#luxury prayer mat

[hidjabayausa]

Elevate your spiritual connection with our exquisite Islamic Prayer Mat. Crafted for comfort and durability, it provides a sacred space for devotion. Immerse yourself in prayer with the perfect blend of tradition and elegance. 🌙🤲

Shop now! https://tinyurl.com/mvpyzh3d

Free worldwide shipping from 29.90$

🤙Contact us at: +1-551-239-9223

[linguisticdiscovery]

Ways English borrowed words from Latin

Latin has been influencing English since before English existed!

Here’s a non-exhaustive list of ways that English got vocabulary from Latin:

early Latin influence on the Germanic tribes: The Germanic tribes borrowed words from the Romans while still in continental Europe, before coming to England.

camp, wall, pit, street, mile, cheap, mint, wine, cheese, pillow, cup, linen, line, pepper, butter, onion, chalk, copper, dragon, peacock, pipe, bishop

Roman occupation of England: The Celts borrowed words from the Romans when the Romans invaded England, and the Anglo-Saxons later borrowed those Latin words from the Celts.

port, tower, -chester / -caster / -cester (place name suffix), mount

Christianization of the Anglo-Saxons: Roman missionaries to England converted the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity and brought Latin with them.

altar, angel, anthem, candle, disciple, litany, martyr, mass, noon, nun, offer, organ, palm, relic, rule, shrine, temple, tunic, cap, sock, purple, chest, mat, sack, school, master, fever, circle, talent

Norman Conquest: The Norman French invaded England in 1066 under William the Conqueror, making Norman French the language of the state. Many words were borrowed from French, which had evolved out of Latin.

noble, servant, messenger, feast, story, government, state, empire, royal, authority, tyrant, court, council, parliament, assembly, record, tax, subject, public, liberty, office, warden, peer, sir, madam, mistress, slave, religion, confession, prayer, lesson, novice, creator, saint, miracle, faith, temptation, charity, pity, obedience, justice, equity, judgment, plea, bill, panel, evidence, proof, sentence, award, fine, prison, punishment, plead, blame, arrest, judge, banish, property, arson, heir, defense, army, navy, peace, enemy, battle, combat, banner, havoc, fashion, robe, button, boots, luxury, blue, brown, jewel, crystal, taste, toast, cream, sugar, salad, lettuce, herb, mustard, cinnamon, nutmeg, roast, boil, stew, fry, curtain, couch, screen, lamp, blanket, dance, music, labor, fool, sculpture, beauty, color, image, tone, poet, romance, title, story, pen, chapter, medicine, pain, stomach, plague, poison

The Renaissance: The intense focus on writings from classical antiquity during the Renaissance led to the borrowing of numerous words directly from Latin.

atmosphere, disability, halo, agile, appropriate, expensive, external, habitual, impersonal, adapt, alienate, benefit, consolidate, disregard, erupt, exist, extinguish, harass, meditate

The Scientific Revolution: The need for new technical and scientific terms led to many neoclassical compounds formed from Classical Greek and Latin elements, or new uses of Latin prefixes.

automobile, transcontinental, transformer, prehistoric, preview, prequel, subtitle, deflate, component, data, experiment, formula, nucleus, ratio, structure

Not to mention most borrowings from other Romance languages, such as Spanish or Italian, which also evolved from Latin.

Further Reading: A history of the English language (Baugh & Cable)

[koisuko]

Could I request reader as a cat, but with the mk 1 girls?

Absolutely! (Forgive me this is long overdue and has been sitting in my drafts, im slowly losing my passion and motivation for mk1 content im sorry jehfjsjf)

Pov: You are a cat (pt4)

how the mk1 characters react to you as a stray cat, one with an oddly familiar/fitting name

part 1, part 2, part 3, bonus

Tw: none, gn, platonic, kitty cat

Ft: Mileena, Kitana, Sindel, Li Mei, Tanya

Mileena

Ever since her mother past, even if her soul was safe with her father, she found it hard to find the time to grieve. It wasn’t the same, not being able to speak to her, hug her, learn from her. And now, the newly passed duties of empress was thrown on her by circumstance, taking up nearly her entire day.

When in the solace of her room, hidden away from prying eyes, even for just a moment, she would let a tear slip down her cheek. All the inner turmoil collected into that single drop, and staining the silky case of her pillow.

All the struggle was slowly healed when you came along, trotting happily into the castle with your tail held high. You were a stray, with your once soft black fur now dirty and matted. She took pity on you, feeling the need to care for you tugging at the strings of her aching heart. And so she did, finding an almost therapeutic rhythm when brushing your shiny coat. Upon finding the small tag dangling on your neck, she was baffled to see it read ‘Tanya’. She almost giggled at it, such a bizarre coincidence to find a gentle companion with the same name as her lover.

During the nights, when the peace and quiet is a luxury earned, she lays on her satin sheets in deep thought. You, her new found friend, curled into a small ball against her side. Your purrs vibrate through her waist, bringing out a soft sigh of content from her lips. “Thank you, Tanya,” she whispered, “you’ve done a wonderful job fending off the sadness that plagues me.” She gently stroked your back, reaching up to scratch behind your ears. Both of you, at peace even for a moment, slipped into a dreamless slumber.

Kitana

It was hard watching her sister, watching her lack the time to grieve, watching her suffer in silence and create a fake facade of happiness in front of the people. Kitana wasn’t as high status as her, so she could afford just a little time alone, something she was grateful for. If she could, she would take her place, even for a moment to allow her some freedom.

Even with the time she had, she still missed her mother greatly. It was too early, unnatural even for her mother to be gone. She almost felt lost, lacking her mother’s usual guidance and watchful eye was akin to a motherless fawn.

It had been a normal day, tending to duties, but a particularly sad day. A day filled with heavy sorrow, the stages of grief hitting Kitana like a train. Her sister is busy, tending to duties as a new empress, and this left her feeling empty and alone. Never the less, she kept a neutral expression through out the day, even a small smile for the cherry on top.

But as night came, she’d sit out in the courtyard, here eyes to the stars above. She’d whisper to the night sky, one prayer at a time, for the safety of her family and the palace. A sudden rustle of a nearby bush breaks her from her thoughts. She approaches with a perplexed expression, “who’s there?” No answer, instead, the bushes rustle once more in response. Kitana took another step closer, cautious and ready, her heart slightly racing with impending adrenaline. To her surprise, a small fluffy feline emerged from the shrubbery, tilting its head in her direction.

“Mreow,” you purred, a simple human translation to a hello. She lowered her stance, relaxing at the sight of you, “hello little one,” she cooed. You chirped in response, trotting over to rub against her legs, looking up with your big adorable eyes. She giggled, there is simply no resisting the pleading gaze of a friendly feline. As if she read your mind, she gingerly scooped you up into her arms, cradling you close to her chest. While doing so, her fingers grazed the hem of your collar, causing her to retract for a moment in surprise. When looking closer, the collar read ‘Sindel’ in a intricate cursive engraving. She gently traced the letters with her fingers, as if committing it to memory. Her eyes welled with tears, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She sniffled, nuzzling her face into your fur with a sigh, “I miss you, mother.”

Sindel

To be reunited with her husband was one thing, but to be inside his body as a spirit was another. Death wasn’t at all as expected, she felt the cold sensation and loss of feeling that came with it, but did not go to some whimsical after life. Considering the death of the forest of souls, there was no going there. A shame, really, she wanted to experience it for herself. But, considering she was with her husband once more, it felt safer than the forest.

The best she could describe it would be, feeling whole again, realizing a part of her that she was missing. She felt a strange connection between her and the other spirits there, as if a cord interlocked them at the core. Every feeling, every thought, it was all shared between them as a collective. Negativity didn’t exist, all the fear and longing she once felt, was gone now.

There was a place where everyone was a physical, walking around in a blank plane of white and fog. This is where she could be with her husband, reunited once again in pure bliss. The area was endless, even if you chose to walk continuously, you would never reach an end.

Sindel sat near the edge of the group, waiting for her husband to return once again. She looked off into the endless pool of white, deep in thought. She could see the memories of her past life, memories of her children, husband, and the kingdom. All the memories skimming over her brain like a slide show, all the way up to her untimely death. Reaching down, she gingerly caressed the wound where the katana had struck and killed her. She could remember the look of dread and sorrow on her daughter’s face, but proud was the only thing she could feel. Sindel could see the progress Mileena and Kitana have made through Jared’s eyes, and regardless if she could tell them or not, she was beyond overjoyed.

