#revolt summit

[thelostdreamsthings]

"Putin is isolated."

BRICS, 50% of the World population is telling a big "fuck off" to the arrogant, declining and decadent G7 amounting to 10% of the World's population.

🇺🇳🇷🇺 UN Secretary General Guterres respectfully bows and shakes the hand of Putin in Russia’s Kazan at the BRICS summit.

A lot of people start crying and scream hysterically when they see this picture, for some reason.

[BRICS Currency Looms Large: Could This Be the Beginning of the End for U.S. Dollar Dominance?

For decades, the U.S. dollar has been weaponized as a tool of global dominance, wielded by the American empire to enforce its geopolitical will.

Through sanctions, coercive financial practices, and the threat of exclusion from the dollar-based system, the U.S. has effectively terrorized nations across the world.

The pretense of a “free market” economy has long been shattered by Washington's aggressive use of the dollar as a weapon to cripple economies, isolate adversaries, and exert control over global trade.

But the world is growing tired—sick and tired—of this financial tyranny. And now, with the rise of BRICS, we may be witnessing the beginning of the end for U.S. dollar supremacy.

BRICS—Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa—represent a bloc of nations that together account for nearly half of the global population and a significant chunk of the world’s GDP.

For years, these nations have been quietly collaborating to counterbalance the West's stranglehold over international finance, and now, they are inching closer to launching their own currency.

The creation of a BRICS currency signals an outright challenge to the dollar-dominated global economy, and it is nothing short of a revolt against American financial imperialism.

Why is this happening? The answer is simple: countries are fed up with being bullied. The U.S. has used its currency like a sledgehammer, smashing nations that dare to defy its hegemony.

Whether through sanctions on Iran, Venezuela, or Russia, or by financially suffocating smaller nations into submission, the dollar has become a tool of coercion rather than commerce.

Nations who once played by the rules of the so-called “global order” have found themselves punished, their economies crippled, and their people starved—merely for refusing to kowtow to Washington's dictates.

But BRICS is offering an alternative. The creation of a BRICS currency, backed by the economic strength of its member nations, offers the world a way out of the suffocating grip of the dollar.

This is not just about financial autonomy—it’s about reclaiming sovereignty, independence, and the right to conduct trade without the constant threat of U.S. interference.

Russia and China have been leading the charge in this effort, driven in part by the U.S. sanctions imposed on Moscow following the Ukraine conflict and the ongoing trade war with Beijing.

Both countries have moved aggressively to reduce their reliance on the U.S. dollar, increasing trade with each other and with other BRICS members in their local currencies.

They are laying the groundwork for a currency that could be based on a basket of commodities, potentially gold-backed, further weakening the grip of the U.S. dollar on the global market.

The U.S. has long prided itself on its role as the issuer of the world’s reserve currency, but this dominance was never guaranteed to last forever.

The BRICS currency threatens to dismantle the global financial architecture that has allowed the U.S. to live far beyond its means.

For decades, the U.S. has run massive deficits, printing money at will, secure in the knowledge that the world would continue to rely on the dollar.

But as BRICS nations move to establish their own currency, that privilege could evaporate overnight.

The implications for the U.S. are dire. If the dollar loses its status as the world’s reserve currency, the U.S. economy could face a severe reckoning.

The artificial demand for dollars that has kept interest rates low and allowed the U.S. to run massive debt could vanish, leading to inflation, higher borrowing costs, and potentially a fiscal crisis.

The American empire, propped up for so long by its control of global finance, could find itself in rapid decline.

For the rest of the world, however, the rise of a BRICS currency represents hope—a chance to escape the iron grip of U.S. financial imperialism. No longer will countries have to fear the punitive measures of the U.S. Treasury.

No longer will they have to worry about being cut off from the global financial system for standing up to American bullying.

The creation of a new currency could usher in a multipolar world, where nations are free to trade without being subject to the whims of a single superpower.

Of course, the U.S. will not go quietly. Washington will likely pull out all the stops to crush the BRICS currency before it can gain traction. The playbook will be the same: propaganda, financial sabotage, and even the threat of military intervention.

But this time, the world may not be so easily intimidated. The BRICS nations, backed by their vast resources and burgeoning economies, are prepared to stand their ground.

In the end, the creation of a BRICS currency is not just an economic development—it’s a revolutionary act. It’s a declaration that the age of American financial dominance is coming to an end, and that a new world is on the horizon.

