#no one accused him of 'he would have had them whipped and beheaded if the play was bad'

[worstloki]

it's actually really funny that no one accused Loki of forcing those actors to put on a play about himself after Thor 3 as if that's the only type of show they put on now, at threat of death. Thor 4 retroactively confirmed that the actors are passionate about their jobs and plain enjoy playing the characters but wild no one considered beyond 'he's a diva' or 'he was subtly funding the arts and improving cultural outlook on other races'

[whumpeeblog]

TW CHILD SLAVERY MENTION OF TORTURE MENTION OF DEATH PAIN WHUMP

“Don’t you touch her.”

S scrambled through the castle halls, K sprinting behind her.

“Come here you little wretch!” He grumbled as he gained on her. Nearly tripping, S rounded the corner into the throne room, where D stood, talking to a neighboring ambassador. In frantic panic, the girl ran to her master.

D’s blue eyes widened as he watched his prisoner throwing herself towards him. Shock struck him when K came trailing behind her.

S ducked behind D, squatting in a fetal position behind his tall legs, afraid to look towards the disaster she knew was on its way.

K slowed to a walk, his sword drawn.

“Come here, girl. I swear when I get my hands on you, your little body will burn with pain.”

D spoke up in order to protect his captive.

“Don’t you touch her.”

D’s deep command stopped K. However, hatred darkened in his eyes as he glared at the figure hiding behind his cousin and friend. He took a step closer, the thump of his boot causing the marred child to flinch in fear.

“K. Don’t. You. Dare. Touch. Her.” D repeated. “Now tell me what’s going on and maybe we can sort this out.” The ambassador beside him watched the scene unfold, the amusement on his face revealing his attempt not to laugh.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and D was accustomed to bringing K’s temper down while protecting S.

“She stole several items from me and it’s time the little thief learn to pay. In Galway, thieves lose their hands at best and their lives at worst,” K snarled.

“Put the sword away and I’ll deal with this.”

K placed the blade back in its sheath, yet the child still cowered in fear. She may have escaped K’s wrath, but now she needed to face the decision of her master.

“S,” Damian stated confidently. S scurried around to face Master D, as she called him, dropping to her knees and lowering her head. She knew she would be punished, but a small bit of relief crashed through her, acknowledging that D was usually much more merciful than K and wouldn’t torture her like K would. If K had caught her, he would have skinned her alive, literally. He’d done it to many others, and knew how to keep them alive as long as possible. He was the executioner, after all. He, as well as D, N, and almost every other prominent being in the small kingdom, knew how to push a victim to the brink of death, putting them in the most agonizing pain possible, yet keeping their heart beating.

“Look at me,” D commanded. S’s gaze reluctantly met his eyes, and she trembled. She searched his face for mercy; for any chance that he might not let K torture her.

She knew the rules. If a slave, prisoner, or other commoner was caught stealing from a lord, prince, or other high placed official, the king had the right to do whatever he pleased. This usually included severe torture and beheading. If a commoner was stolen from, they could take that person prisoner or slave, and do what they wished. If they were feeling generous, they could send the criminal to a local sheriff, and they would be given a “kind” death: hanging.

A chilly waterfall of horror flushed through S’s body as she searched her master’s eyes.

“Are these accusations true?” D asked sternly, concern and dominance hinted in his eyes. The girl’s face lowered as she nodded softly. She lifted her gaze, but was unable to read Damian’s face. “And may I ask as to what you stole and why you did?”

“I- it was just some food and a few weathered blankets, Master.”

“And why did you take these things when I provide you with what you need? Are you planning an escape attempt perhaps?” D interrogated the girl. Just as it wasn’t the first time she had stolen, he wouldn’t be surprised if she were plotting to run... again. She had been tormented mercilessly for many of her attempts, although there were several times he had allowed her to get away with it. S trembled and her eyes pleaded desperately for Damian to believe her.

“No, Master! I swear it wasn’t an escape attempt, Sir! Please! I was just hungry and cold...”

D questioned the child further, but he was already aware exactly why she had done it.

“If you were hungry or cold, you could have come to me or N and we would have provided you with warmth and a meal. You know this, so why didn’t you ask?” D raised an eyebrow and lifted his hand to his chin, almost as if he were deeply pondering the situation.

“I- I was afraid to ask, Master. I feared that if I became too much of a burden to you, you would take my head.” Her eyes lowered to stare at the cold, golden floor she kneeled upon. She trembled even more, one of the first signs of the panic attack she could feel rising into her heart. A tear slipped, and landed on the ground like the first raindrop of a terrifying storm.

“So you thought that by stealing from my executioner, you could get away with it. You didn’t think he would notice. After all, the less you eat, the smaller of a burden you are to me, correct?” D questioned. S nodded, still afraid to meet his eyes. “And even if you were caught, you hoped I would put you out of your misery quickly, rather than make you suffer as K here would.” D pitied the slave. She was just a teenager, and a traumatized one at that. He recognized the need to correct her habit, however.

“Let me have her, D,” K cut in. S glared at him, a cocktail of hatred and horror drowning her tears. D put up a hand to stop K as he lunged forward, fangs bared.

“Now,” D shifted his eyes to the girl between him and K, “It seems we have a problem, don’t we?”

“Yes, Master D.”

“Leave us,” D glanced at K and his ambassador. K growled resentfully, but walked toward the door. The ambassador followed, understanding that the meeting would be over for the next few hours.

It was now between the prisoner and her captor. She knew what she deserved, and she grimaced as visions of her possible punishments overcame her.

“Please have mercy, Master,” she pleaded tearfully, whimpering with tiny gasps. Thirty seconds of silence went by as D stared at S, deep in thought.

“Why were you so afraid to ask?”

S spoke up nasally, still trying to hide her sobs.

“If- if I eat too much you’ll kill me.”

D knew better. She was the spitting image of his deceased sister, and his last plan was to execute the child. Of course, if it came to the point where his only option were the sword, he’d do it, but not for a little nourishment. He still tortured her as needed. She wasn’t his sister after all. He often needed to be reminded that she was a slave, a prisoner of war and ally of the enemy.

D didn’t respond to S’s statement, proving in her mind that her fears would soon come to life. He decided that instead of severely punishing her as he had done many times before, he’d use a harmless fear tactic.

“On your feet.” His sunken tone struck fear and earned a flinch from S. She did as was told, and rose, staring up into his icy glare. “Against the wall.” Once again, S responded submissively, walking to face the wall. D sauntered to his throne, prolonging the process in order to teach a lesson of obedience. He reached for a strand of rope which hung on the wall behind the throne, part of a daunting collection of restraints and weapons.

S’s body jolted as she was forcefully shoved into the gold plated wall. Her arms were yanked behind her back. Her wrists over crossed each other, palms out. The rope brushed against soft skin, leaving a burning trail of red rash as it slithered its way around her wrists.

Fingers sliding over S’s shoulder, D turned her body and guided her forward.

Oh God he’s gonna kill me... no. worse. He’s gonna torture me.

Hyperventilation shook S’s frail body, but instead dragging her to one of the torture chambers, D pushed her towards the opposite side of the throne room. The door on that side led to a stone spiral staircase. These stairs went up to a winding maze of hallways with different suites belonging to each individual royal in the small kingdom. Each suite was like an apartment, and contained its own prison cells for the men’s prisoners. Few ever left the private dungeons. To the surprise of the child, however, D didn’t chain her to a wall in his dungeon. He didn’t beat her to a pulp with the agonizing cracks of a nine stranded whip. A harsh necklace of rope wasn't strung around her neck, nor her tendons cut to allow her to choke to death.

Instead he led her in the opposite direction and down the stairs to the section of the castle that was used as a public hangout. The lower floor was set up with a kitchen, living space, dining hall, music and entertainment room, and had a porch leading outside.

D unsheathed a knife. S only knew this thanks to the familiar metallic scrape of the object leaving its home. A shudder wracked through her, and she expected the worst. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she braced herself, but the pain never came. Instead, D’s knife sliced its way through the rope, and the broken bonds fluttered to the floor.

D walked towards the couch, and picked up a heavy wool blanket. He draped it around his terrified slave. Her body shuddered when the scratchy warm fabric danced on her skin, the only touch she was used to being some form of excruciating torture.

“Sit,” D pointed towards the couch. S timidly waddled over. She was still skeptical that he would hurt her, but D was often merciful to her too. There was no real way of knowing whether he would hurt her or not. When he did, she knew he tried to be lenient, and he only punished her when he felt he had to. Now was one of the times that he may have to, she thought.

Frightened eyes examined every detail of her master making his way about the kitchen at the other side of the room. D heated something in a pot on the stove, occasionally glancing over to assure that his prisoner hadn’t made another escape attempt. The figure huddled in the corner of the couch, afraid to move or make a sound. Even under the shadows of the blanket wrapped over her head and body, dark circles of sleep deprivation made themselves visible.

D walked over to the girl, carrying with him a tray of soup, bread, and water. He set it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Eat,” he instructed. S didn’t budge. D stared with concern. He cared about her, even if she was his slave. He genuinely didn’t want to hurt her, but she had been his enemy, and a prisoner. Either she was afraid that he poisoned the food, or she was trying to kill herself with starvation.

S cowered away when a steamy spoon of tomato broth met her lips.

“Open.” She did as told, but tears began to fall as she took the liquid in. Whimpers and shivering came with each spoonful.

After several spoonfuls, D seemed to have convinced the child that he hadn’t poisoned her meal. He slowly slid his way up the couch to sit behind her. Drowsiness conquered S’s frail body and she began sleep softly, laying her head across her master’s lap. D combed her brown hair with his fingers, not daring to move. The sedative had finally set in, and he didn’t need to change that.

[dreamcatcherfication]

Breathing, Screaming, Choking

I find it kind of ironic that I wrote this while an ambulance kept driving by my house. 

Hello! Here I am with another one-shot request, because I’m trash and will literally write almost anything you ask me to. Anon requested Anne getting stabbed (among other things) and I said “Why the heck not,” because like I said - I’m trash. So here’s my mediocre attempt at fulfilling that request, and I hope you all enjoy it! Sorry for any spelling/grammatical errors, Wonu Ogunfowora is accusing me of being a murderer.

Writing Masterpost

If you want to send a request or a prompt, my inbox is always open! I publish a story at 8:00 AM PST everyday, so I’m always in need of new ideas. If you want to be tagged in my works, just let me know and I’ll be sure to tag you!

Prompts | More Prompts | The Trifecta of Prompts | Original Prompts

Trigger Warnings: Lots and lots of blood, stabbing, descriptions of beheading, anxiety attacks

It was supposed to be a normal, unassuming day. The beheaded cousins had just finished a matinee performance with the other queens, and they were off for the evening. It was Anne’s idea to go get ice cream, and it seemed innocent enough to Kat. She loved ice cream, and there was a great parlor about twenty minutes from the theatre. There was no reason to be concerned or worried because of how normal and domestic the situation was. Both cousins were blissfully unaware of the dark shadow that was hanging above them. The type of shadow trying to warn them that they were marked for trouble. 

The parlor was pretty far for walking, but Anne and Kat didn’t have the car, nor was there a bus scheduled to pass by the parlor anytime soon. So they gave up and chose to walk, accepting that they had enough time on their hands. “D’you know what?” Anne piped up as she and Kat walked side by side.

“What?”

Squinting one of her eyes Anne started looking around. “I think there’s an alleyway up on the next street that cuts through to the parlor.”

Kat didn’t believe Anne, rolling her eyes. “Sure, there’s some mysterious alley we’ve never seen before that just so happens to take us directly where we want to go? Come on Anne, if you want to trick me you’re going to have to do better than that.” 

“No, I’m serious,” Anne pushed. “I’ve used it before, I just don’t remember which street it was on. D’you wanna try the next one?”

Mulling it over, Kat agreed, “Alright, but only because we have the time. If there actually is a passageway, we can use it to confuse the others the next time we get ice cream.”

“That’s my cousin!” Anne cheered, wrapping an arm around Kat’s shoulders. They crossed the street together, stopping in front of the alleyway that Anne had pointed out. “This is it,” Anne confirmed.

A small bit of apprehension came over Kat as she started fidgeting with her jacket collar. “It’s a long alleyway Anne, are you sure -”

“I’m sure, come on,” Anne pulled Kat forward and into the alley. For such a bright day out, the alley had a startling amount of shadows cast around the walls. There were forgotten boxes lying about and trash scattered by the wind, dirtying the concrete ground. Being in the small walkway felt like walking into an entirely different world, blocked off from the busy streets behind them.

There was a rustling behind the two of them, and Kat whipped her head around, ready to run at the sight of danger. But nothing was there except for the fading light of the street they had left. “There’s nothing there Kat,” Anne elbowed her cousin. 

“Right,” Kat muttered, raising her guard. She turned around and stopped in her tracks. Anne was frozen too, staring at the figure in front of them. It was a tired man, probably in his thirties with an unshaven beard. That wasn’t what caused them to freeze however. It was the knife in his hand and the unhinged glint in his eyes that terrified the cousins. 

As he took a step forward, the cousins took a step back, unwilling to get any closer. “Give me your fucking money. All of it,” the man hissed, sticking his knife out at them.

Immediately, Kat was fumbling for her wallet. She didn’t want the situation to escalate, and if getting rid of him quicker meant throwing away her wallet, she would do it. Kat didn’t have a lot of money, but she tossed it to the man without hesitation. She wasn’t getting stabbed today.

Anne had another idea. The woman pulled out her wallet and slowly approached the mugger. He still held his knife out, but his eyes were on her cheap wallet. “You want it?” Anne asked.

Unconsciously, the man nodded, his eyes not even blinking. Right as she handed the man her wallet, Anne brought her leg up and kneed the mugger right in the groin. He doubled over, wheezing from the impact. In a split second of retaliation, the mugger stabbed his knife downwards, impaling Anne’s leg. Anne screamed, falling backwards onto the ground when they knife cut into her leg. Seeing his opportunity, the mugger ripped the knife out of Anne’s leg, grabbed their wallets and sprinted away.

“Annie!” Kat cried, falling to the ground next to her cousin. She had to resist the urge to gag at the sight of blood and all the memories it brought back. Clearly Anne wasn’t doing much better. Kat’s cousin was shaking on the floor, her hands trying to cover the wound as her body shook in pain and fear. “You’re going to be okay,” Kat tried to say, her hands hovering over Anne as she panicked.

Choking on her words, Anne’s eyes started to glaze over. “It hurts Kat, it h - h... hu,” she couldn’t finish her sentence. “Please.” The wound wasn’t bad enough to kill Anne, (Kat didn’t think at least) but it was dragging up a lot of memories to the forefront of the girls’ minds. Kat was frozen, unable to help as her mind conjured up images of the past. She pictured Anne, lying dead at her feet with blood pooled around her lifeless body. Kat’s chest burned in pain as she realized she had been neglecting to breathe while the images passed through her mind.

Anne was similarly trapped in her mind. She kept seeing a sword come down, and then red, endless red. She saw her body from an angle she had never seen before as her head rolled away. She kept watching until hot, sticky redness covered her eyes and glued them shut. Until blood filled her nose and mouth as she screamed for help, for mercy.

Breaking out of her memories, Kat inhaled deeply. She couldn’t let herself be consumed by this terrible shadow of doubt. She had to be strong and she had to help her cousin. Yanking off her jacket, Kat pressed the pink fabric against Anne’s leg and held it there tightly. Anne yelped when the cloth was held against her bleeding leg, initially trying to push it away, but Kat held fast. This was the best she could do before they could get help.

Reminding herself that they needed help, Kat frantically searched her pockets for her phone. When she found it, she dialed 999 and anxiously waited for someone to pick up. “999, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked, their voice muffled by the static of the phone.

“My cousin’s been stabbed by a mugger!” Kat gasped, her hands shaking as she continued to press her jacket against Anne’s wound. The occasional groans from Anne only heightened Kat’s worry as reality faded in and out. Sometimes, Anne was wearing jeans, other times she was in a lacy dress with a sword poised above her. At this point, Kat could hardly distinguish what was real and what wasn’t.

The operator spoke as if this had happened a hundred times before. “Alright Miss, where are you? I can send an ambulance your way.”

