that means to her! She believes her son is in that sacred tomb, and that belief has kept her alive.”

Rouxval bowed his head with his hand before his eyes. Overwhelmed by this sudden happiness, the restoration of his shrine, he feared they might see how disturbed he was.

With an affectation of indifference, he said:

“Ah, that is what happened! There was a pretense—” He stopped. “But how about all these proofs?”

“The proofs I took great care to accumulate, that she might have no doubts. She saw all, sir; she insisted upon being there during the entire proceedings: the removal of the body, the transfer to the funeral car. How could she have suspected that the funeral car did not go directly to the fort of Verdun, that our poor child is buried a little way on in a country cemetery where I go, when I can, to kneel at his grave and beg his forgiveness – his forgiveness for me and his absent mother.”

Rouxval was convinced that the count told the truth, that there was nothing in the evidence to contradict his statement of the facts as they had actually occurred.

“And Maxime Leriot’s part in this?”

“He obeyed my orders.”

“How about his actions since then?”

“Alas! The money he received turned his head, degraded him. It is my one great regret. The more I gave him, the more he wanted; that is why he threatened to reveal all to my wife. But rest assured, Mr. Minister, I will answer for him. He is really an honest, loyal soul, and has promised me he will leave the country at once.”

Rouxval meditated a moment and then said:

“Are you prepared to swear to the absolute truth of your statements?”

“I am prepared to swear to anything, provided my wife learns nothing and continues in her belief.”

“We agree in that, sir,” said the minister. “The secret shall be kept. I swear it.”

He took a sheet of paper and was about to ask the count for a written statement when Hercules Petitgris leaned over and whispered to him:

“There it is, Mr. Minister — under the magazine -- just lift it up and you’ll find it --”

“I’ll find what?”

“The statement. I drew it up a few minutes ago.”

“You knew?”

“You can just bet I knew! The count only needs to write his name on it.”

Rouxval, nonplused, pushed the magazine aside, snatched the paper and read:

I, the undersigned, Count de Bois-Vernay, acknowledge that I, with the connivance of Maxime Leriot, proceeded with certain arrangements in order to impress my wife with the conviction that our son was buried under the Arc de Triomphe. But I swear on my honor that no attempt was made by me, or by the said Maxime Leriot, to fulfill these arrangements and give my poor child the honors and resting place of the Unknown Soldier.

While Rouxval remained silent, the count, who was as astonished as the minister, slowly reread the document aloud, as if weighing each word.

“Quite right. I have nothing to add nor curtail. I should have written the same thing if I had drawn it up myself.”

He then affixed his signature without further hesitation.

“Mr. Minister, I must trust you,” he continued. “The slightest doubt on her part would cause the death of a mother who is guilty of nothing but too great a love for her child. I have your promise?”

“I have but one word to give, sir. I have given it. I shall keep it.”

He shook hands absent-mindedly with Monsieur de Bois-Vernay, accompanied him without a word to the door, closed it, and came back to the window where again he remained standing, with his head pressed to the windowpane.

“So Petitgris guessed the truth!” he mused. “In that chaos, that entanglement of fact and fancy, he saw the narrow path which led to the truth.”

Rouxval was distressed, angry; the pleasure he might otherwise have felt in seeing his case in another light was singularly diminished. Behind him he heard a tiny chuckle, undoubtedly the detective’s manifestation of triumph. It conjured up a vision of the pointed tooth, that terrible tooth.

“He has the laugh on me,” thought Rouxval. “He has known from the beginning. He maliciously let me put my foot in it. He could have warned me and he didn’t. What a beast!”

But his prestige as a cabinet officer would not permit him to remain in that humiliating position. He turned suddenly and taking the offensive said:

“Yes, yes, and then what? Luck was on your side! You probably discovered some clew—”

“Not a clew,” sneered Petitgris, who was not granting any favors. “What did you want clews for, anyway? Just a little bit of judgment, a grain of common sense, were all you needed.”

And with hideous good nature, he continued:

“Come on now, Mr. Minister! That long rigmarole of yours didn’t stand up at all. It was just bunk. Contradictions, omissions, impossibilities of every kind and color. Just a rotten scenario! That the countess should have bitten, all right, but you, a minister of your rank! Honestly, do you think people juggle with corpses in real life? Have a heart!

“They make every effort to have the Unknown Soldier be an unknown soldier! Arrangements for the public, funeral cars, functionaries, generals, brigadiers, ministers; in fact, the devil and his whole crew, and are you credulous enough to believe that any little gentlemen with cash in his pocket can afford the luxury of making a laughingstock of the world, and of burying an everlasting concession under the Arch de Triomphe! Well, I’ve heard some good ones, but that one has ‘em all beat.”

Rouxval restrained himself with difficulty and said:

“But the proofs—” began Rouxval.

“Those proofs – they were good enough for kids. I said to myself right away: ‘As long as the count couldn’t possibly afford the Arc de Triomphe, what was he cooking up with Leriot?’ Just as soon as I saw the way he looked at the wife I got it. ‘My boy, you're a good thing. Just to help the wife along, you’re going to play a little game and make her believe you did the real thing. But you’re a bit weak, too, and if my chief gets good and mad and threatens you, you’re going to give in.’ There’s the whole trick, Mr. Minister! Rage and threats on your part, and little Mr. Bois-Vernay gives in.”

“All right, well and good so far,” said Rouxval. “But you could not know he was coming back and that ‘something,’ as you put it, was going to happen.”