A sudden presence beside her lured her out of her trance. When she looked, she was surprised to see you, the spirit of a small house cat. It was unusual to see animals here, but never has it been unwelcome. Perhaps the others have not noticed you, as usually they would flock to an animal newcomer. She smiled down at you, admiring the beauty of your coat while you groom your paw in silence. You turned your head in response, looking up at her with one big eye, the other closed off as a token of your past life. You could sense that she was waiting, and decided to keep her company. You stood, stretching your back before trotting over to her. You didn’t hesitate, making yourself right at home on Sindel’s lap. There was no protest from her, instead, she placed a gentle hand on your back and stroked her fingers through your fur. It had been quite some time since you had been pet, your past life lacking the love and care you craved so much. If only Sindel had found you when you both were alive, she would surely take you in as her own. She scratched the top of your head, eliciting a soft purr of satisfaction from you. Sindel continued to wait for her husband, watching memories flow by, but this time with a new friend.

Li Mei

Li Mei practically watched Sindel’s daughters grow up from small infants to young women. She nearly felt her eyes well with tears, watching the coronation of Mileena through blurred eyes. Even if she gained the role through circumstance, she was still unbelievable proud.

It was unfortunate, downright depressing, losing the best friend she had just got back. After years of pleading with Sindel, working so hard to regain her trust after Jared’s passing, she had finally rebuilt the bond once broken. Only for the untimely death of her best friend, regaining her best friend’s husband in her place. Although, it was a relief to learn from Jared that she had safe passage to an afterlife of some sort. And, she was happy to hear that they were reunited, even if it was through failed dark magic.

After her promotion for her heroic acts, she felt alone and home sick. She felt wrong in the place as chief of imperial police, missing the streets of Sun Do where she kept peace for so many years. Now, she sat in her office as a newly reinstated first constable, mindlessly dragging the pen across parchment. She had taken up journaling, a simple way to vent out the everyday frustrations of police work, and to pass time on off days where crime was minimal. Paperwork from the days criminals had stacked neatly in the corner of the desk, a small lamp hovered over the various journal papers. She sighed, setting the pen down and leaning back in her seat. Stretching her back with a satisfying pop before making way to the exit of her office.

A sudden shrill shriek startled Li Mei, nearly sounding like a child screaming for help. At this time of night? She swiftly ran to a nearby alleyway where she was surprised to see the source of the sound was a cat fight between strays. One was much larger, covered in fluffy orange fur, and the other a small and scrawny brown tabby. The smaller one let out a meek hiss, while the larger one raised a paw ready to strike. You bolted behind Li Mei’s leg, having accidentally stumbled into the territory of a large Tom cat. He was aggressive, fiercely defending his home and potential breeding area, to which you wanted no part of and simply made your way here by curiosity alone. As the Tom cat made an attempt to run towards you, Li Mei stomped her foot, “hey! Quit the scuffle.” The Tom cat hesitated at first, giving you one last hiss before running back through the alley where it came from. Li Mei brought her attention to the small tabby hidden behind her, lowering to crouch beside you, “quite the predicament you got yourself into hm?” She brought her hand to your eye level, to which you gave it a gentle sniff. Paper, ink, and a small amount of roast lingered on her skin, remnants of her lunch eliciting a heavy pang in your stomach. “Are you hungry?” She frowned, studying the current state of your boney ribs and dirtied fur. You meowed, your eyes large in a pitiful beg for a scrap of satiation. She smiled, scooping you up in her arms, “let’s get some dinner in you little one,” walking back into the headquarters. She felt a strange fabric on your neck, the dirt covering making it nearly impossible to notice at first. Attached to it, was a small metal heart, rusted and covered in mud. Upon wiping it with her thumb, the words on it read “umgadi”. She giggled, “my past comes back to me.” From then on, you made several returns to her for food and protection, until eventually, you were adopted by her with open arms.

Tanya

When she wasn’t with Mileena, majority of her time was occupied by the duties of leader of the Umgadi. Being at such a high rank, and rebuilding the Umgadi from the ground up to be reformed from a few rotten apples, had kept her a very busy woman. Tanya made sure to thoroughly wring out every pupil to keep out the rats who conspire against both the Umgadi principles, and the kingdom itself.

Tanya stride down the hallways of the palace, her heels clicking against the pristine floors of the Umgadi barracks. She held an air of confidence, her head held high and eyes straight ahead. She smiled as the gentle snores of her sisters reached her ears, the peaceful sound of slumber fading slightly with every step. She had an objective in mind, her feet carrying her to the palace gardens where her lover waits.

Upon arriving, just at the entrance, two small cats walked side by side with their tails wrapped over each other. They seemed so peaceful, enjoying each other’s company under the starlit sky. She hadn’t meant to intrude, but once noticed by the two felines, one had bolted into a nearby hedge. The one remaining, a small calico, had looked at her with curiosity. You did not run, instead, you sat right where you were, to convey that you were not afraid. Tanya smiled, lowering herself to a crouch and reaching a hand in your direction, “it’s alright, I won’t harm you.” You sniffed the air, catching a whiff of her scent, the smell akin to a sunlit field of flowers with a hint of honey. You slowly approached, your neck elongated to sniff her outstretched hand without risking too much. She smiled, tilting her head with curiosity, “what’s your name, little one?” You lifted your head, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of a name on your collar. It read, “Mileena”. She smirked at the engraving, “what a beautiful name.”

[sepptember]

there's a post about Pro-Palestine small businesses on instagram by @.counseling4allseasons and i wanted to share that post here.

mentioning businesses that aren't on this post are encouraged!! I'll reblog them to my account or add them to the post. If any of the links don’t work, please let me know.

note that all of the businesses in the insta post might not be included because I struggled to find the link, and some links may lead to an instagram account instead of a website.

Apparel:

Chérine Caftans - Moroccan traditional wear

Hirbawi - Kufiya factory in Palestine

HULM Kicks - Palestinian-owned shoe store

Watan Worldwide - Cultural clothing/merchandise store

Ayan Resources - Palestinian-owned clothing brand

herababyco - Baby clothes

Modestveencouture - Palestinian-owned boutique with wedding, prom, and engagement dresses

Zaytoonas Stitches - Palestinian-owned embroidery store

Dignitii - modest active wear

Nöl Collective - Palestinian-owned traditional wear

RUUQ - Hijab body suits

Dar Collective - Cultural merchandise

Shopdehma - Modest clothing brand

Nayabhijabs - Hijabs

House of amiri - Children's clothing

this business is currently not stocking their inventory because they are working on broadening their brand. support by following them is still highly encouraged.

Yemen Wear - cultural Yemen apparel

Pali Power - Palestinian athletic apparel

Le dressing de moon - Palestinian thobes

La Farrah Boutique - Palestinian thobes

Skincare/Makeup/Fragrances:

Farsalicare - Skincare brand

Yaskinnatural - Skincare brand

Dyfbeauty - Makeup brushes

Mora Cosmetics - Muslim-owned clean makeup

Kadi perfumes - high-quality perfumes and fragrances

Alwafa Shop - Natural skincare

Abumiskperfumes - oil-based fragrances

Dr. Sebaa Co. - Muslim-owned skincare brand

Savana Goat - Natural and artisanal goat soaps

Lerenu - Scalp & haircare

Inika Organics - Organic makeup

Tuesday in Love - Wudhu-friendly nail polish

Home Goods:

Inspire me home decor - Interior design/home decor

The Little Bulbul - Islamic puzzles/mugs/prints

Olive & Heart - Palestinian owned candle shop

Candlescape & Co. - Palestinian owned candle shop

Create & Crescent - event kits and crafts

Kilim Design Store - carpet and flooring.

With a Spin - Home decor

Lifestyle:

Feyre Creations - events merchandise

Khair Designs - Interior design

Soul Detox - Palestinian-owned black seed oil mix and health capsules

Sophologynic - Palestinian-owned wellness-kits and organic honey

Creations By Sal - Custom wedding products and gifts

Crescent Moon Bookstore - Palestinian-owned children’s bookstore

Little Muslim Craft Store - Crafts for Muslim children store

Modefa - Home decor

Sitti soap - Natural soaps and more.