“Um,” Kat stuttered, her mind suddenly blank of all street names. “I - I can’t remember. We’re in an alleyway that’s supposed to lead to this ice cream parlor, Bitsy’s Ice Cream? And - and the street has this big pothole off to the side but I don’t know what it’s called. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, is Anne going to die?”

“Miss, please calm down,” the operator spoke levelly, “I think you’re talking about the alleyway by Albatross Way, but I can’t be sure. Can you confirm that for me?”

Frantically whipping her head up in search of any street signs, Kat noticed the graffiti of a bird against the wall. Under it there was a small placard, the words reading -atros Way. “Yes! Yes that’s the street, please send an ambulance.”

“Okay, I’m sending one right now, you should receive help in the next seven minutes. Stay safe.” The operator hung up and Kat dropped her phone onto the floor. Her hands were trembling so badly that she couldn’t hold the phone in her hands for fear she would throw it against the wall.

Still on the floor, Anne was pale, her breathing slowing down. She wasn’t dead, Kat could tell, but Anne was in shock. Her eyes were completely glazed over as she stared at something invisible, her leg spasming periodically. Kat refused to lift her jacket from Anne’s leg, only increasing the pressure when Anne grunted in pain.

It felt like an eternity before sirens began to sound in the distance. They got louder and louder until Kat had to let go of Anne’s leg to cover her ears. A handful of EMTs came running down the alleyway with a stretcher in their hands. Without acknowledging Kat, they started to load Anne on to the stretcher, blocking her from Kat’s view. Leaning against the wall of the alley, Kat started to choke on her breathing. They would save Anne, her cousin would be fine. She had to be fine. She had to be.

An EMT approached Kat, kneeling down next to her. “Are you the person who called 999?” He asked, his tone light and inviting. Kat nodded, but didn’t say anything. Her breathing was coming out quicker as she came close to hyperventilating. “I’m Derek,” he explained, leaning next to Kat. “I’m an EMT, and I’m going to ask you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”

Of course Kat could breath, of course she could - of course… 

Everything around Kat was growing blurry, the world fading in and out. “Hey,” Derek calmly cut into Kat’s spiraling mind, “Your cousin is going to be fine. So will you, but you have to try to breathe with me.”

At his words, Kat gained a new resolve. She listened to each of his inhales and tried to match it, no matter how badly her chest burned. Kat had to do this. For Anne. It took longer than she liked, but soon Kat was breathing on her own. “Can I ride with her? To the hospital?” Kat asked, peering around Derek in hopes of spotting her cousin.

“Yes, you can,” Derek agreed, helping Kat off the ground. “I have to go help the others, but you find your cousin and tell them I sent you, okay?”

Kat nodded, and then Derek was gone, off to assist his fellow EMTs. Glancing down at the ground, Kat noticed her bloody jacket. It was soaked with Anne’s blood, the pink now a dark red. She didn’t know what possessed her to do it, but Kat picked up the jacket and put it on. As disgusting as it was, the jacket made her feel closer to Anne. And that was something she needed more than anything right now.

Approaching the ambulance, Kat went to the back where they were loading Anne in. “I’m her cousin, Derek said I could ride with her,” Kat mumbled, avoiding eye contact with the female EMT.

Her only response was herding Kat into the back of the vehicle next to her cousin, and then the EMT was back to doing her job. Reaching out, Kat grabbed Anne’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’m here Annie. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

The ambulance sirens turned on, the loud wailing echoing through the streets of London.

-------------------------------------------

Tag List: 

@radcowboyalmondtree@boleynhowards@annabanana2401@babeebobo@dont-lose-your-queerhead@everything-insanity@mindless-pidgeon@i-wanna-dance-and-sing-six@thedemidisaster@its-totes-gods-will

[spillthetaesissy]

Romeo and Juliette

pairing ➳ taehyung x princess!reader (sort of? no character has any names but that’s who I pictured when I wrote it. really it could be any of the boys, so replace at your own discretion) 

synopsis ➳ a little less fairy tale, a little more tragedy. 

genre ➳ fantasy!au/historical!au, angst 

warnings ➳ brief mention of rape (no depiction, just a false accusation), major character deaths, depiction of gore (execution - beheading), allusion of suicide

word count ➳ 1.6k 

other ➳ 05/02/2020 - 05/02/2020 // unedited 

a/n ➳ not really Romeo and Juliette, but I’m sticking with the title. More so just relates with the ending oops. Also, it’s written in third person because that’s just how it be sometimes. 

⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙⬘⬙

The princess burst through the palace doors, sprinting towards the executioners grand stage. “No!” She screamed, her voice shrill and heart wrenching. The hoarseness of her throat could be heard within her begging, evident that she had been screaming for far longer than this display. 

She had narrowly avoided the grubby hands of the guards to this point, and she was not about to be caught mere feet away from her beloved. Despite the constant streams flowing from her unblinking eyes, she was able to maneuver herself from the ever-growing stampede of men chasing her. 

All the while, her prince was being dragged up the daunting steps to the slaughter. Heavy chains locked around his wrists and ankles, the once pristine clothes that adorned him caked in dirt and sweat, the now dull fabric left wrinkled and tattered. His thick, dark locks - that she was normally so used to seeing combed and proper - were in disarray against his damp forehead. 

Eyes downcast and sullen, all he could think about was her. How betrayed he felt. Their last moments together were a trap, he believed, and that day he found true heartbreak. Yet, despite himself, he yearned for her. In his last moments, all he prayed for was to see her smile one last time - to hear her call his name, as if it was just them in his cottage again. Like he had wished it could remain forever countless times. 

Those times have passed, though, and he refused to face his death like a coward. Turning his sharp eyes from the ground, he finds the eyes of her betrothed among the royalty lined along the platform, his love notably not among them. Despite watching a man march to his death, the bastard had the gull to smirk. The message was clear to the prisoner; he lost, and the little prince won. 

Their eyes remain connected as he is forced to a kneel with bruising force, though the superficial marks blooming across his kneecaps would not matter in a moment. The roaring of the crowd below him picks up as they watch his weakened stature. Days ago, any one of these beings would cower in his presence, even the little prince himself, but now, as he is brought to his end, they cheer on in confidence at the expense of his demise. 

Finally, his gaze is snapped away from the taunting eyes as the king stands from his make-shift throne, a hush overtaking the crowd to listen to his every word. The king’s features display the disgust he feels as he looks at the accused, the old man horribly misinformed by the whispers of the little prince. 

“Before the eyes of every fair citizen of our glorious kingdom, today we end the terrific reign of the beast in the woods.” The king bellows, taking a pause in his speech as the crowd roars. Silent once again, he continues. “The beast was brought before the righteous court and found guilty on multiple counts of murder, theft, witchcraft, devil worshiping…” The king’s words trail off with a shake of his head, lips turned into a scowl as if the words that were coming out of his mouth tasted as horrid as they sound. “Worst of all, the mind control and raping of our own crown princess, the heart of our civilization.” There is an out pour of booing and sneers from those gathered around, disgusted with the accusations as if it had all happened to them.

The so-called beast was disgusted himself. They were all lies. The only crime he had ever committed was being born. The rest were false stories told by the foolish people who feared those who were different. He was sure that every vile human being before him was far worse a sinner then he had ever dreamed of being. 

“Today,” the king begins again, the storm of outcry coming to a hush of disgusted whispers, “the beast will pay for these crimes with its life!” He declares with a flourish, turning away from his people and towards the beaten beast. “Though you do not deserve them, it is tradition. Do you have any final words?” 

He is about to decree his final message when he hears her. His head whips in the direction of the cries, and his eyes meet hers, his final wish granted. Her face is puffy, he notes, her hair just as tousled as his own. It hits him then that perhaps this wasn’t her plan. That, really, her feelings had been genuine all along. There is no faking the raw desperation she exudes, the terror and sorrow tumbling out of her chapped lips. 

“Father, please!” She shrieks, clambering up the steps. However, as she dashes towards her lover, she is stopped. 

Inches. 

Only inches, and they would have been reunited. 

At least, one last time. She could no longer escape the hold of the guards, and they catch her before she is able to throw herself at her lover. Her attempt was futile at best, her actions only fueling the belief that he had her under a spell. It was too late for them, and he was at peace with that. There was absolutely nothing more they could do, and he was at death’s door. However, he didn’t care any longer. He knew, deep in his soul, that she loved him, and that was enough for him. 

The only thing that could be heard was her screaming as she struggled against the guards grip. It pains him to watch her so, and he is moved to ease her worries. “Look away, my love.” He pleads, loud enough for her to hear. 

The message seems to get across, and her ministrations come to a crashing halt. She stares at him in shock, now seeing the clear display of surrender. He had given up - the fight in him having completely vanished. He was already dead, and with the realization, so was she. Her body grew numb under his gaze, going completely limp in the arms of her captors. 

The king seems to have had enough with their display, and he gestures towards the executioner to begin. With rough, unforgiving hands, his head is placed on the pedestal, the top of his neck bare for the gods above. 

“I love you,” are his final words, directed towards the shell of a woman just off to the side. Though he can not see her any longer, her vision is clear behind his eyelids.

A smile graces his lips as he hears her final declaration, all hope lost in her voice. “I love you, too.”

It is met with a deafening silence, then the woosh of a blade. A beautiful, fresh coat of scarlet red paints the cherry-stained wood, heavy globs of blood dripping down the pedestal to meet with the rest. A heavy thump is heard as his head rolls to the ground, the squelching sound of the liquid sickening. Even more sickening, however, is the cheers of the onlookers. Those in the front rejoicing to have been splashed in the remains of his life. 

The guards finally release the princess, and she collapses away from the crowd, throwing up. All that comes out is a bitter acid, having not eaten all day. She dry heaves violently, her body trying to throw away the pit in her stomach, but no amount of upchucking would do that.

Panic forces her guts to act neutrally as she hears heavy footsteps fall towards his body. With the remaining strength she has left, she leaps towards the headless husk, clinging onto him for the last time. Her heart shatters against his back, his remaining warmth seeping through her dress, which was slowly being soaked in crimson. Her body is wracked with sobs, as if she had not cried enough that day, and she holds him for everything she is worth. However, unlike the woes of a fairy tale princess, her tears could never bring her true love back. 

Far too quickly, she is ripped away from him again. This time she makes no move of protest, and simply lets the guards drag her away, back to the high towers of the palace to yet again be locked in her room - her own personal little dungeon.

Lost in the abyss of her mind, she doesn’t even register the trek there, or being placed back in bed. She doesn’t pay attention to the flood of maids that pour into her room, discarding her of her dress and placing her into a steaming bath. The tears seem to stop flowing sometime after the maids begin scrubbing her body of the last remnants of him, but she couldn’t say for sure. The tugging of a brush going through her hair is hardly even noticed in her sorrow, or her redressing into a nightgown. 

She doesn’t come-to until there is a knock on her door, and she noticed she had been left alone, likely for some time now. “Darling?” Comes the smooth voice of her betrothed. 

All of a sudden, she feels sick again. This was to be her life, now. To be loved by another she did not want to love back. To carry children for a man she did not want to father her kin. To rule next to a man she knew was only here for that power. 

There was nothing left for her in this life. No happiness in her prospects, satisfaction or delight. There was absolutely nothing but sorrow left in the cracks of her heart, and promises of a depressing life ahead of her.

There was only one thing left for her to do: jump.

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: November 2020

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of November 2020 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

Nobody was expecting Donald Trump to concede defeat gracefully, but bloody hell, between the completely batshit insane conspiracy theory bollocks from himself and the rancid Trump offspring to Rudy Giuliani making complete fools of themselves even before he had to give a press conference from the parking lot of a landscaping firm as nobody checked which Four Seasons it was, before threatening to outlaw Twitter because people made fun of his little table (yes, that sentence does make sense), nobody could have expected just how tempramental toddlers are now thinking it's a bit much

...although somehow the Tory government managed to have an even worse response, because not only did posting a boilerplate jpeg to congratulate Joe Biden for his victory the laziest response possible, but then it turned out that they only had a celebratory jpeg for a Trump victory and hastily edited it on Paint so that Biden’s name was on there, but did a cack-handed job of it even though a.) Common sense dictates you have one for each candidate ready in advance, and b.) Given they had several days to accept which way the wind was blowing, the fact they did the most cack-handed job says everything you need to know 

Smirking cretin Priti Patel has bullied Home Office staff and, having initially tried to bury the report, the best the Tory government could come up with to try and make this go away was claim that she was bullying her subordinates by accident while proven liar Boris Johnson claimed she had done nothing wrong, numerous members of the Tory government either said that as they hadn’t seen her bullying anyone she must be innocent or tried claiming she was “accused” of bullying instead of found guilty of bullying, and to top it all off we had Michael Gove’s wife Sarah Vine accused anyone calling Patel of being a bully racist while Alison Pearson said Patel can’t be a bully as she isn’t tall enough. Also, did I mention this came out during national Bullying Week?

...and just a thought for Jess Phillips after she decided to weigh in, considering it’s on record that you bullied Diane Abbott (and have gleefully said how you told her to “Fuck off” on various occasions) it's not a good idea for you to try and act as you’re above bullying as you will get called out for your hypocrisy

Murderer Amanda Knox thought it would be a really funny joke to suggest that, no matter what the election result, the next four years couldn’t be as bad as the four years she spent studying abroad.  You know, those four years where she murdered Meredith Kercher and got away with it

So it turns out that the moral compass of the Tory government says that it is fine for Dominic Cummings to be happy to sacrifice the elderly if it protects the economy during a pandemic while displaying that he doesn’t know how herd immunity works, purging 21 MPs from the party for not buying into his No Deal Britait Jonestown, siphoning hundreds of millions of pounds into the pockets of his mates in various dodgy contracts, or flagrantly violating the lockdown rules by driving several hundred miles to Durham (where he owns a house he doesn't pay council tax for) after testing positive for Covid - but as soon as he calls Carrie Symonds “Princess Nut Nuts” he’s out the door...for a staged photo op, even though he is remaining in his job until December, which is when he was going to leave anyway

...and we should mention Laura Kuenssberg bullishly stating that Cummings was going nowhere in the wake of Lee Cain being told he could leave when his contract is up in December but they want to make it look like he is being fired, but within twelve hours saying that Cummings would always be leaving in December as a blog post in January stated, which not only asks if anyone has checked the archived version of that blog in case any edits were made in mid-November, but also how she can justify her £290k a year salary if she can get a story that badly wrong that Cummings’ blog disagreed with her

There’s a reason why Lindsey Graham isn't popular in the Senate and it isn’t because he questions if Biden won the election, it's because he’s telling people to “misplace” the votes for Biden which they are counting so that Trump could claim that he won Georgia instead of losing Georgia, demanding a recount, then losing Georgia

Once again proven liar Boris Johnson demonstrated that lockdown rules apply to the little people but not to him or his inner circle, as he met with fellow Tory MP Lee Anderson in person rather than via Zoom as the lockdown rules state, didn't wear a mask as lockdown rules state, and clearly didn’t social distance as a picture of him with Anderson taken during the meetings shows they are not two metres apart as lockdown rules state, which means that he had to spend two weeks self-isolating as a direct result 

Has anyone told Keir Starmer that The Board of Deputies weren’t on the ballot for Labour leadership?  Because by his performative act of refusing to restore the party whip to Jeremy Corbyn after his performative suspension, which he did after the BoD stamped their feet and demanded the whip not be restored, he’s not doing a good job of demonstrating leadership

First of all it was news that Steve Bannon uses Twitter, as surely he should have flounced off for Parler years ago.  But secondly, the real news is how he used his Twitter account to call for Anthony Fauci to be beheaded - at which point he suddenly couldn’t use his Twitter account anymore

According to Iain Duncan Smith putting the UK into a second lockdown is “giving in to the scientific advisors” as if during a pandemic, which the last time I checked was a scientific matter, you should instead be listening to Julia Halfwit-Brewer, Dan Wootton, Alison Pearson or Isabel Oakeshott rather than people qualified to talk about what to do in the face of a global pandemic 

Nice Guy Rishi Sunak proposed a return of Eat Out To Help Out for Christmas.  You know, the thing which has been directly linked with causing a spike in Covid numbers in August?

