#or would he elect to remain this elusive figure

[basil-does-arttt]

something something one of the reasons Nero went out of his way to stop the shit twins from killing eachother on the top of the Qliphoth - besides not wanting to lose his family 5 minutes after discovering them - being that he didn't want Dante to lose his brother like he lost Credo all those years ago

[beardedmrbean]

Bulgaria is heading to its seventh election in three years after the Speaker of the National Assembly, Raya Nazaryan, refused President Rumen Radev’s offer to be the next acting Prime Minister. The two discussed this possibility in a meeting at the presidency after "There Is Such a People" (TISP) returned the unfulfilled third mandate. The president now has two months to select a new caretaker prime minister to propose a government and prepare for the upcoming vote.

The meeting between the president and TISP was brief, lasting only 30 minutes. President Radev expressed concerns about the functioning of the parliamentary state, while TISP explained that they had attempted to fulfill the mandate but lacked the necessary support from other parliamentary parties despite holding consultations.

President Radev thanked TISP for their efforts in a challenging political environment, noting the ongoing cycle of inconclusive elections which causes institutional blockages, public disenchantment with the democratic process, and doubts about the efficacy of parliamentarism. He urged the parties to learn from the failure of the 50th Parliament and emphasized the importance of forging successful governing coalitions before elections, calling for meaningful political debate and fair play in the upcoming campaign.

TISP found some positivity in the consultations, having managed to engage with almost all parties, creating a basis for future dialogue, though they admitted that political consensus remained elusive.

Now, the president must appoint a new caretaker prime minister. Radev indicated that the list of potential candidates had narrowed, with Raya Nazaryan being the only new addition. However, Nazaryan reaffirmed her position against taking the role, believing that high-profile political figures would not foster good dialogue or increase public trust in the political process during the election campaign.

So far, only Dimitar Glavchev has confirmed his willingness to continue leading a caretaker government, while the Bulgarian Socialist Party (BSP) expects a new acting prime minister. Atanas Zafirov, chairman of the BSP, acknowledged the severe political crisis reflected in the recurring elections and deferred the decision to the president.

"Revival" (Vazrazhdane) highlighted that the key questions now are the election date and the identity of the new acting Prime Minister, both of which are decisions for the president. Meanwhile, "We Continue the Change-Democratic Bulgaria" (WCC-DB) and the Movement for Rights and Freedoms (DPS) have remained silent on the issue. TISP attributed the crisis to parties that changed the Constitution, insisting they should bear responsibility for the current situation.

According to the Constitution, the president must issue a decree to appoint a cabinet and set a date for early elections.

Who will be the caretaker prime minister

As anticipated, the third mandate to form a government was returned unfulfilled, leading Bulgaria to another early parliamentary election. These elections are expected in the first half of October. President Rumen Radev must first hold talks with potential caretaker prime ministers before scheduling the decree on the date of the vote and appointing the interim cabinet proposed by the prime minister. Prior to this, he must consult with parliamentary groups.

According to the Constitution, the head of state appoints an interim government and schedules new elections within two months. It is expected that the decree will be issued next Monday, setting the vote for October 13.

Rumen Radev had previously indicated that neither August nor September were suitable months for an election campaign or elections, due to summer vacations and preparations for the new school year. However, this dilemma did not arise, as "There Is Such a People" (TISP) returned the mandate on August 5.

Under the changes in the Constitution, which the Constitutional Court upheld with its decision on July 26, the acting Prime Minister is to be appointed from among the Speaker of the National Assembly, the Governor or Deputy Governor of the Bulgarian National Bank, the Chairman or Deputy Chairman of the Audit Chamber, and the Ombudsman or Deputy Ombudsman. This list effectively includes seven positions.

The only new figure in this procedure is the Speaker of Parliament, Raya Nazaryan. Yesterday, Radev indicated that she would be the first person he would consult. Nazaryan publicly announced that she would refuse the post of interim prime minister.

President Radev intends to invite all other potential candidates for discussions, even though they have previously declined, except for the Chairman of the Audit Chamber, Dimitar Glavchev.

Bulgaria currently lacks a public defender, as the previous Ombudsman, Diana Kovacheva, was elected as a judge at the European Court of Human Rights and assumed her new position on April 17. Consequently, the country has been without a public protector for months. Additionally, the deputy ombudsman, Elena Cherneva-Markova, resigned unexpectedly at the end of March. Parliament has not yet initiated the procedure to elect new ombudsman officials, which typically lasts three months, leaving insufficient time to add new names to the list of potential prime ministers.

At the Bulgarian National Bank (BNB), the leadership includes members from GERB and DPS. Dimitar Radev, the GERB candidate, serves as the Governor. Deputy governors include Petar Chobanov (DPS), Andrey Gyurov (WCC-DB), and Radoslav Milenkov. Gyurov was recently removed from his position due to a conflict of interest discovered by the Commission for Combating Corruption, although he has appealed this decision.

With the removal of Gyurov, the list of potential prime ministers is effectively reduced to seven. The BNB leadership previously refused presidential appointment, citing the European Central Bank's disapproval of such political involvement.

Dimitar Glavchev, the Chairman of the Audit Chamber since July, remains a key figure. His deputies, Gorica Grancharova-Kozhareva and Toshko Todorov, were elected in 2015 and their mandates have expired. Both deputies have previously refused the position of prime minister.

The possibility of renewing the list with new names remains, as parliament has opened a procedure to replace the two vice-presidents of the Audit Chamber. However, the candidates must be proposed by the Chairman, Dimitar Glavchev, who has expressed his willingness and desire to be nominated again as acting prime minister.

An amendment to the Law on the Audit Chamber proposed by "We Continue the Change-Democratic Bulgaria" (WCC-DB_ aims to ensure that the President of the Chamber does not propose his deputies. However, due to the fragmentation in parliament, it is unlikely that this amendment will pass promptly. If all specified candidates refuse again and the vice-chairmen of the Audit Chamber are not replaced, President Radev will have no choice but to appoint the current prime minister, Dimitar Glavchev. ___________________

Bulgaria is having another election, must be a year with a number in it again

[dankusner]

Trump Rally Gunman Searched Online for John F. Kennedy’s Assassination

The gunman who tried to kill Donald Trump searched “How far away was Oswald from Kennedy?” a week before the shooting, the F.B.I. director told Congress.

Trump rally gunman looked online for information about Kennedy assassination, FBI director says

WASHINGTON (AP) — The gunman in the attempted assassination of former President Donald Trump is believed to have done a Google search one week before the shooting of “How far away was Oswald from Kennedy?” FBI Director Christopher Wray said Wednesday, revealing new details about a suspect he said had taken a keen interest in public figures but had otherwise not left behind clear clues of an ideological motive.

The July 6 online search, recovered from a laptop tied to 20-year-old Thomas Matthew Crooks, is a reference to Lee Harvey Oswald, the shooter who killed President John F. Kennedy from a sniper’s perch in Dallas on Nov. 22, 1963.

“That’s a search obviously that is significant in terms of his state of mind. That is the same day that it appears that he registered” for the Trump rally scheduled for July 13 in Butler, Pennsylvania, Wray told the House Judiciary Committee.

The FBI is investigating the shooting, which killed one rallygoer and seriously injured two others, as an act of domestic terrorism.

Crooks was killed by a Secret Service countersniper.

The investigation has thrust the bureau into a political maelstrom months before the presidential election, with lawmakers and the public pressing for details about what may have motivated Crooks in the most serious attempt to assassinate a president or presidential candidate since President Ronald Reagan was shot in 1981.

The agency has built out a detailed timeline of Crooks’ movements and online activity, but the precise motive — or why Trump, the Republican presidential nominee, was singled out — remains elusive, Wray said.

“In terms of what we’ve been able to find so far, a lot of the usual repositories of information have not yielded anything notable in terms of motive or ideology,” Wray said.

The FBI’s assessment continues to be that Crooks acted alone, though agents are still investigating.

Wray noted that Crooks had grown interested in public officials — besides Trump, Crooks also had photos on his phone of Democratic President Joe Biden and other prominent figures — and in the days before the shooting had appeared particularly consumed by Trump and the Butler rally.

Crooks is believed to have visited the rally site a week before the event, staying for about 20 minutes, and then returned on the morning of July 13.

More than two hours before the shooting, Wray said, Crooks flew a drone about 200 yards from the rally stage for about 11 minutes, using the device to livestream and watch footage and obtain what Wray said would have been a “rearview mirror” of the scene behind him.

The use of the drone, which along with a controller were recovered from Crooks’ car, so close to the rally site just hours before Trump took the stage add to the questions about the security lapses that preceded the shooting.

On the afternoon of the rally, Crooks attracted law enforcement scrutiny because of odd behavior around the edges of the event, including shouldering a backpack and peering into the lens of a range finder toward the rooftops behind the stage where Trump would stand within the hour.

Using what Wray said was mechanical equipment on the ground and vertical piping, Crooks was able to hoist himself up onto the roof of a squat manufacturing building that was within 135 meters (157 yards) of the stage.

Crooks fired eight shots from an AR-style rifle before he was killed. (The Warren Commission report that analyzed the Kennedy assassination assessed that Kennedy had been shot through the neck at a range of 174.9 feet to 190.8 feet, or about 53.3 meters to 58.1 meters.)

The FBI thinks Crooks may have managed to avoid detection in the crowd despite being armed because his weapon had a collapsible folding stock, Wray said.

Wray pledged to lawmakers that the FBI would “leave no stone unturned” in its investigation.

“I have been saying for some time now that we are living in an elevated threat environment, and tragically the Butler County assassination attempt is another example — a particularly heinous and very public one — of what I have been talking about,” Wray said.

The hearing had been schedule well before the shooting as part of the committee’s routine oversight of the FBI and the Justice Department.

Questions about the shooting dominated the session, but other topics included the FBI’s diversity efforts, election interference and the Jan 6, 2021 riot at the U.S. Capitol.

Though the FBI so far has avoided the same level of scrutiny over the shooting directed at the Secret Service over security failures, culminating Tuesday in the resignation of Kimberly Cheatle as the agency’s director, Wray was not able to entirely avoid the antagonistic questions he typically receives from the Republican-led committee.

That’s a reflection of the lingering perception among some GOP lawmakers that the FBI and Justice Department in the Biden administration have become politicized against Trump — something Wray has consistently denied.

That sentiment was made clear early in the hearing when the committee chairman, Rep. Jim Jordan, R-Ohio, told Wray: “I’m sure you understand that a significant portion of the country has a healthy skepticism regarding the FBI’s ability to conduct a fair, honest, open and transparent investigation.”

Trump shooter Googled Oswald, flew drone, FBI head testifies

The man identified by the U.S. as the shooter at Donald Trump’s campaign rally used encrypted messaging apps and flew a surveillance drone over the area ahead of his assassination attempt, the head of the FBI testified.

Appearing before Congress to answer questions about the July 13 assault in Pennsylvania, Federal Bureau of Investigation Director Christopher Wray also said that a week before the attack, 20-year-old Thomas Matthew Crooks did a Google search for “How far away was Oswald from Kennedy?” Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated President John F. Kennedy in 1963.

Wray said the government’s probe was ongoing and that investigators were still assessing the motive of the gunman, who was shot and killed by the Secret Service after he fired eight rounds, wounding the former president in his right ear and killing an attendee.

He said Crooks appears to have been “interested in public figures more broadly.”

“So far we have not found any evidence of any accomplices or co-conspirators, foreign or domestic,” Wray told the House Judiciary Committee.

Based on the short list of contacts on Crooks’ phone, the description of him as a loner appears to be accurate, Wray added.

“I want to assure you and the American people that the men and women of the FBI will continue to work tirelessly to get to the bottom of what happened,” he told the committee.

Intense hearings

Wray’s testimony comes two days after Kimberly Cheatle, who was head of the Secret Service at the time of the shooting, appeared before the House Oversight Committee, resigning on Tuesday after an intense grilling about the security failure.

In addition to the FBI’s investigation, lawmakers have launched probes of their own.

Crooks’ ability to access a rooftop with a clear line of sight to Trump, the Republican nominee in this year’s presidential race, has sparked searing bipartisan criticism but has also become a political talking point in a fiery election campaign.

U.S. officials have said Crooks climbed up on a roof within sight of the outdoor stage in Butler, Pennsylvania, and fired a semi-automatic rifle, injuring Trump, killing firefighter Corey Comperatore as he shielded his family with his body, and gravely wounding two others.

A Secret Service sharpshooter then killed Crooks.

On Wednesday, Wray testified that Crooks got to the roof using mechanical equipment on the ground and pipes on the building.

The FBI has said its investigation so far indicates Crooks wasn’t known to the bureau before the attack and that technicians had accessed his phone and were analyzing his electronic devices.

“Starting somewhere around July 6th or so, he became very focused on former President Trump and this rally,” Wray told the committee.

He said analysis of a laptop that the investigation has tied to Crooks revealed that he did the Google search on Oswald and Kennedy on July 6.

“That was the same day it appears he registered for the Butler rally,” Wray said.

‘Rearview mirror’

He said Crooks went to Butler a week before the rally and then on the morning of the event and again in the afternoon.

Authorities think Crooks flew the drone in the area about two hours before the shooting. Wray said the FBI has reverse-engineered the drone’s flight path and found that Crooks might have had a vantage point showing what was behind him, “almost like giving him a rearview mirror.”

He said Crooks had two “relatively crude” explosive devices in his car that could be remotely detonated from the roof. They weren’t in an activated mode when they were found, Wray said.

He said eight cartridges were found on the roof.

TRUMP ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT

Gunman sought JFK details

Online search: ‘how far away was Oswald from Kennedy’

The gunman who tried to assassinate former President Donald Trump had searched online days earlier for information about the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and used a rifle with a collapsible stock that may have made it easier for him to disguise the weapon before climbing onto a roof, FBI Director Christopher A. Wray said Wednesday.

The 20-year-old gunman, who was killed by a Secret Service sniper after he opened fire during the July 13 campaign rally in Butler, Pa., searched for answers to “how far away was Oswald from Kennedy,” Wray said — a reference to the assassin who used a rifle to kill President John F. Kennedy in Dallas in 1963.

“That’s a search that’s obviously significant in terms of his state of mind,” Wray said at a House Judiciary Committee hearing as he answered questions about the attack on Trump, the Republican presidential nominee.

“He was interested in public figures and — I think this is important — starting around July 6 or so, he became very focused on former President Trump and this rally.”

That same day, Wray said, the gunman also registered to attend the outdoor rally.

“There’s a whole lot of work underway and still a lot of work to do,” Wray said. “The shooter may be deceased, but the FBI’s investigation is very much ongoing.”

The hearing was scheduled before the attempted assassination, but the attack dominated the discussion as officials worry about political violence in a presidential election year.

Thomas Matthew Crooks, who lived in Bethel Park, Pa., fired at Trump from a rooftop just outside the rally security perimeter, using an AR-style rifle.

One rallygoer was killed, two others were critically injured, and Trump suffered a graze wound to his ear.

FBI investigators have said so far that the gunman did not appear to have any discernible ideology, suggesting he was not motivated primarily by political animosity.

Wray, who was nominated to lead the FBI in 2017 by then-President Trump, avoided discussing the security shortcomings that preceded the attack, saying those issues are under review by an inspector general and a group of experts.

The FBI director also described how Crooks used a drone hours before the shooting to examine the area of the rally, but not directly overhead.

“The drone was recovered in his vehicle,” Wray testified. “The shooter was flying the drone around the area, not over the stage. … We think that he was live-streaming, viewing the footage for about 11 minutes, about 200 yards away.”

Two explosive devices were found in the shooter’s car, items Wray called “relatively crude devices themselves, but they did have the ability to be detonated remotely.”

Because the remotely controlled devices attached to the homemade bombs were left in the “off” position, Wray said, it appears “that if he had tried to detonate those devices from the roof, it would not have worked.”

Technical experts at the FBI lab in Quantico, Va., were able to crack open the gunman’s phone within two days of the attack.

While they found some evidence of interest, the device did not provide an explanation for his motive, people familiar with the investigation have said, speaking on the condition of anonymity to describe the ongoing case.

The gunman used some encrypted messaging applications, which Wray said have “unfortunately now become very commonplace” in FBI investigations, as popular messaging software often includes encryption.

Asked whether the FBI believed there were any accomplices or co-conspirators in the shooting, Wray answered, “Not at this time, but again the investigation is ongoing.”

The Latest From JFK Facts

Stones No Longer Ask, ‘Who Killed the Kennedys?’

Why did Mick and Co. excise iconic ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ lyric?

The Rolling Stones, oft hailed as the “Greatest Rock & Roll Band in the World,” started in London in 1962 and are still at it — indeed, are still relevant — filling stadiums even as original members Mick Jagger and Keith Richards enter their 80s.

In 1968, the first song on their “Beggars Banquet” album was “Sympathy For the Devil,” in which Jagger’s Mephistophelian narrator offers a review of various dirty deeds throughout history, asking listeners to “guess my name.”

One of the more iconic lines in the song is:

“I shouted out ‘who killed the Kennedys?’/ When after all, it was you and me.”

(Originally, the lyrics cited only the assassinated President John F. Kennedy, but became plural with the murder of Robert F. Kennedy, which occurred as the Stones were recording the album.)

Despite their classic status, the lyrics now seem to have gone AWOL when the band performs the song live.

Paul Schwartzman of the Washington Post recently attended a Stones concert and was taken aback when Jagger didn’t sing the Kennedy lyrics.

As he investigates further, he learns that Jagger hasn’t done so in some time. He wonders why.

He comes up with various theories:

one being that the band no longer think the words appropriate.

Another theory, provided by longtime Village Voice writer and erstwhile “Dean of Rock Critics” Robert Christgau, suggests that the question is no longer relevant.

“It’s nearly 60 years later. Who gives a s---? ‘Who killed the Kennedys?’ is no longer meaningful to the younger audience, and even the Stones’ contemporaries, because we have lived with this for more than 50 years. It’s their song, and they can do what they want with it.”

(In these shows from 2024 and in 2012, the Stones perform the song the same way: excising not only the Kennedy verses but also the verses immediately before and after the Kennedy lines, effectively shortening the tune.)

The More Things Change

Yet, just two days after publication of the Washington Post story, political assassination became all too relevant and contemporary as a 20-year-old would-be assassin opened fire upon former president Donald Trump at a Pennsylvania rally.