Vidamin Wellness - Organic vitamins

Mysalah Mat - Interactive prayer mat

The Happy Bakers - Egyptian-owned cookies

Little Busy Hands - Customized themed sensory bins

Shahrin Azim Henna & Jagua Artist - Henna Services, New York/NJ

Accessories:

Oroboros Watches - Egyptian-owned watch store

Kiro - Egyptian Jewelry Brand

Elegant Bijoux Jewelry - Lebanese-owned jewelry

Canava Handmade - Luxury Arab handbags States NYC

Deeya Jewellery - Luxury gold plated bridal/formal jewelry

[teine-mallaichte]

happy dadwc! a prompt this friday, for whichever character/ship you think it suits: only taking care of everyone else but not themselves

happy writing (:

The prompt just felt perfect for Anders... So a bit of anders, Autumn Hawke, and Merrill. for @dadrunkwriting

Anders' clinic buzzed with frenetic energy as the epidemic swept through the underground district. The once shadowy corners were now illuminated by the dim glow of lanterns, casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the low hum of whispered prayers and desperate pleas. Makeshift beds filled every available space, their occupants groaning in pain or lying still, faces pale and eyes glassy.

Anders couldn’t remember the last time he had slept, nor could he recall his last proper meal. Time had lost meaning since the epidemic began. He moved through the clinic like a specter, his every thought and action devoted to alleviating the suffering around him. A small pile of parcels had begun to accumulate in one corner of the clinic, mainly brought by Varric and Hawke. Most contained food, which he had scarcely thought to open, some he had simply given away to those in more immediate need.

"Here, take this," he said softly, pressing a vial into the trembling hands of a young girl whose feverish eyes met his with a mix of hope and fear. "It will help with the fever."

She nodded weakly, managing a faint, grateful smile. Anders returned the gesture before moving on to the next patient, unable to linger. Comfort, even in its simplest forms, was a luxury the relentless epidemic afforded neither him nor his patients.

This was not the first illness to ravage Darktown, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. His once pristine robes were now stained with blood and sweat, his hair clinging in matted strands to his forehead. Exhaustion gnawed at him, a constant presence he pushed aside with sheer willpower. There was no room for his own needs when so many lives depended on him.

He reached a middle-aged man whose chest rose and fell erratically with each labored breath. Kneeling beside him, Anders placed a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "Breathe slowly," he instructed, his voice steady amidst the chaos. He uncorked a potion and helped the man drink it, watching intently as the man’s breathing gradually eased.

As he rose to attend to the next patient, his vision swam, and he steadied himself against the wall. Varric’s voice from this morning, or maybe yesterday, echoed in his mind - chiding him for not taking care of himself. But self-care was a distant memory, an indulgence he could ill afford.

The people of Darktown needed him too desperately.

A familiar voice cut through the din, calling his name. He turned to see Hawke approaching, her expression one of pure frustration, as she navigated through the maze of makeshift beds and hushed groans. In one hand, she carried a bulging satchel of supplies, her eyes, however, were fixed intently on Anders, silently assessing him.

"You look like shit," she said bluntly, placing the satchel with the rest of the unsorted supplies, "You can't keep this up. You'll be no good to anyone if you collapse."

He gave a weary smile, his eyes already scanning the room for the next patient in need. "I'll rest when this is over, Autumn. These people need me now."

Hawke’s sighed, "At least eat something. You’re no use to anyone if you’re dead on your feet."

Anders nodded absently, already moving towards a woman writhing in pain. The promise to eat was empty, a placation he had given too many times before. He knelt beside the woman, murmuring soothing words as he administered another potion, his hands steady despite the tremor of fatigue coursing through his body.

Hawke watched, her frustration evident, "Fine, I'm making you some food myself," she declared as she grabbed a few of the food parcles and moved to the small kitchen area at the back of the clinic - fairly certain that Anders had not even heard her.

The heavy wooden doors of the clinic groaned as Merrill slipped inside, her arms burdened with bundles of freshly gathered herbs. Her gaze briefly met Anders’ tired eyes before she surveyed the chaotic scene of the clinic with a solemn expression. Without a word, she began to sort the herbs, piling them up before locating Anders petle and morter and beginning to prepare them to make more potions.

Hawke returned from the back of the clinic carrying a bowl and some bread, sending a grateful nod to Merrill before turning her focus onto the overworked healer. "Eat," she commanded, thrusting the bread into his hand and putting the bowl down on the closest clear surface.

Anders took the bread from Hawke with a sigh, biting into it without tasting, more out of obedience than hunger. His eyes never stopped scanning the room, always alert for another sign of distress. Even as he chewed, he crouched beside a patient, a young boy who had just begun to show symptoms.

Autumn rolled her eyes, knowing that this was the best she would get from him. "Stubborn as ever," she muttered, watching him work. She cast her gaze over the clinic, the usually tidy and orgagnised room having devolved into pure chaos over the last few days.

Merrill worked steadily at the table, grinding herbs and mixing them into potions, her movements swift and precise. Every now and then, she glanced over at Anders, or would make eye contact with Autumn, her expression growing more concerned each time.

Anders continued to work through the haze of exhaustion, each patient a beacon that pulled him onward. The moments blurred together, a seemingly endless cycle of diagnosing, treating, and comforting. The herbal mixtures from Merrill and the potions he crafted were dwindling, and he silently prayed for more supplies to arrive soon. The pile of untouched parcels caught his eye again, a silent reproach that he quickly dismissed.

"Anders, come sit down," Merrill called softly, motioning to a chair. "Just for a few minutes."

He shook his head, but Hawke intervened, taking his hand firmly and guiding him towards the seat. "Five minutes," she insisted. "The world won't end in five minutes."

Anders hesitated, torn between his overwhelming sense of duty and the undeniable fatigue pressing down on him. The clinic felt like it was closing in around him, each pained groan from a patient echoing in his mind. Finally, he relented, allowing Hawke to lead him to the chair Merrill had cleared off.

"Just five minutes," he muttered, as if to convince himself more than anyone else. He sank into the chair, feeling the weight of exhaustion crash over him the moment he stopped moving. Merrill handed him a steaming cup of tea, and Autumn rushed across the clinic to grab the now luke-warm bowl of stew.

Anders accepted the tea from Merrill, his hands trembling as he brought the cup to his lips. The warm liquid soothed his parched throat, and he took a deep breath, allowing himself a brief moment of respite. Autumn returned with the bowl of stew, the fragrant aroma stirring a faint hunger within him. She placed it on his lap, and he began to eat slowly, each bite a small act of defiance against his own exhaustion.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Hawke said, her voice softer now. "You need to take care of yourself, too."

Merrill nodded in agreement, her eyes filled with concern.

Anders gave a weak smile, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "I know. It's just… it's hard to stop when there's so much suffering."

"And that's exactly why you need to rest," Hawke insisted. "So you can keep going. If you collapse, who will take care of everyone then?"

Anders nodded faintly, the logic in Hawke's words resonating somewhere deep within his exhausted mind. He finished the stew slowly, feeling the warmth spread through his body, revitalizing him more than any potion could. The clinic continued to bustle around him, patients still in need, but for this brief moment, he allowed himself to sit and breathe.

When the five minutes stretched into ten, Anders finally set down the empty bowl and tea cup. He stood up slowly, feeling the weight of responsibility settle back onto his shoulders. But this time, it didn’t feel as crushing. The brief respite had given him the clarity to continue, to prioritize not just the patients’ needs, but his own as well.

"I… thank you," Anders spoke softly, turning to Hawke and Merrill with genuine gratitude in his eyes. His voice, usually steady amidst the chaos, carried a hint of vulnerability. "I needed that."

Hawke nodded, her expression a mix of relief and concern softened by a faint smile. Merrill's eyes shimmered with understanding, her usual quiet demeanor speaking volumes.

Before Hawke could respond, Anders returned to his relentless duties, moving with a newfound steadiness that belied the exhaustion still etched into every line of his face. Each patient he attended to now received not only his skilled care but also the quiet resolve born from a brief moment of self-care.