Tory arrogance was neatly summed up by George Eustace casually saying that, if Lurpak didn’t want to incur the massive price hikes of Britain crashing out of the EU without a paddle, all they have to do is move their entire base of operations to the UK

The fact that Disney have been trying to justify their refusal to even issue royalty statements to Alan Dean Foster for his novelisations of the Star Wars and Alien franchises and have simply been pocketing the revenue made by the books continued sales by claiming they only purchased the license and not the liability, which is a particularly unique interpretation of copyright law

It was only a matter of time before The Daily Mail started trying to create dirt about Marcus Rashford because he has the sheer gall to say that feeding children is not a bad thing, which they did by reporting the horrors of him...buying a house for his mother

Twitter troll Ben Bradley had a stellar month, first by standing up in Commons and asking why there isn't a Minister for Women while also showing a terrifying inability to understand what equality is, and soon followed that up by quoting Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech by claiming that it was about equality - only for Bernice King to tell him that, no, her father’s speech was about eliminating racism from our society

I think that it's time for The Daily Express to admit that, when they're running articles saying that it’s Remainers who are to blame for Trump getting dumped onto the street, that maybe they have a problem

The Streisand Effect still hasn’t reached WWE judging by their continuing to double down on demanding their employees independent contractors stop earning money via third-party platforms manifested in their releasing Thea Trinidad from her contract in spite her Twitch account always being under her real name and not her WWE moniker of Zelina Vega

It was a coincidence that the Jewish Labour Movement decided to hold their annual conference on the Palestinian Day of Solidarity.  Of course it was...

This month it was Fin Taylor who demonstrated just how far from satire HIGNFY has strayed with his “Bomb Glastonbury and kill all Jeremy Corbyn supporters” joke in response to Joan Bakewell lying about Corbyn breaking the law - and, afterwards, Taylor was generally being a smug twat about it on his Twitter - which also serves to show how Tim Davie is fine with booking comedians whose acts have plenty of questionable content contained within it if it guarantees the Tories escape criticism

This month’s example of Steve Baker making himself a walking punchline with no self-awareness came from him howling that further lockdown measures would be a violation of terms set out by the European Convention on Human Rights - yes, the exact same convention that Baker has a.) Repeatedly accused of meddling with British affairs and is an example of the EU nanny state, and b.) Frowns upon things such as Steve Baker repeatedly voting against allowing child refugees to be reunited with their families

Nothing says “worker happiness” quite like GameStop running a competition for their stores to post Tik Tok dances where the store which is voted the winner receives prizes such as an Amazon Echo, a Visa gift card, and the privilege of working an additional ten hours during the week of Black Friday.  Wait, did I say “worker happiness”?  I meant to say “Dickensian shithousery” where employees are expected to compete so they can work more hours

Of course the “We’re not racist”s of Twitter had an issue with Sainsburys Christmas ad because it didn’t appeal to white men due to having a black family, in much the same way that Compare the Market’s ads don't appeal to white men as they’re not Russian meerkats

Professional victim Laurence Fox thought it would be a good idea to get into a slanging match with The Pogues while lying that Fairytale of New York would be banned from the airwaves.  It went about as well as could be expected

It wouldn’t be Remembrance Day without The Sun or The Daily Mail exploiting it for some obvious ragebait, and this year was no exception with both “papers” posting a photo of Extinction Rebellion posting with a banner in front of the Cenotaph protesting climate change - a photo taken two days earlier, but they held off on posting it until the day itself to get the rage flowing, because they needed something as neither Jeremy Corbyn nor Meghan Markle were within a mile of Whitehall

This month it was Ernest Cline who demonstrated a lack of understanding of the Streisand Effect by ordering DMCA takedowns on anyone who posted an excerpt of Ready Player Two online, which mainly served to help the internet realise which the actual excerpts were and which the parody versions were - because it was pretty hard to tell them apart otherwise...

“I’ve been silenced”, shrieked Suzanne Moore in an interview with the Telegraph, fatally undermining her argument in the process.  Funny how the people who have been “silenced” keep doing that, isn’t it?

Because we haven’t heard anything idiotic from Jake Paul in a while, Jake Paul decided to say Covid isn’t real and flu has killed just as many people.  So I give it a week before his older brother Logan feels he has to one-up this and say the Holocaust was fake...

And finally, not for much longer, is Donald Trump and his complicity in trying to organise a coup - but not a very good coup, as his minions at Fox News had to exaggerate how many people were actually protesting about him losing an election and crying about it - which was further undermined by his inability to tell Michigan and Minnesota apart

[missysmadhouse]

Beauty to Die For: Tale of 'The Blood Countess'

Countess Elizabeth Bathory; Photo: Encyclopedia Brittanica

Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Bathory's story reads like a dark fairytale. Supposedly, she would do anything to maintain her youth and beauty. Countess Bathory allegedly had a gruesome beauty regiment -- bathing in the blood of young virgins. Born into power and privilege with both beauty and brains, the Countess would die a convicted killer, who allegedly tortured and murdered 650 young women from 1586 to 1609.

The Countess was born on August 7, 1560 to Gyorgy and Anna Bathory. The origins of the Bathory family were traced back to 900 AD and included members who were dukes and kings.

The Bathory name, which means 'good hero,' has a very interesting story attached to it that reads more like a happily-ever-after fairytale. The name is supposed to have originated from a warrior named Vitus who saved the people of Ecsed, Hungary from a dragon. Vitus is supposed to have single-handedly killed the dragon, earning Ecsed, a castle and the name Bathory.

The Bathorys would acquire land not only in Hungary but also Transylvania and parts of the Czech Republic, Slovakia and Austria. The family held power that rivaled the Hungarian Crown. However, they did not have a great relationship with Hungarian royalty and were often switching loyalties from the Hapsburgs to the Hungarian royalty. (The Habsburgs were in a dispute with the Hungarian Crown over a part of Hungary that was in Habsburg land. The dispute between the two eventually became over rulership of the entire country).

Countess Bathory is said to have had an uncle who taught her about Satanism and an aunt who taught her about sadomasochism.

Lady Bathory was engaged by the time she was 12-years-old to Ferenc Nadasdy, whose father had been a Hungarian palentine (prime minister). She was 14-years-old and Nadasdy was 19-years-old when they got married.

Lady Bathory retained her family name because the Bathorys were considered higher up on the social scale than the Nadasdys. This practice, needless to say, was unheard of at the time and not accepted by all the nobility. Many referred to Lady Bathory as "Lady Nadasdy."

Count Ferenc Nadasy; Photo: Wikipedia

Nadasdy's parents were both deceased and Nadasdy was away at school, leaving young Lady Bathory alone.

Supposedly, the Countess became pregnant by Ladislav Bende, who was either a servant or a member of lower nobility. Nadasdy reportedly had Bende castrated and killed. Lady Bathory gave birth to a girl, Anastasia, who was raised in Transylvania. Many years later, in 1609, there was a document filed in which the Countess claimed that Bende raped her.

The wedding went ahead as planned for the sake of social obligation. She settled into her husband's family's Hungarian estates at Sarvar and Csetje. With her soldier husband always away, Lady Bathory ran the estates. Rumors about her infidelity persisted after marriage. The Countess had four children with Nadasdy. However, there were rumors that the Countess had lovers.

The Countess' nefarious activities began about the year 1586. Nadasdy supposedly built a torture chamber for her. Countess Bathory believed that she could retain her beauty through ingesting the blood of young girls. She began victimizing her servants, then peasants and later daughters of the nobility.

Bathory allegedly tortured her victims before they died. She stabbed, bit, pricked them with needles and burned them with hot irons. She also had some victims beaten and starved. The Countess is most known for bathing in blood, a detail of her crimes which wasn't mentioned until a book about her case was written in 1729. This practice was never mentioned by witnesses at the trial.

Lady Bathory lived during a harsh time when physical abuse of servants and peasants were commonplace. Torture and executions of convicted criminals was part of every day life. During her childhood, the Countess witnessed gruesome torture and executions. Lady Bathory's husband also enjoyed torturing servants and enemies, especially the Turks, dancing with their corpses and playing with their heads. He also.included advice on disciplining servants in his letters to his wife. When home with the Countess, the two participated in torturing disobedient servants.

One particular story describes Lady Bathory participating in the torture of a servant girl forced to stand outside naked and covered with honey. The girl eventually passed out after attracting many flies and bees. Pieces of wax paper were lit between her toes to wake her.

Photo: A History of Serial Killers

The Countess' activities first became suspicious in 1602 when a clergyman in Sarvar, Istvan Magyari, noticed an excessive amount of servants on Bathory's estate dying. When questioned about it, the Countess claimed that the servants died from cholera.

Rumors had begun circulating about "secret chambers," where the Countess allegedly tortured servants. The number of dead servants coupled with the rumors aroused enough suspicion in Magyari for him to go to the authorities. Magyari's suspicions were ignored. If pursued, the girls' families would have to eventually bring their complaints to the perpetrator herself.

The secret chambers were only accessible by servants who the Countess trusted the most. These servants aided Lady Bathory in torturing servant girls with beatings, biting and burning them with hot irons.

Anna Darvolya, known as Darvulia, was a servant of the Nadasdy family for many years and the Countess' assistant, advisor and alleged mentor to the other servants in the sadistic art of torture.

Three women and one man completed the Countess' group of confidents and partners in crime. All of them confessed to playing a part in Countess Bathory's nefarious scheme: Ilona Jo, the Countess' children’s former wet nurse; Jo's friend Dorottya Szentes; Katalin Beneczky and Janos Ujvary, aka, Ficzko (‘Kid’). Other accomplices included some noble ladies: Lady Anna Welyker, Lady Judith Pogan and Lady Szell among others assisted Bathory in finding new servant girls. Even Bathory's youngest daughter, Katalin, is said to have participated in at least one of her mother's torture sessions.

When the Countess opened a finishing school for young daughters of the nobility in 1610, it was the beginning of the end. The daughters of the nobles began to die. Their families brought their concerns to the King of Hungary, Matthias II. Gyorgy Thurzo, palantine (prime minister) of Hungary, was sent to investigate Bathory.

King Matthias II; Photo: Wikipedia

Gyorgy Thurzo; Wikipedia

Thurzo and his team conducted extensive interviews with the Countess' staff from March to July 1610. Fifty-two witnesses and servants were questioned and most gave horrific accounts of girls being beaten, starved and left outside to die.

What's interesting is that most of these accounts were of hearing noises from the secret chambers but that no one actually saw anything. Doctors who visited to treat the Countess' servants didn't see any injuries but supposedly only saw the girls' faces.

According to most accounts, Thurzo arrived at the Countess' castle in time to catch her in the middle of a torture session. He found a girl, Anna, who had been beaten and sustained severe injuries.

Anna gave the authorities two different accounts. At first, she said that the Countess beat her but that Beneczky had "torn her flesh." Anna would later claim that the Countess inflicted all of her injuries including damaging her right hand and arm. In exchange for her testimony, Thurzo granted Anna 15 lbs. of wheat, a small farm plus a monetary reward (50 guilders).

The Countess' accomplices were all tried. Illona Jo and Dorottya Szentes were tortured by having their fingers torn out. Both women's bodies were burned afterward. Katalin Beneczky was incarcerated in prison and Janos Ujvary, aka, Ficzko (‘Kid’) was beheaded. The infamous Darvulia, the inner circle's teacher and mentor, died before being brought to trial.

Thurzo also accused a local woman, Erzsi Majorova, rumored to be a witch, of using magic to help the Countess murder King Matthias. Marjova was burned.

The noblewomen were never tried for their involvement in procuring victims for the Countess. The Countess' daughter, Katalin, was also never tried.

While the Countess' servants admitted to the part they played in the crimes, the Countess claimed that the crimes were all her servants' doing. She said that she allowed the servants to engage in these torture sessions because she feared them. Lady Bathory also told Thurzo at one point that one of the girls in her finishing school had killed the others.

Countess Bathory; Photo: Curious Historian

Some question the Countess' guilt as well as some of the popular beliefs and details about her.

The number of victims is usually reported as 650. The amount was provided by a servant, Susannah, who said that she took the figure from a ledger kept by an official, Jacob Szilvassey. While Szavilessy said that he did witness the Countess' torture sessions, he never mentioned the ledger. A ledger containing a record of the Countess' victims was ever found.

It's also pointed out that all of the servants who admitted their guilt did so during torture. Before that, they all blamed Darvulia. However, besides Szavilessy another official testified against the Countess as a witness to her crimes.

The Countess' court master Benedek Deseo described the murder of a maid, Illonka. Apparently, the Countess was dissatisfied with the girl's work performance. She decided that Illonka should be "punished" for her clumsiness. After stripping Illonka, Lady Bathory is described by Deseo as working herself into a furious frenzy, stabbing Illonka in the fingers and arms, whipped her, then burned her hands with a candle. The Countess didn't stop until Illonka was dead.

Lady Bathory is best known for bathing in the blood of her victims. This detail of the Countess' crimes was never mentioned during the trials. The blood bath was added in 1729 by Laszlo Turoczi, a Jesuit scholar. During the course of conducting research for a book on Lady Bathory, Turoczi came across a story told by local peasants about a countess who bathed in blood to preserve her beauty. This detail wasn't questioned until 1817, when the records of the Bathory trials were found. Not one account of the Countess' crimes included blood being collected for "baths."

Ilona Jo reported that the Countess did beat girls until they bled, so hard that the blood pooled on the floor and splattered the Countess' clothes. But when this happened, Lady Bathory would change clothes immediately. The servants would also wash away any blood on the floor - they did not collect it.

Ablution by FlexDreams on Deviant Art

Photo: Medium

Anorher interesting fact surrounding this case is that King Matthias stood to benefit greatly from Lady Bathory's conviction.

Bathory and Nadasdy lent the Hungarian Crown money for many years. Bathory had made many appeals for repayment much to King Matthias' dismay. If Bathory was convicted, the debt would be eliminated and the King could seize her holdings.

At the time, there was a conflict between Catholics and Protestants in that region. Rendering the Protestant Bathorys powerless would make it impossible for them to lead a revolt against the Catholic King.

Lady Bathory had agreed to provide money and troops to help her cousin, Gabor Bathory, Prince of Transylvania, unify Transylvania and Royal Hungary under his rule. She pledged her support in exchange for his support should she need it in regards to the allegations against her. Thurzo had been trying to negotiate a treaty with Gabor to avoid a potential war. Without the Countess' support, Gabor's plan couldn't come to fruition.

Thurzo refused to allow the Countess a trial. He believed that if she appeared before a court, Lady Bathory could quite possibly sway the decision in her favor. He considered confining the Countess to a convent. Due to the extremely gruesome nature of the crimes, he decided not to.

Lady Bathory is said to have threatened Thurzo with "dire consequences" if he did not allow her a trial. He refused, and said, “You Erzsebet are like a wild animal … you do not deserve to breathe the air on earth or see the light of the Lord. You shall disappear from this world and shall never reappear in it again.’

Thurzo persuaded the nobles connected to the Bathory case that bringing the Countess to trial would not only be disastrous to the Bathorys and Nadasdys but to all the nobility and the Crown itself. The nobles petitioned the King to deny the Countess a trial. The Bathory-Nadasdy family absolved the King of his debt.

In an attempt to refute the charges against her, the Countess made an unexpected appearance in court with the mother of a victim from her finishing school. The woman claimed her daughter died from natural causes. At one point, the Countess even went as far as to claim one of the girls in the finishing school killed the other girls.

The Countess composed a will in September of 1610 to keep from having her assets confiscated. Her surviving children, Anna, Katalin and Pal would inherit all of her possessions with the exception of the Countesses'wedding dress, which she wanted to keep until her death. The Countess also suspected that her sons-in-law were conspiring with with Thurzo to take over her estates. The will was drawn up partially to appease them.

Bathory gathered her jewels from Savar and went to Csejthe in October 1610.

Elizabeth’s sentence was solitary confinement behind a brick wall in a windowless room in Cjsethe Castle. The only opening was a small space to pass food, etc. Sometimes, Bathory's daughter, Katalin, visited. Her daughter would bring her candles, ink and parchment.

Besides occasional visits from her daughter, the Countess' only company was a guard. She passed her final days in that room, dying on August 14, 1614.