A bloodied Trump only just escaped the fate suffered by both Kennedy brothers.

And with that tragic event that left one former firefighter dead, the assassination of John F. Kennedy was back in the news.

An op-ed appeared in the New York Times penned by attorney Mark Zaid and author Gerald Posner, a longtime defender of the Warren Report, calling out the algae bloom of conspiracy theories that followed the Trump assassination attempt, pointing to what they say were invalid criticisms of the the official story of JFK’s murder.

Soon after, FBI Director Christopher Wray told Congress that Trump shooter Thomas Crooks had conducted research on alleged JFK assassin Lee Harvey Oswald’s distance from the president during the Dallas ambush.

So, the JFK assassination, like the proverbial rolling stone, seems yet to have gathered all that much moss.

[bodyinthebog]

do y’all want some mcfucking err parker angst:

Your name is Parker MacMillan IIIII, you're 19, a newly-made intern, and you don’t stop to question the numeral before things go to shit.

The new ballparks are a welcome surprise, the new teams even more so, but the Boss promises smooth sailing, and you’re too innocent not to believe her. Why would she lie?

Redactions, consumers, replicas - the fans are not happy, and neither are the players, but your m - your Boss says everything is as it should be. The ratings are going up!

(That’s probably good, you think. You stopped watching TV a while ago, you’re far too busy.)

You’re not curious about the Commissioners who came before you. Apparently, you’re more uptight. More official. Surely that’s better? The Commissioner should be distanced, should be a vaulted figure.

(Oh, the irony.)

The Boss seems to be doing a good job. She’s confident, and positive, and the League is paying off its debts.

(You wonder idly just who the League could be in debt to, or how it got in debt in the first place, but you don’t dwindle on it. You’ve got obituaries to write, and sponsorships to handle. There’s a complimentary bag of coffee beans from a long-ago sponsor hanging around in your office. You hate coffee, you’ve no idea why the previous commissioner let them be a sponsor.)

And then, the number of Suns increased. Sum Sun, Sun .1, you lost track a few seasons ago. The Boss says she knows what she’s doing; she’s still as confident as ever, but her words are starting to leave a bad taste in your mouth.

You don’t know what to do, or what you can do, so you proceed as normal.

The Reader is - confusing, for lack of a better word. Under, over, the status quo remains the same. It’s the same with Lootcrates and the Library. Namerifeht, whoever the fuck he is, remains as elusive as ever.

The gods of this world are incomprehensible, and you are too tired of recording pain to truly care. Let them have their own agendas, who are you to meddle. You’re just an intern.

However.

However.

There’s an idea for rebellion, there.

But then the Library, an institution that delights and terrifies you in equal measure, is unredacted some more.

There once was a player named Parker MacMillan, and you have no memory of him.

It’s almost like a fairy-tale, the slow, winding narrative of the player-who-is-not-you, making his way through a dying league whose skeletons you now play on.

(I wonder, do you feel guilt over the players this Parker killed? He roamed, he moved all over the Immaterial Plane, leaving fire and burning and destruction in his wake.

Who’s to say.)

The Exhibition Match, the Semi-Centennial, draws ever closer. You anticipate it with a kind of dread - you know what happened on Day X, people told you, caught you up and sent recordings. The Fans are kind like that. Except, the Boss would never let something like that happen, surely? The Shelled One was evil, the Monitor was good, it was easy to understand.

Hah.

The Vault is revealed, with the you-who-is-not-you, an alternate, a replica, stuck inside.

(Who’s the replica in this situation? You don’t want to ponder that, do you. Don’t want to consider the implications, or consider the fates of those who came before you. Poor Parker. You never could catch a break.)

You watch your double (your original?) try to leave the Vault every week like clockwork. How long has he been in there? Longer than you have been around, certainly. You just wish you could remember how long that is, you haven’t aged in a while.

The Vault must be so trapping, you think while writing yet another memorial tlweet. So claustrophobic. The Fans have differing views on what it might be like inside - bright, dark, burning, freezing. You hope Parker’s at least comfortable. You hope he’s got a place to sleep, and something to eat.

(Deep down, you know he’s not comfortable. Like the Boss, the Vault is probably decorated with rotten glitz, a decomposing institution. But it’s okay. You’re good at forgetting things. What happened to Parker IIII, IIIII?)

The Fans anticipate the Semi-Centennial with dread, furiously organising and planning how to save themselves from incineration. The Boss wouldn’t let that happen, though. Surely.

And then you remember the Consumers. And the Debt. And the redactions. All of the pain the League, your League, has gone through under your watch. You’re in shock at your inactivity, at your uselessness. You’re meant to be the Commissioner.

(You’ve been standing on the sidelines, idly powerless, for too long, haven’t you Parker?)

The Sun(Sun) explodes. The original Parker roams out of the Vault. An apocalypse is coming, and it’s all caused by her, the god standing in front of an imploding sun.

You’ve known it all along, deep down. You just haven’t wanted to confront it. It’s your Boss’s fault, all of this.

You’re still fumbling to concoct a plan when the Election is postponed, or when teams begin to be incinerated. The Coin recites an associated phrase in her sickly-sweet fashion, before returning to her patronising reassurances. Your heart breaks.

You don’t know how you didn’t notice how false she was earlier. How obvious her facade was. None of this is fair, and you’re the only one with any power to change things.

(With some help, of course. Hello, you.)

Earlsiesta rolls around as always, the Coin pronouncing how the League is winning, how profits are soaring. How dare she, you think, sitting at your desk and watching the dark sky. Wondering how you can console an entire team’s friends and family.

Suddenly, there’s a crack in the sky that looks like lightning. It hurts to look at, blindingly bright, it’s too much. You look down at your right hand. Where there should be skin and flesh and bone, there’s only static.

It doesn’t hurt. In fact, you smile.  

The Coin is panicking. The fans are gleeful. You’ve talked to the Monitor, arranging a meeting in the Trench behind Her back. The time for action has come. You hope Parker I, wherever he has roamed to, is proud of you.

(He is.)

You take a breath. And start to speak.

(I’ll put down the Mic now, just for you - Parker IIIII, Commissioner, have hope.)

[tiaragqueen]

Subjection

✂ Pairing: Yandere! Muzan Kibutsuji x Demon! Reader

✂ Word Count: 1k+

✂ Trigger Warnings: Mention of murder, manipulation

***

Not very yandere, but I can’t quite picture Muzan as a hardcore one anyway. And I wonder what would happen to his family if he died later, or whether they'd find out about his identity.

If you like my writing, please support me on ko-fi!

“There's no way out of this dark place. No hope, no future. I know I can't be free, but I can't see another way.” - No Way Out [Phil Collins]

“He… still hasn’t come home yet.” Concealed sadness subdued her already gentle voice to a near whisper. Rei put down a tray of green tea and kneeled across you, gazing at the floorboard somberly. “It’s been a month since his departure. He said he had work to do and wouldn’t be able to come home for a long time.”

Muttering a ‘thanks’, you lifted one of the cups and sipped it.

Rei absentmindedly drew patterns on her lap. “I understand that he’s just doing his job, both as a husband and as… whatever his position is. But sometimes, it can get lonely in here, especially when our child starts asking where he is.” Brown eyes, shaded by melancholy, softened. “I can only give her the same old reason: ‘father’s working right now, dear. He’ll be home soon.’

“It’s alright, though.” She quickly continued in fear of you misunderstanding things and assumed she was venting instead. And frankly, she had every right to be. “As long as he comes home safely, as long as I know that he’ll come home later, I can still sleep comfortably at night.”

Peeking through the rim of your wooden glass, you spied her forlorn face and sighed. Rei was too soft, too trusting of someone so elusive and volatile. There wasn’t a trace of grievance or loathing in her aura and words; just loneliness and yearning for some much-deserved attention and affection.

When Muzan entertained your curiosity over the particular human smell on him, you’d thought his wife would be a harridan with mighty power; hell-bent on the destruction of humankind or just plain apathetic to them. Instead, you were faced with a delicate lady and her diminutive offspring who had bumped into you on the street several months ago.

But that was what he liked, no? A naïve and docile woman. Someone willing to set aside everything for the sake of him, including her feelings. Someone who wouldn’t question the reasons behind his actions and readily obey every order. Someone who would kiss the very ground he walked on just because.

Rei was pitiful, both for being manipulated for so long without her knowledge and for believing she’d married a gentle and well-off man. Though, it wasn’t as if you were any better than her anyway.

At least, you knew you were being manipulated, despite not being able to do anything about it.

Realizing you were still quiet and she was waiting for your response, you simpered. “Yes, I’m sure he’ll return someday.”

Somewhere within the many rooms of Kibutsuji household, you could hear servants working diligently in the kitchen and her daughter playing nearby. The domesticity sent a whiff of memory that your mind unconsciously repressed the second it appeared.

“How are you, by the way, [Last Name]-san?” Rei immediately changed the subject, much to your relief. Despite being ‘complimented’ by Dōma for retaining your ‘humanly’ traits, you actually didn’t know how to comfort someone beyond a fake smile and simple reassurance. “It’s been a long time since we met.”

The barbed wire of fear prickled your brain from toying with the idea of telling her half-truth. “I’m fine, thank you. Some pests have been attacking my garden lately, but I managed to control them. At least, temporarily.”

“Ah, it must be hard to tend to your garden all alone.” As expected, she easily fell into your fable and frowned sympathetically. “But I truly admire your tenacity, [Last Name]-san. I hope the Gods repay your efforts and bless you with abundant crops soon.”

Squinting your eyes slightly at the so-called ‘holy’ beings, you nodded in bogus agreement. “I sure hope so.” you simpered.

You spent the next couple of hours chatting about trivial matters – in your eyes, at least – and bade farewell once the moon had hung a bit higher in the sky. The remaining people loitered nearby, but the town was quiet overall. Sparing one last glance at the nescient humans, you strode towards a dank alleyway and entered the portal that led to the fortress.

“How is she?”

Muzan's stately air and profound voice impelled you to drop to your knees and bow.

“She’s still oblivious to your identity, Sir.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said she understood your reason for leaving for so long and would like to meet you very soon.” you replied steadfastly. “She also said that her daughter has been asking about you.”

Muzan stared down at your immobile figure, silently challenging your statements despite his ability to read one’s minds. When he sensed nothing but the fact, he lifted his head superciliously in a masked satisfaction.

“Keep her that way,” he demanded. “and don’t let your sympathy get in the way. Better yet, get rid of it.”

For a split second, you paused. Were you sympathizing with them? No, you just... pitied them, is all. Rei had a daughter whose father kept leaving them under the excuse of work, and you happened to understand her feelings.

Though, you didn’t possess similar patience and ended up murdering your husband when you found him sleeping with that bitch-

No, no, no. Focus, [Name]. Your master was waiting for your answer now, and a failure to do so could result in immediate death.

Besides, what the hell were you thinking anyway?

Pursing your lips, you nodded. “... Understood.”

His footfall resonated within the convoluted fortress and spiked your heart. Muzan stood imposingly beside you, a fiendish glint kindled his flaming irises. You suppressed the shiver when you sensed the delight emanating from his being.

“You’ve certainly become quite an obedient dog, [Name]. I can’t say that I was disappointed in your development.” he praised mockingly. “Now, you understand that it’s better for you to just obey than foolishly rebelling against your master.”

Muzan smirked once he spotted your twitching hands. “Improve more, and I may consider electing you as one of the Moons.”

Closing your eyes, you exhaled the chagrin from his snide remark and bowed dutifully.

“Yes, Sir.”

[whitepolaris]

Black Aggie

While one of the strangest legends involving mysterious gravestones had its questionable beginnings at the Druid Ridge Cemetery in Pikesville, MD, it ended its strange journey in Washington, DC. One of the many spooky statues to be found in burial grounds throughout the region, it is the only one that can claim a deadly curse as part of its legacy! 

When General Felix Agnus, the publisher of the Baltimore American, died in 1926, he was buried in Druid Ridge Cemetery, right outside of Baltimore. A rather strange statue presided over his grave-a statue of a large black mourning figure called Grief. In the daylight, the figure was regarded as a beautiful addition to the mortuary art of the cemetery. But when darkness fell, it showed a different face, and the legends began. For this was a statue whose eyes glowed red at the stroke of midnight. 

Those who encountered the Agnus monument in the darkness gave her the nickname Black Aggie. To those people, she was a symbol of terror. It was said that the spirits of the dead rose form their graves to gather around Black Aggie on certain nights. Living persons who returned her gaze were struck blind. Pregnant women who passed through her shadow (where, strangely, grass never grew) would suffer miscarriage. 

Not really believing the stories, a local college fraternity decided to include Black Aggie in its initiation rites. Pledges were ordered to spend the night in her cold embrace. Those who remember the figure recall her large, powerful hands. The stories claimed that the pledges had to sit on Aggie’s lap and one tale purports that “she once came to life and crushed a hapless freshman in her powerful grasp.” 

Other fraternity boys were equally unlucky. One night, at the stroke of midnight, the cemetery watchman heard a scream in the darkness. When he reached the Agnus grave, he found a young man lying dead at the foot of the statue, dead from fright-or so story goes.

Word of Black Aggie’s powers spread and the Agnus grave site soon began to be trampled by curiosity seekers. Although Pikesville was fairly remote at the time, hundreds-perhaps thousands-of people visited and vandalized the site over several decades. Countless names and messages were scrawled on the statue, the granite base, and the wall behind it. Groundskeepers did everything they could to discourage visitors, including planting thorny shrubs around the cemetery, but people kept coming. By the 1960s, the destructive visitors become too much for the cemetery to handle and descendants of Agnus elected to donate Black Aggie to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington. 

And here the story takes another strange turn. Although some people recall Aggie being displayed in the National Gallery for a brief period, officials at the Smithsonian claimed they had never shown the statue at all, and in fact were not in possession of her. Conspiracy theorists believed that perhaps she was simply placed in storage because of her cursed past. “Maybe, just maybe,” wrote a columnist for the Baltimore Sun, “they not taking any chances.” 

The real answer would not be so strange. Somewhere along the line, the Smithsonian apparently passed her to the National Museum of American Art, where she was put into storage. For years, she would remain in a dusty storeroom, shrouded in cobwebs. Then in the late 1990s, Black Aggie would rise from the dead!

In 1996, a young Baltimore-area writer named Shara Terjung did a story on the statue for a small newspaper. Long fascinated with the legends, she was determined to track down the elusive Aggie. Shortly after Halloween, her contact at the General Services Administration solved the mystery. Aggie had ended up in the National Courthouse complex in Washington, in the rear courtyard of the Dolley Madison house. The mysterious statue had finally been found, and can still be seen there today. The graffiti scrawled by the cemetery vandals has been blasted away, although some evidence of the damage remains. Meanwhile, back at the cemetery, the Agnus grave site is well cared for and shows little sign of the desecration of the past. Grass grows now in the place where for many years it could not. The only lingering evidence of Black Aggie is a dark mark on the pedestal where she once rested. At least that’s the only presence that can be seen. 

These days, Black Aggie’s ghostly powers seem to be in semihibernation. She sits quietly in the garden, never disturbing those around her. Does the curse of Black Aggie persist? Or are these legends merely spook tales from the past? Or are these legends merely spook tales from the past? If you choose to visit her, we advise you not to taunt her-just in case!

Firsthand Account: Black Aggie

One night, two friends and came down to Baltimore from Atlantic City for a visit. We wanted to see some girls that we had met while they were in New Jersey on vacation. We went out to see the local sites one night and the girls took us to see the statue of Black Aggie. We got out of the car and went to take a look at her. The girls told us that it was a local tradition for people to put coins in her hands and we wanted to see if anyone had. My friend Freddy, though, thought it would be funny to put out  his cigarette in Aggie’s hand instead. 

We told him not to, but Freddy just laughed. He didn’t believe in any of that stuff. . . . About ten years later, Freddy was found in a dump in South Carolina. He had been shot in the back of the head, mafia-style. They never found who did it. 

It’s been many years now, but I will never forget the feeling that I had stranding in front of Aggie that night . . . as if she knew the future and could see what lay ahead for us. -Letter via e-mail

Copycat “Grief”

Black Aggie is a copy of another statue, one with its own curious story. Augustus Saint-Gaudens, a premiere American sculptor of the late 1800s, sculpted the original for Henry Adams, the grandson of President John Quincy Adams. The statue was a memorial to Adams’s wife, Marian, who had committed suicide in December 1885. It was completed in 1891 and placed at Marian’s grave site, in Washington’s Rock Creek Cemetery. While never officially named, the statue was known as the Adams Memorial and, later, the more popular name of Grief. 

Henry Adams understandably refused to speak publicly about his wife’s death, and he never officially named the monument or acknowledged its popular nickname. Thanks to Adams’s silence and fame of his family, many became curious about the monument. Adams furthered this curiosity by refusing to have an inscription placed on the statue and by placing it behind a barrier of trees and shrubs. The challenged of finding it only fueled the public interest, first by word of mouth and later in guidebooks and magazine articles. 

Grief was so fascinating that it became the subject of an incredible piracy. Within a few months of the statue’s being placed on Marian Adams’s grave, Henry Adams reported that someone had apparently made a partial casting of the piece. He wrote in 1907 that “even now, the head of the fire bears evident traces of some surreptitious casting, which the workmen did not even take the pains to wash off.” 

Who would do such a thing? Bring in sculptor Eduard L. A. Pausch. It was from the original Adams design that Pausch created his own, unauthorized copy ion the early 1900s. It was this copy that was purchased in 1905 by General Agnus for his family’s grave site and would later come to be known as the infamous Black Aggie-a copy that would go on to become even more famous than the original! 

[cynicalclassicist]

Education, Education, Education

Set between The Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords

Written by FELIX O’KELLY

The Year that Never Was

The Valiant

The Master sat in the Valiant, looking out across the world he ruled supreme. He smiled. Construction on the ships were on schedule. His remodelling of the Lincoln Memorial had gone well, despite some resistance his forces had entered the Capitol and established his rule. Construction at Rushmore was going perfectly, after he’d had a few public executions. There had been a few rebellions in Scotland, helped by friends of the previous Prime Minister, but a short sharp shock had put those down. Despite that trouble with the Loch Ness Monster. The Norwegian resistance was giving him some trouble, spray-painting Quislings onto the local security offices and disappearing into the woods. But the woods were being chopped down to fuel his industry and soon there would be nowhere left to hide.