“Say, listen! What about the overcoat.”

“The overcoat?”

“Great Scott! how could he come back without it? He had to have some excuse to leave his wife and to confess before the department of justice put its nose in it.”

“Well?”

“Well, when he was leaving, I helped him on with my overcoat instead of his. He was all up in the air; he couldn’t see anything – but red. Then outside in the car, when he saw my cast-off, he jumped at the chance to run back here! D’ye get it? What do you think of that piece of work? I put over some better ones in my life, a couple of harder ones, but never a shrewder one. I got that without moving – a decision with hands in my pockets – and landed a punch that knocked the other fellow out. That’s some good job!”

Rouxval was silent; the cleverness, the ease with which Hercules Petitgris had handled the situation, disconcerted him. All alone in his corner, without interrupting the inquiry, without asking a question, and knowing nothing about the case, except what Rouxval himself was telling, Petitgris had really conducted the examination, guided the trend of questions, thrown light on the whole case. With one little move at the right moment he had managed to have the problem solve itself in the only way possible.

Rouxval put his hand in his pocket to draw out a bank note. But it went no farther. The detective sneered:

“Put it back, Mr. Minister. I’ve got mine.”

The tooth gleamed implacably. A frightful chuckle, and his face again resumed the fierce look of a wild animal. Could one help remembering the jeering words: “when one of my employers puts his foot in it, haven’t I the right to tell him, and have a little laugh? I have turned down money more than once just to be able to bust right out laughing! Are they funny? You ought to see the faces on them!

“Don’t blame yourself too much, Mr. Minister. I’ve had worse cases. Your big mistake was to rely too much on logic, and the logic of what you see and hear isn’t worth a nickel. The real logic runs underground like some rivers, and when it does run out of sight, then you have to keep your eye on it. That was where you lost your head. Instead of going into the details of that ceremony in the fort of Verdun, you turned away! ‘I hardly dare paint the scene. The slightest doubt in that direction is blasphemy!’

“Damn it all, Mr. Minister, that’s the time you should have gone ahead, investigated, put your whole mind to it! You would have seen there wasn’t a chance of a fraud. And what is more, Hercules Petitgris wouldn’t be laying down the law to-day to a cabinet minister in his own study.”

He had risen and was putting on the worn, green overcoat. Rouxval had a strong desire to take him by the neck and strangle him, but – he opened the door.

“Let us say no more about it. I shall advise the president of the service you have rendered us.”

“Oh, don’t bother!” returned the detective. “I’d rather do that myself.”

“Sir!” cried Rouxval.

“Well, what, Mr. Minister?”

Petitgris suddenly drew himself up and seemed to change personalities under the very eyes of the minister. He was no longer the poor devil begging alms, but a lively, self-possessed young man entirely at his ease. With thumb and forefinger he delicately removed the enormous tooth; the lines in his face changed; the horrible grin disappeared. He looked cheerful and gay, but still arrogant.

Rouxval asked:

“What does this mean? Permit me to ask who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance whatever,” he answered. “Let us say that I am Arsène Lupin. The memory of your recent mistake will perhaps be less bitter if you connect it with the name of Arsène Lupin, rather than with that of Hercules Petitgris.”

Rouxval showed him the door. The detective passed gracefully in front of the minister to the anteroom. In that doorway, he said:

“Good-bye, Mr. Minister-- and a word of advice: Don’t go out of your little world again. A case of shoemaker, stick to your last. Straighten out government squabbles, help them make the laws, but – when it comes to police work leave that to the specialist.”

He started to go. Would he never stop talking? He came back and said:

“After all, you may be right – perhaps I put my foot in it. Come to think of it, what proofs have we that the count did stop on the way, that he did not go through with his plot? It is quite possible, and he did make excellent plans! Well, it’s all over my head. Good-by, Mr. Minister.”

This time he had nothing more to add. He left the anteroom.

Rouxval returned slowly to his desk and sat down heavily. He was singularly troubled by the detective's last words. They were a last bite of that frightful tooth – a drop of distilled venom! He felt vaguely that he would always be in doubt, that his case would always remain a mystery. He knew it was absurd, but all the same – the proofs – the removal of the body – the transfer to the funeral car --

“Damn it all!” He cried, infuriated. “What an infernal bird he is! If ever I lay my hands on him again!”

But Rouxval knew that Petitgris was none other than Arsène Lupin, and Arsène Lupin was not one to be caught a second time.

[gottawritesomething]

List of Current Works

One Shots:

- Sweet -

A Shared Space - After a night together, Gale wants Tav closer

Chase Me - Gale and Tav cast illusion magic for the kids at the Grove

Cooking Lessons - Tav tries to help Gale with cooking, very briefly

Inspirational - Gale has an interesting dream about Tav. Tiny bit smutty.

Treat the Bite - Gale treats Tav's owlbear nip. He did warn her...

- Upsetting -

A God's Folly - Two scenes of a deeply dysfunctional relationship between God Gale and Tav (P1 / P2)

She was chosen - Gale only just stops himself from ending the brain at Moonrise

Into the Vault - Scene from Karsus’s vault leading into Act 3 Romance scene

Long Form

Pride cometh before the Fall - A prideful, brash pre-orb Gale meets an equally troublesome Wild Magic Sorcerer; they are on the brink of becoming something, then Mystra, then the orb... Gale's choices will cost them both dearly.