Hawke exchanged a knowing glance with Merrill, silently acknowledging the small victory in getting Anders to pause, if only for a short while. "Next challenge: getting him to actually sleep," she murmured.

[transcending-chaos]

TRP AU -Found-

“Must have been some terrible form of ravaging Mugic,” the man sighed as he ground medicine in the stone bowl with more force than necessary. A tense prayer was whispered under his breath; he had enough to make to the proper brew-

He froze as a loud burst of coughing ripped free in the next room. Rakkos darted to the door, hissing a curse in old Rhexian.

The uneven breaths of the damaged boy were flighty things, skittering in the air of the otherwise serene room. Every cough set Rakkos’ nerves on edge, eyes locked on the small body wrapped up in the thick blankets as it fought off a terrible fever.

Pallid flesh marbled with the inky signs of severe destruction Mugic. He was smaller than he should have been, the malignant curse devouring him in every way possible. His dark hair was matted from fever sweat, and there was a small trail of dried blood underneath his nose and a cut on his lip from where the kid had presumably cut his face on one of the beach's shards.

He was a mess.

A mess Rakkos was desperate to keep alive.

After the coughing died down, the verdant Creature released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. A privilege he may not have for much longer, the man quickly resumed his task.

—

The fever broke after the fourth day, the child's breathing finally evening out in slow, steady inhales and exhales.

Rakkos rubbed his tired eyes, wincing when one of his claws poked at his brow. Thank the gods, he'd done it. He'd managed to save this one. He'd gotten the fever under control enough for the boy to break through it. He slumped down next to the recessed bed, giving the stranger a grateful look when-

Hang on.

Where the curse had once stained his flesh in a purple wash, it had taken on a distinctly green hue.

The child was Gherix, something rather unexpected after his pallor -something far more often seen in either the Iohrix’s stoney shades or the lighter hues of the Alkrix. The man stared, curious about the development, but it not seem to be a threat or signal of other sickness. Nevertheless it was a good sign that the spell was breaking, and there may be hope for his strength to return. Surely the worst of it had passed.

Whatever the case the man was exhausted. Four days and three nights of little sleep had left him ragged around the edges, and the floor next to his guest was not comfortable. But now he could afford to bathe and be in a proper bed tonight. Thank goodness for small luxuries.

—

It was two more days before the child opened his eyes for the first time. They were a dulled, burning amber, and still half blind from sickness; the kid was barely able to track him across the room, but even still- the man was grateful for any progress.

"Hello," he'd greeted. "How are you feeling?"

The boy rasped out a strange word. No, a name. A question.

Rakkos frowned, unsure what the other wanted. The child croaked something else then, and the man caught an accent. Not from Ix'Rune, nor her sister Akle'ah, and spoke Trade-Speak. Strange.

The rest of the stranger’s time awake was showing him where the bath was, and making sure he ate something. He shuffled stiffly, still clearly sick, and though this gave the elder time to change his guest’s bedding, he was thankful when he was settled down again.

Only then did the Creature walk back to the cluttered apothecary towards the back of his kitchen. He needed to take care of the depleted supplies at the market later, but the pride at a difficult task being completed bubbled up into his chest.

They needed to work on communicating, but this day had made him hopeful.

[elizabethnna]

EMIREMBE Hampers • Yakar Prayer mat • Medjool dates & Delfi Treasures golden almond in luxurious gold jar • Teabag in a velvet pouch • Walnut cake 18 • Nastar Burger vacuum packed 30 • Palm cheese cookies • Cashew choco ball Further details : WA 1 : 08112355800 WA 2 : 081380283975 ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ ⁣ #idulfitri #lebaran2023 #hampersidulfitri #hampers #hamper #hamperslebaran #ramadhan #eid #eidmubarak #hamperlebaran #kue #kuekering #kuelebaran #kurma #medjool #mtqlalebaran #hamperslebaran2023 #nastar #nastarburger #cake #bolu #lapislegit #lapislegitpremium #medjoolcake #hamperspremium #corporatehampers #mtqlahampers https://www.instagram.com/p/CqaRDyjrI5m/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thecouponsdeals]

Discover Spiritual Elegance with AdilQadri Coupon Code on TheCouponsDeals

AdilQadri Coupon Code on TheCouponsDeals provides an excellent opportunity to save on luxurious, high-quality Islamic products from the renowned brand AdilQadri. Specializing in premium attars (perfumes), prayer essentials, and other spiritual items, AdilQadri combines tradition with elegance. By using AdilQadri coupon code available on TheCouponsDeals, customers can enjoy exclusive discounts on a variety of products, from fragrant attars to prayer mats and tasbeehs.

[7thcenturytravellog]

Saudi Markets

Today I made my way down to the market to begin the start of my preparation for Ramadan. Ramadan is the 9th month on the Islamic calendar when Muslims believe that the Quran was revealed to the Prophet Mohammed PBUH. It's been around 20 years since his passing and Islam has grown population wise. I find it excting to celebrate Ramadan with a big community. During this time, Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset every day for the duration of the month, give sadaqah (voluntary charity), make time to pray more outside of the daily 5 prayers, and much more. During this time, women typically prepare the meal that breaks the fast called Iftar. In the market, I could overhear women whispering about the fate of the empire. The Arab armies are known for conquering many territories like Persia and expanding rapidly but recent changes in armor and the start of kidnapping children to become soldiers have made many of us worry that we might have finally met our match due to the recent counter attack by the Byzantine empire but luckily, we were able to fight them off. The market offered so many spices. The aroma was nothing I ever smelled before. From cardamom to turmeric, they had it all. The Arabs were known for exporting goods such as spices and luxury goods like silk. I grabbed some spices to use for the Iftar (dinner) I was making for my family later. My children were in the mood for some lamb and the town butcher dropped it off earlier in the morning for me. I have to use it before it goes to waste. I also decided to make some parched wheat as well. As I grabbed some wheat, from across the market I saw the most beautiful carpet. Most of the carpets in the market are used for people to pray on. It has beautiful swirling designs. I haven’t seen anything like it around here in Saudi. I asked the shopkeeper where it is from and they told me that it's authentic from Persia. Our recent conquering of Persia led to the integration of culture. Usually we’ll see Islamic architecture on our prayer mats to replicate the Islamic architecture of the time. Mosques typically are built with arches, domes, and minarets. I immediately purchased it and brought it home to add to our collection of prayer mats. My family loved it.

Fatima

[islamicshop313]

Blanket prayer Mats Soft Plush Thicken Rug

Soft Velvet Feel fabric, these prayer mats boast a luxurious texture that adds an element of elegance to your prayer space. The classic pattern and meticulous detailing make these mats a timeless and refined choice.

Indulge in ultimate comfort during your daily prayers with the superior softness and plush thickness of our prayer mats. The lightweight design ensures easy portability and convenience, allowing you to create a sacred space wherever you go. Elevate your prayer rituals with our carefully crafted Kaaba Pattern Prayer Mats, combining tradition with modern comfort for an unparalleled prayer experience.

For more information visit our website IslamicShop313 - Online Islamic Shopping Store London

[antichristpilled]

The Maghrebi Among the Slums

As the smell of that harsh Rwandan coffee covers the land of my (and your) ancestors nation. Speaking in that odd tongue, at times Arabic, others Italian, I watched my mother watch Al Jazeera, and my father tsked as they spoke of the bombardment of Benghazi.

Shall I run and hide? When they bring out the couscous, and reveal myself when the sfenj comes back? The ultimate dream achieved as I walk to the school full of brown bodies, and a disgrace caused when I come back with questions of what it means to be in God's skin.

Will our moral arc point towards righteousness, as our prayer rugs point towards Mecca? The skin of thousands of martyrs flayed across our pocket Baghdads, adorned with palm trees of hope! Hours spent as a child running my fingers across the braids of that mat as the Friday Khutbah runs on, and he speaks of a Jabal Akhdar at the end of every sidewalk.