- Missy Dawn

References:

The History Collection: "The Real Countess Dracula: 12 Facts about the Life and Crimes of Elizabeth Bathory," by Natasha Sheldon

History Today, " Death of Countess Elizabeth Bathory: A vicious killer died on 21 August 1614," by Richard Cavendish, published in History Today, Volume 64, Issue 8, August 2014

History Channel.com: "This Day in History: December 26, 1610: Hungarian countess’ torturous escapades are exposed"

[whence-and-whither]

Ten-thousand butterflies aglow in red and black

Cauld arrived in the Shadow Vault to find it conspicuously barren.

He hadn't brought any goods or supplies to drop off per anyone's request. In fact, for days now he had been outright ignoring whatever chatter might have been crossing the Scourgestones. Maybe no one had been calling for him.

No, this time he had come only to retrieve a missing knife, knowing there was only one place it could be. And indeed, such a quick mission it would be, that he wouldn't even need to put away his stone in the meantime.

As his eyes adjusted to gloomier surroundings than those his Scourgestone had teleported him from, he crept into the Vault's central area, to cross to the dead man's chamber. The halls of the Saronite-bound fortress weren't always abuzz with death knights (or the swarming insects that infested some of them), but nary a soul (if they could be called that) was in sight. No knights stood in idle conversation or busied themselves with routine duties. Not even a dour guard stood at any usual post. And in the silence scuffed only by his footfalls, no ring of metal or echo of a grave voice sounded to drift through the hall's rune-inscribed colonnade.

He almost called out, but stopped himself. He'd go about his business unseen, and consider himself fortunate for it. "Everyone out on patrol, or somethin'?" he mumbled instead. "Guess I came at the right time."

The silence was foreboding as he paused at the door to the dead man's chamber. No.. No, it wasn't. "Nerves," he assured himself, steeling his own with a shake of his head and the steadiest breath he could muster before he eased the door open by the slowest of increments.

What if Evelyne was inside? What if Shawdius's body still was?

Cauld let out a sigh, finding only silent, still darkness, and stale, unstirred air as he slipped into the room. He dipped a hand into his satchel and a gentle light spilled before him, from a curled leaf of Astral Glory safe in a tiny globe of glass as he pulled it up by its thin chain. Then, soon enough, a candle, easily lit, washed the room in guttering light, and he stowed the other.

The room looked as though nothing had been touched.

A high wall of crates still partitioned it, though no secrets remained to be kept concealed. A dried-up streak of vomit still stained the corner he'd spent too many minutes getting acquainted with. And nearer, dark spatters of blood still branded the floor with harrowing memories.

Just don't think about it. Breathe.. you can breathe.

At least his knife hadn't traveled far. Beckoned by the glint of candlelight upon its sullied blade, he swiped it from the floor to return swiftly to its sheath.

Now, just to extinguish the candle and pretend he'd never come back to this Light-forsaken place of nightmares.

But..

The candle, in its chamberstick, sat atop a familiar tome: Shawdius's book on the arcane. Cauld had borrowed it for half a week to help the bastard, only to be accused months later of stealing it.

"Get me my book back, you prepubescent pickpocket!"

Cauld scoffed, recalling an insult the necromancer had slung his way, and set his Scourgestone on the desk, to take up the book and thumb through a few pages.

"Shithead," he grumbled aloud, all the reverence he'd decided the dead man was due. "What're you gonna do about it now?"

As the book disappeared into his bag, a sudden crescendo of screams engulfed his ears.

He leapt backward with a shriek, dropping onto the dead man's cot as the back of his knees connected with it.

A speaking voice joined the horrific chorus -- no, rose before it, with the screams echoing from the background -- and Cauld realized the clamor had burst from his Scourgestone.

Heart still racing as he let himself fall back onto the cot, he could have laughed as reassurance settled in that Shawdius had not, in fact, returned from the dead to scream bloody vengeance upon him. He could have laughed, if not for the uproar that continued to pour from the stone. A confusion of indistinct shouts and questions, and all the background din fading in and out as different voices took precedence. Something about fire. Something about Teldrassil.

And then, all too clearly:

"The World Tree, you imbecile! The Horde has burned the night elves' tree!"

Cauld sat up and stared over at the stone. The whole thing? But wasn't it--?

"This.. is huge. This isn't just a skirmish."

His eyes strayed to the candle's flame as the commotion continued. A tiny flicker, yet it was sufficient to spark a blaze in his imagination. A whole society, set to flame? Silhouettes twisted in his head, engulfed in a torment of fire and smoke.

"Light have mercy. The whole blasted tree is alight."

Imagined figures writhed amid the too-real screams that echoed from the stone, all so akin to the ones in nightmares that had ceased to plague him. This.. There had to be multitudes.

Sliding off the cot and onto his knees, he shuffled over to the desk, to speak into the stone. Though he kept a tremble from creeping into his voice, he could find no power to put into it. "Weren't there.. people living in it?" Burning alive. Nowhere to run.

Evelyne's voice, firm, gentle, composed. "Cauld. There's been struggling in the area for days now, so they evacuated it."

He sank onto his heels as perhaps all the air left his body in the form of a relieved sigh. Thank goodness.

And then she spoke again. "Leave your stone in Shawdius's room."

"WHAT!?" How did she know he was here? He bolted to his feet, and dashed to the back of the room. No one behind the wall of crates -- only a depleted ring of runes. He looked up at the ceiling. Around at all the corners. No one. She couldn't know he was here.

Dismissing his refusal -- "too busy to argue with you" -- and ignoring his final retort, she went silent before another voice rang out. Cedric Morden. Heated crackling. A temple in flames.

Another scream sounded -- this one furious, this one from within the Vault.

Cauld stiffened, uttering a surprised curse. He had to get home. Throwing his Scourgestone into his bag, as a torrid roar that couldn't have been produced by beast or man consumed the voice that was speaking, he blew out the candle and bolted for the door.

He spied her at once: the source of the scream hadn't ceased her screeching as she stomped in the direction of the runeforges. Unlike the first, a long, inarticulate roar of rage and despair, her shrieks now continued as shrill curses, damning the Horde, swearing revenge.

"Hey!" Cauld shouted, racing after her. "Did you come from Teldrassil? What's goin' on?"

A towering elf in soot-stained Saronite, she wheeled to face him, a longsword quivering in a one-handed grasp. From behind her helm, a blaze of lichfire fixed upon him, furious enough to burn, and yet it sent a chill through him.

"If you know about Teldrassil, then you know what's going on. The Horde has destroyed everything!" she screeched at him, before whipping around again to continue marching on her way.

What could he say to that? What could he do but hope she'd save her bloodshed for the battlefield?

"Wait! I have to get out of here! Will you open a death gate for me?"

"To get you out of my way, I will," the elf snarled, her free hand snapping out to cast its hasty spell before seizing him by an arm.

Like the smell of smoke that clung to her, the Kaldorei knight's last words before shoving him through the death gate resounded in Cauld's head long after he tumbled out the other side.

"For every innocent, every civilian, every child she burned alive in that tree--" her sword rattled with her effort to contain her wrath-- "I'll behead the Banshee myself!"

[byunseoeun91-blog]

Famous Mothers Around The World in History

In honor of Mother's Day, here's a examine what seven famous historic mothers did for his or her sons and daughters.

Sara Kettlermay

If there's one regular for the duration of history, it's the close relationship among mothers and their kids. Though specific historical periods and instances cause exceptional actions, mothers will continually love, shield and combat for (and perhaps try and control) their offspring. In honor of mom's day, here's a take a look at what seven famous ancient mothers did for his or her sons and daughters.

Olympias

Olympias While it got here to her son, Alexander the outstanding, Olympias became a mother whose guide knew no bounds. Alexander turned into born in 356 b.C.E. To Olympias and Philip ii of Macedon, who'd married in element to bolster ties between Macedon and her home of Epicurus. While Philip, who practiced polygamy, later took a young Macedonian spouse, it changed into clear that a complete-blooded Macedonian heir may want to threaten Alexander's declare to the throne. After Philip changed into assassinated in 336 b.C.E., Olympias therefore came under suspicion for masterminding the killing (although there have been masses of different ability suspects). Whether or not or now not she was in the back of her husband's assassination, Olympias became in all likelihood responsible for the following loss of life of Philip's new spouse and infant.

Alexander succeeded his father and proceeded to increase the empire. As he did so, Olympias assisted her son by supplying advice about guidelines and people in his circle (as a snake charmer who may want to make reptiles do as she wished, politics ought to have been a bit of cake for her). The one aspect Olympias didn't do became accompany Alexander on his navy campaigns, but she likely wanted she had ��� if she'd been handy, perhaps her devotion could have prevented a 32-yr-vintage Alexander's untimely loss of life from malaria in 323 b.C.E.

Angelina Jolie

Angelina Jolie is a mixture of ability, motherhood and tremendous property. Jolie is a girl who considers her kids would be the most effective thing ever occurred to her and values her relationship. She understands the way to manage work and family and adores distinct components of life. Lately, a Vietnamese child named Pax Thien has been adopted by the couple and raised their family size.

Mother Lu

About 2,000 years in the past in china, at some point of the xin dynasty (nine–25 c.E.), mother Lu's son, who turned into a district legitimate, become charged with a minor offense after which performed by way of the district magistrate. Afterward, mother Lu channeled her dissatisfied in an surprising route: she raised a pressure that captured the Justice of the Peace in 17 c.E.; in retaliation for her son's loss of life, the person turned into beheaded.

Mother Lu died rapidly after getting her revenge. But, among the fighters she'd assembled went directly to combat the forces of the xin dynasty (this rebellion came to be called the pink eyebrows rise up because these opponents painted their brows red to try to appear like demons). Whilst the xin dynasty changed into brief-lived for lots reasons — its emperor, Wang Mang, became considered as a usurper; his reforms didn't bring about peasant help; and flooding of the yellow river caused food shortages and unrest — the electricity of mother Lu's fury at her son's loss of life also performed a component in its stop.

Anne Boleyn

Anne Boleyn Getting her head chopped off when her daughter, the future Elizabeth i, become most effective  years old, ensured that Anne Boleyn didn't have tons to do with the girl's upbringing. However Anne had already performed an critical factor for her daughter: because she'd controlled to marry Elizabeth's father, Henry viii, it became feasible for Elizabeth to sooner or later end up queen.

In 1526, the married Henry desired Anne to end up his mistress (a position several ladies, consisting of Anne's sister, had already filled). Anne vetoed the mistress concept, for this reason placing in motion a sequence of activities that would regulate English records: when the pope wouldn't annul Henry's marriage to Catherine of Aragon, England broke far from the catholic church and Henry dissolved the marriage himself. Henry then secretly wed a pregnant Anne in 1533, and Elizabeth changed into proclaimed a princess whilst she was born.

If Anne had just been some other mistress, Elizabeth would not had been blanketed in Henry's 0.33 act of succession (1544). Even though Elizabeth's more youthful half of-brother and older 1/2-sister might hold the English throne earlier than her, in 1558 she were given her threat thanks to her mother.

Sojourner Truth

1864 Sojourner reality gave beginning to her youngsters even as being held as a slave in NY. Though reality received her freedom in 1826, she become forced to depart her older youngsters at the back of (NY become in the procedure of regularly abolishing slavery, however humans born after July 4, 1799, had been required to complete a period of service before being freed). However, truth become bowled over while she found out that her 5-yr-antique son, peter, had been sent to an Alabama plantation. His sale turned into no longer most effective a moral outrage, however it was additionally illegal: New York's legal guidelines forbade the selling of a slave out of kingdom.

Notwithstanding the risks of speak-me out, truth insisted, "i will have my baby once more." she filed a grievance with the ulster county grand jury, then raised cash for an attorney. The man who'd bought peter had probably thought he'd break out with it — many slave owners in the big apple not noted the regulation because they wanted to get as a whole lot make the most of the humans they owned at the same time as they could. However fact's moves pressured the seller to convey her son again to the big apple.

In the spring of 1828, peter become back to his mom. He had scars from being whipped, crushed and kicked for the duration of his time in Alabama, however reality had saved him from an entire life of such mistreatment.

Clara Brown

Clara brown didn't have the posh of criminal action while she and her kids — Richard, Margaret and Eliza Jane — had been split up and bought in Kentucky in 1835. At the same time as nevertheless enslaved, brown learned of Margaret's dying, and that Richard were offered so normally there was no hint of him. Even after brown changed into freed in 1857, she wasn't capable of look for Eliza Jane, whose last recognized whereabouts have been in Kentucky — if brown didn't leave the kingdom within a year, she risked being enslaved over again. She therefore headed west and installed herself in Colorado.

The give up of the civil warfare made it viable for brown to adventure to Kentucky in October 1865 to search for her daughter. But despite speaking to ministers and different humans, she couldn't uncover Eliza Jane's course. Lamentably, brown wasn't the most effective one in this desperate scenario — at the time, many former slaves who'd been separated for years or even decades had been attempting to find each other with the help of newspaper commercials, churches and letters.

Brown again to Colorado, but her love for her daughter persevered. In 1882, she by some means found that Eliza Jane became in Iowa. Mother and daughter have been then able to reunite at closing.

Queen Victoria

Queen Victoria may also have had a country to rule, however that failed to keep her from trying to govern the lives of her offspring as nicely (her husband, prince Albert, once accused her of retaining "the fallacious perception the function of a mom is to be constantly correcting, scolding and ordering them about"). Even as all nine of her youngsters needed to address some interference — she failed to accept as true with the judgement of her inheritor, Bertie, and consequently wouldn't let him see cabinet and state papers — it changed into her youngest child, Beatrice, who skilled the greatest degree of manipulate.

A widowed Victoria failed to want Beatrice to go away her, so while the princess fell in love with and asked to marry prince Henry of batten-berg, her mother wasn't thrilled. The queen gave her daughter the silent treatment for months, speaking entirely via written observe. Victoria finally relented and allowed the marriage to take location in 1885, but she additionally demanded that the couple stay with her. Beatrice went in conjunction with this — after all, if your mother's also your queen and sovereign, it's tough to inform her "no."

And ultimately, Beatrice, Henry and Victoria had been satisfied dwelling collectively. In this situation, maybe mother did understand satisfactory.

Maria Von Trapp

Though a few of the details in the beloved musical the sound of music are incorrect, one element it receives proper is maria Von Trapp's love for the Von Trapp children. In reality, she agreed to Georg Von Trapp's marriage idea due to the fact in it he asked her to come to be his kid's 2d mom — she later admitted, "if he had only requested me to marry him i won't have stated yes." (maria did develop to love her husband.)

It became fortunate for the Von Trap's that maria married into their family in 1927. She managed to overcome their dire economic situation within the Thirties by getting them to soak up boarders, cut prices and start acting as a singing institution. After the Nazi birthday party came to strength, a pregnant maria helped her husband and their 9 youngsters — the seven Von Trapp children she'd followed, plus  children she'd given start to — go away Austria in 1938.

The actual-life maria became decided enough that she probably should've shepherded her own family over the alps, however the Von Trapps failed to observe the path depicted inside the film. Instead, using the excuse of a holiday, maria and her own family took a teach to Italy.

[ladonnanelson]

When You Are in Danger: Verse Behind the Christian T-Shirt

Most of us don’t see much danger. We move from climate-controlled homes, to air conditioned offices by moving at cheetah speeds inside extraordinarily safe vehicles. When we get sick, we get cures for diseases that have killed millions in the past. We have medications that can alleviate chronic conditions and extend our lives beyond what most people in history had ever dreamed.

But there is still some danger. Our careful planning still can’t stop natural disasters from destroying belongings and taking lives. Modern medicine still can’t put off death forever, despite our best efforts. Sophisticated security systems still can’t prevent evil people from hurting us. Danger is still here.

When You Are in Danger: Psalm 91

So where should a Christian turn to encourage us when we’re in danger? Our Bible Emergency Numbers Christian t-shirt points us to Psalm 91. The psalm was made famous (besides being in the Bible) by the song On Eagle’s Wings, composed by Michael Joncas.

Psalm 91 is a psalm that shows amazing trust in God. LIke many of these psalms, it encourages Christians to see our God as a shelter, a fortress:

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High    will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,    my God, in whom I trust.”

The whole psalm describes how God protects the people who call on his name. The Psalmist lists several dangers that people in his day might face, pestilence, darkness, arrows, and armies. He writes that God covers his people with his wings to protect them like a bird covers its young. God promises to protect his people.