And meanwhile, as Earth groaned under his rule, he ripped it up, its plains, its valleys, opening its hills with spacious wounds, digging out masses of minerals to fuel his fleet. The Earth Reptile bases occasionally found as the Earth was torn apart were an utter joy. The Master could sometimes get so tired of only oppressing humans, killing a few Earth Reptiles could add real spice to otherwise dull weeks. Sometimes they even made good slaves! And some new weapons for his fleet as well…

The Master glanced at a map of his world. The Doctor did like those lovely crinkly edges of Norway. Maybe it was time for a bit of remodelling.

There was a cough behind him, and he turned. “And what can I do for you!”

Captain Ironside, who the Master had given the role to partially because he liked the name, saluted. “Master. We’ve brought him.”

“Splendid!” smiled the Master. He glided gleefully down the rail as a figure was dragged in, beaten and bloody.

“Nicholas Clough, I presume!” said the Master.

He recognised the man of course. Nicholas Clough had been one of the rising stars of politics only recently, being promoted to Education Secretary by Harriet Jones. Yet when the fall of Harriet Jones happened, he had left the Cabinet with her. In the election in which Harold Saxon had finally risen to Prime Minister, Clough had announced he was stepping down as MP for Hazelhurst East, a position he had held since the 9th of April 1992. It was the first time Saxon had seen him since then.

The man looked up, through a black eye. “Saxon.”

“Oh, that was the name I used, but you know I am the Master!” sneered the Time Lord. He whipped out his laser screwdriver at which the guards stepped back. But the Master laughed. “Not yet! Haven’t had a good chin-wag since I had that Shaw brought here. Though she was a tad disappointing… not even killing her was exciting.” He turned and grinned horribly at the Doctor, who sat there in his wheelchair. “But the look on your face made it all worthwhile! Just like when I told you about Miss Grant and the grandchildren she… had.”

The Doctor’s face burned with hatred at this.

“Why do you want to talk to me?” asked Nicholas.

The man he had known as Harold Saxon pirouetted round like a ballerina. “Well, you have been spreading some very hurtful things about me” he replied. “And I heard that you met a certain… Martha.” He savoured the word a moment, then spat it out, trying to stay composed.

Nicholas smiled. “Yes. We talked a bit about the Doctor. I’d been wondering who that fellow was ever since Harriet Jones made that broadcast on Christmas.”

“Well, here he is!” The Master pulled the Doctor out of the wheelchair. “Here you are, Mr Clough! Here is the wonderful Doctor!” He flung him back in, the Doctor remaining silent, with the aura of one used to this humiliation.

Nicholas looked worried but composed himself. “Well, there are plenty who resist you still.”

“Yes… Harriet is proving a bit elusive herself” said the Master, his face turning ugly again. “But of course, you were close to her!”

“I left when she did,” replied Nicholas.

“Loyalty… an unusual trait in a politician” replied Saxon. “I should know! Plenty were happy to flock to my banner!” He laughed. “Remember that loathsome Oscar Sudders? Harriet’s Health Secretary? Jumped at the chance to become my Defence Secretary! And that idiot from Richfield South. And of course, the old fool Dumfries! The look on their faces when I made the reshuffle…”

“I’m certainly glad I didn’t take the chance to be your Education Secretary!” said Nicholas.

“So much for wanting to educate!” laughed the Master. “I know how much you politicians talk about education, education, education!”

“Well, I was leaving politics anyway,” said Nicholas. “And I am happy to keep educating people.”

“Oh, what would you need to educate them about!” asked the Master. He pointed upwards. “I have my network, broadcasting the right ideas into their minds! I even have a few loudspeakers set up if I want to give a message!”

He pushed some buttons as if playing a piano, pulled a lever and yelled down the receiver. “PEOPLES OF EARTH! THIS IS YOUR MASTER! JUST TESTING!” He smiled at Nicholas. “It’s 1:15 in that part of the world, it should make the people jump!” He gave a laugh. “Not that it’s too dissimilar to many politicians in the days before my rule, this sort of propaganda! The sheer amount of awful Parties I had to go to to get Ru…” He paused and looked sullen at this memory, then brightened.

“But enough of that! I recall a piece you wrote about me, just before the election! It was called Why I will not be voting Saxon!”

“I think there are a lot of people who regret voting for you now” replied Nicholas.

“Well they should have thought of that beforehand. Not that they ever read your magnum opus. It got pulled due to a word from his Lordship the Paper’s owner, but he was kind enough to send me a copy!”

Like a conjurer the Master produced a paper. He smirked at the Doctor. “I’ve been teaching myself magic! I recall you liked those when you were that little man with the umbrella! Travelling with that… what was it… Dorothy?”

“Ace” said the Doctor. “Her name was Ace.”

“Oh yes! Ace! I remember telling you about her last stand with the Nitro-9… excellent chemical, I’m bottling a bit of it myself for a rainy day! Where was I… ah, the article!”

The Master began reading.

“Let’s see… Clough calls me the most dangerous man in Britain.”

“I was too kind, you’re the most dangerous man in the world” replied Nicholas.

“Oh, still too kind, the Universe!” The Master continued. “Brings up… oh yes, that little car accident which meant I just happened to be elected an MP! Poor old Charles Lichen!” He chuckled horribly. “Talks about dubious businessmen… Well, Salamander is doing some good work for me. And Van Statten’s collection has all sorts of lovely weapons for mass-production!” He commenced skimming the article. “Badmouths me, surprisingly nice about the Shadow Attorney General, badmouths Brian Green… Brings up Lazarus…” The Master was practically blushing as he read of his sinister deeds and scheming. “You’re too kind! I almost wish I could give you a job!”

“Well there will always be people like me, ready to educate against people like you!” said Nicholas. “And that’s what Martha is doing! Giving people hope!”

“Your pathetic people haven’t got a hope!” spat the Master.

“Doesn’t matter how many times you say that, it doesn’t make it true!” replied Nicholas, standing defiantly. “I kept telling people what Martha told me and I’m happy to have done so!”

A smile formed on the Doctor’s face, the first proper one in weeks. The Master glanced around, and his eyes narrowed. He turned back to Nicholas.

“Perhaps.” He took out his laser screwdriver and fired it, blasting Clough to the ground.

“Leave it wherever you found it,” he laughed to Ironside. “I’ll tell the people it’s an education!”

“You didn’t need to do that” said the Doctor angrily.

“No. But it’s fun!”

The Master turned to his transmitters. “Peoples of the Earth, please attend carefully.” He winked at the Doctor. “I always love saying that.” He continued. “I had a meeting with Nicholas Clough. A most educating experience. Just thought I’d let Miss Jones know that! And that I look forward to meeting her!”

But far away Martha continued telling her stories, telling the people of someone who fought against evil. Of giant crabs, of Daleks, of atmosphere-cleaning whales intended to destroy humanity, time-travelling assassins and more. And eventually the stories she told grew in the minds of the people and ended the tyranny of the Master.

And on that day, time snapped back a year. The Toclafane decimation vanished and few remembered the rule of the Master. Instead they watched as the Prime Minister was shot and died.

But they moved on and life went on. The papers about Saxon were covered up by the Lord High Chancellor Brian Green, including Clough’s Why I will not be Voting Saxon, citing security concerns.

Though with plenty more troubles and tricksters like the Master the world was not yet safe…

28th February 2021

England

Nicholas Clough glanced at his article, Why I will not be voting Saxon, written all those years ago. After some lobbying, he had finally been able to get it released for the memoirs he was writing, probably helped by the fact Brian Green was no longer in Parliament. Not many people seemed interested now in history. He sometimes wondered if the country would ever learn, especially as they kept making the same mistakes, falling for the same tricks. Not just in this country even!

But he had to keep trying. And maybe, one day, people would learn. Maybe they would see through the lies that the powerful told. Where there was life, there was hope. Even in the darkest of times.

[newstfionline]

Wednesday, February 17, 2021

The winter storm (NYT) A sprawling storm dumped snow across much of the U.S., including areas that rarely get it. More than 6 inches fell on Austin, Texas—the most in 55 years. Millions of people are without electricity. The cold shattered longstanding records: Temperatures dropped to 17 degrees in Houston and to minus 38 degrees in Hibbing, Minn. At one point Monday, the Weather Service had winter storm warnings issued from Brownsville, Tex., along the U.S.-Mexico border to Caribou, Maine, a distance of more than 2,500 miles. Snow even accumulated on the beach in Galveston, a city where residents are far more accustomed to hurricanes than they are to wintry weather.

Millions endure record cold without power; at least 16 dead (AP) A winter storm that left millions without power in record-breaking cold weather claimed more lives Tuesday, including three people found dead after a tornado hit a seaside town in North Carolina and four family members who perished in a Houston-area house fire while using a fireplace to stay warm. The storm that overwhelmed power grids and immobilized the Southern Plains carried heavy snow and freezing rain into New England and the Deep South and left behind painfully low temperatures. Wind-chill warnings extended from Canada into Mexico. In all, at least 16 deaths were reported. The worst U.S. power outages were in Texas, affecting more than 4 million homes and businesses. More than 250,000 people also lost power across parts of Appalachia, and another quarter million were without electricity following an ice storm in northwest Oregon. Four million people lost power in Mexico. Utilities from Minnesota to Texas implemented rolling blackouts to ease the burden on power grids straining to meet the extreme demand for heat and electricity.

Pelosi says independent commission will examine Capitol riot (AP) House Speaker Nancy Pelosi said Monday that Congress will establish an independent, Sept. 11-style commission to look into the deadly insurrection that took place at the U.S. Capitol. Pelosi said the commission will “investigate and report on the facts and causes relating to the January 6, 2021, domestic terrorist attack upon the United States Capitol Complex … and relating to the interference with the peaceful transfer of power.” In a letter to Democratic colleagues, Pelosi said the House will also put forth supplemental spending to boost security at the Capitol. An independent commission along the lines of the one that investigated the Sept. 11 attacks would probably require legislation to create. That would elevate the investigation a step higher, offering a definitive government-backed accounting of events. Still, such a panel would pose risks of sharpening partisan divisions or overshadowing President Joe Biden’s legislative agenda.

Ambassador sweepstakes underway as figures jockey for plum posts (Washington Post) Harry M. Reid’s phone has been ringing a lot lately, with calls from interest groups, friends and potential candidates themselves, all craving one thing: an ambassadorship. The former Senate majority leader then picks up the phone and dials Steve Ricchetti, one of President Biden’s top advisers, who for months has been fielding requests for plum positions. “There’s very few political jobs that bring the dignity of being an ambassador for the United States to a country. It’s a very prestigious position,” Reid said. But he suggested the would-be envoys shouldn’t hold their breath: “I think with the impeachment going on and trying to get the Cabinet filled, I think people should be understanding that things are more important than the ambassadorship right now with the president.” It is a sweepstakes that comes along every four or eight years—intense jockeying in public and private as the well-heeled and well-connected seek coveted positions that come with lavish housing, a staff of chefs and an expectation that the U.S. envoy will put the digs to use for parties. With its mix of famous figures and exotic locales, the competition always attracts interest. But it is under more scrutiny than usual this year as Biden stresses his desire to repair international relationships that frayed under Trump, with ambassadors likely to play a key role in that effort.

A third party (Gallup) Americans’ desire for a third party has ticked up since last fall and now sits at a high in Gallup’s trend. Sixty-two percent of U.S. adults say the “parties do such a poor job representing the American people that a third party is needed,” an increase from 57% in September. Support for a third party has been elevated in recent years, including readings of 60% in 2013 and 2015 and 61% in 2017. Meanwhile, 33% of Americans believe the two major political parties are doing an adequate job representing the public, the smallest percentage expressing this view apart from the 26% reading in October 2013.

Kidnap capital Mexico eyes biometric phone registry, sparking privacy fears (Reuters) A plan by Mexican lawmakers to put millions of cell phone users’ data in a biometric registry, billed as a tool to fight kidnapping and extortion, has sparked a backlash from telecoms companies and rights groups who warn it could lead to stolen data and higher costs. Already approved in the lower house of Congress, the reform is in line with President Andres Lopez Obrador’s vow to counter crime using intelligence methods rather than force, but critics say it reveals the pitfalls of governments seeking to gather more citizen data for law enforcement purposes. Under the plan, America Movil, AT&T Inc and other carriers would be responsible for collecting customers’ data, including fingerprints or eye biometrics, to submit to a registry managed by Mexico’s telecoms regulator. But a telecoms industry group that counts some major companies as members warned in an open letter that the reform could increase phone theft as criminals look to get around the registry by stealing devices and could risk customers’ safety if personal data were misused.

As the virus crisis drags on, hard-hit French youth struggle (AP) On a recent evening, Leïla Ideddaim waited to receive a bag of food, along with hundreds of other French young people who are unable to make ends meet. She saw the chitchat that accompanied the handout as a welcome byproduct, given her intense isolation during the pandemic. The 21-year-old student in hotel and restaurant management has seen her plans turned upside down by the virus crisis. With restaurants and tourist sites shuttered and France under a 6 p.m. curfew, her career prospects are uncertain. Odd jobs that were supposed to keep her going during her studies are hard to come by. “I’m in a fog,” said Ideddaim, who moved to Paris last year and is now struggling to meet both her basic needs and her emotional ones. The pandemic has devastated economies the world over, pushing vulnerable people deeper into poverty or tipping some into it for the first time. In France, the economic fallout has weighed particularly heavily on young people—and their woes have only been compounded by disruptions to their studies and social interactions. Nearly a quarter of French young people can’t find work—two-and-a-half times the national unemployment rate and one of the highest in the European Union’s 27 nations. Many university students now rely on food aid and several organizations have rallied to meet the need.

Separatists grow majority in Catalonia despite Socialist win (AP) The pro-union Socialist Party claimed a narrow win in regional elections in Catalonia late Sunday, but the bloc of parties supporting secession by Spain’s northeastern corner widened their control of the regional parliament. The outcome confirms that pro-separatist sentiment has not waned despite the collective suffering of the COVID-19 pandemic and a frustrated secession bid in October 2017 that left several of its members in prison. Four years on, the wealthy region that has its own language spoken alongside Spanish remains divided down the middle by the secession question. However, it was not clear if the separatist parties would be able to overcome the in-fighting that has plagued their bloc since the dream of an easy breakaway from Spain proved elusive.

Moscow residents get the snow they longed for (Washington Post) The snow started falling late Thursday in Moscow, sticking to car windshields and hiding walking paths. By the time it was over on Sunday, parked cars were buried under heaps of snow. The weekend’s wintery blast was noteworthy even for the Russian capital. A year ago, as Moscow experienced its warmest winter in nearly 200 years of record keeping, Russians longed for the white covering that often makes January and February’s dark days appear brighter. This wallop caused more than 100 flights to be delayed or canceled as some residents traversed downtown in skis.

India arrests student activist (Foreign Policy) New Delhi police have arrested a 22-year-old activist for sedition after she shared and made edits to a document—a Google doc—shared by climate activist Greta Thunberg when she expressed her support for India’s farmer protests. The document provided background on the protests as well as providing advice on nonviolent actions to support the farmers. “The Indian state must be standing on very shaky foundations if Disha Ravi, a 22-year-old student of Mount Carmel college and a climate activist, has become a threat to the nation,” said P. Chidambaram of the opposition Indian National Congress.

India’s dramatic fall in virus cases leaves experts stumped (AP) When the coronavirus pandemic took hold in India, there were fears it would sink the fragile health system of the world’s second-most populous country. Infections climbed dramatically for months and at one point India looked like it might overtake the United States as the country with the highest case toll. But infections began to plummet in September, and now the country is reporting about 11,000 new cases a day, compared to a peak of nearly 100,000, leaving experts perplexed. India, like other countries, misses many infections, and there are questions about how it’s counting virus deaths. But the strain on the country’s hospitals has also declined in recent weeks, a further indication the virus’s spread is slowing. When recorded cases crossed 9 million in November, official figures showed nearly 90% of all critical care beds with ventilators in New Delhi were full. On Thursday, 16% of these beds were occupied.

Myanmar military guarantees new election; protesters block train services (Reuters) Myanmar’s military junta guaranteed on Tuesday that it would hold an election and hand over power, denied its ouster of an elected government was a coup or that its leaders were detained, and accused protesters of violence and intimidation. The junta’s defence of its Feb. 1 seizure of power and arrest of government leader Aug San Suu Kyi and others came as protesters again took to the streets and as China dismissed rumours spreading on social media that it had helped with the coup. As well as the demonstrations in towns and cities across the ethnically diverse country, a civil disobedience movement has brought strikes that are crippling many functions of government. The unrest has revived memories of bloody outbreaks of opposition to almost half a century of direct army rule that ended in 2011 when the military began a process of withdrawing from politics.

Defying Biden administration, Egypt again arrests relatives of Egyptian American activist (Washington Post) Egyptian security forces raided the homes of six relatives of an outspoken Egyptian American activist, arresting and imprisoning two cousins in defiance of calls by the Biden administration for the Egyptian government to improve its human rights record, rights advocates said Tuesday. The targeting of the relatives of Mohamed Soltan, a human rights defender based in Northern Virginia, marks the latest attempt by the government of President Abdel Fatah al-Sissi to silence its critics living abroad, according to political opponents of the former military chief. Sunday’s arrests came roughly three months after five of Soltan’s relatives were released from prison, days after Joe Biden won the presidency. They had been forcibly taken from their homes in June after Soltan filed a lawsuit in the United States against former Egyptian prime minister Hazem el-Beblawi for his role in inflicting torture on Soltan when he was imprisoned in Egypt. Biden highlighted the case during the presidential election campaign, tweeting that torturing Egyptian activists and “threatening their families is unacceptable.” He also warned of “no more blank checks for Trump’s ‘favorite dictator,’” referring to Sissi by a term that Trump once used for him. By going after Soltan’s relatives again, as well as the relatives of other foreign-based critics in recent days, the Sissi government appears to be challenging the Biden administration and its efforts to make human rights a foreign policy priority once again for the United States, activists and analysts said.