When the Messenger of Light comes, I swear none will even realize. Rather, he will be invited onto our mats, served our tea and told stories of before this prime minister and that khalifah. Carried by the elbow, through the slums where merchants will sell anything, for any price. Should I point out to him where Madame Amelie lives, and her husband who always dreamed of European life? (He fasts when he can, and hits the wall of his kids when he remembers)

I will lead you and every other story I was taught by heart, to the alleyway where I remembered Saif ben Salah being shot and left for a week until his mother found him, threw him over her breast, and drank the blood from his wound. I will lead you towards there, and the Buraq will be waiting. Surrounded by the memories of Saif ben Salah and Madame Amelie who went to Iftar with a bruised cheek and Halima who was raped in a pool of the blood of her kin and Abdirahman who had nothing bad happen to him but stopped being a kid at the creek acting out the deaths of the Italians far too early

Where will the Buraq take you, you ask? Indeed, it will fly you over all of Tripoli, take you to Florence (though you must look away when we come across David), cry above Casablanca, and we will ask you of what you think of the far blown Maghrebi boy dreams of white thighed, blonde haired, and blue eyed girls in Paris, Cannes, Naples, Lisbon, and Amsterdam - those dreams that exploded onto the trash behind a poor Monsieur's grocery.

The mother of the boy who died in the Gulf War, (not war, rather sickness. She never found out what it was. No syntax to hold the sick; there were flies above him, and he was vomiting while the other men fought she did not get to see him in the coffin.) she will offer you some Brazilian coffee, but you have a place to be within Venice. Please, remember to pray for her.

An entire world of luxury and the finest Oriental silk will be placed in front of you, with the prostitutes of Alexandria beckoning towards you with their hands colored with grief from the last client who cried in her shoulder. This universe will be hands-up at your mercy, on the back of your Buraq we have given to you, and before you can choose where to land,

we will drop you into the slum as a child covered in cowshit in the hands of a midwife who will never be known.

[hidjabayausa]

Discover the rich tapestry of the Islamic prayer mat, or 'sajjadah.' 🕌 Explore its deep significance, historical roots, and exquisite craftsmanship in our latest article. Uncover the artistry woven into this symbol of faith. 🙏✨

Read more at https://tinyurl.com/yc36p5t9

[reventon2]

Ramadan Gift Packages: Thoughtful Gift Items for Every Occasion

Ramadan, the holiest month in the Islamic calendar, is a time of reflection, prayer, and generosity. It's a time when Muslims around the world come together to fast, pray, and engage in acts of charity. As the month of Ramadan approaches, many of us are thinking about how to celebrate and share the spirit of this special time with our loved ones. One wonderful way to do so is by giving thoughtful gifts that reflect the essence of Ramadan.

The Spirit of Giving in Ramadan

Ramadan is not only a time of fasting and prayer but also a time of giving and sharing. It's a month when Muslims are encouraged to show kindness and generosity to others, especially those in need. Giving gifts during Ramadan is a beautiful tradition that allows us to express our love, appreciation, and gratitude to our family, friends, and neighbors.

Introducing Ramadan Gift Packages

At Reventon, we understand the importance of thoughtful gifting during Ramadan. That's why we've curated a collection of Ramadan gift packages that are perfect for every occasion. Whether you're looking for a heartfelt gift for Eid al-Fitr, a special token of appreciation for your host during Iftar, or a thoughtful gesture to show gratitude to your loved ones, our Ramadan gift packages have got you covered.

Thoughtful Gift Items for Every Occasion

Our Ramadan gift packages feature a variety of thoughtful gift items that are sure to delight your recipients. From traditional dates and Arabic sweets to luxurious prayer mats and elegant Islamic art pieces, our collection offers something for everyone. Here are just a few of the thoughtful gift items you'll find in our Ramadan gift packages:

Exquisite Dates and Sweets: Dates are a staple food during Ramadan, symbolizing the breaking of the fast at sunset. Our gift packages include premium-quality dates and delicious Arabic sweets, perfect for sharing with family and friends during Iftar gatherings.

Luxurious Prayer Mats: Prayer is an integral part of Ramadan, and a beautiful prayer mat can make the perfect gift for your loved ones. Our gift packages feature luxurious prayer mats adorned with intricate designs and made from high-quality materials, ensuring a comfortable and meaningful prayer experience.

Elegant Islamic Art Pieces: Add a touch of beauty and spirituality to your loved ones' homes with our selection of elegant Islamic art pieces. From intricately carved wooden Quran stands to stunning calligraphy wall art, these art pieces make meaningful and thoughtful gifts that will be cherished for years to come.

Personalized Gift Sets: Make your gift even more special with our personalized gift sets, featuring a curated selection of items tailored to your recipient's preferences. Whether they prefer traditional treats or modern home decor, our personalized gift sets are sure to make a lasting impression.

Celebrate Ramadan with Thoughtful Gifts

This Ramadan, let's celebrate the spirit of giving and sharing with thoughtful gifts that reflect the essence of this special month. Whether you're celebrating Eid al-Fitr, attending Iftar gatherings, or simply expressing gratitude to your loved ones, our Ramadan gift packages are the perfect way to spread joy, love, and blessings during this auspicious time. Shop our collection today and make this Ramadan a memorable one for you and your loved ones.

[prayermat]

EXPLORE THE BEST PRAYER MATS IN THE UAE

Are you looking to transform your prayer experience to a new level of comfort and luxury? Look no further than the most luxurious and comfortable Prayer Mats by Zynah Rugs. Prayer Mats, also known as Prayer Rugs or Sajjadah, serve as a peaceful place for Muslims to perform their daily prayers.

IMPORTANCE OF A PRAYER MAT

Prayer is an essential part of Islamic practices, and having the right prayer mat can greatly build one's spiritual experience. In Islam prayer is essential because it is a direct line of communication between the believer and Allah. Although one can pray anywhere, doing so on a prayer mat adds an air of respect and devotion to the ritual. It offers a clean, dedicated area free from distractions for prayer. The whole experience of praying can be modified by the quality of the prayer mat. A well-made mat made with high-quality materials can promote relaxation and peace of mind, which can lead to a stronger spiritual connection. 

SELECTING THE RIGHT PRAYER MAT

Selecting the right prayer mat is essential for a comfortable and peaceful prayer experience. It not only reflects personal preference but also honors faith and cultural traditions. There are some factors to consider while choosing the right prayer mat are :- 

MATERIAL QUALITY - 

If you are purchasing a Prayer mat then you must opt for prayer mats crafted from high-quality materials like pure Silk, Wool, and Viscose. These materials ensure longevity, comfort, softness, and resistance to wear and tear.  

DESIGN -

Choose a design that denotes your tradition and prioritize your comfort. Every prayer mat design at Zynah Rugs is handcrafted with care to reflect both the luxury and tradition of UAE, Zynah believes in creating a luxurious and peaceful aura while you kneel on the prayer mat. 

TRADITIONAL PRAYER MATS IN UAE

In UAE tradition holds a special place in the hearts of believers. Traditional prayer mats are very valuable to believers in the United Arab Emirates. Zynah Rugs, a brand dedicated to maintaining this tradition, creates stunning handmade mats that pay respect to the UAE's tradition and spirituality. Prayer mats at Zynah Rugs are designed with stunning patterns, where each thread has its own story woven together to create a luxurious handmade Islamic Prayer Mat.

CONCLUSION

At Zynah Rugs, each mat has its own unique story. We ensure that our mats provide a comforting, peaceful aura while praying. We serve the best luxurious prayer mats in UAE with a wide range of finest materials like pure Silk, Viscose, and Wool. Zynah Rugs understands the importance of tradition and comfort, that’s why mats at Zynah are handmade and they are not only traditionally designed but also crafted with the highest quality materials. By choosing a Zynah Rug, you're not just investing in a prayer mat, you're investing in a piece of tradition, luxury, and spirituality. Experience the difference with Zynah Rugs – where every prayer is woven with love and care.

[zynahrugs]

EXPLORE THE BEST PRAYER MATS IN THE UAE

Are you looking to transform your prayer experience to a new level of comfort and luxury? Look no further than the most luxurious and comfortable Prayer Mats by Zynah Rugs. Prayer Mats, also known as Prayer Rugs or Sajjadah, serve as a peaceful place for Muslims to perform their daily prayers.