A few cute dates, a world-ending orb, and a high cost.

Tag #TornPages is their shipname (Undergoing revisions, enjoy some art in the meantime)

Banner piece below is by the wildly talented @nikoadmeliora, link for his coms page.

My soul is in the sky - A prideful, brash pre-orb Gale meets an equally troublesome Wild Magic Sorcerer

Cry 'Havoc!' - Isabel breaks into Gale's tower, to prove she can

If music be the food of love play on - Two months since Gale and Isabel have seen each other, they're quite bad at this

Reason and love keep little company together nowadays - Failing to get tea and fighting cultists instead

To die upon the hand I love so well - Jealous and distressed Gale (my favorite chapter, if you're only going to read one, read this)

The course of true love never did run smooth - Some of Gale's time with Mystra... then the orb

I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell - First treatment of the orb and some of the consequences of Gale's choices

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet - Gale finds out the cost of the orb, and they have a talk about feelings, finally.

Though she be but little, she is fierce - An argument and Gale tries to remember what he liked about mortal 'love'

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together - Horny and arguing

Come what come may - Orb's symptom's worsen, and they prepare for a journey

Coming Soon

A Fair Trade

Another Chapter of Pride

[tellurian-in-aristasia]

I've just fallen down this rabbit hole and I mean this question genuinely, but in your opinion, do you think people took this seriously as a 24/7 lifestyle or more as a roleplay scenario? I'm curious because I do a lot of online RP and while I see a lot of parallels between the two, I've never considered it anything more than brief escapism. Did these participants feel the same or was it more than that?

Hello there! This is a complicated answer because a lot of people were drawn to Aristasia, and Aristasia actually had many different incarnations. So please bear with my as I type up far far more words than you were expecting me to.

I believe that in the 70s and early 80s, when it was an ancient matriarchal paganism sect known as Lux Madriana they believed in the religious aspects of it as fully as anyone does any religion. Even when they were actively inventing their own history. They attempted to live this lifestyle as closely as possible, and you can read an account of a woman who lived with them until the mid 1980s here who admits there was a fair amount of apathy among the flock, as it were. They lived "without electricity", but they published computer games during this time, so clearly they had electricity somewhere in the big house in Donegal. But, still, they dressed up every day in shawls and aprons or bonnets and crinolines and seemed to genuinely believe in the religion they were selling (literally, they sold magazine subscriptions and mail-order courses, I am not being facetious). I believe that in the late 80s and early 90s when they were involved with Romantia, and laid the groundworks for what would later become Aristasia, they fully believed in seceding from the modern life as much as possible. Although I, perhaps, believe that this was almost exclusively limited to the goings on in the house in Donegal, as it seems like some actually lived elsewhere and seemed to live mundane lives outside of the house, but there is certainly (very unfortuate) evidence that the house in Donegal was run 24/7 as a Romantia house. Now that we're getting up to the Classical Era of Aristasia in the 1990s, and they moved to the infamous house on Eagle Lane that would later appear within the pages of Children of the Void and the BBC documentary, I do believe that those who lived in that house lived the lifestyle 24/7, but perhaps by that point the only two living there were Miss Martindale and Miss Priscilla Langridge. And perhaps this is the crux of the matter. The only 2 who really, truly, believed were Miss Martindale and Miss Langridge. And it seems evident that Miss Martindale was just a persona, and the woman behind the persona eventually went on to live a (on the surface at least) mundane life.

In their later years, sometime after Operation Bridgehead, when the embassies all but closed and they moved to virtualia, I believe it became much more acceptable for it to be just a roleplay for girls who dropped in, so long as they stayed in character. After all, they never met in the flesh, just in Second Life. And the trend continued when Aristasia became Chelouranya and Second Life was replaced with web forums.

I do think that, through all those decades, the only one who was able to live the life 24/7 was the mysterious Miss Priscilla Langridge, the "most seceded Aristasian". To quote a previously linked article:

"The founder was a remarkable person but was leading a fantasy life - we were living in someone else’s fantasy"

I believe that the truth lies here, that nearly all of this was Miss Priscilla Langridge's fantasy world, and she has had Miss Martindale as her biggest supporter over the years, to help make it a reality, for her at least. I do believe that they were true believers who believed that they were (to put it fairly simply) reincarnated souls from another plane of existence. This isn't even too strange of an idea, it's something fairly wildly believed by a lot of different types of people. To add onto this, I do believe that they believed the world was in a state of moral decay that was heralded by the pronounced change in pop culture in the early 1960s, another not so uncommon belief. But I believe it was real for Miss Priscilla Langridge, and she had people who believed with her, and wanted to make it real.

[reikunrei]

Two Hearts - Brenward, knock 4 times if you can hear me

Recently I've begun going through some of my favorite seasons of Doctor Who to find parallels to Stranger Things, but I got caught up on the detail of Time Lords having two hearts and decided to take a detour.

To start, Stav @heroesbyler has spoken extensively about Brenner's Time Lord/Doctor coding/all of his connections to Doctor Who in general (very good posts btw it's required reading tbh, here's some links), and with some of the other stuff going on with Brenner... it made me want to look a little more closely at the two-hearts phenomenon.

Time Lords have a binary vascular system, meaning they have two hearts pumping blood at the same time. There are several reasons why Time Lords have this physiology, but one of the more basic ones is that it's simply to differentiate them from humans in a substantial way.