The Psalmist summarizes his message when God speaks in the last few verses:

“Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him;    I will protect him, because he knows my name. When he calls to me, I will answer him;    I will be with him in trouble;   I will rescue him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him    and show him my salvation.”

God promises to protect the people who call on his name.

But Christians Get Hurt All The Time…

Psalm 91 raises an obvious question, “How can these promises be true when Christians get hurt all the time?” One possible answer is that these Christians just don’t have enough faith. Here’s how the argument usually goes: If you believe enough, if you trust hard enough, if your faith is strong enough, then God will protect you.

It makes sense from a human perspective, too. People are transactional by nature. If someone does something nice for us, we often respond by doing nice things for them. We love the people who love us. Why wouldn’t God be the same way?

But God’s ways are different from ours. His love doesn’t wait for us to come to him. Instead, he comes to us, and he loves us long before we loved him. We can’t earn God’s promises even through our worship, praise, and faith. We are saved by grace after all.

Jesus Trusted God

Jesus is the perfect test case for how God’s promises work. He was the only perfect human being, which means he trusted his Father for everything. When Jesus was attacked in his hometown, the Father protected him. He watched over Jesus for his whole life.

Jesus trusted his Father so much that he wasn’t concerned about danger. Jesus and his disciples were out on the sea of Galilee when a storm arose. Jesus was exhausted from teaching all day, so he fell asleep on a pillow. The storm raged around the boat, and the disciples were terrified that they were going to drown. These were experienced fishermen who knew how to handle a boat. They weren’t easily scared.

But Jesus lay asleep, head on his pillow. That’s trust, to be so calm in a storm. Nature raged around him. His disciples were shouting. But Jesus slept as securely as a young child in his father’s arms. Jesus truly trusted his Father.

But Jesus Died

But the Father didn’t protect Jesus from all danger. Every Christian knows that story. Jesus was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the guards dragged him before the Sanhedrin. They beat him and falsely accused him before taking him to Pontius Pilate. The weak-willed Pilate succumbed to the crowd’s will, so he beat Jesus and whipped him. When that wasn’t enough, Pilate washed his hands of Jesus, and he allowed Jesus to be crucified.

Where were the promises of Psalm 91?

For he will command his angels concerning you    to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up,   lest you strike your foot against a stone.

It promises that God will protect you from even striking your foot against a stone, but the Father sent Jesus to the cross to die! Even the Pharisees noticed that the Father’s promises seemed to fail. In Matthew 27:43 they say, “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now.”

And the Father did it. He delivered Jesus from death by raising him from the dead. After terrible danger, torture, and death, the Father saved him. Psalm 91’s promises finally came true after everyone thought they had failed.

The Holy Martyrs

The same is true for the holy martyrs. They trusted God, even when they faced torture and death. Consider St. Ignatius, a bishop from the first century AD. We know him best from a series of letters he wrote while Roman guards took him to the capital for execution.

In his letter to the Romans, chapter 4, he writes:

I write to the Churches, and impress on them all, that I shall willingly die for God, unless ye hinder me… Suffer me to become food for the wild beasts, through whose instrumentality it will be granted me to attain to God. I am the wheat of God, and let me be ground by the teeth of the wild beasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ.

Can you imagine writing that? He tells the Roman church to refrain from saving him. Don’t try to get him out of jail. Don’t try to rescue him. He wants to be literally thrown to the lions. And, by doing so, he would receive the crown of life and prove to be a true Christian. Ignatius trusted that the Lord Almighty is a shelter and fortress. And just like Jesus, he will be raised up on the last day.

We know story after story of martyrs who died with this faith, men and women who would rather be crucified, thrown to lions, of beheaded than deny Jesus Christ. They trusted that God could deliver them even from death, because they knew that the Father had delivered Jesus from the same.

My Refuge and My Fortress

We can trust the psalmist’s words, too. Just like St. Ignatius and all the martyrs, we know that Jesus was raised from the dead. We also know that everyone who is in Christ will also be raised from the dead on the last day to receive eternal life.

Because we have been united with Christ in his death, we are also united with him in his resurrection. Paul writes in Romans 6:

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.

We can trust, even in the midst of terrible danger, that God’s promises will come true for us. Nothing can stop them, because they have already happened through Jesus. So, when you are in danger, turn to Psalm 91. You will see God’s promises to you to protect you even when you have passed into the grave.

via Tumblr When You Are in Danger: Verse Behind the Christian T-Shirt

via Unbound - Blog http://ourlordstyles.weebly.com/blog/when-you-are-in-danger-verse-behind-the-christian-t-shirt syndicated from https://ourlordstyle.com/

[oletacho]

When You Are in Danger: Verse Behind the Christian T-Shirt

Most of us don’t see much danger. We move from climate-controlled homes, to air conditioned offices by moving at cheetah speeds inside extraordinarily safe vehicles. When we get sick, we get cures for diseases that have killed millions in the past. We have medications that can alleviate chronic conditions and extend our lives beyond what most people in history had ever dreamed.

But there is still some danger. Our careful planning still can’t stop natural disasters from destroying belongings and taking lives. Modern medicine still can’t put off death forever, despite our best efforts. Sophisticated security systems still can’t prevent evil people from hurting us. Danger is still here.

When You Are in Danger: Psalm 91

So where should a Christian turn to encourage us when we’re in danger? Our Bible Emergency Numbers Christian t-shirt points us to Psalm 91. The psalm was made famous (besides being in the Bible) by the song On Eagle’s Wings, composed by Michael Joncas.

Psalm 91 is a psalm that shows amazing trust in God. LIke many of these psalms, it encourages Christians to see our God as a shelter, a fortress:

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High    will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,    my God, in whom I trust.”

The whole psalm describes how God protects the people who call on his name. The Psalmist lists several dangers that people in his day might face, pestilence, darkness, arrows, and armies. He writes that God covers his people with his wings to protect them like a bird covers its young. God promises to protect his people.

The Psalmist summarizes his message when God speaks in the last few verses:

“Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him;    I will protect him, because he knows my name. When he calls to me, I will answer him;    I will be with him in trouble;   I will rescue him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him    and show him my salvation.”

God promises to protect the people who call on his name.

But Christians Get Hurt All The Time…

Psalm 91 raises an obvious question, “How can these promises be true when Christians get hurt all the time?” One possible answer is that these Christians just don’t have enough faith. Here’s how the argument usually goes: If you believe enough, if you trust hard enough, if your faith is strong enough, then God will protect you.

It makes sense from a human perspective, too. People are transactional by nature. If someone does something nice for us, we often respond by doing nice things for them. We love the people who love us. Why wouldn’t God be the same way?

But God’s ways are different from ours. His love doesn’t wait for us to come to him. Instead, he comes to us, and he loves us long before we loved him. We can’t earn God’s promises even through our worship, praise, and faith. We are saved by grace after all.

Jesus Trusted God

Jesus is the perfect test case for how God’s promises work. He was the only perfect human being, which means he trusted his Father for everything. When Jesus was attacked in his hometown, the Father protected him. He watched over Jesus for his whole life.

Jesus trusted his Father so much that he wasn’t concerned about danger. Jesus and his disciples were out on the sea of Galilee when a storm arose. Jesus was exhausted from teaching all day, so he fell asleep on a pillow. The storm raged around the boat, and the disciples were terrified that they were going to drown. These were experienced fishermen who knew how to handle a boat. They weren’t easily scared.

But Jesus lay asleep, head on his pillow. That’s trust, to be so calm in a storm. Nature raged around him. His disciples were shouting. But Jesus slept as securely as a young child in his father’s arms. Jesus truly trusted his Father.

But Jesus Died

But the Father didn’t protect Jesus from all danger. Every Christian knows that story. Jesus was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the guards dragged him before the Sanhedrin. They beat him and falsely accused him before taking him to Pontius Pilate. The weak-willed Pilate succumbed to the crowd’s will, so he beat Jesus and whipped him. When that wasn’t enough, Pilate washed his hands of Jesus, and he allowed Jesus to be crucified.

Where were the promises of Psalm 91?

For he will command his angels concerning you    to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up,   lest you strike your foot against a stone.

It promises that God will protect you from even striking your foot against a stone, but the Father sent Jesus to the cross to die! Even the Pharisees noticed that the Father’s promises seemed to fail. In Matthew 27:43 they say, “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now.”

And the Father did it. He delivered Jesus from death by raising him from the dead. After terrible danger, torture, and death, the Father saved him. Psalm 91’s promises finally came true after everyone thought they had failed.

The Holy Martyrs

The same is true for the holy martyrs. They trusted God, even when they faced torture and death. Consider St. Ignatius, a bishop from the first century AD. We know him best from a series of letters he wrote while Roman guards took him to the capital for execution.

In his letter to the Romans, chapter 4, he writes:

I write to the Churches, and impress on them all, that I shall willingly die for God, unless ye hinder me… Suffer me to become food for the wild beasts, through whose instrumentality it will be granted me to attain to God. I am the wheat of God, and let me be ground by the teeth of the wild beasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ.

Can you imagine writing that? He tells the Roman church to refrain from saving him. Don’t try to get him out of jail. Don’t try to rescue him. He wants to be literally thrown to the lions. And, by doing so, he would receive the crown of life and prove to be a true Christian. Ignatius trusted that the Lord Almighty is a shelter and fortress. And just like Jesus, he will be raised up on the last day.

We know story after story of martyrs who died with this faith, men and women who would rather be crucified, thrown to lions, of beheaded than deny Jesus Christ. They trusted that God could deliver them even from death, because they knew that the Father had delivered Jesus from the same.

My Refuge and My Fortress

We can trust the psalmist’s words, too. Just like St. Ignatius and all the martyrs, we know that Jesus was raised from the dead. We also know that everyone who is in Christ will also be raised from the dead on the last day to receive eternal life.

Because we have been united with Christ in his death, we are also united with him in his resurrection. Paul writes in Romans 6:

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.

We can trust, even in the midst of terrible danger, that God’s promises will come true for us. Nothing can stop them, because they have already happened through Jesus. So, when you are in danger, turn to Psalm 91. You will see God’s promises to you to protect you even when you have passed into the grave.

When You Are in Danger: Verse Behind the Christian T-Shirt published first on https://ourlordstyle.com/

[ourlordstyles]

When You Are in Danger: Verse Behind the Christian T-Shirt

Most of us don’t see much danger. We move from climate-controlled homes, to air conditioned offices by moving at cheetah speeds inside extraordinarily safe vehicles. When we get sick, we get cures for diseases that have killed millions in the past. We have medications that can alleviate chronic conditions and extend our lives beyond what most people in history had ever dreamed.

But there is still some danger. Our careful planning still can’t stop natural disasters from destroying belongings and taking lives. Modern medicine still can’t put off death forever, despite our best efforts. Sophisticated security systems still can’t prevent evil people from hurting us. Danger is still here.

When You Are in Danger: Psalm 91

So where should a Christian turn to encourage us when we’re in danger? Our Bible Emergency Numbers Christian t-shirt points us to Psalm 91. The psalm was made famous (besides being in the Bible) by the song On Eagle’s Wings, composed by Michael Joncas.

Psalm 91 is a psalm that shows amazing trust in God. LIke many of these psalms, it encourages Christians to see our God as a shelter, a fortress:

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High    will abide in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress,    my God, in whom I trust.”

The whole psalm describes how God protects the people who call on his name. The Psalmist lists several dangers that people in his day might face, pestilence, darkness, arrows, and armies. He writes that God covers his people with his wings to protect them like a bird covers its young. God promises to protect his people.

The Psalmist summarizes his message when God speaks in the last few verses:

  “Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him;    I will protect him, because he knows my name. When he calls to me, I will answer him;    I will be with him in trouble;   I will rescue him and honor him. With long life I will satisfy him    and show him my salvation.”

God promises to protect the people who call on his name.

  But Christians Get Hurt All The Time…

Psalm 91 raises an obvious question, “How can these promises be true when Christians get hurt all the time?” One possible answer is that these Christians just don’t have enough faith. Here’s how the argument usually goes: If you believe enough, if you trust hard enough, if your faith is strong enough, then God will protect you.

It makes sense from a human perspective, too. People are transactional by nature. If someone does something nice for us, we often respond by doing nice things for them. We love the people who love us. Why wouldn’t God be the same way?

But God’s ways are different from ours. His love doesn’t wait for us to come to him. Instead, he comes to us, and he loves us long before we loved him. We can’t earn God’s promises even through our worship, praise, and faith. We are saved by grace after all.

Jesus Trusted God

Jesus is the perfect test case for how God’s promises work. He was the only perfect human being, which means he trusted his Father for everything. When Jesus was attacked in his hometown, the Father protected him. He watched over Jesus for his whole life.

Jesus trusted his Father so much that he wasn’t concerned about danger. Jesus and his disciples were out on the sea of Galilee when a storm arose. Jesus was exhausted from teaching all day, so he fell asleep on a pillow. The storm raged around the boat, and the disciples were terrified that they were going to drown. These were experienced fishermen who knew how to handle a boat. They weren’t easily scared.

But Jesus lay asleep, head on his pillow. That’s trust, to be so calm in a storm. Nature raged around him. His disciples were shouting. But Jesus slept as securely as a young child in his father’s arms. Jesus truly trusted his Father.

But Jesus Died

But the Father didn’t protect Jesus from all danger. Every Christian knows that story. Jesus was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane, and the guards dragged him before the Sanhedrin. They beat him and falsely accused him before taking him to Pontius Pilate. The weak-willed Pilate succumbed to the crowd’s will, so he beat Jesus and whipped him. When that wasn’t enough, Pilate washed his hands of Jesus, and he allowed Jesus to be crucified.

Where were the promises of Psalm 91?

For he will command his angels concerning you    to guard you in all your ways. On their hands they will bear you up,   lest you strike your foot against a stone.

It promises that God will protect you from even striking your foot against a stone, but the Father sent Jesus to the cross to die! Even the Pharisees noticed that the Father’s promises seemed to fail. In Matthew 27:43 they say, “He trusts in God; let God deliver him now.”

And the Father did it. He delivered Jesus from death by raising him from the dead. After terrible danger, torture, and death, the Father saved him. Psalm 91’s promises finally came true after everyone thought they had failed.

The Holy Martyrs

The same is true for the holy martyrs. They trusted God, even when they faced torture and death. Consider St. Ignatius, a bishop from the first century AD. We know him best from a series of letters he wrote while Roman guards took him to the capital for execution.

In his letter to the Romans, chapter 4, he writes:

I write to the Churches, and impress on them all, that I shall willingly die for God, unless ye hinder me… Suffer me to become food for the wild beasts, through whose instrumentality it will be granted me to attain to God. I am the wheat of God, and let me be ground by the teeth of the wild beasts, that I may be found the pure bread of Christ.

Can you imagine writing that? He tells the Roman church to refrain from saving him. Don’t try to get him out of jail. Don’t try to rescue him. He wants to be literally thrown to the lions. And, by doing so, he would receive the crown of life and prove to be a true Christian. Ignatius trusted that the Lord Almighty is a shelter and fortress. And just like Jesus, he will be raised up on the last day.

We know story after story of martyrs who died with this faith, men and women who would rather be crucified, thrown to lions, of beheaded than deny Jesus Christ. They trusted that God could deliver them even from death, because they knew that the Father had delivered Jesus from the same.

My Refuge and My Fortress

We can trust the psalmist’s words, too. Just like St. Ignatius and all the martyrs, we know that Jesus was raised from the dead. We also know that everyone who is in Christ will also be raised from the dead on the last day to receive eternal life.

Because we have been united with Christ in his death, we are also united with him in his resurrection. Paul writes in Romans 6:

We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life. For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.

We can trust, even in the midst of terrible danger, that God’s promises will come true for us. Nothing can stop them, because they have already happened through Jesus. So, when you are in danger, turn to Psalm 91. You will see God’s promises to you to protect you even when you have passed into the grave.

[saintlyfangs]

[ ~Backstory ~ ]

Orihara Izaya was born,  Aobayashi Tatsuharu. To father Akabayashi Shirou, fourth son; Bushi, Akabayashi Torakichi, and mother Aozaki Hiroko, only daughter; Shugo Daimyō, Aozaki Kiyoyuki.