IMPORTANCE OF A PRAYER MAT

Prayer is an essential part of Islamic practices, and having the right prayer mat can greatly build one's spiritual experience. In Islam prayer is essential because it is a direct line of communication between the believer and Allah. Although one can pray anywhere, doing so on a prayer mat adds an air of respect and devotion to the ritual. It offers a clean, dedicated area free from distractions for prayer. The whole experience of praying can be modified by the quality of the prayer mat. A well-made mat made with high-quality materials can promote relaxation and peace of mind, which can lead to a stronger spiritual connection. 

SELECTING THE RIGHT PRAYER MAT

Selecting the right prayer mat is essential for a comfortable and peaceful prayer experience. It not only reflects personal preference but also honors faith and cultural traditions. There are some factors to consider while choosing the right prayer mat are :- 

MATERIAL QUALITY - 

If you are purchasing a Prayer mat then you must opt for prayer mats crafted from high-quality materials like pure Silk, Wool, and Viscose. These materials ensure longevity, comfort, softness, and resistance to wear and tear.  

DESIGN -

Choose a design that denotes your tradition and prioritize your comfort. Every prayer mat design at Zynah Rugs is handcrafted with care to reflect both the luxury and tradition of UAE, Zynah believes in creating a luxurious and peaceful aura while you kneel on the prayer mat. 

TRADITIONAL PRAYER MATS IN UAE

In UAE tradition holds a special place in the hearts of believers. Traditional prayer mats are very valuable to believers in the United Arab Emirates. Zynah Rugs, a brand dedicated to maintaining this tradition, creates stunning handmade mats that pay respect to the UAE's tradition and spirituality. Prayer mats at Zynah Rugs are designed with stunning patterns, where each thread has its own story woven together to create a luxurious handmade Islamic Prayer Mat.

CONCLUSION

At Zynah Rugs, each mat has its own unique story. We ensure that our mats provide a comforting, peaceful aura while praying. We serve the best luxurious prayer mats in UAE with a wide range of finest materials like pure Silk, Viscose, and Wool. Zynah Rugs understands the importance of tradition and comfort, that’s why mats at Zynah are handmade and they are not only traditionally designed but also crafted with the highest quality materials. By choosing a Zynah Rug, you're not just investing in a prayer mat, you're investing in a piece of tradition, luxury, and spirituality. Experience the difference with Zynah Rugs – where every prayer is woven with love and care.

[catgirltheseus]

Faith kept men sane. Faith kept men in the trenches. Faith kept men reloading their guns. Faith kept men up at night and was why they slept for the next day. Faith was everything to a soldier.

Faith did not keep men alive. Not many.

They fought and died for their faith. It was what killed them, in the end. With their deaths, the lines held. Because they were there. Their faith brought them to the front lines so they could form a wall of bodies lit with gunpowder.

Faith in God. Faith in each other. Faith in themselves. Faith in the future. It was all they had and all they needed to hold the lines.

Their enemies didn’t need faith. They had power, abilities unnatural and unholy that could snuff lives like water over incense. Drown all of them in darkness. Unless they had the faith to stand. To fight. Rows upon rows of them, dug into trenches, ears ringing day and night with gunfire. It bought them land and time. At a cost.

Costs were calculated that night, as they were every other night. How many men needed to hold this front? Were there enough rounds for their platoon and could a shipment make it in time? And if not, how long would they last before they were running into no man’s land with nothing but a bayonet and grit? Was any of this worth it?

Yes. Any true soldier- true devotee knew that. Infidels would be slaughtered to the last. It was only right to do under God’s eye. If thousands of faithful had to die to see it through, then their sacrifice would be embraced lovingly.

Still, it was with a heavy mind that one such faithful ready to die finished calculating his own costs. They were going to die in three weeks. Sergeant Minister Roland of Danes put his pen down and leaned back in his chair.

The air was smokey, the burners releasing their last aromatic wisps as the embers died. Sparse wood criss-crossed the dirt roof above. Above that, barbed wires and hedgehogs kept their position safe from advancing bodies. Occasional gunfire would also see that the enemy kept to their side of the battlefield.

It was almost intimate, Roland felt. Their back-and-forth. He’d begun to recognize the other commander’s strategies, the routines they had, even some faces past scores of barbed wire and anti-tank blockades. Roland knew the enemy more than he knew most of his comrades. More than he knew most other people. That was how he knew that he was going to die. They were infidels, heretics, witches… but they weren’t stupid. New trenches were being dug, closer and closer. They had enough bodies to overwhelm Roland’s men soon and their equipment was better. Roland had two mounted machine guns to keep the line from being rushed and his requests for more mortar shells fell on deaf ears. 

Meanwhile, any of Roland’s soldiers would be torn apart if they stepped too far over the trench. He’d had to make two decisive strikes in the last week, aimed at destroying equipment over lives. Each had ended with a result that other commanders would have called questioningly beneficial. To Roland, the precious days they bought were a blessing from God..

The face of his watch flipped open as he pressed the latch on its top. His cracked reflection stared back at him from the broken watch face. It amused him, slightly, to check a watch that was broken. But it was important. Maintain habits. Don’t forget. If he stopped looking at his watch, what other habits would he break? Checking supplies? Inspecting soldiers? Praying?

He knew the time, though. Not by the watch face, but his body.

Time to sleep.

Sleep was a luxury, one he could just about afford as sergeant minister. His subordinates would be lucky if they managed five hours. And probably slacking off. Of course, rest came second to nightly prayer. Roland wandered over to a mat placed on the muddy floor and slid to his knees. Weary eyes picked out words from the hymns and scripture placed in front of him. Not that he needed to be reminded of any of it.

Words slipped from his lips like water from a spout and dissolved into the smoke. Divinity filled him, spirit forming whole once more after a day of toil. Faith. Why he fought. Visions of his countrymen, of his God flittered before his eyes. For them. For all of them. Roland was complete. He was-

Knock.

It was a weird thing, to be broken from devout prayer. Roland’s mind was in two places, having not fully come down from the clouds. And so it was only half comprehending that he stood and turned to face the encroacher.

“What?”

He was stern. It was taboo to interrupt someone during prayers, especially soldiers. They needed their faith more than anyone. It was one of few comforts they could afford. The private facing him was nervous and red-faced. He’d run here. 

“Sir- um, sergeant minister sir! Reports are coming in: the lines just north of Losbury are facing- the enemy has erected a barricade. A large one.”

Roland frowned. Barricades? Something like that was barely cause for alarm. The Losbury front was just another trench. They had even less armored support than Roland’s lot so barricades wouldn’t pose much of a problem. It would be a challenge, though, to install proper fortifications under active fire, though. So why would they…

“Strange. But this can wait. I’m due for a rest.”

The soldier shifted and hesitantly opened his mouth,

“You… I meant, sir, that these weren’t put up by hand. They have… support.”

Roland stopped cold. Of course. He was so stupid. If he was in a better state of mind he would have realized immediately.

Anti-tank barriers weren’t news-worthy, even if they were out of place. And any barrier designed to block bullets would be torn through in under a day. It was obvious. These weren’t hedgehogs or dragon’s teeth. They were all-purpose barriers, huge moving walls made of metal. A fortress on tracks designed to flatten an entrenched position in less than a day. Impossible to make by hand or machine. Which meant there was-

A witch. To the north.

“Here? You’re sure? There… there’s no strategic… But if there’s a full push… the higher-ups would know more, I’m sure.”

Roland began mumbling, before catching himself and focusing on the private who looked almost as shocked as Roland.

“Gather everyone. If we can evacuate from the immediate trenches, we can avoid being completely wiped out. We’d need every remaining shell of artillery to keep them from swarming us. Go! Now!”

The private was out the door in a flash, followed by Roland. In his head, their survival time jumped from weeks to hours. Maybe even minutes if the intel about the push was late enough.

A witch.

Roland had hoped he would never be on the battlefield with one ever again. Tide-turners, they were. Forces that could break lines and raze infantry like forests. It felt unfair, really. His men had slaved away on the field for months, taking and losing ground inch by inch, sweating, crying and bleeding with every bullet fired.

And now they were all going to die. Because of a single witch.

Roland had no faith in the moments he ran up the trenches, shouting orders at anyone he passed. He didn’t need it. Instead, it was hope that he clung to. Hope that a paladin arrived in time. That the augurs got lucky. That he got lucky.

Witches were deployed sparingly because they were not soldiers. They were weapons. And they had a weakness.