Time Lords, on the outside, look exactly like a human, so having a second heart makes them distinctly inhuman when you otherwise might not be able to tell. @aemiron-main has touched on lots of interesting stuff about shapeshifters and doppelgangers making their way (or having already made their way) into Stranger Things, and it's possible that Brenner may be one of them. Point is, while they may appear "normal" on the outside, there's something more beneath the surface/hidden.

Two other major factors that justify the binary vascular system in Time Lords are 1) it allows them to "navigate deep time," and 2) allows them to regenerate into a new body whenever they die.

Let's start with point 1)

(screenshots are taken from the tardis fandom wiki pages) (also, Gallifrey is the home planet of the Time Lords/Gallifreyans)

Now, I did just accidentally stumble down a rabbit hole with the "Web of Time" link, leading me to a "machine-heart" which was built to anchor and lock in the "structure of history," a ceremony in which the obelisk (staring at irl DnD Vecna) the "Eye of Harmony" was its center, of which also gave the Gallifreyans the ability to time travel and regenerate, and this ceremony resulted in ultimate disaster involving the Great Vampires (looking at all the blood transfusions and Brenner's vampire coding that Stav has talked about) which killed a bunch of Gallifreyans, creating a crater on Gallifrey that came to hold an "Untempered Schism," a sacred space-time rift, and...

Like, maybe I'm reaching here, but a lot of this just feels Brenner to me. Something about looking into the Vortex/center of history vs Brenner seemingly poking through timelines to get what he's looking for (specifically thinking of him watching the "same" One disintegration moment on way more screens than he needs, not being able to "let [Henry] go," as well as him trying to "make contact" with the Shadow in TFS in an attempt to fulfill his lifelong devotion to Project Rainbow... like, I'd plant Brenner somewhere between "mad" and "inspired" as soon as he was made aware of how far this could go).

And building off of "without adverse affects to their wellbeing" vs Brenner's blood transfusion project with "Henry" in TFS to make more children with the same blood type, and how it's possible that the blood type may be attributed to their powers, but also to make them immune to Dimension X/the Shadow like "Henry." And, so, would Brenner have tried to do the same thing to himself? James @henrysglock has spoken about the blood transfusions and some of the science in it in posts like this one.

And something about the Gallifreyan children being taken at 8 years of age, the age El was when the 1979 HNL massacre occurred, to stare into the Schism as a rite of passage. Not only was El's face-off with One a "rite of passage" of sorts (thinking: she made a decision to fight One instead of join him, it awoke the true strength of her powers, etc.), but I also instantly think of Brenner pitting all of the lab kids against each other, making them "fight" one another in order to rise in the "ranks."

And THEN there's the Untempered Schism reminding me so much of Walter Bishop's window into the alternate universe in Fringe which is another huge influence for Stranger Things and blah blah blah, see? Rabbit hole. I'm barely scratching the surface of what I read up on here, but I need to bite my tongue for now. In short, all this, I feel, serves as further evidence of Brenner's Time Lord parallels.

Point is, the 2 hearts are intrinsically linked to a Time Lord's ability to travel through space and, specifically, time. And given how NINA feels a lot less like a memory machine and a lot more like a time machine (as spoken about by Stav, James, Em, and several lovely posts by @givehimthemedicine)... well, something rattles about Brenner being in control of what's happening, or able to influence it in his favor, or at the very least is somehow able to see the span of time/multiple timelines, and through that, he's able to create a specific series of events to get the outcome he wants.

(Not to mention all the weird ways in which Brenner seems to be messing with the Creels from the get-go, the way One says Papa uses everyone like pieces in a chess game, and his ability to cover up the truth/create a false narrative starting all the way back in season 1. But anyway.)

As a brief aside, there are parallel universes within Doctor Who, but the Doctor doesn't travel between them regularly (at least in the 2005 reboot's early seasons. I have no idea about later seasons or the original series). Like, there's no consistent interactions with multiple universes at any given moment, it's only for Big Plot Lines (ie. some episodes in season 2 and the overarching plot of season 4). And, from what I remember, the Doctor doesn't necessarily see all the possible timelines in their universe, rather they sort of just know what is and is not meant to happen. I just wanted to specify that because I feel it's a key difference between the series.

As for point 2), I have much less of a tangent to go on with that. Essentially, I think we can all agree that a Time Lord's ability to regenerate when they die and Vecna's regenerative healing are pretty similar.

Another fun tidbit is that, technically, Time Lords are only able to regenerate a total of 12 times. Obligatory midnight reference. I should also note that the Doctor can now regenerate more than 12 times, but I can't remember the exact reasoning/don't feel like going to find it. Basically, it's just a special case.

So, if Time Lords regenerate, and Vecna regenerates, and Vecna seemingly got up and walked away after being flambée'd, and Brenner has seemingly died multiple times and then miraculously been okay, and Brenner is paralleled to Time Lords and specifically to the Doctor... it's all the same guy! Brenner isn't dead! Somehow, he's regenerating! And it's specifically tied to the two hearts!!!

Now, another detail in Doctor Who I want to touch on is in the two part special "The End of Time," which is set shortly after season 4 ends. I'm not going to get into the plot of the episodes or anything (that's for another post because... boy, are the parallels paralleling. Bad dreams, visions, the Master being brought back from the dead and being unable to sate his hunger for energy, etc.).

However, the one thing I want to focus on is the sound of drums that plagues the Master (who's another Time Lord and recurring nemesis of the Doctor). It's 4 beats in rapid succession which repeat ad nauseam in his head. But what are they?