During the Aobayashi Shogunate era these two branches were of one under the name of Aobayashi, and where originally a powerful shogun. However, after the death of their head Aobayashi Takuma in 1358 the family become dissolved into two branches after an intense dispute of clan issues; Side branch head is oldest twin Torakichi, why his youngest twin brother Kiyoyuki becomes the power of the main branch.

However, by 1392 it's become apparent that under stronger, bigger and more powerful clans their falling considerably short financially and politically, and are in danger of being whipped out all together. With in mind the twin heads decide intertwine their family, once again. With the marriage of their oldest heir's Shirou and Hiroko.

This kinship doesn’t last more than three years, before the brutal death of Kiyoyuki Aozaki and the birth of the first heir of the two branches is born. Rocks the already shaky foundations of the family, right back into quicksand. Leaving the two branches to spit accusations at each other on who is the murder.

Though it is the head of the Akabayashi clan, Torakichi. Who is the most outraged that he is number one accused for the murder of his twin brother. And takes the action of once again splitting up the family and planning to rage war on the main branch if the poisons accusations are not halted.

With war looking more and more possibly each coming day, Torakichi sends word to a family friend, Heiwajima Yuuki. The head of a powerful Royal Vampire Clan who's been at relatively peace for several years. Though has seen and been through numerous battles and negotiations throughout time on the winning side.

A month later, Torakichi receives a reply from Yuuki who has offered to take in their only heir Tatsuharu to raise them until the war's end or a peaceful outcome can come to be between the two branches.  However, has refused to partake in the battle between the two branches that were once one allied house to them.

Torn, but knowing that is for the best Torakichi agrees to the conditions set and sends word back that the child will be ready in a month. And as agreed a month later two members of the Heiwajima family show up for the escort mission. Unknowing to them, their secret negotiations are no longer secret. The new head of the Aozaki, Rin is prepared to intercept the escort mission and steal the child.

Another two months pass, before the two heads Akabayashi and Heiwajima learn what has become of the dead escorts and their stolen package. The head of the Aozaki wants Torakichi to confess to the murder of their twin brother and exchange the child for their member Hiroko.

This news finally breaks Hiroko down who confesses in shambles to spilling the negotiations of her child's whereabouts to her family. Enraged by her betrayal, Akabayashi Torakichi promptly has her executed by beheading. Her head is sent back to her family clan with a declaration of war and a passage that refuses to give into the blackmail.

War between Akabayashi and Aozaki rage on for three years, at this point both have fallen into ruin and they barely stand. No longer interested in staying out of this fight, Yuuki head of the peaceful clan Heiwajima finally intervenes. Tatsuharu now age four and two months, is handed over to Heiwajima Tsugaru, oldest heir.

The new head of the Akabayashi side branch Shirou, precalimes no more reason stands before for the two families to continue the senseless slaughter. Aozaki Rin whose family has been almost decimated has no choice but to agree and signs a peace treaty and declaration of giving their title as main branch to the side branch.

From age four and two months to age eight and one month, Aobayashi Tatsuharu spends his days in the company and study under the watchful eyes of his older step brothers;  Tsugaru and Tsukishima Heiwajima, twin sons of Yuuki and Daisuke Heiwajima. This life is peaceful, filled with love and understanding. Compared to the childhood he livid in fear and hardship as captive under the rule of the Aozaki head family.

Sadly this happiness does not last longer than a month after his eighth birthday. When the Heiwajima clan comes under attack by new ruling class Orihara. A shadow player come into light as a hunter clan with massive military powerful. With soon to be ruling as the new  shogunate of the edo period.

The head of this attack is head leader Kyouko Orihara. New wife of Tatsuharu’s birth father, Shirou. Officially now the main branch Akabayashi clan. Her declaration of this attack is the termination of the alliance between Akabayashi and Heiwajima. Because she claimed that she had been denied the right to her step son Tatsuharu.

With feelings of loss, anger, and the shattered reality that those they held so high were just as fragile as humans they were beginning to love. Feelings of hatred began to pool for the only family who they ever trusted and loved. He could not understand monsters who seemed as if nothing could hurt them could just leave him. To be ended by his humans as if they were nothing, but roaches crawling across the floor.

But with time; that abandonment, loss and anger dulled to a low roar as Aobayashi Tatsuharu, now Orihara Izaya. Having taken the name of their mother’s clan and chosen a new name at their coming of age ceremony, to shed the past from their future. Became too busy now under the watchful eye of their step mother, whose only goal had been to use him as a means to her own hatred.

However, his past had other plans and to stay dead was not one of them. During the flower viewing festival of that following year he came to a startling discovery. . . . they step brother’s who he’d been told had died among their family resurfaced from underground. And long with them emotions Izaya did not understand began to bubble up with them.  

Lost between emotions they could not control, they decided to cling to the one they they understood the; love for their humans. If fulfilling the dying wish of the man who had taken Izaya away from his nightmares to create a peace between monsters and humans, was something they could control they would see to it.      

At the age of fourteen Izaya finally saw a chance to see the start of that promise through, with their mother’s plan to strengthen their alliance ties with the Bakyura clan. By arranged marriage to their Allies the Taro clan via their only daughter Chrome. Though it was not heavily known the Taro clan was involved in the underground treaties of peace between races.

Going through with it, Izaya married Chrome at age fifteen and joined the two families. A year later the head of the Taro clan died due to illness and the position fell to the only male heir or the Taro clan, Teijin. A boy with what Izaya feels is is an overly sicking sweet nature, that did not feel real, or was used to hide something much darker in nature.

His suspicions come crashing down upon him full force. When word reaches Izaya why he’s out that his mother’s clan has been wiped out. By the Taro clan under the order of Teijin. For what he saw as Izaya’s betrayal of the clan. By secretarially meeting with Tsugaru, now only a high class Oiran.

Crushed under the silence of their mind, Tsugaru see’s the breaking of the boy's mind through their fates bonded connection. Knowing the child so well, Tsugaru knows what Izaya can be capable both the good and the ugly. If something is not done to smooth out this tragedy Izaya’s dark side will crush the Tora clan and anybody unlucky enough to be in the path or used as the path to that suicidal ending.

With quiet word Tsugaru sends word for his younger brother for help. Tsukishima out right refuses directly to Izaya. They would die before ever helping anybody within the Orihara clan, or anybody aligned with the parasitic hunter origination. Feel betrayed and attacked by what little connection to morals they had left Izaya leaves.

With time Izaya becomes hungry with delusions of grandeur and the idea that they are god as they began to pull the strings of three current powerful alliances; Bakyura, Tora and the Saika clan. By convincing the wife - Sakiko of the head family of Bakyura - Kizohu, that his best friend Taro - Teijin; to confront Teijin for soiling the alliances by murdering an allied force to her husband's family.

The head of the Bakyura horrified when his wife is injured due to her “Stepping out of her womanly place” by their best friend, Teijin. Kizohu breaks his alliance to the Taro clan believing that their best friend Teijin has become delusional and power hungry.

Izaya becomes excited when he gets word of this and believes he did what any good old friend would do. By showing Kizoku the true nature of what he tried so hard to refuse and that Sakiko’s injury was something little comparable to with what could have happened had they stayed aligned with the Taro clan.

But, it is when the Saika clan takes the side of the Bakyura clan, that really gets Izaya. Who had not planned for the two sides to take on forces against the Taro clan. A women who commands a horde of supernatural humans with her demonic aura. And who very sword had crossed with the new head of the Akabayashi family, Mizuki. A Royal Vampire of unknown origins.

Only to later find out the women with a different approach to loving humans, was non other then best friend of Seruti Sutoruruson. A supernatural Dullahan married to Shinra, only son to the Royal Vampire clan Kishitani who had strong alliance ties to the Heiwajima Royal family: who are one of the fourteen direct lines under the first twin Vampires, called Forebears.

However, Izaya missed a vital pieces of information in his games. No longer was this fight between clans, or a circle of revenge that did look to have an end. Now it was beginning to fan the embers of a even bigger feud and a world wide crises. And Izaya was the gasoline spreading across the flames licking the underbrush.

Soon the two Anti-groups; ‘Blood Rose’ and ‘Black Blood’ joined forces for a common goal, lead by none other than Taro Teijin. Who murdered his own sister and used her body as a declaration of war in the name of the new Anti-Alliance; Black Blood Rose. That Izaya and the clans allied in anyway with the last human hunter if the Orihara clan, understood this was no longer a small ripple.

And the first order of the ‘Black Blood Rose’ business was the capture and beheadings of every underground ‘Alliance Head’ Most importantly the heads of Orihara Izaya and Tsugaru Heiwajima, which lead to Izaya awaking to the missing memory of almost a whole month. To the care of his new doctor, future family and best friend Shinra and his wife The famous Irish Dullahan as his nurse.

Confused, Izaya is confronted by both good and bad news. The good news presented by hugs and kisses of his younger step sisters. As they finally reunite having convinced Izaya of their death. The bad news comes when Shinra relays the news that Tsugaru has been killed and the war is officially began on a worldwide scale.

Though, Shinra doesn’t have to say anything Izaya knows they are not who they once were. What he doesn’t understand is why he’s alive and why as monsters, when he could've just been easier to be killed too. Shinra says that Teijin most likely wanted him to suffer with the knowledge of what they had done had lead to all of this. Though, Shinra said nothing that perhaps Tsugaru has convinced Teijin into this, in knowing only Izaya could end what he offhandedly started.

Showing the start of outward anger, something unknown to Orihara Izaya. Shinra chasses everybody out of Izaya’s room to calm the new Vampire down. However, he is ignored and Shinra’s only warning to Izaya’s crumbling mental state is the flash of sickly red eyes as the pour of emotions cracks their normally stable man.

Thankfully Shinra is able to hold Izaya down and sedate him, before going under Izaya reveals that Tsugaru had been wrong; Tsugaru was not the monster. Izaya had always been the monster and by locking away feelings/emotions. He had forgotten he was just as human, as the mortals he claimed to love. That  by doing this he allowed himself to become blind with power and just as predictable as his humans. Teijin had used that weakness to manipulate and make him into a fool. In the end the only laugh was Izaya had become the joker of the game he had started. By allowing for miscalculations he ended up getting his mother’s clan slaughtered, he got his humans into a war and people he never wanted to admit he cared for, killed.

Before passing out from a heavy dose of Vampire sleeping medication, Izaya heard Shinra respond. “That is life, we all make mistakes be it good or bad. Sometimes our choices get innocent people involved or those we loved killed.

Do you know why you love humans so much Izaya? Because, they are difficult creatures; their struggles and lofty goals make them interesting, even when they are so predictable. There is good and bad in everything they do, none of that makes them worse or better in the eyes of life.

This is because to them what they are doing is right or the only choice in their eyes at that moment. Even when it’s the wrong in another’s. And so in the end you’re only as twisted as you believe yourself to be.

By doubting your own intentions then, you deny your own actions of exactly what they were in that one moment and is what makes you weak. It makes the innocent people who were hurt and the loved ones who died an action in vain.

The only thing you can do now is learn from those mistakes. Makes their death and sacrifices mean something by changing the future in their name. Make his love for you worth it, make his family's pride in you into a tangible substance. So not nobody can desecrate their names.”

Five hundred long and bloody years passed with war as the two major fractions known as ‘Black Blood Rose’ and Anti-Alliance made of of self-entitled Vampire, Humans, and Supernatural who sought to destroy the equality of those they thought to beneath them. Against the Alliance of Humans, Vampire, and Supernatural who sought to align all races under one equal ruling of peace and equality.

Deep in the shadows Orihara Izaya gathered intell, weeding out false information on both their side and the enemies side to gather information that would hinder the enemies and ensure victory to their cause. Why quietly gathering major leaders in the war on their side to align into a group called, ‘Eternal Sanctuary.' in hopes of seeing their mates families dreams come true.

As a child he has been interest in war games, he fund them fascinating, rewarding, and challenging. But, here on the battlefield watching women, children and men all alike, humans and supernatural alike slaughtered for hatred or worse for fun. Or Children used like sexual dolls for morally sick creatures and unable to do anything about it was something that even Orihara Izaya could barely stomach.

And the worst part about it, he understood the humans he loved were sometimes even more monstrous than creatures said to be sin itself. Everyday he would watch them battle to survive in a world where their nightmares were real. To watch children never known childhood as they battled to keep their family save as the world crashed around them.

At some point he realized his traveling isolation had stopped becoming something he hung on to and had started to creep into his sanity. Century after century the loneliness weighted mind down, questing his actions with self-doubt. No longer was what he did because he commanded it, now it had come something that controlled him and he was losing a fight he never wanted a part of.

The winter of that following year the war finally broke in the favour of the Alliance, by information of Tsukumoya Shinichi. Teijin had made a fateful mistake of screwing over his right hand; a human boy just as smart, crafty, manipulative and far more twisted than Izaya had ever been. With this boy, Mark Wakaba’s help in exchange for protective custody. Taro Teijin was captured  and sentenced to eternity in the deepest underground prison, a Vampire Prison called RED LEVEL.

A year later most of Teijin’s followers were either killed, thrown in prison or committed suicide rather than give up the alliance. Sadly the human child who been in protective custody had been killed. Though the heads of the new ruling party ‘Eternal Sanctuary' know it was for the best.

It was a rather chilly december morning that Izaya was in Kyoto, Japan visiting Tsugaru and Tsukishima’s grave sites. When he received a phone call that would change his path. An old acquaintance named Shiki who now ran the A.B.A. [Asian Branch Alliance] ‘Awakusu-kai’ was offering a soil spot to settle down.  

Being whom Izaya is and unwilling to admit even now even his feelings. He pretended to weigh his choices as he teased his old mate. However, Shiki saw right through him and told him he had a minute to choose. Izaya amused and excited for a challenge agreed with this position.

A week later he found himself in Nishi-Shinjuku, Shinjuku, Tokyo. Apartment 3612, Central Park Tower, La Tour on the 44th floor with a beautiful view of the landscape below of battles fought and won then retaken over by earth and then by his lovely humans living among monsters.

It’s now been twenty years since he’s settled down, the war now ended and the world is rebuilding its of life. He see’s his sister’s every weekend he is not busy as an informant for the Alliance. He see’s Shinra and Celty who were already living in district of Ikebukuro, once a month to pick up his organic wine and he attends twice a year ‘Alliance meets’ with Shiki and Akabayashi under the Sunshine 60.

       What will you become in this new path? Friend or Foe?

                                   The choice is yours, so choose wisely.