Zuma Risks Arrest After Defying South Africa Corruption Inquiry (NYT) Jacob Zuma, the former president of South Africa whose nearly decade-long tenure was tainted by breathtaking corruption scandals, refused to appear before an inquiry panel Monday, raising the possibility that he would be imprisoned for contempt. The panel’s leader, Deputy Chief Justice Raymond Zondo, said he was seeking an order from the Constitutional Court, the country’s highest court, that would “impose a term of imprisonment on Mr. Zuma.” Justice Zondo’s move catapulted the simmering theme of corruption during Mr. Zuma’s term, which lasted from 2009 to 2018, into a tense showdown over the accountability of the former president. His successor, Cyril Ramaphosa, has promised to purge the governing African National Congress of endemic problems of bribery and graft that have severely damaged its credibility in South Africa, one of the continent’s most important economic powerhouses. Mr. Zuma, 78, had been set to appear before the inquiry panel, the Commission on State Capture, starting Monday for a week of testimony about his role in the corruption. The former president sent a letter from his lawyers instead, arguing that he was not legally bound to appear.

[gascon-en-exil]

Joining the Game Late: S8E6 “The Iron Throne”

Synopsis

Tyrion surveys the damage and finds his siblings, while Jon almost fights Grey Worm over executions. Arya and Jon are in the crowd as Daenerys gives her victory speech and Tyrion gets arrested for throwing away his pin. Tyrion goads Jon into growing a spine; he sort of does. Daenerys lives out her Season 2 vision and expounds upon her philosophy of conquest before Jon stabs her (not like that) and Drogon burns the symbolism...but not Jon for some reason. A tense trial at the Dragonpit, with Edmure still being a dumbass and a bid for democracy from Sam that goes over poorly. The man on trial nominates Bran as the new king which everyone accepts because he monologued a good thesis statement for the show, except Sansa who makes the North independent. For their crimes Tyrion is still Hand, and Jon is sent back to the Night’s Watch. Grey Worm, his antagonism ignored, sails to Naath, while Arya sails west off the map and Brienne finishes Jaime’s entry. The new small council features Sam dropping the book series title, Bronn arguing over the necessity of rebuilding brothels, and Davos completing a very old brick joke. Jon comes home to Tormund, and the two of them and Ghost lead the Free Folk north of the Wall as Sansa and Arya join them via cuts for a Stark ending.

Commentary

There are parts of this ending that I like. I like that the episode concludes with the Starks; uninterested as I generally have been in the family as primary PoV characters, it’s thematically appropriately to close out on the ongoing adventures of Jon, Sansa, and Arya. I like that Jon/Tormund is less of a joke than I was expecting, that Tormund features prominently in Jon’s final scenes and that the show sends them off as a sort of family unit along with Ghost and the remaining Free Folk. I like Brienne’s addition to Jaime’s entry in the book of the Kingsguard, highlighting his heroism while also remaining honest about his final decision...and delicately leaving out the incest, or her own fling with the man for that matter. It’s sterilized, and yet not wholly so, a fitting way to end the story of such a morally complicated figure whose very existence in the narrative seems to hinge on a deconstruction of the knight in shining armor archetype. I like the realization of Dany’s vision at the end of Season 2, a tacit understanding by the showrunners that they (and GRRM advising them) knew they were eventually going to get to that image of the Iron Throne in a ruined Red Keep covered in snow. I like that the show doesn’t belabor the “where are they now” aspect of the epilogue, that not everything is perfect and tidily wrapped up even if most of what isn’t is left unmentioned offscreen. It reminds me very much of most Fire Emblem endings, in the sense that a true happy ending remains elusive and there are always challenges left to face and tales remaining to be told. This isn’t Lord of the Rings, concluding when a fat and allegedly relatable guy named Samwell plops down a book (for the most part not written by him) bearing the title of the work in-universe as if to say that that’s the end of that and everything will sort itself out, nor is it Harry Potter with its treacly epilogue pairing everyone off into neat heterosexual marriages with 2.5 children and middle-class comfort. The story will continue, and you can place bets on how many decades of peace Westeros will have before there’s another continental war and a bunch of these characters get violently offed like the generation before them.

There are parts of this ending that I can abide. I’ve reconciled myself to the indignity of Bronn taking Highgarden by seeing in him a type of character like Thénardier from Les Misérables. Both of them are amoral, avaricious assholes despite occasional entertaining moments, and despite that their stories reward them not only with survival but with wealth and notoriety far beyond what they deserve purely as a demonstration that life is often unfair like that. Perhaps Bronn’s lordship of the setting equivalent of Paris was an explicit nod to that? I don’t mind the council at the Dragonpit laughing outright at Sam’s suggestion - transparent as it was coming from the author’s self-insert - of elective democracy, because much like FE the pseudo-medieval stasis this setting is locked into is not realistically equipped to handle such a revolutionary political shift, much less competently depict it in around half an hour of remaining screentime. I can bear the overt allusions to fascist regimes in Daenerys’s victory speech scene, because if you’re going to pivot her from liberator with worrying violent tendencies to tyrannical conqueror hard enough to make it reasonably justifiable that the show’s two most prominent remaining “good” guys would conspire to assassinate her with only that one scene to do it in you may as well go all out with the shorthand. Drogon not roasting Jon is stupid, but melting the Iron Throne is a great symbolic image: destroying all the ruin and strife it represents, coming full circle with the Targaryen reign over Westeros, and so forth.

And then there’s one part of this ending that’s really hard for me to swallow, particularly as Fire Emblem: Three Houses presents a variation of the same scene with much better execution. As this episode aired only about three months before the release of FE16 the similarities between Daenerys’s death and the final cutscene of Azure Moon can be nothing more than an interesting coincidence, but as you’d be hard-pressed to argue that Edelgard did not take some design cues from Daenerys - and to a lesser extent Dimitri from Jon - during the game’s development it’s a useful coincidence for contrast purposes. I mentioned a few posts ago that most of the uncomfortable elements present in Dany’s death are absent in Edelgard’s; she and Dimitri are not sexually involved at any point, and the game focuses instead on their familial bond even though (ironically) they are not biologically related. Dimitri also kills Edelgard in self-defense, after he reaches out his hand to her and she responds by throwing a dagger at him - which is considerably less awful than Jon leading Daenerys into a kiss just so he can stab her. Three Houses also benefits in that Dimitri is a far better realized character overall than Jon Snow, with a clearly defined arc in Azure Moon, meaningful convictions that place him at odds with Edelgard on both a personal and philosophical level, and even a stronger queer angle - also with a bear belonging to a historically marginalized culture/ethnicity, humorously enough. Jon by contrast feels at this stage mostly formless, with nothing strongly defining him (barring perhaps his affection for the Free Folk, which is what he returns to when everything is said and done) and in fact a repeatedly reference lack of desire to do things. Little wonder then that his decision to kill Daenerys comes more or less entirely because Tyrion told him she was the final boss and had to be taken care of.

Regarding Dany herself...if you’ve been following this liveblog the whole way through you know that I’ve been watching her character since the show began for signs that she’d wind up where she does. Yes, they are there, quite in abundance actually, and where the show stumbles comes of course from how terrible paced the story is by the time it reaches her breaking point. The audience has to make do with some of the most obvious fascist signposting imaginable and a single nonsensical speech to Jon (something else she has in common with Edelgard incidentally, who has many of these) revealing Daenerys to be the egomaniacal conqueror she always was with no subtlety whatsoever because the show has run out of time for subtlety. To this episode’s credit I do appreciate that Grey Worm continues to stick around as a foil and reflection of Daenerys. His rage over Missandei’s death sees him executing captured Lannister soldiers en masse, and he continues to demand justice for Tyrion’s betrayal even though after this point the writers stopped caring about him and shipped him off to Naath for an ending (where I am told there are plague-bearing butterflies? That doesn’t bode well.). In Grey Worm one can see a version of Daenerys’s own anger at all that she has suffered and lost, and how destructive that anger can be - only Grey Worm doesn’t have a dragon that can charbroil a city in minutes. Still, these are mere scraps of characterization to set up such a drastic shift in presentation for one of the show’s two biggest leads, and I can definitely understand why fans were angry about it and probably still are. Even as someone who was expecting this all along and was never personally invested in Daenerys the way I was with some other characters, her death - the centerpiece of this episode, and the lead-in to GoT’s epilogue - was easily the biggest sour note of its finale, less that it happened at all and more how, and probably the single event in the last two-ish seasons that more than any other really needs the book series to flesh it out and develop it into something worthwhile.

I think that’s a wrap. I’ve spent nearly four months on this liveblog and have written far more than I possibly imagined that I would. Maybe sometime in a year or so I’ll return to this series again and just watch it through without taking notes. Perhaps I’m in a minority for believing that GoT would even be worth a rewatch. Eh...if you’ve read all this at least you know why.

[schraubd]

British Jews Should Announce They Can't Support Corbyn--or Johnson

This was a piece I initially wrote for publication outside of the blog. It had a tumultuous journey, including being accepted in one newspaper before the editor withdrew the offer an hour later. Most recently, it spent two weeks in limbo after the editor who was considering it solicited the draft ... then immediately went on vacation for a week. When he returned, he promised to get to it "first thing Monday". I never heard from him again. Anyway, the election is tomorrow and there's still no sign that he will get back to me, so you're getting the piece here. It's slightly less timely than I'd like -- though much more timely than if I posted it after election day. * * *

Earlier this month, The Guardian published a letter from twenty-four prominent non-Jewish figures, publicly declaring that they could not support Labour in the next election due to the raging antisemitism that has enveloped the party under Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership.

For the UK’s beleaguered Jewish community, it was a taste of that elusive elixir: solidarity. The knowledge that Jews do not stand alone, that we do have allies, that there are people who will not stand idly by and do nothing as this wave of antisemitism comes bearing down. That the letter’s signatories included figures like Islamophobia watchdog Fiyaz Mughal, who is intimately and painfully aware of the direct dangers a Tory government would do to him and his community, only makes it more powerful. In a very real sense, this is what it means to have true allies.

These past few years have been rough on British Jews, but if there is a silver lining, it is in moments like these: the public witnessing of all those who remain willing to plant their banner and fight antisemitism. The statements of resignation from persons who no longer can associate with a party that has become a force for hatred against the nation’s Jews. The figures—some Jewish (like MP Ruth Smeeth), some not (like London Mayor Sadiq Khan)—still bravely resisting antisemitism from within the party.

And there is grim satisfaction to be taken in Corbyn’s almost comically-high public disapproval ratings—which have reached upwards of 75% in some polls. For this, too, is at least in part a public and visceral repudiation of the brand of antisemitism Corbyn has come to represent.

Yet it is the ironic misery of the Jewish fate that we cannot even take unmediated satisfaction in those rejecting Labour antisemitism. Why? Well, because of the primary alternative to Labour: the Conservative Party, led by Boris Johnson.

The Tories have their own antisemitism problems, although—and as a liberal it pains me to say this—they pale in comparison to those afflicting Labour, at least today. And for me, I’ve probably written more on Labour antisemitism than I have on any other social problem outside of America or Israel.

But if the Tories are not today as antisemitic as is Labour, where the Tories can be aptly compared to Labour is along the axis of racism, Islamophobia and xenophobia. It is fair to say that on those issues, the Conservative Party is institutionally xenophobic in a manner that is on par with Labour’s own institutional antisemitism. Or put differently: Boris Johnson is to Muslims, Blacks, and Asians what Jeremy Corbyn is to Jews.

This is hardly unknown, and the latent nativism of the Conservative Party’s Brexit policy is only the tip of the iceberg. We saw the ugliness of Conservative racism in the Windrush Scandal, where Afro-Caribbean British citizens were harassed, detained, and even deported as part of the Tories’ pledge to create a “hostile environment” for undesired immigrants in the country (notwithstanding the fact that the Windrush Generation consisted of natural-born British subjects). We saw it in the game efforts by Muslim Conservative politicians to draw attention to festering Islamophobia amongst Tory candidates and politicians, and the grinding resistance of the Conservative political leadership to seriously investigate the issue—surely, this resonates with Labour’s own kicking-and-screaming approach to rooting out antisemitism inside its own ranks.

And—like with Corbyn’s Labour party—Tory xenophobia starts right at the top. In 2018, Boris Johnson was slurring Muslim women in Europe as “letter boxes”. Advocates at that time urged then-Prime Minister Theresa May to withdraw Johnson’s whip. She declined. Now he’s Prime Minister. In the meantime, Islamophobic instances in the country surged 375%.

There is a terrible commonality here: the legitimate fears Jews have about a Corbyn-led British government are mirrored by the equally legitimate worries BAMEs (Blacks, Asians, and Minority Ethnics) about the prospect of another term of Conservative rule.

To be clear: the Jewish community has not endorsed these Conservative predations. They are overwhelmingly opposed to Brexit. They have spoken out and stood out against racism, Islamophobia, and xenophobia, and have done so consistently.

But there is another step that has not yet been taken. The Jewish community might return solidarity with solidarity, and write their own letter announcing that they cannot sanction voting for Labour—or the Tories. Twenty-four Jewish luminaries, each pledging that just as Labour’s antisemitism means that they cannot support Labour, Conservative racism and xenophobia preclude them from backing the Tories.

The UK, after all, is not a complete two-party system, and in many constituencies there are very live options that extend beyond Labour and Tory. The resurgent Liberal Democrats, for one, bolstered by refugees repelled by Labour antisemitism or Conservative xenophobia and showing renewed strength particularly in marginal constituencies where Labour is flagging. Regionally, the SNP or Plaid Cymru also are often competitive. Even the Greens, in some locales, are a viable option.

None of these parties are perfect. One does not need to search far to find instances of antisemitism in these other parties, for example, and the Liberal Democrats still have trust to re-earn following their disastrous stint as junior coalition partners to the Tories less than a decade ago.

But imperfections notwithstanding, none of these parties has completely caved to gutter populism in the way that both Labour and Tory have. They are cosmopolitan in orientation. They have faced antisemitism and other forms of prejudice, but they’ve responded decisively to it. They are not perfect, but they are viable choices, in a way that neither the Tories nor Labour can at this point claim to be.

And yet, still this companion letter—rejecting Conservative hatred with the same public moral clarity as The Guardian writers rejected Labour hatred—hasn’t been written. As much as many dislike Conservative politics, as much as many loathe Boris Johnson and the insular nativism he stands for—we have not forthrightly declared that the bigotry of his party is of equal moral weight and equal moral impermissibility at the bigotry of Corbyn’s party. We have not insisted that both be rejected.

Responding to the argument that Labour antisemitism had to be overlooked because of the pressing necessity of avoiding the disasters of a Tory government, the Guardian letter writers asked “Which other community’s concerns are disposable in this way? Who would be next?”

One could perhaps forgive the Windrush Generation for taking a tentative step forward in reply.

So again: why hasn’t that companion letter been written? Why hasn’t there been the declaration that the Windrushers, the migrants, the Muslims—that these community’s concerns are indispensable in the exact same way that the Jewish community’s concerns should (but often are not) be viewed as indispensable? Why has the wonderful solidarity demonstrated by the Guardian letter not been returned in kind?

The most common answer is that as terrible as Johnson is and as repulsive as Tory policies are, only a Conservative majority can guarantee that Corbyn will not become Prime Minister. Even the LibDems might ultimately elect to coalition with Labour if together they’d form a majority (ironically, many left-wing voters who dislike Corbyn but loathe Johnson express the same worry in reverse to explain why they can’t vote LibDem—they’re convinced that Jo Swinson would instead cut a deal to preserve a Conservative majority). As terrible as Johnson is, stopping Corbyn has to be the number one priority for British Jews. And a vote for anyone but the Tory candidates is, ultimately, a vote for Jeremy Corbyn.

Jewish voters who act under this logic, they would say, are by no means endorsing Brexit, which they detest, or xenophobia, which they abhor. They hate these things, genuinely and sincerely. But their hand has been forced. In this moment, they have to look out for Number One.

I understand this logic. I understand why some Jews might believe that in this moment, we cannot spare the luxury of thinking of others.

 I understand it. But it is, ultimately, spectacularly short-sighted.

To begin, if we accept that British Jews are justified in voting Tory because we are justified looking out for our own existential self-preservation, then we have to accept that non-Jewish minorities are similarly justified in voting Labour in pursuit of their own communal security and safety. We cannot simultaneously say that our vote for the Tories cannot be construed as an endorsement of Conservative xenophobia but their vote for Labour represents tacit approval of Corbynista antisemitism. Maybe both groups feel their hands are tied; trapped between a bad option and a disastrous one. And so we get one letter from the Chief Rabbi, excoriating Jeremy Corbyn as an “unfit” leader, and another competing letter from the Muslim Council of Britain, bemoaning Conservatives open tolerance of Islamophobia.

But if the Jews reluctantly vote Conservative “in our self-interest” and BAME citizens reluctantly vote Labour “in their self-interest”—well, there are a lot more BAME voters in Britain than there are Jewish voters. So the result would be a massive net gain for Labour. Some pursuit of self-interest.

Meanwhile, those Brits who are neither Jewish nor members of any other minority group are given no guidance by this approach. There is no particular reason, after all, for why they should favor ameliorating Jewish fears of antisemitism over BAME fears of xenophobia. From their vantage point, these issues effectively cancel out, and they are freed to vote without regard to caring about either antisemitism or Islamophobia. At the very moment where these issues have been foregrounded in the British public imagination in an unprecedented way, insisting upon the primacy of pure self-interest would ensure that this attention would be squandered and rendered moot.

Of course, all this does not even contemplate the horrible dilemma imposed upon those persons who are both Jewish and BAME—the Afro-Caribbean Jew, for instance. They are truly being torn asunder, told that no matter how they vote they will be betraying a part of their whole self.

And finally, whatever we can say about the status of Tory antisemitism today, painful experience demonstrates that tides of xenophobia, nativism, and illiberal nationalism reflected in the Conservative Party will always eventually swallow Jews as well. That day will come, and if history is any guide it will come quickly. Jews should think twice and thrice before contemplating giving any succor to that brand of politics, no matter what seductive gestures it makes at us today.

So no—it will not do for Jews to back the Tories out of “self-interest”, for doing so will ultimately fail even in protecting ourselves. Ultimately, the reason that Jews should clearly and vocally reject both Labour and Tory is not sentimentality, but solidarity—solidarity in its truest and most robust sense. There simply are not enough Jews in the United Kingdom to make going it alone a viable strategy. We need allies, and so we need to find a way to respond to the reality of Labour antisemitism in a way that binds us closer to our allies rather than atomizing us apart. The solidarity they showed us must be reciprocated in kind.