He first began to hear it when he looked into the Untempered Schism as a child, and though it was originally labeled as merely a symptom of being driven mad by the Schism (and is later thought to be the sound of one of the other characters knocking on a door), the President of the Time Lords draws the link to the Time Lord heart beat. So, a driving component of these episodes can be specifically connected to the beating of two hearts.

I was talking to Stav about it the other day, and I can't remember who she said she got this information from and if it's anything that's been confirmed, but she mentioned to me the link between these 4 drumbeats and the 4 chimes of Vecna's grandfather clock, alongside the fact that they both exist in the head of the Master/Vecna's victims rather than being something inherently tangible.

While I was reading up on all of this, and as you can obviously tell, I found that a lot of it specifically paralleled Vecna and the Mind Flayer, but I want to point again to the initial posts from Stav that I linked at the very top which detail all of Brenner's Time Lord/Doctor coding. With that, it becomes pretty damning that Vecna/the MF also have all of these Time Lord parallels.

In a similar vein, Em has spoken here about the weirdness with Henry "being" Brenner and vice versa in TFS, and James has spoken here about the weird connections between Henry -> the Shadow -> Brenner (I know there's other posts too but I cannot for the life of me find them!!). And then you bring in how "Henry" in TFS, One, and Vecna are all shown to absorb or "consume" their victims... basically, I want to emphasize how muddled up all these characters are with each other.

Now, obviously (as far as we're aware) Brenner is a human, or was at least born a human. And while Brenner himself may not directly be the Shadow/MF or Vecna, I think with all of these overlapping parallels it becomes clear that there is a distinct possibility that he somehow became those characters, and I think the Time Lords having two hearts is a fantastic hint at that. While the Time Lords naturally have two hearts/it's a quirk of the species, for our purposes, it's pretty great symbolism for two beings occupying the same body/mind/space, which is also something ST is not unfamiliar with in the slightest, it's just a little more "possession"/virus coded rather than physically linking two bodies (from what we've seen so far).

Which leads me to my next interesting tidbit I came across when looking into the Time Lords' binary vascular system: the Doctor may have been born with one heart, and only after they regenerated the first time did they develop a second one.

This is because they were from an "Oldblood House" on Gallifrey. A House is basically just a bloodline or family of Time Lords. I can't find a solid reason for Oldbloods starting with one heart vs Newbloods starting with two, but it certainly makes me raise my eyebrows at the Doctor starting off closer to human before becoming distinctly Time Lord vs Brenner starting off human and... becoming something else?

As I linked above, Stav spoke about the possibility of Brenner consuming Henward's blood in order to give himself powers/strength/immortality/whatever it is he wants atp. Here's also various links to posts by James about how one of the Ones looks an awful lot like Brenner in that Dimension X sequence, and this post about how Brenner is a lot like Vecna.

So, Brenner and One get merged with each other (whether on purpose, by accident, or a strange mix of both), and bada-boom! Two people in the same body with crazy new abilities, thus becoming a Vecna.

When I was talking about this initially with James, Em, and Stav, James mentioned Brenner's whole spiel about "becoming whole" and what it would mean if that sentiment was applied to himself, and what it would mean if the hearts didn't merge. And Em mentioned it being a way to symbolize Brenner and Henward being part of the same being, but Henward being partially removed from what's been done because he's simply merged with someone else who is to blame. And what with Will's whole talk about Mike being "the heart" of the Party, and the solution to basically all of their problems throughout ST being love... I don't think I have to spell it out too neatly that it would be quite the thrill if Vecna as some combination of Brenner and One was partially beaten from the inside by one of his own "hearts."

Which, this is only tangentially related but I don't really know where else to put it and I think it's interesting enough to include, one way to kill a Time Lord for good is to pierce both of their hearts at the same time.

Gallifreyans can technically survive with one working heart, but they're greatly weakened, and from what I remember, it could result in them dying and trigger a regeneration.

When I was first reading about this, I instantly thought of how frequently the "two man rule" appears in ST. Most obviously, in st3 when the Key has to be shut on/off using two different people. James has spoken about this before, specifically with how there's always a "secret third guy" thrown into the mix (ie. Murray in the st3 Key sequence). However, I won't go into it in-depth here right now because James takes the cake on that conversation. I just wanted to point it out because I thought it was something worth putting a pin in!

To summarize:

Brenner has a boatload of Doctor/Time Lord coding, but so does Vecna and the Mind Flayer/the Shadow. That, matched with Brenner's incessant searching for "Henry" and being unable to let him go, the blood transfusions in TFS, all of the blood consumption language around Brenner, Brenner's lifelong devotion to Project Rainbow, and the constant conflating of Henry and Brenner throughout the series... it feels apt to take Time Lords having two hearts and overlay that on Brenner as further proof that he may have tried merging himself with Henward in some way in order to give himself greater power.

Again, while the binary vascular system is something simply inherent to Gallifreyans/is just part of their biology, having it so tightly linked to their time travel and regeneration, matched with the alternate timelines and time travel in ST, the blood transfusions, and the rapid regeneration we see in Vecna and the fact that Brenner is somehow still standing when he should have been dead a few times over now... it certainly makes me wonder just what's going on under Brenner's skin.

And if we learn that whatever weird Brenward combo we have that possibly created one of the Vecnas has two hearts, I'll shit my pants.