The U.S. dollar, once seen as the bedrock of global stability, has become a symbol of oppression, and the world is ready to move on.

The question now is not whether the U.S. dollar will fall, but when. And as BRICS moves closer to launching its own currency, that day may be sooner than anyone expects.

The empire, long propped up by its financial manipulation, is facing a reckoning—one that could change the course of history.]

IMF Growth Forecast: 2024

🇮🇳India: 7.0% (BRICS)

🇨🇳China: 4.8% (BRICS)

🇷🇺Russia: 3.6% (BRICS)

🇧🇷Brazil: 3.0% (BRICS)

🇺🇸US: 2.8% (G7)

🇸🇦KSA: 1.5% (invited to BRICS)

🇨🇦Canada: 1.3% (G7)

🇿🇦RSA: 1.1% (BRICS)

🇬🇧UK: 1.1% (G7)

🇫🇷France: 1.1% (G7)

🇮🇹Italy: 0.7% (G7)

🇯🇵Japan: 0.3% (G7)

🇩🇪Germany: 0.0% (G7)

‼️ 159 out of 193 countries have signed up to use the new BRICS settlement system.

US and European Union will no longer be able to use economic sanctions as a weapon.

This system allows countries to settle trades and payments in their own currencies, reducing reliance on the U.S. dollar, which has long been the dominant global currency.

[toms-cherry-trees]

Ash & Shadows || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: The night is long and dreary. Does the future hold hope, or is there just pain left?

Word count: 4.9k

Tags: Implications of major character death, grief, angst, Tommy being and asshole and then regretting it, set after s6e6 so I had to work around that hot mess. It has some Gothic and ghostly themes

Author’s note: A CALENDAR YEAR I PROCRASTINATED THIS but I HAD to finish it so, enjoy?

The tears have long dried in your cheeks, but their saltiness lingers in your tongue. Your throat feels parched, but you cannot find it in yourself to cross the few steps that separate you from the cup of stale tea in your nightstand, nor any of the dozen abandoned beverages that litter the master bedroom. There’s whiskey with water on the mantelpiece, sitting next to some plain water, and remnants of milk with honey and cinnamon, in which you suspect Frances mixed some drops of laudanum, for you felt strangely calm after drinking it, but not enough to find sleep. The bed is a mess, proof of your restlessness, the sheets and blankets hastily pulled from the corners and wrapped tightly around you like a protective cocoon, in hopes that the comforting swaddle will keep you whole for one more night. But they do little to placate the unforgiving cold spreading through your insides, a chill sprouting from within your very soul.

The ash and soot linger on your hands, caked under your ruined nails and smeared across your raw skin. Your clothes have not been changed in days, and they smell of burnt wood and petrol, mixed with something unspeakable and revolting. The stench is rooted in your nostrils, so pervasive you taste it in your mouth, in your throat, in the depths of your lungs. It spreads through your veins and seeps into your bones, consuming your spirit in waves of black and death. You are overcome by the vile venom, and even the mere evocation of it makes you choke and heave violently. A foulness you will never be able to forget, perennially engraved in the deepest corners of your memory, alongside other grim chapters of your past. But unlike others, this has changed your life, your self, the very course of your existence. You cannot fathom how the world continues to spin and the sun to rise in the horizon after such ground shattering devastation has occurred. 

Your husband is dead, that much you know. He is dead and you are still alive and in your heart, that goes against the laws of nature. You are not meant to exist without the other. You had swore to grow old together, how could he leave you thirty years before his time? How could he leave when your children had not even learned to tie their shoes themselves yet? He had not yet commissioned the treehouse he promised them, how could he abandon them halfway through?

You should have known something was amiss. You knew your husband, better than anyone could. You had a way to read his thoughts and forestall his actions that not even his late aunt could comprehend. Only you could dissipate the fog from his troubled mind and unravel the rigmarole which composed the very foundations of his existence. He had once said, late at night, with his arm around your waist while he believed you fast asleep, that he felt like a man standing alone under a wicked thunderstorm, and you were the only one brave enough to face the tempest and come to him with an umbrella, even at the risk of your own life. But he would forever take the umbrella from your hands. Your life before his, every single time.

How could you not foresee this?