[thedeadshotnetwork]

An undercover blogger lived a double life for 2 years in ISIS-occupied Iraq to document the group's atrocities — here's his story A historian spent years living under Islamic State rule in Mosul, Iraq, documenting the group's crimes and blogging about them to thousands of followers online. Now that the Islamic State hopes for a caliphate in Iraq and Syria are virtually dead, the historian feels compelled to reveal his identity. The historian carried secrets too heavy for one man to bear. He packed his bag with his most treasured possessions before going to bed: the 1 terabyte hard drive with his evidence against the Islamic State group, an orange notebook half-filled with notes on Ottoman history, and, a keepsake, the first book from Amazon delivered to Mosul. He passed the night in despair, imagining all the ways he could die, and the moment he would leave his mother and his city. He had spent nearly his entire life in this home, with his five brothers and five sisters. He woke his mother in her bedroom on the ground floor. “I am leaving,” he said. “Where?” she asked. “I am leaving,” was all he could say. He couldn’t endanger her by telling her anything more. In truth, since the IS had invaded his city, he’d lived a life about which she was totally unaware. He felt her eyes on the back of his neck, and headed to the waiting Chevrolet. He didn’t look back. For nearly two years, he’d wandered the streets of occupied Mosul, chatting with shopkeepers and Islamic State fighters, visiting friends who worked at the hospital, swapping scraps of information. He grew out his hair and his beard and wore the shortened trousers required by IS. He forced himself to witness the beheadings and deaths by stoning, so he could hear the killers call out the names of the condemned and their supposed crimes. He wasn’t a spy. He was an undercover historian and blogger . As IS turned the Iraqi city he loved into a fundamentalist bastion, he decided he would show the world how the extremists had distorted its true nature, how they were trying to rewrite the past and forge a brutal Sunni-only future for a city that had once welcomed many faiths. He knew that if he was caught he too would be killed. “I am writing this for the history , because I know this will end. People will return, life will go back to normal,” is how he explained the blog that was his conduit to the citizens of Mosul and the world beyond. “After many years, there will be people who will study what happened. The city deserves to have something written to defend the city and tell the truth, because they say that when the war begins, the first victim is the truth.” He called himself Mosul Eye . He made a promise to himself in those first few days: Trust no one, document everything. Neither family, friends nor the Islamic State group could identify him. His readership grew by the thousands every month. And now, he was running for his life. But it would mean passing through one Islamic State checkpoint after another, on the odds that the extremists wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t find the hard drive that contained evidence of IS atrocities, the names of its collaborators and fighters, and all the evidence that its bearer was the man they’d been trying to silence since they first swept in. The weight of months and years of anonymity were crushing him. He missed his name. AP From the beginning, Mosul Eye wrote simultaneously as a witness and a historian. Born in the midst of the Iran-Iraq war in 1986, he had come of age during a second war, when Saddam Hussein fell and the Americans took over. At 17, he remembers going to a meeting of extremists at the mosque and hearing them talk about fighting the crusaders. “I should be honest, I didn’t understand.” As for the Americans, whose language he already spoke haltingly, he couldn’t fathom why they would come all the way from the United States to Mosul. He thought studying history would give him the answers. The men in black came from the north, cutting across his neighborhood in brand new trucks, the best all-terrain Toyotas money could buy. He had seen jihadis before in Mosul and at first figured these men would fade away like the rest. But in the midst of pitched fighting, the extremists found the time to run down about 70 assassination targets and kill them all, hanging enormous banners announcing their arrival in June 2014. By then a newly minted teacher, the historian attended a staff meeting at Mosul University, where the conquerors explained the Islamic State education system, how all classes would be based upon the strictest interpretation of the Quran. To a man who had been accused of secularism during his master’s thesis defense just the year before, it felt like the end of his career. In those first few days, he wrote observations about IS, also known by the acronym ISIS, on his personal Facebook page — until a friend warned that he risked being killed. With the smell of battle still in the air, he wandered the streets, puzzling over its transformation into a city at war. He returned to find his family weeping. The smell of smoke and gunfire permeated the home. On June 18, 2014, a week after the city fell, Mosul Eye was born . “My job as a historian requires an unbiased approach which I am going to adhere to and keep my personal opinion to myself,” he wrote. “I will only communicate the facts I see.” By day, he chatted with Islamic State fighters and vendors, and observed. Always observed. By night, he wrote in his native Arabic and fluent English on a WordPress blog and later on Facebook and Twitter. The city turned dark, and Mosul Eye became one of the outside world’s main sources of news about the Islamic State fighters, their atrocities and their transformation of the city into a grotesque shadow of itself. The things IS wanted kept secret went to the heart of its brutal rule. “They were organized as a killing machine. They are thirsty (for) blood and money and women.” He attended Friday sermons with feigned enthusiasm. He collected and posted propaganda leaflets, including one on July 27, 2014, that claimed the Islamic State leader was a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed’s daughter. Back home, writing on his blog in his other, secret identity, he decried the leaflet as a blatant attempt “to distort history” to justify the fanatics’ actions. He drank glass after glass of tea at the hospital, talking to people who worked there. Much of the information he collected went up online. Other details he kept in his computer, for fear they would give away his identity. Someday, he told himself, he would write Mosul’s history using these documents. The most sensitive information initially came from two old friends: one a doctor and the other a high school dropout who embraced the Islamic State’s extreme interpretation of religion. He was a taxi driver who like many others in Mosul had been detained by a Shiite militia in 2008 and still burned with resentment. He swiftly joined an intelligence unit in Mosul, becoming “one of the monsters of ISIS” — and couldn’t resist bragging about his insider knowledge. Once he corroborated the details and masked the sources, Mosul Eye put it out for the world to see. He sometimes included photos of the fighters and commanders, complete with biographies pieced together over days of surreptitious gathering of bits and pieces of information during the course of his normal life — that of an out-of-work scholar living at home with his family. “I used the two characters, the two personalities to serve each other,” he said. He would chat up market vendors and bored checkpoint guards for new leads. Stringer/Reuters He took on other identities as well on Facebook. Although the names were clearly fake, the characters started to take on a life of their own. One was named Mouris Milton whom he came to believe was an even better version of himself — funny, knowledgeable. Another was Ibn al-Athir al-Mawsilli, a coldly logical historian. International media picked up on Mosul Eye from the first days, starting with an online question-and-answer with a German newspaper. The anonymous writer gave periodic written interviews in English over the years. Sometimes, journalists quoted his blog and called it an interview. In October 2016, he spoke by phone with the New Yorker for a profile but still kept his identity masked. Intelligence agencies made contact as well and he rebuffed them each time. “I am not a spy or a journalist,” he would say. “I tell them this: If you want the information, it’s published and it’s public for free. Take it.” First the Islamic State group compiled lists of women accused of prostitution, he said, stoning or shooting around 500 in the initial months. Then it went after men accused of being gay, flinging them off tall buildings. Shiites, Christians and Yazidis fled from a city once proud of its multiple religions. When the only Mosul residents left were fellow Sunnis, they too were not spared, according to the catalog of horrors that is Mosul Eye’s daily report. He detailed the deaths and whippings, for spying and apostasy, for failing to attend prayers, for overdue taxes. The blog attracted the attention of the fanatics, who posted death threats in the comments section. Less than a year into their rule, in March 2015, he nearly cracked. IS beheaded a 14-year-old in front of a crowd; 12 people were arrested for selling and smoking cigarettes, and some of them flogged publicly. Seeing few alternatives, young men from Mosul were joining up by the dozens. The sight of a fanatic severing the hand of a child accused of stealing unmoored him. The man told the boy that his hand was a gift of repentance to God before serenely slicing it away. It was too much. Mosul Eye was done. He defied the dress requirements, cut his hair short, shaved his beard and pulled on a bright red crewneck sweater. He persuaded his closest friend to join him. “I decided to die.” The sun shining, they drove to the banks of the Tigris blasting forbidden music from the car. They spread a scrap of rug over a stone outcropping and shared a carafe of tea. Mosul Eye lit a cigarette, heedless of a handful of other people picnicking nearby. “I was so tired of worrying about myself, my family, my brothers. I am not alive to worry, but I am alive to live this life. I thought: I am done.” He planned it as a sort of last supper, a final joyful day to end all days. He assumed he would be spotted, arrested, tortured. The tea was the best he had ever tasted. Somehow, incredibly, his crimes went unnoticed. He went home. “At that moment I felt like I was given a new life.” He grew out his hair and beard again, put the shortened trousers back on. And, for the remainder of his time in Mosul, smoked and listened to music in his room with the curtains drawn and the lights off. His computer screen and the tip of his cigarette glowed as he wrote in the dark. The next month, he slipped up. His friend the ex-taxi driver told him about an airstrike that had just killed multiple high-level Islamic State commanders, destroying a giant weapons cache. Elated, Mosul Eye dashed home to post it online. He hit “publish” and then, minutes later, realized his mistake. The information could have come from only one person. He trashed the post and spent a sleepless night. “It’s like a death game and one mistake could finish your life.” For a week, he went dark. Then he invited his friend to meet at a restaurant. They ate spicy chicken, an unemployed teacher and the gun-toting ex-taxi driver talking again about their city and their lives. His cover was not blown. The historian went back online. Alongside the blog, he kept meticulous records — information too dangerous to share. His computer hard drive filled with death, filed according to date, cause of death, perpetrator, neighborhood and ethnicity. Accompanying each spreadsheet entry was a separate file with observations from each day. “IS is forcing abortions and tubal ligation surgeries on Yazidi women,” he wrote in unpublished notes from January 2015. A doctor told him there had been between 50 and 60 forced abortions and a dozen Yazidi girls younger than 15 died of injuries from repeated rapes. April 19, 2015: “The forensics department received the bodies of 23 IS militants killed in Baiji. They had no shrapnel, no bullets, no explosives and the cause of death does not seem to be explosion. It is like nothing happened to the bodies. A medical source believes they were exposed to poison gas.” July 7, 2015: “43 citizens were executed in different places, this time by gunfire, which is unusual because they were previously beheadings. A source inside IS said that 13 of those who were executed are fighters and they tried to flee.” He noted a flurry of security on days when the Islamic State leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, seemed to be in town. AP Many in Iraq, especially those who supported the Shiite-dominated leadership in Baghdad, blamed Mosul for its own fate. Mosul Eye freely acknowledged that some residents at first believed the new conquerors could only be an improvement over the heavy-handed government and the soldiers who fled with hardly a backward glance at the city they were supposed to defend. But he also wrote publicly and privately of the suffering among citizens who refused to join the group. He was fighting on two fronts: “One against ISIS, and the other against the rumors. Trying to protect the face of Mosul, the soul of Mosul.” He tested out different voices, implying one day that he was Christian, another that he was Muslim. Sometimes he indicated he was gone, other times that he was still in the city. “I couldn’t trust anyone,” he said. In his mind, he left Mosul a thousand times, but always found reasons to stay: his mother, his nieces and nephews, his mission. But finally, he had to go. “I had to run away with the proof that will protect Mosul for years to come, and to at least be loyal to the people who were killed in the city.” And he did not want to become another casualty of the monsters. “I think I deserve life, deserve to be alive.” A smuggler, persuaded by $1,000 and the assurances of a mutual acquaintance, agreed to get him out. He was leaving the next day. Mosul Eye had no time to reflect, no time to change his mind. He returned home and began transferring the contents of his computer to the hard drive. He pulled out the orange notebook with the hand-drawn map of Mosul on the cover and the outlines of what he hoped would one day be his doctoral dissertation. Into the bag went “Father Bombo’s Pilgrimage to Mecca,” an obscure American satirical novel from 1770 that he had ordered from Amazon via a new shop that was the only place in town to order from abroad online. It was time to leave. He wanted to make sure his mother would never have to watch the capture and killing of Mosul Eye. On Dec. 15, 2015 he left Mosul, driving with the smuggler to the outskirts of Raqqa, a pickup point that alarmed him. From there he and other Iraqis and Syrians were picked up by a second set of smugglers and driven by convoy to Turkey. They had no trouble crossing the border. In Turkey, Mosul Eye kept at it: via WhatsApp and Viber, from Facebook messages and long conversations with friends and relatives who had contacts within IS. From hundreds of kilometers away, his life remained consumed by events in Mosul. By mid-2016, deaths were piling up faster than he could document. The IS and airstrikes were taking a bloody toll on residents. His records grew haphazard, and he turned to Twitter to document the atrocities. In February 2017, he received asylum in Europe with the aid of an organization that learned his backstory. He continued to track the airstrikes and Islamic State killings He mapped the airstrikes as they closed in on his family, pleading with his older brother to leave his home in West Mosul. Ahmed, 36, died days later when shrapnel from a mortar strike pierced his heart, leaving behind four young children. It was only then that Mosul Eye revealed his secret to a younger brother — who was proud to learn the anonymous historian he had been reading for so long was his brother. “People in Mosul had lost hope and confidence in politicians, in everything,” his brother said. Mosul Eye “managed to show that it’s possible to change the situation in the city and bring it back to life.” As the Old City crumbled, Mosul Eye sent coordinates and phone numbers for homes filled with civilians to a BBC journalist who was covering the battle, trying to get the attention of someone in the coalition command. He believes he saved lives. Then, with his beloved Old City destroyed, Mosul Eye launched a fundraiser to rebuild the city’s libraries because the extremists had burned all the books. None of his volunteers knew his identity. An activist who helped co-found a “Women of Mosul” Facebook group with Mosul Eye describes him as a “spiritual leader” for the city’s secular-minded. “He was telling us about the day-to-day events under ISIS and we were following closely with excitement as if we were watching a movie. Sometimes he went through hard times and we used to encourage him. He won the people’s trust and we became very curious to know his real personality,” said the activist, who spoke on condition of anonymity because she believed she was still in danger. From a distance, finally writing his dissertation on 19th century Mosul history in the safety of a European city, he continued to write as Mosul Eye and organize cultural events and fundraisers from afar — even after Mosul was liberated. The double life consumed him, sapped energy he’d rather use for the doctoral dissertation and for helping Mosul rebuild. And it hurt when someone asked the young Iraqi why he didn’t do more to help his people. He desperately wanted his mother to know all that he had done. He felt barely real, with so many people knowing him by false identities: 293,000 followers on Facebook , 37,000 on WordPress and 23,400 on Twitter . In hours of face-to-face conversations with The Associated Press over the course of two months, he agonized over when and how to end the anonymity that plagued him. He did not want to be a virtual character anymore. On Nov. 15, 2017, Mosul Eye made his decision. “I can’t be anonymous anymore. This is to say that I defeated ISIS. You can see me now, and you can know me now.” He is 31 years old. His name is Omar Mohammed. “I am a scholar.” NOW WATCH: What happens to your brain and body if you use Adderall recreationally December 11, 2017 at 10:44AM

[tortuga-aak]

How a businessman struck a deal with ISIS to help Assad feed Syrians

Thomson Reuters

RAQQA/DUBAI (Reuters) - While Syrian President Bashar al-Assad was accusing the West of turning a blind eye to Islamic State smuggling, a member of his parliament was quietly doing business with the group, farmers and administrators in the militants' former stronghold said.

The arrangement helped the Syrian government to feed areas still under its control after Islamic State took over the northeastern wheat-growing region during the six-year-old civil war, they said.

Traders working for businessman and lawmaker Hossam al-Katerji bought wheat from farmers in Islamic State areas and transported it to Damascus, allowing the group to take a cut, five farmers and two administrators in Raqqa province told Reuters.

Katerji's office manager, Mohammed Kassab, confirmed that Katerji Group was providing Syrian government territories with wheat from the northeast of Syria through Islamic State territory but denied any contact with Islamic State. It is not clear how much Assad knew of the wheat trading.

Cooperation over wheat between a figure from Syria's establishment, which is backed by Shi'ite power Iran, and the hardline Sunni Islamic State would mark a new ironic twist in a war that has deepened regional Sunni-Shi'ite divisions.

Thomson Reuters

Reuters contacted Katerji’s office six times to request comment but was not given access to him.

His office manager Kassab, asked how the company managed to buy and transport the wheat without any contact with Islamic State, said: “It was not easy, the situation was very difficult.” When asked for details he said only that it was a long explanation. He did not return further calls or messages.

Damascus, under U.S. and EU sanctions over the conflict and alleged oil trading with Islamic State, strongly denies any business links with the hardline Islamist militants, arguing that the United States is responsible for their rise to power.

The self-declared caliphate they set up across large parts of Syria and Iraq in 2014 has all but collapsed after Western-backed forces drove them out of their Iraqi stronghold, Mosul and surrounded them in Raqqa, where they are now confined to a small area.

Russian and Iranian-backed Syrian forces are attacking them elsewhere, such as Deir al Zor on Syria's eastern border, where Kassab says he was speaking from, in a continuing struggle for the upper hand between world powers.

Twenty percent

Five farmers in Raqqa described how they sold wheat to Katerji’s traders during Islamic State rule in interviews at the building housing the Raqqa Civil Council, formed to take over once the city is retaken.

"The operation was organized," said Mahmoud al-Hadi, who owns agricultural land near Raqqa and who, like the other farmers, had come to the council's cement offices to seek help.

"I would sell to small traders who sent the wheat to big traders who sent it on to Katerji and the regime through two or three traders," he said.

Thomson Reuters

He and the other farmers said they all had to pay Islamic State a 10 percent tax, or zakat, and sold all of their season’s supplies to Katerji’s traders under the multi-layered scheme.

Local officials said Katerji’s traders bought up wheat from Raqqa and Deir al-Zor and gave Islamic State 20 percent.

“If a truck is carrying 100 sacks, they (Islamic State) would keep 20 and give the rest to the trucker,” said Awas Ali, a deputy of the Tabqa joint leadership council, a similar, post-Islamic State local body allied to the Kurdish-led forces now attacking Raqqa.

Ali said he learned of the details of the arrangement with Katerji by speaking with Islamic State prisoners and others who worked in the group’s tax collection and road tolling systems.

“Katerji’s trucks were well known and the logo on them was clear and they were not harassed at all,” Ali said, adding that Katerji’s people were active during the last buying season, which lasts from May to August. The farmers also said the trucks were identifiable as Katerji's.