[the-technicolor-whiscash]

Hello mr whiscash. I read your tags on a post about how non fiction books slap and I'd like to ask *where* exactly you started reading? Cause there's some topics I'm interested in but I don't know how to find books about them. Like, did you follow a recommendation from someone else? Did you go to a library and ask? Did you google "cool book about space" and click on the first bookstore link you found? Thank you.

(Sorry if this response is a few days late I didn't know the question came in lmao)

So, I can only speak to my experience, but I started looking for astronaut nonfiction because I reached a point in watching documentaries where I was getting a lot of repeat information. I knew the only way I was going to learn more about the subject, and to the level of detail I was looking for, by going to books.

To start with, what I did was find a web page from NASA that listed all of their known biographies, memoirs, and autobiographies written by/about astronauts. I also looked for books that had been used as sources for documentaries or movies. This provided me with a pretty thorough list of reading material. Obviously I'm not going to read all of them because there's like a hundred, so instead I pick the ones that interest me the most via subject matter, either based on what astronauts are involved or what the mission entailed.

What I also did was found different books on the same subject so I could see different points of view. A lot of these guys had strong personalities and differing opinions on events that happened. I wanted to learn about the drama in Apollo 7, so I wanted a couple different books to formulate my own opinion on events from different sources.

I also went to a number of museums and found books that interested me but I was unwilling to pay full price for in their gift shops. The Smithsonain air and space museum had a fantastic collection of books and it was there I learned about Fred Haise's memoir, which I will absolutely be buying after my next paycheck.

From there, once I had a list, I went to Libby and looked to see where I could find audiobooks of the ones I was the most interested in. It's a fairly niche interest subject so my local library had literally none, but my friend lets me use her Boston public library card so there's more options there but still not everything. It did have a lot of the big ticket ones like First Man and Moon Shot, both of which I listened to. If you attend a college, there's a chance they may have a greater selection of nonfiction than a regular library since students use them as sources, and some college libraries do let the public browse books so you might luck out there.

For the ones that weren't on Libby, I turned to thriftbooks. My coworker who leads a book club swears by thriftbooks so I knew it was bound to have a lot going on and indeed it has had nearly every astronaut book I've looked for, including ones that have been out of print for years. I have gotten everything from there, ranging from a brand new signed copy of Gene Kranz's memoir (I know he's not an astronaut but he was heavily involved in the space program) to a former library copy of Wally Schirra's book to a 1963 copy of We Seven. Nearly everything is pretty cheap except for certain extremely niche finds - I love you Gus Grissom but I'm not spending $40 on your out of print book from 1968. Someday, maybe. But not today.

There's a few I've chosen to get from other sources too, like Charlie Duke's book Moon Walker which I bought directly from Duke himself. I've been eyeing a copy of Alan Bean's book Apollo: An Eyewitness Account on ebay for a while but i want a verified signed copy and theyre expensive lmao. But for the most part literally everything I have I got off thriftbooks.

I would also suggest if you have something you're interested in to find websites or blogs or reddit communities that may have discussions about books about it. I got Deke Slayton's memoir because I saw someone talking about it on reddit and it was one of my favorite astronaut books I've read so far. I found out about We Seven and Schirra's Space from some guy's fan website about Wally Schirra. And obviously not everything is going to have a webpage like NASA does, so communities are going to be a good bet to start out with. That and seeing what books are recommended under listings on thriftbooks since they're usually at least semi relevant to the subject.

One thing you can also try and do is on Wikipedia looking at the sources it takes and seeing if any books are referenced. It's not always gonna work, but it might get you started.

Nonfiction books are absolutely slept on. They're like the best way to learn about a subject especially once you've run out of documentaries. I wish you good luck on your pursuit of knowledge.

[atmosphericradar]

Found another odd tag — keyed off the word "hiding" — and this time it's a long one!

So, the full tag is:

#blac chyna is hiding true feelings about her ‘rebirth’ makeover – her ‘lip clamps & droops’ are the proof

This sounds like a celebrity gossip headline! And sure enough, this tag is full-to-bursting with this article exclusively.

I got this from the desktop site, because it's wild to see. It's just a wall of the same article, all the way down, for multiple pages.

They're all from early November 2023, and all from blogs with names that end in *-polycom, *-mag, or *news. It seems fairly self-evident that this is the work of some kind of tabloid, but I'm a curious cat. I want to dig deeper.

Digging Deeper

Most of these posts tell you (they don't provide links!) to go read the full article on POLYCOM. Ok, what is a POLYCOM? I don't think it's Poly Inc., maker of video- and teleconferencing appliances, but a few cursory Google and DuckDuckGo searches yield no evidence of anything else.

The most recent post tells us to go track down the article ourselves on "IN TREND", but provides no URL or link. Searching around for "IN TREND" on the web is fairly difficult, returning results for well-known fashion publications, trend analytics, and a brand of clothing called "Intrend". Searching for "In Trend Today" returned more interesting results, including an InTrendToday YouTube Channel and Facebook page. The Facebook page seems to have stopped posting in late 2018, but the YouTube Channel last posted a video on Dec 18, 2023. I'll talk more about the YouTube Channel under the cut at the end of this post.

Some of these posts do have "read more" links pointing to posts on Wordpress, all of which claim to be "on MAG NEWS". Each *-mag blog links out to a separate Wordpress account which seems to be re-uploading the same story. All of these Wordpress Accounts are deleted (for violating Wordpress ToS), and all of these linked posts are gone (here are two examples):

Somehow, I doubt this is some covert arm of the Maricopa Association of Governments newsroom.