Ever since the failed assassination on Mosley, Tommy had slowly but steadily gone down a steep slope, one not even you could rescue him from. Life had never shown him mercy; every time he reached the pinnacle, a new mountain blocked his way, mightier and deadlier than the last. He had surmounted them all, not without penalty, leaving blood bathed bullets and bodies in his wake. But at last, Tommy had found his Everest. The summit taunted him, unreachable; the death of his aunt clobbered him like an avalanche, and the man he became after that didn’t hold the slightest resemblance to the man you fell in love with. You were sure that if you sat the present day Tommy before the one he used to be in 1919, they would not recognise each other.

He tried to keep you shielded from his meetings with the fascists, the rallies, the gossip and scandal. Only he knew the dangers that lurked in the shadows of the garden while you sat before the fireplace reading stories with your children. And only he knew about the stacks of bills being passed from hand to hand, sealing deals and pacts that promised to change the course of history. Tommy only wanted you to worry about your charities, your horses and your pretty dresses, and leave the rest of the world upon his steady shoulders.

In his mind, oblivious meant safe. For you, it felt like a lack of trust in your person. And that soon morphed into bitter resentment, never shown openly but perpetually simmering just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. Lying had always come easy to him, but it became harder when his lies were unmasked in the morning paper. How could he pledge innocence when his face showed up on the front page next to the leader of the British Union of Fascists? How could he deny his guilt, with Diana Mitford right at his tail?

How could he pretend leaving you in the dark was for the greater good?

Everything came to a breaking point when he suddenly summoned you to his study to inform you he would be departing for Canada the following day, with no clear return date and refusing to elaborate on what called him so suddenly to cross the Atlantic. The more you pressed for answers, the more he manoeuvred around them with carefully premeditated replies of vague content, half finished sentences and loose words, so unlike him that the lies unravelled on their own before your eyes. His total carelessness over the situation and the dismissal of your worries became the drop that tipped the glass. Months of carefully concealed rancour came bursting to the surface like an erupting volcano. 

You called him every name in the book, reminding him of the things you had endured for his sake over the long course of your relationship, while he could not even allow you the decency of forewarning you of such a trip or offer an acceptable explanation for such haste in departure, the acrimony in your heart even making you ask if he had special company for the journey. His impassive silence only irked you further, and you told him he could get a one way ticket to hell for all you cared, before slamming the door to his office so violently you heard a painting fall and shatter on the ground. 

The day after, you rounded the kids in the foyer for the mandatory goodbyes. He hugged them all long and tight, a rarity in itself for a man who had become so cold and withdrawn he barely spared them a glance in the mornings over his newspaper. And then he kneeled before Charlie and placed a brand new gold pocket watch in the boy’s little hands. Your husband said men wore pocket watches and he would be the man of the house now. The boy only stared back, perplexed, and nodded once silently before pocketing the precious object with utmost care.

You remained irate, arms crossed over your chest, fingers drumming on your arm impatiently. It was hard to tell you apart from an enraged bull staring at a red cloth. A part of you felt like a petulant child, but after so many years of marriage and everything you had silently withstood for him, you could no longer hide the hurt and disappointment, feelings far too familiar that you had grown accustomed to conceal. You only allowed him a brief goodbye, turning your face away when he tried to kiss your lips, presenting your cheek instead. He didn’t protest, his lips lingering on your skin longer than they had done in years, his gloved hand cradling the back of your neck and playing with your hair. His free arm circled your waist and pulled you close, face moving to rest in the crook of your neck as he inhaled deeply, as if committing the scent of your body to memory.

A strange sense of foreboding filled you, but you forced it out of your mind. 

If you had known what the future held ahead, you would have jumped into his arms, engraving in your memory every detail of himself; the feeling of his hands on your waist, the timbre of his voice. Traced every nook and cranny of his face with your fingertips, over and over until you could forever recall it. You would have kissed those lips until they bled, and with the same ferocity, you would have screamed and clawed and made the windows rattle and the ground shake, demanding an explanation. Demanding to know why.

The days passed, and the worry began to gnaw at your chest. The hotel address he gave you didn’t exist, nor did the phone number which he scribbled down hastily seconds before crossing the threshold, only after you demanded to have a way to contact him should an emergency arise with the kids. The kids. Not you. Over his shoulder, as if an afterthought, he said he would call. After the first week of silence you had a landline installed outside your bedroom, and you would stare incessantly at the apparatus, willing it to ring. One time you heard the faint ringing in the study from the entrance door, and you rushed to it with such haste you vaulted over a sofa and snapped your high heel off. But it only turned out to be Ada, checking in on you. Ever since that day, everyone seemed to grow suspiciously closer to you. Calls and visits and days out. Ada inviting you to London and looking after the kids to give you a day off. Curly and Charlie coming often to help the kids tame their new ponies. Arthur would come too, far too often to be normal, and he would sit across from you in the living room, nursing a whiskey in his hand and poorly attempting small talk, always looking ready to be sick and evading your gaze.