If there is one theme I have heard over and over again from UK Jews, it is the fear of becoming “politically homeless”: unable to stomach voting for Tory nativism, unable to countenance backing Labour antisemitism.

But as The Guardian letter demonstrated, Jews still have friends, and allies, and people who will have our backs no matter what. And if you’ve got friends, allies, and people who have your back, what do you do if you’re worried about homelessness?

I’d say, you start building a new house—one with room enough for all of us.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/2PcPNkz

[antilagardelle]

Wrote this when I got bored:

A Brief History Of The German Monarchs Part I: From Luis II To The End Of The Habsburgs.(Some of the facts her may be slightly off as it is still a work in progress)

In order that justice be done to a summary of German monarchs, elaboration is first required on German geographical history, and in what manner this influences our summary. At some juncture in the habit of summarizing regal lineages it becomes imperative to note that such monarchical titles as “The King Of England,” or “The King Of Germany,” essentially mean different things at different times, territorially speaking. What is now known as Germany includes territories which were not always Germany, and excludes territories which may at other times have been Germany. Such can be said of all known nations. Indeed the point at which our summary begins would know Germany by an entirely different appellation: East Francia. Others may have chosen to commence with the genesis of The Holy Roman Empire, but that precise date being ascribed among historians to two separate occasions--the one being Charlemagne’s coronation by Pope Leo I in 800, and the other Otto I’s assumption to the throne in 962--it would appear more prudent to neglect the title until further notice.  

Thus the summary of German monarchs begins with the division of The Carolingian Empire by The Treaty Of Verdun into West Francia, Middle Francia, and East Francia. The latter most of these we now know as Germany, and Luis II(A.K.A Luis The German), grandson of Charlemagne became its first ruler commencing the Carolingian Dynasty. Luis II had three sons each who took the throne in order from eldest to youngest. First Carloman, then Luis The Younger(A.K.A. Luis III), and finally Charles The Fat. Charles The Fat is ousted by Arnulf Of Carinthia who is then succeeded by his son Louis The Child(A.K.A. Louis The IV) despite his only being six years of age. Louis The Child dies no older than eighteen ending The Carolingian Dynasty. The nobility then elects Conrad I to the throne commencing the Conradine Dynasty of which, quite comically, he is the only member. Conrad I appoints Henry I(A.K.A. Henry The Fowler) as his successor in his will. Henry I was the first king of Saxon blood, and sometimes receives the title of the first king of The Ottonian Dynasty, though sometimes this title goes to his son Otto I. Between the rule of Henry I, and Otto I, an elusive character named Arnulf The Bad is said to have assayed seizure of the throne from Henry I. To what level of success is unclear but that if any the seizure was ephemeral. 

Otto I(A.K.A. Otto The Great) succeeds his father in 962, at which point, notwithstanding how indefinite the exact date of The Holy Roman Empire’s establishment may be, it is certain that Otto I’s domain, being the precursor to Germany, would receive from all historians the title of Holy Roman Empire without dispute. Otto I’s son, Otto II succeeds his father’s office as Holy Roman Emperor in 973, to be succeeded by his son Otto III a decade later. Otto III’s second cousin Henry II(A.K.A. Henry The Holy, or Saint Henry The Exuberant) assumes the throne upon his death. Conrad II is elected to the throne by the German Princes collectively after Henry II dies with no heir thus actuating the Salian dynasty. Conrad II’s son Henry III assumes the throne in 1046 to then bestow his hegemony in 1056 to his son Henry IV upon his death. 

Our summary here meets complication requiring two separate facts to be imparted: The first is that Henry IV’s reign was largely marked by an event known as The Investiture Controversy; and the second is that The Holy Roman Empire is something more of a loose term denoting more an ethnic, and cultural aggregate than a clearly defined empire, which consisted of three principal sub-kingdoms: The Kingdom Of Germany, The Kingdom Of Italy, The Kingdom Of Burgundy, (and The Kingdom Of Bohemia starting in 1198). We shall start by addressing the former of these facts and repair to the latter momentarily. 

The Investiture Controversy was essentially a conflict between Henry IV and Pope Gregory VII as to whose power it was to appoint bishops. What must be known of it specifically insofar as our project is at heart a litany of title holders, is that two vague individuals are understood as having been elected in its midst to the station of “Anti-King,” by a group of nobles in defiance of Henry IV. First Rudolf Of Rheinfelden in 1077, then Hermann Of Salm in 1081. This office, however, was the much more de jure than de facto so as to eliminate their ever truly being considered The King Of Germany, or Holy Roman Emperor. 

Concerning the second of these cardinal facts it is pivotal to understand that, while the aforementioned sub-kingdoms never went without rulers respectively, their unifying office of Holy Roman Emperor occasioned to see vacancies several years long. That is to say, the kingdoms remained operative with no apparent stadholder as it were. Judging, therefore, that our summary is one of German monarchs, we are to follow the sovereigns of the specific sub-kingdom of Germany through its periods with and without this unilateral figure. The predicament of the empire was such from 1105 to 1111, when, on the one hand, Henry IV was forced to abdicate by his son Henry V, and, on the other, when Henry V actually assumed the title of Holy Roman Emperor, despite his having been The King Of Germany the whole time in between. (although this hiatus is not so significant as The Great Interregnum of 1250 soon to be addressed).

After the death of Henry V in 1125, Lothair Of Supplinburg(A.K.A Lothair II) was elected as King Of Germany, and was crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 1133, being the first and only member of The Supplinburger Dynasty. The Hohenstaufen dynasty followed his rule with the election of Conrad III as king, who was succeeded by none other than the famous Frederick Barbarossa, his nephew. Frederick Barbarossa (A.K.A. Frederick I) was succeeded by his son Henry VI, who in turn was succeeded by his brother Philip Of Swabia.

There had been a consistent vye for the kingship between the Hohenstaufens and The Welfs (the latter of whom ruled over much of north and west germany as dukes and duchesses) manifesting most famously in a feud between the above mentioned Barbarossa and his cousin Henry The Lion. Notwithstanding Barbarossa’s having won the feud, its sentiment and ramifications did not end in his generation. Upon the death of Henry VI, Philip Of Swabia found his position as King Of Germany beleaguered by a rival king named Otto IV, son of Henry The Lion. After the space of a decade it should have been to the Hohenstaufen’s chagrin that Otto IV emerged victorious in this dispute in 1209, thenceforth being crowned Holy Roman Emperor until his forced abdication in 1215.

Naturally this chagrin of The Hohenstaufen’s would need not long endure, as it was Frederick II himself, son of Henry VI, (and not to be confounded with the enlightened absolutist Frederick II Of Prussia), who essentially forced this very abdication, rendering Otto IV the only member of the Welf dynasty. It is rather our own chagrin that we must here encounter, as the rival kings, and disputed claimants do not stop here. Instead they supply for us an even longer train of convoluted events to dissect.

Frederick II’s younger son Henry VII ruled as King Of Germany but with his father serving as something of his regent. Frederick II later deposed Henry VII due to a conflict between them, and appointed his half-brother Conrad IV in his stead. Frederick delegated Henry Rapse Of Thuringia to serve as conrad’s regent, but upon Pope Innocent IV declaring Conrad deposed, Henry Raspe supported this verdict in turn being elected as Anti-king in 1246. This election was somewhat meaningless, but gained much potency in 1250 when Frederick II, having theretofore been widely acclaimed as Holy Roman Emperor, and in effect The King Of Germany, passed away. This rendered Henry Raspe, and Conrad IV each just as much king as the other. For this reason 1250 marks the beginning of what is known as The Great Interregnum.

[talesofwight]

The Roving Wanderer and the Shining Stone

((Okay I’mma be real here, I started out to write the story about how Ruff got his gunblade and just GNB-boi in general, also introducing the Hrothgar I created for the story. So all was well and good. Then I realised I had written a 6000-odd word origin story. And I’m sure nobody really is gonna read that expect a few dedicated good beans but I’m still gonna post it, all but one paragraph under the cut.))

Darkness was all around him. Deep, murky and impenetrable. He heard voices cackle in maddening rounds permeating the inky void. He swore he saw hands made of coalesced smoke reach out and try to grab him. He tried to scream and resist the encroaching abyss, but every time he opened his mouth to do so, little more than a wheeze trickled out, as if his lungs were being forced not to move. He could do nothing, and he felt so alone. So alone...

His eyes snapped open suddenly, his body lurching into a sitting position with a breathless gasp as he surveyed his surroundings in a haze of panic, his right hand blearily clutching for the hilt of his sword laying nearby. Only the sound of rushing blood filled his ears until his conscious mind became more aware. He looked around again; it was still dark out. The small outcropping of rock he had camped under served him well as the rain fell about it. His campfire was fading. He must have been asleep for several hours -- dawn would soon be upon him. Not soon enough. He thought, rubbing his eyes slowly with his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Directing a final glance into the baleful night beyond the reach of the fire, he let out a quiet sigh and lay back down upon the rocky ground he had been sleeping on. It was far from the familiar comfort of his feathered bed, but it was not all that unpleasant either. He closed his eyes and slowed his breath, as he fell into the last vestiges of slumber he could before the light stole over the land.

 How long now had he been on the road? Time was elusive on trips such as these, and often they mattered little to him in the grand scheme. It wasn’t as though he yet had business remaining back in Eorzea that needed attending. Things had become quiet in his life in the wake of his last formal outing. A conspiracy here, a greater voidsent there, and a fight for his life later, and Rufus had been changed greatly in the space of only a short time. His body became thin and frail, his mind called back to painful memories, and his spirit was... something. Not even he fully understood what had become of him in that regard. Often, he thought of that part of him that existed both within and without simultaneously. Since that fateful day, he no longer heard the voice of his inner darkness given form. No longer felt its encompassing and oddly peaceful presence. It felt as though he was missing a part of him, as well as a dear friend -- or something more. It took many long months to recover from the ordeal, and not even fully at that.

 The weather turned gradually colder the more he headed in a northerly direction. It was fairly difficult to get lost, as Rufus had elected to roughly follow the coastline of the Northern Empty on his sojourn. To his mind, it was far enough west of Garlemald not to be bothered by much in the way of Imperial patrols. And to his credit, thus far he had seen none of the would-be conquerors, even in the provincial settlements he passed near but rarely through. He had heard tales on the road however of rebellions cropping up in myriad places since the reclamation of both Doma and Ala Mhigo. He had even rejoiced some upon the proclamation of the latter. He was quite sure his father’s soul - wherever it had ended up - was thrilled for that bit of news too.

As it was, Rufus was content to keep to himself on his wanderings. The explorer’s spirit within him was thrilled to finally be exploring a new place. Even one with as many troubles as Ilsabard was currently dealing with. With each river he saw, every mountain, every valley, and every grassy hillock, he felt a little livelier in his steps, even as his weakened body demanded he rest far more often than he would have liked. He elected to see these periods of rest as a blessing in disguise, using the restful moments to forage for food. His compact fishing rod turned out to be his journey’s saving grace and the reason he could avoid towns for so long, save to refresh his water supply. And even those trips were short-lived at best. He simply chalked it down to outsiders being not entirely welcome in such places, especially at such pivotal times in the region’s history, though they had been courteous enough when it came to the exchange of coin.

What started as days quickly became a sennight. After the second sennight he soon enough lost count of the passage of time. On one of his many rests by a flowing freshwater brook, he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the rushing waters and noted his altogether scruffy appearance. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and his jaw was covered in a patch of beard growth that was not unsubstantial. The look of a roving wanderer... He mused to himself, setting off after he had rested and drunk from his waterskin. The rain from the early morning had all but dissipated at this point and the sun was streaking through gaps in the grey clouds. It was around noon time by Rufus’s reckoning. He plucked a handful of berries from a pouch on his belt and snacked on them as he stood up and headed onward, ever with the coast in his line of sight. He was grateful for the sunlight, for what little warmth it offered in the increasingly frigid locales he found himself in. He would have to stop at a town soon and see if he could not buy himself a thick coat to ward off the worst of the chill. If not, try to hunt an animal and bring the pelt to a leatherworker to have one made. “Doubt I’ll get very far on hunting, armed with a sword and a few throwing knives.” He uttered as he strode, unaware he was talking to nobody. Much had changed in the moons prior to this day.

 The next day taxed Rufus more than he could anticipate. A freezing wind blew in from the sea, and with it came a flurry of snow blanketing the land around him. He hadn’t encountered a town in his travels so far, and thus had no opportunity to purchase new clothing. His teeth chattered and clacked against each other in the frigid air. His clothes were wet from the snowfall and his body began to protest ever more loudly against continuing forward, even if attempting to turn back now likely meant an unhappy fate at the hands of the elements. No, he had come some way since yesterday and the likelihood of finding a town - a village - a hamlet - anything ahead just had to be high. He pressed on as much as he could bear to, the chill in the air seeping deeper into his bones with each passing minute.

 Things looked bleaker by the moment, until he could have sworn he saw something in the distance -- it was difficult to tell, as his vision had begun to blur from fatigue, but he could see what he thought was a building; little more than a shack, really. It was small but was standing against the snow-layered landscape. Without a moment’s hesitation, he rallied the remainders of strength within him and hurried towards the structure with as much haste as he could muster. When he drew closer, hope sprung in his heart as he could clearly make out the dimensions of the abode. Far from anything extravagant, the small shack looked at first glance to be abandoned, but not in terrible shape. Enough to shelter him from the sudden flurry around him. There was a small window on the exterior of the dark wood structure, the glass frosted heavily but it allowed him to peer inside. He could note nothing within speaking of any occupation, save at least a few items of furniture. A desk, a chair, and a cot. Perfect, he thought to himself. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief that froze and hung as a cloud in the air before dispersing. With little pause he moved to the door and reached to try the handle. It shifted but offered some resistance as it seemed to have frozen shut. Bothered, but undeterred, Rufus held the handle to open the door, then pushed with his left shoulder against the middle of the door. He felt it give way a few ilms, along with a loud crackle of ice. He smiled softly and offered a quiet thanks to Nymeia for gifting him this arm. He wound back and threw his weight against the door again and this time it proved enough as he forcefully shunted the door open wide. He eased off and let out a happy breath, only to recoil as a sickly-sweet stench assailed his nostrils. It was an unpleasant one, and yet an all-too familiar one. It was the smell of death.

 Predictably, Rufus was on-edge the moment the smell reached him. Without pause he drew his longsword at his side from its sheath, gripping it as tightly as his cold-numbed fingers would allow. The interior was dark, but what light bled in from the outside was enough to make out the vagaries of it. He stood ready; coiled and wound like a wolf ready to pounce on his prey, eyes scanning his surroundings with such careful and critical intent that little would escape his note. The only sounds he made were that of quiet breathing, and the slow creak of his footsteps against the floorboards. It was eerie, far too much so. He checked his left and found nothing. He checked the opposite side of the room, half-obscured behind the open door, and he saw something. On the floor, slumped against the far wall like a drooping sack of popotoes, he saw a figure - a person. The skin prickled in alarm as he made out the shape. Even sitting, this person was a veritable giant next to him, and thick set like a roegadyn. A moment passed, a breathless silence, and the figure didn’t budge or respond to his presence. Rufus blinked softly in confusion, the alarums in his mind quieting down gradually. “Hello?” He risked revealing his presence to this person in a soft and unthreatening voice. He was met with no response.

 To say he was surprised was an understatement. There he was, frozen within and ilm of his life. Finding sanctuary at the last moment, only to discover its prior occupant seemingly dead as a doornail within. Slowly, he pushed the open front door closed, satisfied it was stuck in place sufficiently. Getting out would be a task for later, he reasoned with himself. The interior for the most part was dry, yet the chill still reached him even here. He was hesitant to at first, but he soon turned his gaze away from the unmoving corpse on the other side of the room and began to search the shack for anything with which to warm himself. There was a candle on the desk he had spied before. It looked to have been lit before but only for a short time as most of the wick was still intact. He fumbled with numb fingers - on his right hand at least - as he searched for the flint and steel contained within another of his pouches. None could say he was not prepared for a trip. With little difficulty, he lit a flame on the candle and held it close, basking in what little warmth it offered. It was the first real heat he had enjoyed since the campfire two nights ago, and the soft, warming glow brought a measure of peace to his heart. He quickly set about using the dim light of the candle to search the room, and much to his delight discovered a small bundle of blankets hidden away. He wrapped himself without hesitation and uttered a quiet prayer to the Twelve for giving him this gift. With his most basic needs met, he turned his weary gaze upon the unmoving figure in the room. Death did not disturb him like it does for many. He had seen it a great deal of times over his life, and in many increasingly distressing fashions the likes of which mortal man should likely not bear witness to - such is the way of the voidsent - yet there was decidedly something unusual about this corpse. As he drew close and inspected it - “him” he reasoned, based on the build - the form was quite unlike anything he had seen before. The face was elongated with a muzzle, like a large cat’s, with ears of a similar matching variety. The body, which was astoundingly broad, as covered entirely in fur where it was exposed. Juxtaposing its bestial form, it wore a long leather overcoat, with matching leather gloves and boots that seemed to be reinforced in some areas with small plates of metal. Light yet protective.

Rufus’s mind swam in astonishment. A race such as this with apparent refinement took him greatly by surprise. Why had he never heard of such people before? Whatever the case, this one was most certainly deceased. The candlelight illuminated the discolouration in the man’s attire, stained in crimson as it was. A great, heinous gash was wrought in his abdomen and he clearly bled out from it in this place. The thought made Rufus sad for a moment, though he chased it away with a shake of his head. He surveyed the area around the corpse closer and noted a small leather journal resting on the creature’s thigh, half-open and cover up. Even though this body was beyond all possible hope of shifting by itself, Rufus yet moved slowly as he took up the journal, plucking it with the most delicate of touches. To his dismay, it seemed as though a decent portion of the pages had been covered in blood, yet gratefully, he was able to make out the most recent entry:

“Bran,

These are to be my final words; I pray they reach you. I had been scouting the area for a week before I discovered an Imperial scouting party. I tracked them, as you taught me. Yet in my foolishness I made a mistake and was discovered. I fought until I could no more, but I was struck grievously, and I do not believe I will survive. I have found a small shack to spend my final bells in. At least it is warmer. If you find this, you must know that they are already aware of our movements. You should flee north, or south... anywhere but here. The people are not our friends. They only seek security for their own people, I do not blame them. But it is likely they will lead the Imperials to you. You must be careful. But then, you always are.