Digging down into the results on Tumblr, I found a copy of this post made by the blog vouxsportsnews. They link a Wordpress article from another dead Wordpress account:

BUT, their most recent post on their blog (a gossip article about Zendaya posted on Jan 5, 2024) does have a working Wordpress link, to vouxsportsnews.wordpress.com (clever 🙄):

This is an archetypal internet-based gossip rag. I didn't know these still existed! I guess Wordpress is hunting them down for sport?

The "Read More ..." link in the article goes to a website called top.neotrends.today, which is a sketchy link I will not be clicking on. The "full article" is apparently hosted on www.primesky.media, which I also will not be directly navigating to. I did manage to get a screenshot of the front page of primesky today (Jan 8, 2024) using a webtool:

I blurred the article shown on this page to preserve the privacy of the person it featured.

Primesky is hosted on a Cloudflare virtual private server, and no public info is available on who owns the primesky URL. A search for "redroads amag" on DuckDuckGo leads back to primesky. A search of the same on Google leads to a website at www.clickhere.world, which is immensely sketchy and looks identical to primesky. At this point, I'm going to end my search for a culprit.

Conclusion

I thought I could find the tabloid hydra's body, but I just found more heads. I'm not surprised the operators of a gossip rag bot network on Tumblr are also playing dirty on Wordpress, and covering their digital tracks well. Sometimes it's best to just report spam and go on with your day.

It should go without saying, but DO NOT NAVIGATE to these websites! At worst, they will give you every virus. At best, they will mine crypto in the background of your browser (and rot your brain).

The YouTube Channel Digression

The YouTube channel intrendtoday was created on Oct 4, 2017, and it has more than 53,000 subscribers as of my posting this post (Jan 8, 2024). However, the earliest video on the channel was posted on Nov 7, 2023. That is suspiciously close to when all of these Blac Chyna spam articles went up.

Given that the videos posted get less than 50 views on average, I think the grossly-out-of-proportion subscriber count is evidence of bot subscribers. Maybe the channel re-branded and deleted a prior back-catalog? Archive.org has no snapshots of this YouTube channel, but SocialBlade claims they lost nearly 3.5 million video views in early September of 2023 (indicating they deleted a lot of videos).

SocialBlade also indexes this channel under the name "demattradinginfo", not "intrendtoday". Archive.org doesn't have records of a YouTube URL for the channel demattradinginfo, but a Google search of that name shows results for Demat Accounts, which are a type of financial account commonly used in India to hold securities and trade stocks.

It's possible that whomever is behind the gossip news spam is also in control of this YouTube channel. I wouldn't be surprised, given how frequently people offering financial advice on social media are either scammers or spammers (and sometimes both!). However, I have no proof that the people behind this YouTube channel are the same people behind this social media gossip spamming.

[gentleclangen]

Introducing the founders of Gentleclan!

Gentleclan formed when Sunshine, a former kittypet, learned of the warrior code from a former clan cat in the city, and took up the mantle of forming a clan of her own to live in under its guidance along the coastal cliffs outside the city. As a reward for her honor of clan traditions, and hope for a better future, she was visited and blessed by starclan themselves, given the name Sunstar, and told to lead her clan, Gentleclan, into a hopeful new era.

and my first clangen project begins!!! I love them dearly I’m very excited to share them all with you

asks are OPEN!! Ask the kitties questions!!!

no schedule as of yet; uploads happen when they happen and hopefully that will be a lot

art made on paper and in ibis!!! And will be for the foreseeable future of this series. Linework on paper and colors on ibis.

I’ll add links to this post… someday. I just figured out how readmores work don’t hurt me I’m a cat artist not a web page designer

[britts-galaxy-brain]

Tbh I only learned who Lily was 2 months when my Youtube algorithm showed me a video about Stockholm. While I found it pretty disturbing, I believe in approaching these kind of accusations w/ a healthy dose of skepticism (esp if the person's from a marginalized group) until I have enough info.

So fact-checking lead to a deep dive of all the shit she's done & the blogs documenting it. And I wanted to say, one of the most damning pieces of evidence that convinced me are the reblogs on the-last-alicorn's page discussing Stockholm that very clearly link back to Lily's blog. I don't think there's any way of faking that? And it should be pretty obvious the reason those posts are gone when you click on her blog is that she deleted them.

I'm... actually shocked she never deleted/remade her entire blog & thought just removing the posts would be enough. But it must've worked for her to still have fans defending & believing her excuses. I'd really like to know how anyone can explain why those posts link directly back to Lily's blog if she didn't write them originally? I don't think I've seen that addressed & guess I'm surprised it's not brought up more.

Then again, she somehow convinced her fans that there's an absurdly high-effort smear campaign against her involving heaps of edited screenshots & even an entire fake fanfic... All just to defame a mediocre Youtuber over cartoon opinions? Somehow these "haters" even found a way to manipulate the Internet Archive of all things I guess (still can't get over that one). So I won't be surprised if it turns out she's already made something up to explain away those reblogs too.

Anyways just saying- if anyone still doubts Lily wrote Stockholm, I'd strongly urge them to look at @the-last-alicorn's blog. When you realize how much she's lying about this one thing, it's pretty fking hard to give her the benefit of the doubt about anything else she denies too. I really hope everyone who's been abused by this woman can receive some justice.