If the heretics had their witches, the faithful had their paladins. Both could flip a conflict on its head, turning a losing battle into a glorious win. Where they differed was how.

Paladins could not raise behemoths of iron, not summon ten thousand men’s worth of artillery fire on a whim. But they could survive it. They were tanks, walking titans of armor and durability. When a witch was deployed to level the front lines, so too would a paladin. One to walk through the hellfire and weather the brimstones just to cut down the witch by hand.

They were miracles to see on the battlefield. And Roland hoped he would be one to witness an act of the Lord tonight. Because otherwise, he’d die.

His rifle was heavy on his shoulder. It was a simple thing, all but the essential parts made of wood. What parts were steel felt rough and uncomfortable to the touch, enough to make Roland shiver.

Death approaches.

He heard it before he saw it. The low rumble of an engine, earth being crushed under thousands of tons. Iron ringing as bullets sparked off the outer shell uselessly. It sounded close. Roland pulled himself up a wooden beam braced against the trench walls and took a peek.

It was infuriating to even look at. A mockery of the cathedrals and churches Roland grew up in. Gothic spires of black iron rose out of the fortress, billowing smoke out of the crude imitations of bell towers. Arches that disappeared into themselves loosed bullets and shells from wonky crenels and mortars arced up from holes in the slanted roofs. 

Roland’s limbs grew heavier at the sight, but he couldn’t dwell. Running on, he approached a soldier shouting orders at the scurrying privates.

“Hey, hey! What are you doing, where’s your spelled ammo?”

“It’s uh… I- I wouldn’t-”

Roland glanced down.

Corporal.

“God lend me patience, where is your sergeant?”

“Injured, sir,” the corporal snapped to attention, well drilled enough despite the circumstances, “She was hit by unlucky shrapnel, ripped up her throat. Can barely stay awake. I doubt she’s going to make it through the night.”

Their voice was hard, solemn.

“Shit. Get me to your stores, I’m permitting use of any and all spelled ammo.”

A corporal wouldn’t know where spelled ammo was stored. It was a well-kept secret and even sergeants wouldn’t be told where their cache was hidden if they had a superior on site. Measures to prevent sabotage or theft. Spelled ammo was a platoon’s greatest resource. A last lifeline against witches until a paladin arrived.

Moving past lines of shelves in the dug-out room they stored supplies in, Roland found a sheet of wood hidden under a shelf covering what he sought: the coveted ammo they so desperately hid from the enemy.

They were hidden, made to burn unless the right chant was spoken when it was opened. Squads were supposed to protect these with their lives, destroying them in the event that was impossible.

Roland began loading his rifle immediately, before even handing off the box to the corporal who had guided him to the store room.

“Get everyone out,” he spoke, eyes not wavering from the bullets he slid into his clips, “retreat south, bring the ammo with you and start collapsing walls behind you. If a single heretic gets close, fill them with holes. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” they gulped. Hesitantly, they broached, “what will you be doing, sir?”

Grimly, Roland slung the rifle over his back and handed off the box to the soldier, “buying your sergeant and the rest of the injured a few more minutes of life.”

Their eyes lit up, terror and hope and faith and wonder.

“God be with you, sergeant minister.”

“You need Him more than I do, corporal. His blessings.”

They split as they emerged under the black sky. One ran south with their platoon, the other north to muster what little souls were brave enough to die for their comrades.

They wound through the narrow corridor of the trenches, close enough now that the witch’s barricade was a permanent specter in the sky. Soon enough, the trenches grew empty of people, and their run became a lot quicker. Every moment, the ground shook with the weight of the mobile fortress. But they made it to the alcove where injured bodies were lying on filthy cloths in the dirt. He spotted the sergeant, crimson rag wrapped around her neck. Roland knelt at her side, finding the words to say as if he were giving a sermon.

“Sergeant, I’m here. Your soldiers have all evacuated. What haven’t are fighting with me. We’re going to hold them off for as long as possible until a paladin arrives. Have faith, sister.”

He wasn’t even sure she was awake until a hand reached up to grip his forearm. Roland was about to give more reassurance, more faith, more hope, but she didn’t need it. Instead she pulled, rising to her feet.

“Sergeant, you are in no position to-”

She cut him off, not with a word but with a shake of her head. Bending down, the commander reached for her rifle which had been left beside her even in injury. Ejecting the existing rounds, a clip was pulled from her coat and socketed. Spelled bullets.

“That’s a court-martialable offense, keeping those on your person.”

Her head spun, locking eyes with him challengingly.

“Not that I’d say anything given the situation. Let’s go. Don’t tear that wound open.”

The two headed a group of twenty soldiers, emerging from the trenches to bear witness to sorcery unleashed. Spires loomed overhead, the iron castle now close enough its mortars were ineffective. They still fired, turning unoccupied ground into craters.

Twenty or so people stood, unseen as of yet and lined up like a true firing squad. “Ready!”

The click of two-dozen gun’s safety releases was dwarfed by the roaring barricade.

“Aim!”

Guns were sighted, various points of the structure deemed integral were focused on by every barrel of every gun.

“Fire!”

Roland went numb. The sound, the kickback, magnified by everyone around him would have been enough to shock him for a moment. But twenty-some spelled shots, all reacting at once was enough to shake his internals. Blinding light raced through the night, shearing metal. Breaking walls. Punching holes. Killing infidels.

Spelled bullets were just that. Spelled. Divine enchantments were placed on every bullet, set to react with the igniting gunpowder. Upon triggering, the bullet would vaporize anything it touched, especially potent against the magical constructs made by witches. It was like fireworks, the spectacle of two dozen holes being poked into the behemoth of iron that bore down on them. Not one they could admire for long.

“Scatter!”

Everyone ran, some across the no man’s land, others dove back into or even hopped the trenches. They all put distance between one another and stayed low to the ground. All the while, each one had pulled the bolt of their rifles and cycled a new round. They fired. Without instruction, the soldiers all put new holes in the barricade from their new vantages.

By now, the barricade had spotted them, even as they scattered. And so they started dying. Perhaps not the first to go, but the first that Roland saw was next to him. A private with a patchy beard and no hair was struck in the leg with a shell, which practically tore his lower half off. The shrapnel from the blast shredded the rest of him. Roland ignored the pain as he ripped a shard of iron from his forearm and kept running.

Four fell during the next volley of spelled shots, succumbing to gunfire as they briefly stopped to aim. Roland leapt over the long-dead bodies of no man’s land, not even bothering to aim as he pulled the bolt on his rifle and fired. Shots lanced the barricade’s hull, poking holes where Roland could see the heretics running around inside and dying to bullets they couldn’t see or predict.

The sight, gruesome as it might be, filled Roland with pride. Pride and faith. He fired again. And again. And again.

Click.

Empty. An empty clip fell to the ground and a new one filled its place quick as a flash. Roland looked up to shoot again and slid to a stop.

Seconds. That was how long he had left. The time could have been minutes had he kept run-and-gunning. If the paladin arrived soon, it could have been weeks. Forever, even.

It was seconds now.

They both stood there, deep gray robes frayed at the ends. Faultless masks staring with indifference.

Witches were always stylized after an idol from their worship. Men and women, seen as golden calves. False idols. Roland was familiar with many of them, and the armor the two witches wore did not escape his knowledge.

Leon the Vigil. The flower devil. Swirling carvings of devils and angels and flowers decorated every inch of iron plating they wore over their robes, as well as the full-plate mask with tips like pointed rabbit ears. An ancient monster who killed and tortured at his fancy. The world sang at his death.

Rakusha the Empath. Sick servant of Aisling. Their carvings depicted death and plague and trees, a spider web of grisly patterns that ran up the ram horns that sprouted from the sides of their mask. White death of old. Her victims lived for centuries in agony, cursed to undeath.

“Are we sure it’s this one? He’s not even a lieutenant. I was expecting a captain at least. But a sergeant?”

“Not so. This one is a sergeant minister. Look at his clothes. Priestly.”

“My point remains. Awfully reckless for one of such a low standing, wouldn’t you think?”

“Faith makes men stupid, sister.”

“That it does.”

They nodded sagely to one another, mere feet from Roland and discussing him as if he were an insect. A petty annoyance. And, Roland realized, he probably was just that.