Goodbye, my dearest companion. I go now to be with our Queen. Be strong.”

 Rufus looked back to the fallen body after he finished reading, he felt pity on this man. To die here in this place, without being able to see a person he cared for one last time. He had been on the receiving end of such news before and knew that pain all too well. Someone was searching for this man. And the thought that they might never find him twisted the knife even deeper. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer to the Twelve to see this man’s soul safely departed from his mortal coil. To go to where his “Queen” was. He knew not the meaning, of course. But he knew it mattered. As he opened his eyes a brief glint caught his eye underneath the man’s coat, on the opposite side of the wound. He lifted the fabric gently to reveal a small, yellow-ish stone sitting on the floor. The only light in the room bar that from the window was that of the candle in his hand, yet this stone seemed to shine as a light source in its own right. He hesitantly moved his hand to inspect it, and quickly felt a surge of aether streaming from the thing. It swelled and expanded the closer his fingers came until it became all but overbearing, yet he felt unnaturally pulled towards the stone, as if it was “calling” to him. He hadn’t even laid a touch upon it when suddenly a barrage of images flashed through his mind, searing him like a brand of fire. It was too much to make sense of in that moment, and the pain throbbing in his head was too overpowering. At least, it was for that instant. Then, as quick as it had come, it faded away again to nothing. He felt nauseous and unsteady, but steeled himself against the possibility of toppling over, clutching at his head with his right hand until the unpleasant feelings ebbed away like water on a shore. He had experienced something like this before, though it was altogether darker and more dreadful than this particular experience. At second glance, he noted an unusual symbol seemingly carved upon the face of the stone he had almost touched. In that moment he knew what he was beholding and was drawn to -- it was a soulstone.

 Those peculiar little things. This was the third one he had encountered in his life. The first, given as a reward for his dedication. The path abandoned when he came upon the second, an overbearing force that controlled his very life and all but consumed him. Now this... “Shite...” He whispered, placing his hand on the soulstone and picking it up. He inspected it in the soft light, squinting hard at is as if its facets yet had some secret to divulge unto him. When nothing came of it, he looked to the fallen body, then back to the stone, then sighed aloud. “No sense in leaving this here, I suppose...” He thrust the stone into a pouch with a reluctant sigh, then returned to surveying the ground around this poor dead man. In doing so, he noted the sheen of the light bouncing off a metal blade. He drew the candle closer and saw before his eyes the unusual shape of the weapon become clear. There was a blade, yes, like that of a traditional sword. Something familiar. Yet there was no fuller on this one. That did not immediately strike him as unusual, though as he drew closer to where the cross guard would convert into the hilt, he saw a most outlandish design. An odd cylindrical shape turned into a curved handle, shaped to fit a wielder’s grip. Contained below the grip was a trigger, as seen on the firearms of the machinists of Ishgard. From the very end of the handle hung a chain upon which an emblem likely stood, yet there was nothing there. “Just what -were- you...?” Rufus asked of the corpse. Surprising nobody, the body gave no response. Its secrets were carried with it to the beyond. Huffing his frustration at the sudden abundance of questions, Rufus reached out and wrapped his digits around the grip of the weapon, slowly and carefully lifting it up to the pale light to inspect it more closely. It was simultaneously familiar and completely alien to him, such that he was fascinated by it. He drew up to his full height and stood away from the body, as he wound back his arm and took a practice swing at the air before him. The sword, for its credit, was surprisingly light. Maybe it was even lighter than his longsword. In light of his recent loss in physical fitness, it even felt more suited to him than his current weapon. He felt... tired, suddenly. The events of the day caught up with him swiftly, as he let the tip of the bladed-weapon dig into the floorboards, he let it rest against the nearby wall and turned his attention to the corpse again. “Wouldn’t be right, leaving you here like this...” He whispered, stripping one of the blankets from around him. That little sacrifice he could afford, as he slowly and gently covered the deceased beast of a man in it. He would have to wait here until the snowstorm passed, staring at the body of a dead man was not his ideal way of spending the next few bells.

 It took a little over a day for the storm to pass. Day had faded into night, and when it grew late, Rufus drifted off into sleep wrapped in a personal cocoon of blankets. He barely batted an eye at the other occupant in the room prior to his slumber, and darkness took him. He dreamed, but it was quite unlike the dreams he often found himself plagued by. He saw images, quite as he did when he touched the soulstone. Though they were slower, he could take bits and pieces from what he saw. Hands clasped. Anger. Shame. Two against all. Quiet. Life. Laughter. Love. Blood. Fear. It was all a jumbled mess running through his mind, of a life or lives lived long before he had found the stone. Such was the way these things worked.

 When he awoke, it was morning already. The storm had given away, as a clear sky shone above and filled the cabin with a wondrous light so starkly different to how it seemed before. He shook the sleep from his head and emerged from his swaddle of blankets, peering out to check on the other occupant in the room, as if expecting him to have gone somewhere in the night. “Those memories I saw... they were yours, yes?” He began to question the body, for all the good it would do, “I saw... a lot of things. This ‘Bran’ person, he clearly means a lot to you. I don’t know how recent your passing was, but... if I find him, he should know your fate. I... will try to find him. Especially if he is in danger.” He felt a warm pulse flow through his body, emanating from somewhere deep within. It was a curious sensation, though far from an unwelcome one. It felt like approval of his intent. It assured him he was taking the correct action. “I’ll bring this to him.” He said, moving to where he had left the unusual sword the night before. He picked it up by the handle, testing a swing in the air once again before bundling it tight in a blanket and tying it in a sling onto his back. He checked to make sure it was secure, then took up the bloodied journal and placed it in his pack. After having done so he finished covering himself further in the remaining blankets for after all, while the sun was out and in its glowing rays could be found warmth, but there was still a nip in the air, and he didn’t much want to be caught ought like he was before. It was just a temporary measure until he could find a nice, warm winter coat.

 He bid the dead man a silent farewell, regretting not even knowing his name. He considered burying him, but it seemed like a better idea to let this “Bran” figure see to that, after offering him the effects to prove his passing. Yet he would first have to find this person. In all likelihood, he surmised that the person he was looking for was of the same distinct race as the dead one, so as fortune might have it, they likely stood out in a crowd, so to speak. As he emerged into the brisk morning air, he felt a wave of relief washing through him to be free of the cabin and filled his nostrils with the scent of the clear air, free of the overbearing whiff of putrescence that permeated the cabin. As he surveyed the landscape, he could see that the melted snow revealed a dirt path wrought from the door to the cabin leading further inland. Reasoning that it might lead to a town, and perhaps a warm meal, he hastily set off down the road towards a thick copse of snow-bearing trees. It was still fairly quiet at this bell. Late enough that nocturnal predators had retreated to their dens, and most other animals had yet to awaken. This did however lend a distinctly unsettling feeling to his trek through the woods. He saw nothing, yet he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff, his sense of danger quite refined over the many years working in a field that demanded such a skill to survive. He was sure there were eyes watching him somewhere out there, but he could not find them. Never one to be easily cowed, he followed the path on further until he finally emerged from out of the thicket. There, he emerged upon a rolling plain and there not a few malms in the distance was the unmistakable sight of a small hamlet. His heart all but lept with joy upon seeing it, and his stomach growled in protest of wanting a filling meal. He was not like to deny it and hastened on forwards.

 A malm or so into his trek, even in this wide-open space, Rufus yet felt a piercing gaze boring a hole through him. He tried to pay it no mind, but the ever-present sense of danger only grew with each step he took. His hand gradually drifted to the hilt of his longsword, readying himself to draw and defend on the turn of a moment. The path he walked was somewhat raised, with two fairly steep grassy slopes on either side, and ahead of him there were a number of fairly large rock formations strewn around. At few angles of possible attack, and he could not watch them all. The eyes that stared at him -- they had intent to kill, it was overbearing now. Rufus clenched his jaw tightly as his senses screamed of danger immediately nearby. Suddenly, a shadow overcame his vision. Looking up, he had just enough time to make out the vague figure of a large creature descending upon him with a bladed weapon drawn and pointing towards him. He sprung like viper and bounded backwards with barely enough time to avoid the falling sword which crashed into the earth with a tremendous crack. Its wielder bounded onto his feet with a roar and fixed blazing amber eyes upon Rufus, fierce and full of hatred. This one looked quite similar to the dead one he had encountered before, in dress at least. He had deep, ochre-coloured fur, though overpowered by a mane of nearly stark-white hair atop his head. His scarred, feline maw was parted in a baleful snarl flashing long white fangs as he afforded Rufus little time to respond as he leapt forward and swung for him with a bladed weapon not dissimilar to what he had found in the cabin before. Before Rufus could offer a word to try to dissuade the fight, he found himself drawing his longsword and raising it to parry. The comparatively slim blade shuddered in protest as the weapons clashed and sung with a discordant song of scraping metal. He mustered his force and pushed back against his aggressor, throwing him slightly backwards with just enough time to give Rufus a much-needed reprieve to gain his footing. He cursed his lack of heavy armour adding to his centre of mass and making him all-around sturdier. Dexterity never was his strong suit... Without another moment of waiting, the enraged bestial man lunged for him, wielding his weapon with a shocking amount of finesse for someone of his size and build. Again, Rufus swing his blade with intent to parry. Running into two of this particular race so quickly could not be coincidence, so he had no intent to harm the man if he could yet be reasoned with, though that option seemed less and less likely by the minute. When the blades met this time, there was a great blinding flash as the cylindrical part of the other man’s weapon expelled what seemed to be a thunderous explosion. Much to Rufus’s abject surprise, the stranger’s weapon gained an unnaturally present capacity for destruction. With little effort, the weapon tore through Rufus’s steel and shattered it, scattering shards of metal in every direction. The sheer force of the impact sent the broken blade flying free of his unprepared grip. He staggered backwards, shocked and in awe of the weapon on display before him. That awe didn’t last, as he rather quickly noted that the figure was readying to swing again. He was defenceless this time, not even his prosthetic arm could block a force like that.

 The other blade! A voice shouted in the back of his head. Adrenaline surged in his body as he reached for the handle of the weapon on his back, just barely peeking out of the cloth sling he had prepared. With a forceful pull, he tore the sharp blade free of the flimsy fabric. It was much thicker than a standard longsword, or even a broadsword. Surprisingly adept for blocking, he thought, as he pressed his left hand flat to the blade and thrust it forward, intercepting the oncoming strike with barely a hair’s breadth separating the aggressing weapon and his skull. He leapt back again after the swing had gone wide and steadied himself, holding his new weapon in both hands, parallel to his upright form. “You... you scum!” The unknown figure spoke with a tone of rage, the bestial nature of his appearance only further accented by the vicious growl in his voice. “You killed him and stole his blade. How dare you?!” He bellowed, readying himself to strike again. “I didn’t kill anyone!” Rufus shot back in protest, shaking his head hard. “The man was already dead when I found him!” “Lies from the pit of your rotten heart!” The other shot back. Rufus witnessed the sight as puzzlingly, the cylindrical portion of the weapon wielded by the furious foe snapped open. He didn’t know what, but he saw something being pushed inside before it snapped shut again. “Please, listen to me!” Rufus tried again to reason, fumbling for the place where he had stored the journal prior to his departure from the cabin. “I can prove it, if you stay your assault! Gods alive...” He honestly hadn’t expected that to buy him a moment, but to his surprise, the creature only stared murderously at him. He was still prepared to attack on a moment’s notice, but short of actually announcing his intention to kill Rufus, he made no further action. This prompted a held breath of relief to leave Rufus’s parted lips as he held the blade aloft with one hand and reached into his pouch with the other, producing after a moment the aforementioned journal. He raised it up to let the stranger see it clearly in the light of the day. Recognition flashed in his eyes, before the fury returned to them. “I promise you, this isn’t some trick -- he left you a message before he passed. Actually, I set out with intent to find and deliver this news to you... seems you beat me to the punch.” He remarked, gingerly tossing the blood-soaked journal in the direction of the burly menace. It landed before his feet, kicking up a small amount of dust from the path below it. The other eyed it suspiciously, yet when Rufus lowered his aggressive stance and thrust the blade he wielded into the ground, the other took the show of honesty as the moment to take up the proffered journal. Rufus still felt an eye upon him at all times as the other man read from the legible entry. He watched as the fury quickly turned to upset, to grief and heartbreak. Where an aggressive force of a man once stood, a shattered, broken man remained. With no words uttered, he fell to his knees and held the journal close to his heart. letting loose a most heartrending wail of pain that seemed to echo all around the air. Rufus could do nothing but watch, transfixed in sympathy.

 The mournful cries soon turned to quiet sobs; the hulking form of the man seemed smaller somehow in that moment. Surprisingly fragile given his stature. After some many moments had passed, Rufus decided to finally step forward, his expression wrought in one of sadness. He held aloft the blade he had taken from the fallen man, holding it in the flat of both palms to offer outward. “I’m sorry for taking this, and his other effects. I sought only to return them to you.” He began quietly and gently. “His soulstone... I felt it resonate when I made my intent to do so clear. It seemed the right path.” The feline man looked up to him - although event knelt, he was around Rufus’s height still - those already enlarged eyes seeming huge for how close he was now, shimmering like two great pools of water from tears threatening to fall. “Pray... forgive me for attacking you...” He began, choking back sobs in his voice. “I thought-- well... I did not think.” “I... understand. It’s alright. Please, don’t let that trouble you any further.” Rufus responded in as empathetic a tone as he could muster. He was slightly bothered about the loss of his sword, yet such could be replaced if necessary. “You said... his stone, it resonated with you?” The other broke Rufus free of his thoughts. “Oh, I-- uh... yeah. I’ve... had it happen a few times before. I know the feeling. Would you like it back?” Rufus said, tilting his head softly and raising the blade in his arms to indicate he needed a free hand to do so. The man deliberated long and silently, staring deeply into Rufus with eyes that had seen much. Up close, Rufus could tell quite clearly that he was looking upon an older man of this race. Battle-scarred and weary, even more so now. “...No,” he finally said. “No... I don’t believe that will be necessary. If Gaut’s soulstone resonated with you... you should keep it. I have no use for it. You may keep his gunblade too, as apology for... shattering your sword.” “Did you just-- a gunblade?” Rufus responded in shock. He was familiar with the Garlean-crafted weaponry. He even had a ruined one hanging above his mantle. But this was far unlike anything of theirs he had ever seen. “Think you of the weapons wielded by those of import in the Empire? Pale imitations.” He huffed with a strong note of pride. “You will find these are quite different.” The stranger spoke, slowly picking himself up from the ground, now returning to towering over Rufus by the difference of a few heads. “I could explain the particulars to you, if you are willing. But first... I would see to burying Gaut. If you wish to know more, I would ask that you wait for me at the town ahead. I will return before long.” Rufus had little chance in the way to respond before the figure shuffled around him, stowing his own gunblade upon his back and slowly, with a gait that showed how weary he was, made back along the path Rufus had tread. Before he could get too far, Rufus turned and raised his voice to address him. “I’ll be in town. What do I call you? Are you Bran?” “Brankothgar Leyvasch.” He responded, pausing briefly to look back at Rufus. “I’m Rufus -- Rufus Wightman. I will see you soon. Safe travels until then.” He returned in a voice of sincerity. It was met with a subtle, slow downward tilt of the elongated head by Bran. A nod, Rufus perceived it as. He returned the gesture with one of his own and turned around to face the town in the distance. 

His head still swam with the sudden amount of information dropped upon his lap. He looked to the gunblade in his arms in thoughtful quiet, before sighing and resolving himself not to overthink the situation before Bran could return and avail him of his many questions. He leaned down to pick up what scraps of cloth remained from the blanket sling he made for the gunblade, tied them to the metal frame, and attached them to his pack as securely as he could. A temporary solution until he learned more. He spared a final glance in the direction of Bran, who had now all but disappeared down the path towards the treeline, then turned back to start back on the path. 

He needed to rest and have a hot meal as soon as possible.

[gwiiyeoweo]

The Hexatheon were powerful gods, anyone would agree; legends and myths were passed through the generations, some written in dusty old texts or whispered to young ears at bedtime. Others existed out of the circle, obscure as they were considering the fervor given to the big Six, but they still existed.

For example, though Bahamut remains their patron god, the Lucians often pay homage to a certain Astral: Noctis, the Stellarian, the Wish Maker. And if the legends were true, Prompto figured it was worth a shot.

He just didn't expect the Astral himself to literally drop into his arms like a freakin’ falling star.

Pairing: Noctis/Prompto Rating: T

The gods were not to be trifled with, Prompto knew, and they could be as gentle as they were fierce.

Solheim had been born from Ifrit's fire only to be burned at the end, and Titan could very well drop the meteor he's been holding for eons at any given time (the guy definitely did not skimp out on arm day). Accordo had Leviathan's favor until the Tide Mother would decide to swallow the nation beneath her waves, and who knew what Bahamut could do to Insomnia, especially with all those giant swords of his. Though maybe Shiva could be a testament to that, seeing that she was busy burying Niflheim in ice and snow for pissing her off recently for whatever reason.

Old man Ramuh seemed content to just bless the rains down in Duscae, so he was a pretty chill dude in Prompto's opinion.

Prompto flipped through the pages of the 3rd edition Cosmogony: Volume 5 , lounging in sweatpants and a simple tee. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and wiggled around to get in that perfect comfy position, shoulders and back slumped against his plush couch. Beside him, his phone cycled through his playlist, all filled with instrumental music to read to. And honestly, he needed it if he ever wanted to get through a book or a study session, just to help drown out the busy drone of the loud Insomnian streets. Past dinner time and the city was still buzzing with life and thrumming its fanfare.

Now, he didn’t mean to complain. He was thankful that the foreign student exchange program included free housing. He had a nice, well-furnished apartment thanks to Insomnia’s education department, right outside the edge of the university’s campus. Unfortunately, the location meant he was plopped right in the heart of the city, where sirens and the thrum of engines were the most rampant. Prompto had quickly invested in a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Ignoring the hustle and bustle of city life, he idly tapped his fingers along the edge of his book as he skimmed through the text and images. The whole thing was dedicated to the Hexatheon and tales about Oracles and Chosen Kings. He read enough about that to commit to memory, but he was searching for something else.