The truck drivers were even allowed to smoke cigarettes as they passed through the checkpoints, something Islamic State enforcers punished with whippings elsewhere, Ali and several other sources said.

"I would sell an entire season’s supplies to Katerji’s traders," said farmer Ali Shanaan.

"They are known traders. The checkpoints stopped the trucks and Daesh would take a cut and let them pass," he said, using an Arabic acronym for Islamic State.

The wheat was transported via the “New bridge” over the Euphrates River to a road leading out of Raqqa, the farmers and local officials said. Control of the bridge is now unclear as the militants in Raqqa come close to defeat.

Thomson Reuters

Raqqa-based lawyer Abdullah al-Aryan, who said he had been a consultant for some of Katerji’s traders, said Katerji's trucks brought goods into Islamic State territory as well as wheat out.

"Food used to come from areas controlled by the government. Medicine and food," he said.

Islamic State rule involved shooting or beheading perceived opponents in public squares, imposing its own extreme version of sharia, Islamic law, and then providing basic goods such as bread and setting up ministries and taxation.

Several farmers said they saw Islamic State documents which were stamped at checkpoints to allow the wheat trucks to pass. They belonged to the department which imposes taxes.

Smuggling

Islamic State may have exported some of the wheat. Local officials and farmers said the militants, as well as a rebel group, had sold the contents of grain silos in the northeast to traders across the Turkish border.

Assad has accused his enemies, including Turkey and Western countries, of supporting the group, something they deny.

In an interview in March with a Chinese news agency, published by Syrian state news agency SANA, Assad said:

“As for the other side, which is the United States, at least during the Obama administration, it dealt with Daesh through overlooking its smuggling of Syrian oil to Turkey, and in that way Daesh was able to procure money in order to recruit terrorists from all over the world."

Thomson Reuters

Asked whether Syrian companies were dealing with Islamic State to secure wheat, Internal Trade and Consumer Protection Minister Abdullah al-Gharbi said in August: "No, not at all."

Speaking to Reuters at a Damascus trade fair, he added: "This doesn’t exist at all. We are importing wheat from Russian companies in addition to our local crop and this talk is completely unacceptable."

The wheat buying season ended in August and IS has lost control of the wheat-growing areas, either to government forces or the Syrian Kurdish-led Syrian Defense Forces.

The Onassis of Syria

Assad has traditionally relied on a close-knit set of businessmen most notably Rami Makhlouf, his maternal cousin, to help keep Syria’s economy afloat.

Makhlouf is subject to international sanctions and relies on various associates to do business.

Katerji is a household name around Raqqa and elsewhere. Farmer Hadi likened him to a late Greek shipping tycoon, Aristotle Onassis. “Katerji is the Onassis of Syria,” he said. 

Katerji’s facebook profile page shows him shaking hands with Assad and he regularly posts pictures of the president, who he describes as “a beacon of light for pan-Arabism, patriotism and loyalty”.

He is member of parliament for Aleppo, a key battleground recovered by the government late last year, and is part of a new business class that has risen to prominence during the war.

The United States and EU have imposed a range of measures targeted both at the government and some of the many armed groups operating in Syria, but foodstuffs are not restricted.

U.S. and European sanctions on banking and asset freezes have, however, made it difficult for most trading houses to do business with Assad’s government and made local supplies increasingly vital.

Thomson Reuters

Flat bread is a subsidized staple for Syrians, who have suffered under a conflict estimated to have killed several hundred thousand people and forced millions to flee their homes.

The government needs around 1.5 million tonnes annually to feed the areas it controls and keep Syrians on Assad's side.

Syria's bread-basket provinces of Hasaka, Raqqa and Deir al-Zor account for nearly 70 percent of total wheat production.

While the government looks set to retake much of Deir al-Zor province soon, Hasaka is mostly under the control of U.S.-backed Syrian Kurdish YPG militia, who are also likely to hold sway in Raqqa along with Arab allied groups.

Ali, from the Tabqa council, predicted that would not stop the wheat trade. “People like Katerji, with a lot of money and power, their activities will never be completely frozen," he said. "It is just going to disappear from one area and go to another."

(Reporting by Michael Georgy and Maha El Dahan; editing by Philippa Fletcher)

NOW WATCH: Here’s what it was like to live in a city controlled by ISIS

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[stillevann]

NotesMuslims are allowed to lie to unbelievers in order to defeat them. There are several forms: Taqiyya - Saying something that isn't true as it relates to the Muslim identity. Kitman - Lying by omission. An example would be when Muslim apologists quote only a fragment of verse 5:32 (that if anyone kills "it shall be as if he had killed all mankind") while neglecting to mention that the rest of the verse (and the next) mandate murder in undefined cases of "corruption" and "mischief." Tawriya - Intentionally creating a false impression. Muruna - 'Blending in' by setting aside some practices of Islam or Sharia in order to advance others. Though not called taqiyya by name, Muhammad clearly used deception when he signed a 10-year treaty with the Meccans that allowed him access to their city while he secretly prepared his own forces for a takeover. The unsuspecting residents were conquered in easy fashion after he broke the treaty two years later. Some of the people in the city who had trusted him at his word were executed. Another example of lying is when Muhammad used deception to trick his personal enemies into letting down their guard and exposing themselves to slaughter by pretending to seek peace. This happened in the case of Ka'b bin al-Ashraf (as previously noted) and again later against Usayr ibn Zarim, a surviving leader of the Banu Nadir tribe, which had been evicted from their home in Medina by the Muslims. At the time, Usayr ibn Zarim was attempting to gather an armed force against the Muslims from among a tribe allied with the Quraish (against which Muhammad had already declared war). Muhammad's "emissaries" went to ibn Zarim and persuaded him to leave his safe haven on the pretext of meeting with the prophet of Islam in Medina to discuss peace. Once vulnerable, the leader and his thirty companions were massacred by the Muslims with ease, probably because they were unarmed - having been given a guarantee of safe passage (Ibn Ishaq 981). Such was the reputation of Muslims for lying and then killing that even those who "accepted Islam" did not feel entirely safe. Consider the fate of the Jadhima. When Muslim "missionaries" approached their tribe, one of the members insisted that they would be slaughtered even though they had already "converted" to Islam to avoid just such a demise. However, the others believed they could trust the Muslim leader's promise that they would not be harmed if they simply offered no resistance. (After convincing the skeptic to lay down his arms, the unarmed men of the tribe were quickly tied up and beheaded - Ibn Ishaq 834 & 837). Today's Muslims often rationalize Muhammad's murder of poets and others who criticized him at Medina by falsely claiming that they broke a treaty with their actions. Yet, these same apologists place little value on treaties broken by Muslims. From Muhammad to Saddam Hussein, promises made to non-Muslim are distinctly non-binding in the Muslim mindset. Leaders in the Arab world sometimes say one thing to English-speaking audiences and then something entirely different to their own people in Arabic.  Yassir Arafat was famous for telling Western newspapers about his desire for peace with Israel, then turning right around and whipping Palestinians into a hateful and violent frenzy against Jews. The 9/11 hijackers practiced deception by going into bars and drinking alcohol, thus throwing off potential suspicion that they were fundamentalists plotting jihad. This effort worked so well that John Walsh, the host of a popular American television show, claimed well after the fact that their bar trips were evidence of 'hypocrisy.' The transmission from Flight 93 records the hijackers telling their doomed passengers that there is "a bomb on board" but that everyone will "be safe" as long as "their demands are met." Obviously none of this was true, but these men, who were so intensely devoted to Islam that they were willing to "slay and be slain for the cause of Allah" (as the Quran puts it) saw nothing wrong with employing taqiyya to facilitate their mission of mass murder. The Islamic Society of North America (ISNA) insists that it "has not now or ever been involved with the Muslim Brotherhood, or supported any covert, illegal, or terrorist activity or organization."  In fact, it was created by the Muslim Brotherhood and has bankrolled Hamas.  At least nine founders or board members of ISNA have been accused by prosecutors of supporting terrorism. The notorious Council on American Islamic Relations (CAIR) is so well known for shamelessly lying about its ties to terror and extremism that books have been written on the subject.  They take seriously the part of Sharia  that says "it is permissible to lie if attaining the goal is permissible and obligatory to lie if the goal is obligatory".  The goal being the ascendency of Islam (and Sharia itself) on the American landscape. Prior to engineering several deadly terror plots, such as the Fort Hood massacre and the attempt to blow up a Detroit-bound airliner, American cleric Anwar al-Awlaki was regularly sought out by NPR, PBS and even government leaders to expound on the peaceful nature of Islam. In 2013, a scholar at the prestigious al-Azhar university decreed that Muslims may wear the cross in order to deceive Christians into thinking they are friendly.  He cited 3:28 which says not to be friends with non-Muslims unless it is a way of "guarding" yourself against them. The Quran says in several places that Allah is the best at deceiving people. An interesting side note is verse 7:99, which says that the only people who feel secure from Allah are those destined for Hell. Taken literally, this could mean that Muslims who arrogantly assume that they will enter heaven are in for a rude surprise (such are the hazards of worshipping an all-powerful deceiver). The near absence of Quranic verses and reliable Hadith that encourage truthfulness is somewhat surprising, given that many Muslims are convinced their religion teaches honesty. In fact, many Muslims are honest because of this. But when lying is addressed in the Quran, it is nearly always in reference to the "lies against Allah" - referring to the Jews and Christians who rejected Muhammad's claim to being a prophet. Finally, the circumstances by which Muhammad allowed a believer to lie to a non-spouse are limited to those that either advance the cause of Islam or enable a Muslim to avoid harm to his well-being (and presumably that of other Muslims as well). Although this should be kept very much in mind when dealing with matters of global security, such as Iran's nuclear intentions, it is not grounds for assuming that the Muslim one might personally encounter on the street or in the workplace is any less honest than anyone else. Additional Reading: Taqiyya about Taqiyya (Raymond Ibrahim) Knowing the Four Forms of Lying Muruna: Violating Sharia to Fool the West

[eirlithad]

Calling on Song//Chapter Two

Rating: M (subject to change)

Relationship: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan

Summary: Kasde Rhiannon Trevelyan was promised to the Chantry. Fate found her at the Conclave. The Maker saw her through it. As the world falls down around her, she decides to take a stand. With a little determination, and a fair amount of snark, she just might make a difference.

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Chapter Two: Those Who Oppose Thee

           Kasde swore explosively as searing, black blood splattered across her hand. Maker, what she would give for a pair of cheap gloves! She had managed to avoid spraying it into her own face, if barely, but the skin below her wrists sported several nasty blisters. It was hard enough to be careful flinging such short, flimsy daggers about, but the heat and adrenaline had sweat pouring out of her by the bucket, causing her grip to fumble more than once.

           Cassandra beheaded the last of their foes and tried to shake the black slime from her blade. Lifting her eyes, she made a sound close to a grunt. “We will have to find you more something more durable,” she remarked, taking in the still smoking holes in Kasde’s clothing. “Can you make do for the time being?”

           She shrugged, pressing on up the hill. “I’ve had worse.”

           A shout rang out, further ahead, and Cassandra tore past, a strangled cry on her lips. Kasde glanced tiredly at the sky. The Maker wasn’t through with her yet, it seemed.

           “What’s going on?” she called, matching the Seeker’s pace.

           Her reply was nearly swallowed by the cold wind. “Help them!” she ordered, nodding at something further up.

           Several yards ahead, the path broke off into the smoking ruins of what had likely once been a guard station or supply tower. Sounds of fighting rang across the mountainside, accompanied by a shrieking that had become all too familiar.

           Kasde rounded the broken wall, stumbling back as something large and heavy whipped past. A sickening crunch filled her ears. Against her better judgement, she looked down at the soldier’s crumpled body, dark blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

           Everything is coming apart. Tight knots coiled in her gut, every nerve screaming at her to flee. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She swallowed bile and dug her feet into the snow.

           In heart’s drumming I heard footsteps thrund’ring. Shield-brothers and spear-sisters distant raised blade to shackle-bearer…

           A scream shook her concentration. Another soldier fell dead, tinging the dirt a muddy red with his blood. She shook her head, trying to remember the words as she stepped over his lifeless form.

           …None to return to the lands of their mothers, by cruel magic taken…

           She squeezed her eyes shut, even as Cassandra brushed past, nearly toppling her to the ground. Her lips moved rapidly, skipping further ahead. People were dying; lamenting their loss wouldn’t force her blade to move.

           Those who oppose Thee shall know the wrath of Heaven.

           Her soul ignited at the words, driving her into the fray. Steel blurred in her hands, feet sidestepping blows she couldn’t have seen coming. The Chant came alive in her veins.

           Field and forest shall burn, the seas shall rise and devour them. The wind shall tear their nations from the face of the earth, lightning shall rain down from the sky!

           Kasde tasted blood, realizing only then she had spoken aloud. A wild strike drove her back, and she rolled to avoid the second that was sure to come. A flash of green struck the ground between her knees as she righted herself, sending dust and debris into her eyes.

           A rift, she noted at last. The demons kept coming, valiant swords struggling to stem their flow. A lumbering horror sprung forth, ignoring her for the time being. With a feral snarl, she drove her blade home and twisted viciously, feeling the distinct snap of muscle. The beast collapsed, but before she could deliver the killing blow, a thick bolt pierced its skull.

           “Hurry!” a voice called, and her hand was thrust toward the glowing fissure.

           Pain ripped up her arm, like razor blades shoved beneath the skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, a silent cry on her tongue that never came.

           They shall cry out to their false gods, and find silence.

           Maker, she prayed, don’t be silent now.

           A shower of foul-smelling water erupted from the tear as it abruptly sealed, taking the pain with it. Reeling, Kasde dropped her weapons to grind her thumb into her palm and blinked rapidly.

           Had she done that?

          A young elven man moved nearer, but she retreated several steps at his approach.

          “What did you do?” she accused, rubbing her scarred hand roughly.

          His expression lightened in amusement. “I did nothing,” came his reply. He stood barefoot in the cold, dressed in little more than rags; a pack and staff slung across his back. His eyes held an unnerving amount of certainty that set Kasde’s teeth on edge. “That was your doing.”

          “This,” she said doubtfully, “can close that?”

          The elf inclined his bald head. “It would seem you can save us.”

          “Good to know,” a gruff voice mused from behind her.

          A dwarf, stockier than most, tugged his gloves more snugly over his hands. The constant glow from the Breach tinged the edges of his red hair with sickly green.

           A wry smile tugged at his cheeks. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever,” he muttered, glancing up. “Varric Tethras. And before you ask, yes, that Varric Tethtras.”

           Kasde straightened, still rubbing at her hand. The light glinted off the weapon strung over his shoulder. “Nice crossbow,” she smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief.

           “Bianca will keep us company in the valley,” Varric chuckled.

          Cassandra’s scowl was not easily missed. “I appreciate your help, but absolutely not.”

          “You haven’t been down there lately, have you, Seeker?” the dwarf snapped. “Things aren’t looking good. Admit it. You need me.”

          The Seeker turned away with a disgusted sound.

          “And what do I call you?” Kasde asked, turning to the elf.

          One eyebrow arched puckishly. “I’m surprised you would think to ask. My name is Solas. Does your hand trouble you?”

          She narrowed her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” she bit out. Something in the back of her mind told her to be careful with him.

          Varric cleared his throat. “Considering he made sure it didn’t kill you while you were passed out, you might want to rethink that.”

          Color rushed up her cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you knew so much about it. Thank you.”

          “I am—”

          “You’re a mage,” she interrupted. At his shocked expression, she wagged a finger over her own shoulder. “Staff’s a dead giveaway. Not from a Circle, by the looks of it, either.” Sighing, she canted her hip, bracing a hand against her side. “A dwarf, a Seeker, and an apostate. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

          “Throw in a never-ending supply of demons and a hole in the sky, you’ve got a half-decent story,” Varric deadpanned. “Look, if we’re all done with the introductions, we should get moving before more demons decide to show up.”

          “Agreed,” Cassandra called from several yards off. “We need to reach the forward camp, and it will only get harder from here.” She motioned to the path ahead, strewn with debris and broken bodies.

          Kasde retrieved her daggers, muttering under her breath, “Maker, if this is a joke, make sure the punch line’s a good one.”

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