I'm glad you brought up the internet archive, since that's the one that's been the most frustrating. I assume some of Lily's defenders don't know how the site works.

You CAN'T fake an internet archive snapshot. It literally preserves a web page exactly as it is on whatever date it was preserved. It's not "a screenshot". It's a save state.

[blueheartbookclub]

Star-Crossed Love: A Review of "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" by William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" stands as one of the most enduring and beloved works of literature, captivating audiences for centuries with its timeless tale of love, passion, and tragedy. Set in the bustling city of Verona, the play follows the ill-fated romance between Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet, two young lovers from feuding families. From the moment they meet at a masquerade ball, Romeo and Juliet are drawn to each other with an intensity that transcends their family's bitter rivalry. Shakespeare masterfully weaves a narrative filled with forbidden love, secret meetings, and desperate attempts to defy fate. As their love blossoms, Romeo and Juliet find themselves ensnared in a web of deceit, betrayal, and violence that ultimately leads to their tragic demise.

At the heart of "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" is Shakespeare's exploration of the power of love and the destructive force of hatred. Through the doomed romance of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare delves into themes of passion, loyalty, and the consequences of unchecked emotion. The play's iconic balcony scene, where Romeo professes his love to Juliet under the cover of night, has become one of the most famous and enduring moments in literature, capturing the essence of youthful ardor and romantic longing. Yet, as the story unfolds, Shakespeare also reveals the darker side of love, as jealousy, anger, and vengeance threaten to tear apart the fragile bond between the star-crossed lovers.

In addition to its exploration of love and fate, "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" also offers a rich tapestry of characters, each contributing to the unfolding drama in their own unique way. From the hot-headed Tybalt to the well-meaning Friar Laurence, Shakespeare populates the play with a diverse cast of characters whose actions shape the tragic outcome of the story. Juliet's nurse provides comic relief with her bawdy humor and earthy wisdom, while Romeo's loyal friend Mercutio adds a touch of wit and bravado to the proceedings. Through these characters, Shakespeare offers a multifaceted portrait of human nature, revealing the complexities of love, honor, and duty in a world torn apart by conflict.

Ultimately, "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet" remains as relevant and poignant today as it was when it was first performed over four centuries ago. Shakespeare's timeless exploration of love, passion, and fate continues to resonate with audiences of all ages, reminding us of the enduring power of the human spirit in the face of adversity. As Romeo and Juliet's tragic tale unfolds on the stage, we are reminded of the fragility of life, the fleeting nature of love, and the eternal struggle to find meaning and purpose in a world filled with chaos and uncertainty.

William Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet", is available in Amazon in paperback 13.99$ and hardcover20.99$ editions.

Number of pages: 229

Language: English

Rating: 10/10                                           

Link of the book!

Review By: King's Cat

[fluffysheeple]

remember how at the end of october I mentioned I was writing a story? you probably don't! anyway, sammie and i have both proofread it now, so for the occasion of my 24th birthday, the part that already exists is ready to read now up on

fluffy.gov!!

fluffy.gov!!!!

my very own page on the wooled wide web! into which I have been tirelessly typing out paragraph upon paragraph for the past 2-ish months. find all further information by clicking thwe link (actually leads to fluffysheeple.neocities.org ⬇️)

no cookies, no comments*, no SEO! layout exactly as amateurishly made as you'd expect from someone bashing her cranial plate into HTML for the first time, but it loads so quickly! and would fit (1.52MB total!) on a floppy disk if not for the load-bearing 600KB weedsnake.png. enjoy!

*feedback welcome here on tumblr of course - how's the font, the layout, the dialogue, whatever?

[2023/16/01: SYNOPSIS and CONTENT WARNING added to this post, under the cut]

SYNOPSIS: The fallout of a mortal revolution thrusts two of the younger, less well-regarded (at least among undead) immortals in the world into close proximity of one another. The Reaper of Reality, decried as a bandit and a chimaeric abomination, sees a potential rival in the Architect, themself considered (by those who care to consider them at all) to be an assimilationist traitor and a creepy recluse. Will the rapidly-industrializing city of Verredam remain home to its construct-lich and their enigmatic Spire, or will the long-hunted vampire-lich finally find a permanent place to establish her own demesne? And will it remain the Capital of Renewal, seat of mortal self-governance, or will the reactionary Coalition of undead nations reclaim the densely-populated metropolis for themselves? I'd say 'read on to find out', but it's not completely done yet. So, you know. Read on to find out partially, still!

CONTENT WARNING: Generally light-hearted in tone, but may contain some descriptions of subjects such as violence (up to and including death and dismemberment) and sexuality (mostly D/s stuff), as well as recurring themes of involuntary action and memory loss. Anything explicit or otherwise too far out of the ordinary will be signposted using the same HTML element as this more general content warning.

[dmcreativestudio]

Martine Neddam - Mouchette.org (1996)

is the fictional, personal online diary of a 13-year-old girl focused on suicide, loneliness, death, and violence, with frequent sexual overtones. Martine Neddam’s role as the creator behind the character of Mouchette remained a secret until her presence was officially revealed in 2010. [...] the viewer enters what feels to be an open-ended and complex labyrinth of various pages, secret links, and interactive web form sections, leading to numerous dead ends and different possible paths to take through the site, with content that continues to speak to Mouchette’s fascination with death, violence, and suicide.