The librarian had said the fifth volume was his best bet at finding info about the lesser Astrals, the gods that weren’t included in the Six’s circle. In his search for knowledge, he had come across a few research papers arguing about Carbuncle’s place among the gods; some argued that the little fox was simply a messenger, others were convinced it was an Astral itself. There had also been scholarly articles about twin messengers, often depicted as dogs, and whether or not they were more than what they presented as. But to be honest, Prompto didn’t care for any of them.

He was interested in the Stellarian, who had been frustratingly elusive despite all his mind-numbing efforts.

Prompto was beginning to think he bit off more than he could chew. He shouldn’t have picked an almost non-existent god to write his final paper on. Gods, his grade was gonna take a hit .

With a tired groan, Prompto shut his eyes and let his body weight fall to the side. He turned his head into the couch pillows and let out a muffled, frustrated scream.

This sucked. Hard.

Like, sucked Titan’s dick hard.

Maybe, just maybe if he crawled into his professor’s office and offered up a box of chocolates, she’d consider letting him change his topic. But being so far into the semester, he doubted his chances. And, well, the fact that nearly half of Insomnia hated him — professor included — didn’t really help his odds, either.

It was no secret that Lucis and Niflheim had been butting heads over the last few decades. At one point they had been a hair’s width away from declaring war on each other. It wasn’t until the current king, Regis Lucis Caelum, inherited the throne from his father, that the tension slowly smoothed out. Just a couple years ago, the two kingdoms managed to come to a truce. Of course, there had been doubts on this peace treaty. Many didn’t think it would last, or others believed it was all just a ruse for Niflheim to launch a surprise attack. Two years later, nothing happened. Sure, there was still some political unrest between the two nations; it had been, after all, only two years of peace following decades of strained relations.

Which, Prompto figured, was why King Regis included Niflheim when he proposed a student exchange program among all their nations.

He wasn’t going to lie. He had been real uneasy about being shipped out overseas into enemy territory like some sort of sacrificial guinea pig. Alright, it was kind of expected that he be elected as one of the students, since his parents were important figures in Niflheim’s Council, and he had a responsibility to shoulder some off-hand duties here and there. But still . He had felt like a baby chocobo being thrown into a den of Insomnia’s hunting wolves. It wasn’t like the Lucians were infamous for being cruel, rabid war criminals or something; but suddenly being told he was going to be sent on an airship to a nation his kingdom was about to declare war on had been pretty nerve-wracking.

And it wasn’t like his fears had been entirely unfounded, anyway. He hadn’t expected a nice champagne-popping welcoming party, but their sharp gazes and stiff expressions definitely had him on edge. He had been greeted with a cold formality and a robotic process like they just wanted to get him off their hands as quickly as possible. The whole thing had taken a few hours of verifying his visa and personal documents and whatever, and a quick audience with King Regis himself — holy shit holy shit , Prompto had repeated as a mantra — that surely involved a sweaty and shaky handshake. It was hard to remember; he had been close to passing out from anxiety, and he was pretty sure he had disassociated sometime during the whole thing, because the next thing he had known, a door shut behind him and he was standing in a brand new apartment.

As much as he’d like to say the worst was over, he couldn’t. He knew there was still tension between the two nations, and that he would be bearing the brunt of it. It was easy to tell he was a foreigner, a Niff, with his characteristic light hair and light blue, almost violet eyes, and the people of Insomnia had no trouble singling him out. On good days, he’d only hear whispers and gossip behind his back, followed by a snicker or a stank eye. And on bad days, well, sometimes things bordered on physical. He’d just coincidentally trip on someone’s well-timed foot, or someone wouldaccidentally bump into him with a full cup of scalding hot coffee.

At least, it seemed all of Insomnia seemed to know he was part of a government-sponsored program, and they had this unspoken rule to not mess up whatever chance they had of keeping this peace treaty. Which meant, not beating up the son of some very important government figures of a certain nation. Prompto had that, at least. Though sometimes, he wondered how long that protection would even last.

On the bright side, he made some fairly nice acquaintances so far. Ignis Scientia hailed from Tenebrae and was part of the student exchange program. The guy was a damn good cook, and his kitchen skills were only matched by his spectacular grades. His prowess over daggers, though, were a close second. Gladiolus Amicitia, on the other hand, turned out to be the son of the King’s Shield. The Shield . When Prompto had found out, all he did was leave his jaw on the floor until Gladio had laughed it off and picked it up for him. Okay, yeah, no wonder the guy was ripped as all hell, holy fuck!

But while they were pretty cool people, they were just that: acquaintances. There wasn’t a single person he could call a friend. And why would anyone want him? He was just a dirty Niff in their eyes.

And though he didn’t want to think he was that desperate, he turned to the only thing he had left — prayer.

It wasn’t a new concept, especially not to Prompto, having enrolled in several history classes that included the gods in their curriculums. The Hexatheon were powerful gods, anyone would agree. Legends and myths passed through the generations, some written in dusty old texts or whispered into young ears at bedtime. He learned ancient Solheim used to pray to Ifrit, but their hubris led to their downfall. Sometimes he would see the Lucians offer up their prayers to the Draconian in little shrines dotting across Insomnia, or King Regis himself leading a procession dedicated to Bahamut on channel eight.

In fact, he had expected just that: for Insomnia to dedicate itself to the Draconian alone. So when he had seen little altars made for a different god, surprise was an understatement. Hell, he had been shocked when he didn’t even recognize the name. Naturally, he had turned to the smartest guy he knew and asked Ignis who the Stellarian was. Turned out Bahamut wasn’t the only god they worshipped.

Though he didn’t have as large as a following compared to Bahamut, the Stellarian — Noctis, his other name — was quite popular.

So Prompto got curious.

And as luck would have it, there was almost nothing on the Stellarian. A Moogle search got him a few business ads (a cruise ship, a jewelry line, and a wine brand) and only a handful of helpful links. From what little he could glean off the internet, he did learn some interesting facts. For whatever reason, the Stellarian preferred the name Noctis, though he’s cycled through other names before, like Noct Gar. More importantly, he was known as the Wish Maker, who took the hopes of people and made dreams into reality (which explained his close affiliation to Carbuncle), and his motif revolved around the night and stars, true to both his name and title.

According to various first-hand experiences, Noctis had dark hair and steel-blue eyes, all topped off with a lazy grin. Prompto wasn’t sure if stories off the internet held any validity, but most of them agreed on at least that much. The only thing was, some said Noctis appeared as a young boy with all the soft sweetness of a child, others described him as a man in his late twenties, mid thirties, or sometimes even fifties, with all the scruff and wrinkled lines around his eyes to show for it. Forums speculated that Noctis was some incorporeal spirit, only appearing in a physical body according to what the witness would feel the most comfortable with.

Literature was less of a help. Most of the Cosmogony volumes didn’t even reference Noctis, much to Prompto’s frustration. Because his professor sure as hell wasn’t going to accept public forums and conspiracy sites as valid sources in his bibliography.

He figured it was his fault for doing research on something that actually interested him for once, because he should have expected at least that much considering his luck. Noctis may have failed him in getting an A on his paper, but Prompto still liked to believe in him.

He sat up from his couch, shoving the Cosmogony text off onto the carpet. He stretched out his arms, feeling his joints pop and crack with relief and satisfaction, and he could feel the ache in his butt when he stood from the couch. As plush and comfy as the cushions were, nothing could stave off the butt ache from sitting for so long. Prompto shuffled across the room and slid the glass door open, stepping onto the balcony that overlooked the streets of Insomnia.

Pictures could never do it justice. As dark as the skies were, the city was alive with all its neon signs and halogen lights. Electricity hummed under the concrete and asphalt, feeding the bright street lamps that lit up the roads. The roar of engines and the cry of sirens made their own loud music, drowning out the karaoke bars that were around each corner. Gralea was a large city in its own right and a leader in growing technology, but it lacked the vibrant life that Insomnia was teeming with.

Prompto leaned forward against the metal railing, gone cold as the seasons changed to autumn. He sighed into the night air, the cool breeze a refreshing sensation on his warm skin and tired eyes. He looked up at the dark sky, saw the thin shimmer of the famous magic-powered Wall that surrounded Insomnia. Whispers said King Regis was planning on dropping it sometime in the near future, once the threat of Niflheim was completely gone.

‘If only he’d drop it now,’ Prompto wished. He understood why the King did what he did, why he kept the barrier up. But the shine of the wall coupled with the light pollution from the city made it awfully difficult to see the stars. It was nearly impossible to tell the them apart from the magic, and he found that especially troublesome when he wanted to offer up his prayers to the god of, well, the stars, because that’s how it was supposed to work, right? It’s not like he could steal one of those mini altars set up here and there across the city, and he was pretty sure that would only make the Lucians hate him even more, if he could.

So Prompto would just have to settle and make do with what he had, pouring his belief into a night sky of fake stars. And just as he had been doing every night for the past few months, he closed his eyes and lifted his face to the dim lights of the skies, and breathed out a quiet wish across his lips.

(“Hey,” he whispered to no one but himself and the night sky, “I, uh, dunno if you’re actually out there. But I think you do, and so do a few thousand other people, I guess. But if you are out there, and you’re listening, then — well, geez, this is just weird, Prom. Just forget it.”

“So, umm, it’s me again, y’know, your boy Prompto.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another, holding an ice pack on his hand, where someone had spilled hot coffee on him. Again. “You’re probably too busy to listen to a pleb like me, but… ”

“Guess what, Noct? I can call you Noct, right? Okay, good. So anyway, this giant guy Gladio, the one that’s all buff and shit? Yeah, well, turns out he’s the son of the Shield! Can you believe that?”

“But you know, bud, as much as I like this one-on-one thing we’ve got going going on.. I mean, no offense, your holy Astral-ness, but it’d just be nice, y’know — to have a friend that I can actually talk to. Man-to-man. Ya feel me?”

“Noctis, please.” )

Maybe it was the sparkle of magic, or his eyes were just too tired that night; but for a fleeting moment, he saw the thin tail of a shooting star.

Before he saw the red sole of a boot crash into his face.

And as he literally started to see stars when the back of his head hit concrete, he was pretty sure he heard voices too.

“Oh shit, oh shit, Prompto, I am so fucking sorry. C’mon, stay with me here!”

Kweh, Kweh, Kweh —

With a heavy groan, Prompto rolled over to his side and slammed his hand on his chocobo alarm clock. On any other morning when he had his wits about him, he would have had the mind to feel bad about smacking the poor chocobo’s head, as plastic and inanimate as it was. But gods, he felt like utter crap. Like someone dropped a cinderblock on his head or something. It’s not like he got shit-faced drunk last night, so why did he —

His eyes shot open, and he frantically threw his blanket off, tripping over his own feet as he practically jumped out of bed. His head, though, wasn’t having it, and his entire bedroom spun around him as his legs gave out. He fell face first, though he managed to get his hands out in front of him to help break his fall, though his forearms might suffer from carpet burn for it. And ohhh god, his head was killing him. And his face. Especially his face.

But yeah, having someone practically shove their boot into one's face would maybe, just maybe do that.

Prompto squeezed his eyes shut, perfectly content with lying on the floor for now, as he tried to recall last night. He had just been minding his business, gazing at the sky and sharing a little one-sided chat with his favorite Astral, when all of a sudden all he could see was red. He could make out the sole of a shoe and some blob, which he deduced to be the person behind the shoe. The perpetrator had been rambling something out, like an apology, then everything had gone to black.

Yeah, that was one way to end a night, he guessed. Whoever the guy was, Prompto hoped he was okay too. Falling from that kind of height would surely result in at least a broken ankle, if not worse.

“Prompto?”

Holy hell.

His whole body jumped, and he let out the most squeaky scream he ever heard from himself, and practically scrambled on all fours to his nightstand, clawing at the drawer and hands wrapping around the gun he kept stashed there. He never thought he'd have to use it in Insomnia,wished he would never have to — not because he was afraid to shoot but because he had always been taught to shoot to kill. And he was two hundred percent sure killing someone, house intruder or not, would just make him look worse in the Lucians’ eyes.

'Yep, so peachy!’ he sarcastically thought.

What a great turn of events. The guy that fell from the sky and knocked him out, was gonna kill him or rob him or something. Rob him and kill him — if Prompto didn't pull the trigger first. But of all the ways to die, he never really thought of this as a scenario. He wouldn’t even say goodbye to his parents! And as distant as he had become with them, he missed his mom and dad. He loved them, and he knew they loved him too, as much as stressed out council members under the reign of a half-crazy emperor could. But while he knew he wasn't going to die here — or so he hoped, because some self-esteem issues aside, he was a damn good shot — in a foreign nation, an ocean and hundreds of miles away from his parent's, he was so not ready to be thrown under custody for something that really wasn't his fault to begin with.

And he never even got to see a chocobo in real life. He was gonna go to jail without even seeing a chocobo, and he found that so fucking tragic.

“Prompto! Hey, hey, it’s okay. Shit , I’m sorry. Look, I’m not gonna hurt you — well, I guess I already did with, well, last night. And I’m seriouslysorry. That, uh. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Prompto’s breath hitched, when he saw the intruder just sort of… Pop in from the edge of his vision. Crouched to the floor, his hands were offered, both palms up and coming up empty. Prompto kept his mouth shut, body still stiff in his stance, one knee perched on the floor and both hands taking their firm aim, and he stared at the guy’s hands. It took him a few seconds to realize that this home invader was trying to prove he had no weapons. Oh, okay.

So, maybe he could work with this? Maybe no one was going to die?

He took in a slow, shuddering breath, willing his body to relax. Prompto swallowed, slowly letting his gaze roam from the stranger’s hands and up to his face. Might as well put a face to the voice, right?

Except, he totally did not expect to see what he saw. The guy, well, looked almost the same age as Prompto. Kinda small, mostly unassuming — except, he was kind of handsome. Pretty, even. With those long eyelashes and deep blue eyes, the dark hair that perfectly framed his sculpted face. He looked like he was carved from living marble, he was just that pretty . And okay, Prompto was definitely out of it, if that was the first thing he thought of the man, when he was the same exact person who not only fell from the sky to knock him out boot-to-face but also had the audacity to tuck him into bed after breaking into his home then robbing him. Or something?

Like, seriously, who does that? If all of the city’s criminals were like this, then Insomnia was fucking weird as hell.

“Um, Prom? You okay? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to land on you like that. That was embarrassing. And — ugh, shit, I’m so not good at this.” The stranger huffed, running a hand through his dark hair, and he grumbled something entirely foreign. Like, okay, that was definitely not a language Prompto’s ever heard before. And how did he know his name?

“Okay, so let’s try this instead. Prompto, I want you to take a deep breath and think. What was the last thing you said last night?” He quickly held up his finger. “Don’t answer that yet. But after you remember, I want you to look at me. Really look at me, okay? No but’s. Just try, Prom.”

“Uh. O-okay?” Prompto managed to choke out. Despite the warning bells screaming at him, that maybe listening to this complete wacko was not a good idea, he did anyway. He did his best and pushed through the raging headache, tried to recall what he had said before this nut job fell on top of him. He had gone to the balcony, talked to the Stellarian like he always did.

“Hey, Noct, how’s it going? I’m.. I’m doing fine, mostly. A little lonely, though, like always. But one thing: why you gotta be so mysterious? You’re really making me work for this research paper, you know.” He sighed, but not without a light laughter following. “But, honestly? I wouldn’t mind trading a grade for a wish. I mean, I get it. You’re busy, there’s a lot of important people out there. More important than me. But… I dunno, dude. Heck, I wouldn’t even mind if you dropped from the sky and fell on my face, but it’d be totally cool if we could talk one day. At this point, I practically consider you my friend.”

And then lo and behold, someone had indeed fallen on him. He guessed that’s how the saying went, to be careful what you wish for. And — wait. Wait. Wait .

Prompto’s eyes blew wide, and was he breathing? ‘Cause he totally forgot how to breathe all of a sudden. He felt his face drain of blood, and he was pretty sure his jaw was hanging open too. All he could feel was the hard beating of his heart slamming against his ribcage as it climbed into his throat and choked him of his words. Whatever coherent thoughts he had were drowned out by the rushing in his ears, but he was somehow managing to put two and two together. And even when he did, his brain was so fried that his math was giving him five’s and zero’s and fourteen’s.

“Oh. My. Gods.” He barely managed a broken whisper. “Noctis.”

And if he thought his brain was already fried, that dazzling smile, bright and soft like the shimmering stars, threw his brain into a blender.

“The one and only.”

“You’re Noctis.”’

“Yep.”

“Holy shit. No way. No freakin’ way!” Prompto broke away from his stance and crawled his way to Noctis, eyes still wide in shock and surprise, a half smile hanging from his lips in disbelief. He stopped just short of Noctis and sat on his knees, peering at the Astral like he was the most foreign, most strangest, most dazzling little thing he ever had the pleasure of meeting. To his credit, not anyone could just come face-to-face with a god. But here he was. Prompto, just a common pleb, here in front of one, in his little old apartment.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been just staring, but obviously long enough for Noctis to clear his throat and say something.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Noctis suggested, voice all warm with amusement.

“Uh, right! Sorry!” Prompto squeaked. He pulled back, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of greatness. But the sudden movement jostled his brain, and the pain and dizziness was doing him no favors, and he felt himself falling backwards —

Until two gentle hands grabbed a hold of his shoulders, keeping him from bonking his head again. “Woah there, tiger. C’mon, let’s get you back into bed.”

Prompto was about to protest, say that he was fine (he was not, in fact, fine) but Noctis seemed to see through the lie before he even had the chance to say it. Just as Prompto parted his lips to voice his reasoning, the Astral placed a careful hand on his forehead. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion, and his limbs turned into putty. Noctis, despite his slim figure and lean arms, managed to gather Prompto together and lift him up with nearly zero effort. Well, he was a god, after all.

Prompto silently let himself be carried back to bed, and soon enough, he was all tucked in again, his gun having been gently pried away from his fingers and returned to the nightstand. The bed dipped where Noctis sat at the edge, and the Astral leaned over him.