A hand slipping into his coat while the other dropped his rifle, Roland pretended to be dumbstruck. It wasn’t hard, since very little of it was actual acting.

A witch could deflect an artillery shell with but a gesture. Even spelled ammunition wouldn’t affect one that knew it was coming. Not that they bothered to make spelled bullets for lower calibers of gun. But from point blank, Roland reckoned no one could block that. Not even a witch. He just needed a chance to get close.

“Y- you… heretic scum! Cowards! Too afraid to fight me on equal grounds.”

“Oh, sister, sister! I think he’s trying something! Look at how poor his acting is! Quite amusing, no?”

“Yes, the zealots don’t have much of a penchant for theater, brutes that they are.”

“I think it would be fun to indulge his provocations, don’t you? See how he regrets laying hands upon one of us?”

“Silly ideas, sister. Let us kill him and leave before an angel shows up. We have acquired what we sought.”

Roland grit his teeth and tensed his legs, ready to run in and end it all– Suicide by witch– but stopped. His eyes locked with another.

A soldier, sergeant rank, with a bloodied cloth around their neck and a stick grenade in their grip. Standing behind the two witches. And in the moment they saw each other, a plan was formulated in silence.

He ran. There was no tension, no preparation, just running. Roland dashed towards the witches, screaming if only to hide the sound of the grenade’s pull cord.

“Infidels!”

The witch– the rabbit-eared one– tilted their mask and raised a hand. Cold enveloped him. Life escaped like water through his fingers. The hourglass of his life, only a second left, shattered and the sand flew to the wind. He was gone, dying. He didn’t even know how, just that everything grew blurry and distant.

One sound rang true though. A soft donk as something bounced off an iron mask.

“Ah-?”

It all came into focus again, just enough for Roland to purposefully shut it all out again. The world went colorless, his ears screamed so loud they shut themselves off, painfully. Shock hit his body like a hundred fists. Sightless and soundless, Roland pictured his surroundings in his mind.

Four feet. Slightly right. Move. Put your feet here. Raise your pistol up and-

A second blast, though this one he was used to. Gunshot. Pressed right below the witch’s chin and poised to shear cleanly through her skull.

Pain. Pain greater than anything Roland had ever conceptualized. Pain enough to rip all accomplishment, hope, and faith from his body. Reason and sense were gone. He didn’t know where he was. What was he doing? Experiencing pain. Nothing else mattered. Everything shut down.

A billion and one years passed, locked in the agony that rivaled death. Hot and cold and broken and bleeding. They meant nothing. This was true agony. Truest of agonies.

It was gone, just as quickly as it had started. Not all the pain. Some remained. His eardrums burst, eyes blinking spots, head hammering, bleeding stump of a right arm oozing blood. That last one was new. His cheek burned, too. His eyes focused onto a strange and yet familiar sight.

A sergeant, throat binding slipped down far enough to see the ruined mess of her barely-healing throat. She slapped him again. Roland cursed and raised his arms to block. The sergeant didn’t strike him again, only standing and pulling him up with her. Roland poised to run, but stopped. There was nowhere to go.

In a circle around them, over a hundred people dressed in similar gray clothing and iron armor, though minus the mask, waited with weapons trained. On Roland, the female sergeant, as well as five other faithful. And the witches-

Roland’s breath caught, then sped up.

There they were. Both alive. Both standing. One’s mask had a large bloodied hole around the mouth and jaw, where Roland’s pistol had shot through the bottom of her mouth. But he had missed her head.

“Sister, we are retreating. You must get healed immediately. We’re bringing these ones as prisoners. Do not speak, you will exacerbate your wounds.”

The goat-horned mask turned to him and he knew that– even despite the lack of eye holes– she was staring daggers at him. Her hand raised and cold iron sprouted from the ground like ribs, circling and encasing all seven captives.

The gloom of the war-torn night’s battlefield succumbed to complete darkness. Roland slumped, feeling the exhaustion and blood loss hit him all at once.

My arm.

Another wave of adrenaline shot through him at the memory. With his remaining arm he pulled out a trench lighter, one he’d fashioned from an empty bullet casing, string, and various other parts he could get his hands on. Its dim flame brought light to the iron cell. Roland sat on the mud ground, feeling it hum softly under his touch. They were moving.

Using strips of cloth and his one remaining hand, Roland pulled a tourniquet around his arm. It was cut just below the elbow, shattered bone still sticking out from the stump. He could still feel the pain of when he’d shot the witch. The agony more than anything he’d felt in his life, magically inflicted as some sort of defense. Still a quiet hum behind his eyes and a specter where his arm should be.

The sergeant minister’s eyes moved up to his fellow officer, though lacking as she might be in the clerical title. She adjusted the neck cloth that glistened in the flickering light, freshly damp with her blood.

“What happened,” he started, “after I shot that witch?”

The sergeant opened her mouth to reply- and caught herself. She still couldn’t speak. Likely, she would never say another word for as long as she lived.

Someone else spoke for her, a master corporal. His insignia was damaged, half his clothes had been torn into by shrapnel. A lot of his body had gone with them. But he still managed to speak.

“You started screaming something fierce. Collapsed right there. I didn’t see it as well as the sergeant did but… your arm. It turned to ash. Your gun went with it. If she hadn’t cut it off… rest o’ you might have gone with it.”

Eyes wide, Roland’s gaze darted to the sergeant, who nodded confirmation.

“God almighty… and we’re the only ones left?”

Each one looked at each other knowingly. They’d all seen their comrades gunned down and torn apart. Roland looked down and contemplated. They were all going to die. Neither side of the war treated prisoners very well. The faithful simply executed anyone they got their hands on. Usually publicly. And the heretics? Human sacrifice. To fuel their war machines. Savages that killed as a way of life.

And so Roland knew there were two ways out. On the altar, dagger to his throat and blood feeding the infidels who would slaughter his country men.

Or-

“Corporal.”

The master corporal didn’t even have the energy to snap to attention like he would have were they back in the trenches. He just looked up. Tired eyes met and Roland stood, limping over.

“Pistol, if you would.”

Roland’s extended hand met the firm grip of a standard-issue personal firearm. Words of devotion to the Lord had been roughly carved into the slide and handle.

“A fine weapon. My thanks soldier.”

Roland stood in the middle of the room, lighter set on the floor casting shadow against the far reaches of their cell. He closed his eyes and remembered a far away place. One better lit than this, with a crowd of shuffling devotees filed into pews and waiting for the clock strike of eleven. Sweat stained his robes, nerves and fervor fought a battle in his soul. His first sermon. In his ears, which were badly damaged in the present but could hear every awkward cough and silent whisper in the crowd on that day, he heard the tolling of bells.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

The clock struck eleven and he spoke,

“This is it. Our last stand has led to capture at the hands of our enemy. Many of our countrymen have fallen, but many more escaped. We saved lives and the heretics retreated. Battered. Injured. A witch bleeds tonight. We succeeded. And for that success, we will die. Fate is cruel, but God is smiling on us. He is proud.

“And just as we chose to save our comrades, we will choose our deaths. Our blood and bodies, should we choose to live now, will become coal for their machines of war. They will force us, even in death, to kill our fellows. To kill those we swore to protect.”

“However, should we choose to die at the barrel of a gun, our lifeblood will be spilled before they can take it from us. Our usefulness as people ends here, before it can be ripped from us. We will die pure. Ready to embrace God.”

Roland had to admit, his sermon skills were rusty. It had been years on the battlefield, where services were short and silent. But what he had was a point. It was death either way, and no one wanted to be the reason one of their friends died.

More weapons were drawn. The witches hadn’t frisked them, nor even taken their rifles. So each one pointed guns to their own heads. Some awkwardly finessing their long barrels against their temples while still able to reach the trigger. Each one had conviction in their eyes. They were ready to die.

Roland thought, at that moment. Of home. Of sisters. Of brothers. Of friends and family and every smile he would miss. Of God, his entire life devoted to the Lord. And he didn’t regret a second of it.

“Glory to God. Goodbye, everyo-”

None of that.

A voice invaded his skull. It rang out and he felt the power of the words pull his mind away. Darkness threatened to consume his vision. Roland squeezed the trigger. Tried to, at least. But he collapsed. Everything became numb.