“Okay, blondie. I need you to do one last thing for me,” he softly said. “Before you fall asleep, I want you to make a wish. Something like, ‘please fix my broken nose and get rid of this shitty headache’ or whatever. Got that?”

Prompto could only manage a weak nod. Keeping his eyes open was a battle all on its own, at this point. But wait, if he fell asleep, would Noctis still be here? What if this was all some fucked up dream?

Noctis, somehow noticing the distress, patted the poor boy's chest in reassurance. “Don't worry, I'll be here when you wake up. Gotta clean up my mess somehow.”

That mess probably meant himself, Prompto vaguely thought. But well, whatever, he just really wanted to sleep. As he let his consciousness melt away, he made sure to keep Noctis’ instructions in mind.

Strangely enough, Prompto woke up feeling refreshed and well-rested, which hadn't happened in at least a couple years, not like this. He blinked once, twice and slowly sat up, looking over to his chocobo clock. It was now noon, several hours after his alarm was set to go off. Several hours after all that happened. It felt like a fever dream. It had to be, because after all, that blaring pain in the back of his skull was now gone, and his face wasn't sore and swollen.

Except, Prompto could see where his bedroom door was left ajar, could see Noctis floating around in the kitchen, where the aroma of a strong brew wafted from. And okay, so maybe that wasn't a dream.

Hooooooo, okay. He could do this. He was not going to freak out. He was gonna step out of bed and walk out, all cool and composed. He had this.

With a deep breath, Prompto willed his heart to calm the fuck down, and he quietly swung his legs over the bed, firmly planting his feet onto the ground. He didn't want a repeat of the last time he tried, when he barely missed falling onto his face. So with step one done, he slowly pushed himself to stand, and once he got his knees to stop buckling, he quietly made his way out his room. The bedroom door creaked as he pushed it open, and Noctis. Oh man, Noctis , an honest-to-gods Astral, turned around to greet him with a smile in his eyes.

Good thing Prompto made sure his knees were steady, else they would have turned to jello.

“Hey. Feelin’ better?” Noctis asked, walking over with two mugs in his hands. Prompto nodded weakly, carefully taking an offered cup. “Still hot, careful.” Noctis warned, right as the blonde placed his lips around the rim.

Prompto was quick to pull back; he didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of a god by spilling hot coffee on himself. But he may have already done that this morning. How was he even supposed to act in front of a god, anyway? He frowned into his cup, staring at his dark reflection.

“Prompto, you might want to sit down for this.” Noctis’ words jerked him from his thoughts, and who was he to deny the advice of a god? He quietly shuffled over to the couch, sitting at the far end, and let his mug rest on the table.

“So,” Noctis said, taking a seat next to him, “What did you think of Carbuncle?”

“Who?”

“Carbuncle. You met him, didn’t you?”

“Uhh… No? I mean, was I supposed to?”

“Oh.” Noctis hummed thoughtfully. “I asked him to help me patch you up. But I guess you’re one of those who forget their dreams.”

Well, he certainly didn’t remember dreaming at all for the past couple nights. But wait. He met Carbuncle, too? Damn, he must have been a saint or something in his previous life, if he got to meet not only one but two Astrals in less than twenty-four hours. Granted, he didn’t remember meeting one of them, but still. This was pretty sick. Getting kicked in the face and suffering a concussion was totally worth this.

“Wow,” Prompto breathed out, a drunk smile perched on his lips. “This is so cool.”

Beside him, Noctis snorted out of amusement. “Well, I hope so. It’s the one wish you kept asking of me, after all.”

“Oh! Right. I did wish for that, didn’t I?” As excited as he was and how special he felt, he also felt the pressure of making the most out of his wish. This was a chance of a lifetime, and he really didn’t want to waste it. Noctis was probably busy, and he couldn’t spend all day chatting. Prompto almost wished he had a heads up or something, just so he could have made a list of things he wanted to ramble about. But now that Noctis was actually here, sitting on his couch in his one-bedroom apartment, his mind was coming up blank with what to say or do. He felt a brief flash of panic cut through his chest. Every second he spent in silence was a precious second wasted. “I… I actually have no clue what I want to say.”

“Eh, that’s fine.” Noctis waved one hand in the air and took a sip of his coffee. He leaned forward to trade his mug with the remote control, setting his drink beside Prompto’s, and turned on the TV. He slumped back into the seat, lazily rolling his head to face Prompto. “Take your time, man. I literally have eternity.”

Prompto choked on his own spit. “Wha — no, you can’t!”

Noctis frowned, as if insulted. “What d’you mean I can’t?”

“I mean, well, you’re a god . You can’t be wasting your time on a pleb like me! You have, you know, more important things to do!”

“Hey, Prompto —”

“And, and, aren’t there like, kings or something you could be listening to instead? Like, uh, King Regis!”

“Okay, Prom, shut up for sec.” Before Prompto could come up with anymore excuses, Noctis reached over with his hands and squeezed the boy’s cheeks together. “You’re half-right. I can’t be wasting time on a single person, especially when there’s millions of wishes out there needing help. But I’m not wasting my time. And I’m not ignoring everyone else either.”

He withdrew his hands, but kept his eyes trained on Prompto. “I mean, it’s not like you know this, so I guess I should explain it to you. Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?” — Prompto made to answer but Noctis shot him a pointed look — “It’s a rhetorical question, don’t answer that. But there’s a lot.”

“You see, blondie, there’s as many ‘me’s’ as there are stars in this universe.” He waved a hand through the air, a trail of blue lights shimmering in its wake, then pinched a tiny glittering crystal among them all and held it up to Prompto.

“It just so happened that I plucked one out of the sky and personalized it just for you.”

Prompto wasn’t sure he one hundred percent understood it, but he liked to think he got the general idea. Turned out Noctis wasn’t a single individual but rather a lot of individuals that shared a consciousness. Like, a hivemind, Prompto noted.

“Think of it like a giant tree. Noctis is the tree, and the branches and roots reach all across Eos,” he had explained, placing a hand on his own chest, “A branch is a part of the tree, but the tree isn’t a part of the branch. And you could say I’m one of those branches. So in the same way, I’m a fragment of Noctis; but he’s not me.” Noctis had scrunched his nose, grimacing at his own words. “Okay. Yeah, that made more sense in my head. Sorry, not sure how to put it. Shiva would be better at explaining…”

Prompto had shaken his head. He had been pretty sure he got the gist of it. But it hadn’t changed the fact that this Noctis was here to stay, or at least, that’s what the implication was. He had no intention of ruining his perfectly happy moment just yet, so he had figured to store that thought for later. So instead, he had gotten up to walk over to the TV stand, had picked up a pair of controllers while looking at god in the eye and asking, “Play Blade Masters with me?”

And damn was Noctis a fast learner, because Prompto almost had his ass handed to him in their last match. Give or take an hour, and he was pretty sure Noct could master all the characters and their combos, even the ones with like ten inputs. “So, Noct — ah, shit! — you’re really here to stay?” Prompto leaned to his left and mashed his controller furiously, as if the added effort would translate into the game.

“Yep,” Noctis answered, eyes honed in on the screen, shoulders tense and thumbs raging on his controller.

“Neat.”

Noctis’ fighter got K.O.d, and he paused to lower his controller and flick Prompto on the nose. “You got your own personal god here, and all you can say is ‘Neat’?”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Prompto laughed, blossoming with an easy smile. “Hella neat.”

“Damn straight.”

[portvalehq]

you were born under the shadow of your brother, a prominent figure in your coastal home town, but it was never something that bothered you. where he excelled, you preferred to daydream, and flew by unnoticed on his coattails. magic and hope fuels your soul and politics have never been a thought on your mind, even when your father died. now, your spirit is soiled with a thirst for revenge, answers, and justice… and you won’t rest until you find what you seek.

MORAY BLACKMORE ● NPC ● THE MAYOR’S SIBLING

THE HISTORY

With a mother he never knew, Moray was the youngest in the Blackmore family, and yet, perhaps the shadow to linger behind them. In the ways Xander was charming, strong, independent, Moray was not. When their father died, Moray was the one insisting that foul play was involved - but it was his brother, the acting mayor at the time, who squashed his theories as rumors. Moray never felt that the truth was revealed, but in the face of disappointment in the matter, he retreated to the Lighthouse where he worked as it’s keeper. 

In the last year after Xander’s official election into the role of mayor, and all the chaos that has been wrecking the town since last September, Moray has become more and more reclused. When the lighthouse stopped shining for that brief time, the locals say, so did it’s keeper... there is talk, whispers, and rumors; mainly spread out of concern, but the lighthouse keeper remains as elusive as the pinnacle itself. No one really knows Moray all that well, and no one is fully sure what goes on in the lighthouse, either. 

READ THE FULL BIO HERE.

PERSONALITY

There’s always been a hunger to the way Moray takes things in through the lens of his film camera, like he’s trying to hold the world the same way you hold water. If every action has its equal and opposite reaction, so must every person. He is his brother’s foil— where the other charms Port Vale with ease, Moray melts into every nook and cranny of the place; as much a part of its fabric as the seagrass that holds the dunes together. Where the other hunkers down in churning seas, he throws his arms wide. The perfectionism long held by his family finds no home in him — Moray is a whirlpool of thought and feeling. A maelstrom of a man whose attentions are as flighty as the town’s seabirds. Who wears his heart on his sleeve, bruised by every blast of sea breeze.

CONNECTIONS

XANDER BLACKMORE: your other half. xander, the mayor of port vale, is your older brother and for the most part, your lighthouse in a storm. losing first your mother, when you were very young, and more recently your father, he is the last solid thing in your life to hold onto. however, he doesn’t believe you; you know something sinister happened to your dad, but he’s too busy managing the town to even bother helping you uncover the truth. it hurts, so you’ve pulled back, and this scares you.

VICTORIA WOLFGANG; always pushing, always clawing her way into things; you and she were never friends, and you wish your brother would stand up against her more. it was never your place, and you know it. she hardly sees you, anyway, tucked away in your lighthouse and hidden from the world... she probably prefers that.

VIVIAN WOLFGANG: there has always been a sort of assumed rivalry between the wolfgang’s and the blackmore’s, but you never felt that with them. when your father was found dead, there was a brief moment where the two of you connected, hidden away in the corner of the bar, sharing drinks and dreaming of leaving port vale in the dust… but you know, you never could do that, and especially not now. maybe they’ll get the chance, while you hide away with your sorrows. they stopped coming around now.

[kckv]

He made his way along the wharf and through the fish market

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[kgdharan45]

A Life In Shadow

A Life in Shadow by Vappala Balachandran was released in 2017. It had received a lot of attention in the media. Then why this belated review? The book is the biography of a mysterious man, ACN Nambiar, who spent nearly 60 years of his life in various parts of Europe and involved in anything to do with India and its leaders visiting Europe, particularly during the Freedom Struggle. Nambiar’s close relationship with Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi and Netaji Subhas Bose is intriguing. He also throws new light on the ‘controversial’ Nehru-Bose relationship.  

With the assembly elections in West Bengal is under way this issue is likely to become alive once again. This review is just a reminder for those who conveniently forgotten this book.

- Review by Krishnan Gangadharan, freelance journalist.

A LIFE IN SHADOW: The Secret Story of ACN Nambiar

By Vappala Balachandran 

Roli Books, Rs 695 

ACN Nambiar was a freedom fighter, spy and diplomat at various points in a life that was intricately connected to India’s history. He also played parts of European history. Nambiar, in fact, spent most of his active life in different parts of Europe—gathering support for the freedom struggle there, and later, as a diplomat. It could be said that this man had, more or less, single-handedly carried on his shoulders the responsibility of keeping alive the anti-colonial activities in Europe.

In A Life in Shadow, the author, Vappala Balachandran, brings together startling new material about Nambiar’s remarkable life, including how Netaji’s negotiations with the Nazi regime played out. Charismatic yet low profile Nambiar was witness to, and an active participant in, the history-making interactions between some of the prominent world leaders of the time in Europe. As the author says, ‘Nanu was no ordinary man. He was, quite truly, extraordinary.’ It is to Balachandran’s credit that this quality shines through in a book that never descends into hagiography despite the author’s obvious admiration for the subject of his research.

We learn of Nambiar’s youth, his impetuous nature and hasty decisions, qualities that seriously impact his life and work later. His personal relationship with Nehru and other members of the family, his advice and suggestions on various issues to Nehru and Indira, his interaction with the top-ranking political figures of different hues, his marriage to Suhasini Chattopadhyaya, the younger sister of Sarojini Naidu—all of these details add up brick by brick to a revealing portrait of an elusive man. But most fascinating of all is the tight-rope walk that was his relationship with Nehru and Bose. 

The Nehru-Bose relationship has always remained a matter of high speculation and controversy among Indian politicians and the media. Right-wing politicians accuse Nehru of having pushed Bose out of the Congress Party, leading to the formation of his Forward Bloc. Now, with the West Bengal assembly elections under-way, the Nehru-Bose controversy is likely to get murkier. Nambiar categorically told Balachandran that those two towering personalities of the Indian political firmament maintained a close personal relationship. It is important that Nambiar, who was second-in-command to Bose and took control of his political outfit’s activities in Europe, particularly in Berlin, vouches for the cordial and affectionate relationship between Nehru and Bose.  It is also evident from the letters the two exchanged, which are part of the secret papers declassified by the government in 2016. These papers, lying thus far in some chest of drawers in the Prime Minister’s Office, reveal that it was Mahatma Gandhi who was instrumental in Bose’s departure from the Congress in 1939. Nehru even wrote to Gandhi that he “should accept Subhas as president. To try and push him out seems to be an exceedingly wrong step.” But “the differences between the Mahatma and Bose could not be resolved.” He was under pressure from right-wing leaders in the party, led by Sardar Patel, who were determined to force Bose’s resignation from presidentship of the party. 

Bose too reciprocated Nehru’s gestures. It is no secret that Netaji named one of the INA brigades the ‘Nehru Brigade’.

“As Nambiar saw it, Nehru and Bose differed not on the aim of independence but on the modalities. Nehru, although doubting certain assumptions and conclusions of Bose, never doubted his patriotism nor harboured any hatred. Bose on his part recognized Nehru’s importance and influence in India’s national struggle, although he felt that Nehru’s pro-British attitude could be a problem.”

Another speculation that was a favourite stick to beat Nehru with was that, in the 1950s and 1960s, Indian intelligence agencies spied on the Bose family at the instance of the prime minister. Balachandran cites this as a classic example of ‘inherited intelligence legacy.’  As a matter of fact, the surveillance on Bose was ordered by the British in 1924. The author, who was a senior intelligence officer, warns: ‘Unintended and wilful misreading of intelligence reports alike contribute to false, tendentious claims and opportunistic politicking.’  

As second-in- command to Bose, Nambiar was also privy to Bose’s interactions with the Fuehrer in Berlin. Again, Nambiar was the one who negotiated with the Nazi regime after Bose left Europe for Southeast Asia in February 1943. There appears to be candour in his reminiscences, and Balachandran juxtaposes it with the mine of information that he had access to from official records and his own personal sources. However, one point remains unanswered: did Bose overestimate Hitler’s gestures of support or did the latter manipulate him. But Nambiar is categorical in his analysis of Bose and his interaction with Hitler: “Despite being totally dependent on Germany in carrying out his activities, Nambiar believed that Bose always resisted any attempts against Indian national interests. Mostly with great finesse and diplomacy but on occasions bluntly.” 

According to Nambiar, “Bose was at times irritated and uneasy in Germany but maintained his composure and concentrated on his work without getting involved with the internal developments in Germany. He met Hitler and Ribbentrop but no other minister.

“The second meeting with Hitler was a formal one on the eve of his departure from Europe to South East Asia. Bose left for the Far East on 8th February 1943. At the first meeting, six months before his leaving Germany, Bose raised two issues: Germany announcing in a formal way, recognition of Indian Independence and removing the derogatory references about India in the new editions of Hitler’s book, Mein Kampf. Hitler replied that any announcement on India would carry sufficient weight only when German troops had sufficiently advanced in the direction of Asia. The second he dodged by saying that it would receive his ‘attention’ without giving any definite assurance.”

The question at the heart of Balachandran’s book, though, is this: What was Nambiar’s role in Indian history? The members of the first family in Independent India confided in Nambiar (ie. Nehru, Indira, Nehru’s sisters Vijayalaxmi Pandit and Krishna Hutheesing, and even Padmaja Naidu) and complained against each other directly or through letters, “but Nambiar steered clear of any controversy and remained impartial till he breathed his last”. 

‘Deputy of Subhas Chandra Bose. An aide to Jawaharlal Nehru. A friend to Indira Gandhi. A left-wing contributor to The Hindu newspaper. The first Indian ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany. He was also ambassador to Sweden for a short period. And if recent reports are to be believed – a Soviet spy; lives, each more intriguing than the other, and yet, little of his story is truly known.  The author who, at the instance of Indira Gandhi, was instrumental in bringing Nambiar back to India from Europe during his twilight years, relied on a wealth of sources, including confidential reports that have not been examined before. ‘With inputs and insights from Nambiar’s diaries and many interviews, the book is set to be a definitive account, not only of his life but also of the lives of Indians living in Europe between the two World Wars and how they contributed to the Indian Freedom Struggle.’ 

While Nambiar revealed to the author, orally and through dictated notes, how he came to be close to Bose and how he became part of the history of India’s Freedom Struggle, he reveals little about his close relationship with the Congress’ Nehru-Gandhi family. Much of this gap has been filled by the author through his meticulous research, seeking the details from several sources and corroborating them. He also had the special privilege, as a senior police officer in the Maharashtra cadre, and later as Special Secretary to the Cabinet Secretariate (R&AW) of scrutinizing the archived records of the State that provided a mine of information on Nambiar’s ex-wife Suhasini’s life in Bombay as also his life in Europe.  While many aspects of his personal relationships remain a tightly guarded secret, it is clear that Nambiar was not happy about his life in New Delhi, away from Europe where he spent nearly sixty years of his life. Indira Gandhi’s assassination too was a great blow to him, one he never quite recovered from. Nambiar, Nanu to his friends and acquaintances, passed away in a hospital in New Delhi in January 1986 at the age of ninety.  

The book sheds new light on an action-filled era of Indian history, and on the life of a ‘hero’ who chose to remain behind the stage, like a true spy?