Their pitiful stares didn’t go unnoticed, nor did some carefully chosen words, such as how your kids would always be looked after and provided for in the family, how they would always be there for you and would support whatever you chose to do with your life. Praising your strength, offering their support, always looking away or changing the subject when you asked if your husband had called them. The thinly veiled edge of desperation in your voice seemed to stir something within them, and redoubled their efforts in consoling you for something you didn’t yet know.

The truth laid bare before your very eyes, just an inch out of reach, concealed just enough to keep you in the dark with confusing glimpses of the life ahead.

But the passive games and the uncertainty came to an abrupt halt one bright sunny morning, the skies blue and clear like Tommy’s eyes and a gentle breeze fanning over the gardens. You told the nannies to prepare the kids for a picnic in the meadow, and helped Frances set up a plentiful food basket. But just before you could set foot out, a car stopped in the driveway. The frantic knocking on the door and the slurred screaming had you fearfully peeking out through the draperies, your finger readied on the trigger of a gun, only to see Arthur slumped against one of the columns of the entrance, calling out your name. Before he could say another word, you knew he had relapsed back into the opium, acquired from who knows where. Even from afar, he reeked of alcohol and smoke, face bloated and eyes bloodshot and swollen. He staggered forward, nearly toppling over you before falling to his knees, his face distorted in anguish. You tried to pull him up, to coax some sort of explanation out of him, anything to placate the worry crawling up your chest.

A million possible scenarios played in your head, yet not even ten lives could have prepared you for the simple words that escaped his mouth.

“Tommy is dead”

From that point on, memories become elusive. Only fleeting moments remain. You recall your own hands, hands meant to nurture, caress and comfort; hands that wiped tears, stroked hairs and tickled bellies, your kind and gentle hands gripping Arthur’s coat lapels and pulling on him with such force he came back to his feet, startled. You remember shaking him violently, teeth gritted and vision blurred with hot tears, your mascara running down your cheeks. Your lips parted to scream, but you cannot recall what words came out of your mouth. Arthur tried to pry your hands open and take some distance, but then you slapped him across the face. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was a punch. Or maybe a detail that never happened, later added by your wrecked mind. Because you hoped that if you screamed and punched and tore the world to pieces you would awaken from that nightmare.

You saw the smoke long before the car reached the side road. The perfume of the blooming flowers could not mask the wafting aroma of charred wood, petrol and burnt fabrics, with something else you could not quite pinpoint, but smelled vile and pernicious. A cheerful meadow stretched out before you, bright green dotted with white and yellow spreading as far as the eye reached across gentle hills. And amidst all, a scorched patch of land, and a pile of still smouldering debris, wisps of acrid poison swirling in the docile spring breeze. 

You leapt towards the vardo’s remains, but Arthur restrained you, slender but firm arms circled tight around your waist as he attempted to comfort you; as if there could be any comfort for you in that moment and place. You fought him with tooth and nail, scratching and biting and kicking like a frenzied beast, cursing his name, his bloodline and his entire existence. All he did back was shush you, a hand pressed to your abdomen, his arm around your chest as your knees gave and you collapsed into him, agonising wails wracking your to your core.

You cried out for Tommy, but only death called back.

In time, the smoke cleared and the pyre cooled, allowing you a clear view of the massacre before your very eyes. Like the leftovers of a bonfire, wood so thoroughly charred it disintegrated on the hand, mixed with scalding pieces of metal and leftover rags that once were curtains and bedding. You fell to your knees, frantic fingers digging at the ash and earth bare handed, soot and dust clinging to your sweat doused skin, getting in your eyes, your nose, your mouth. Your fingers ached and your skin reddened and blistered in the heat, but you felt nothing, nothing but the overcoming grief coiling around your heart, constricting your throat and freezing the blood in your veins. Your tears sizzled as they fell on the ground. You dug and dug, panicked sobs reverberating in the emptiness of the meadow, your pain a sharp contrast with the chirping of the blackbirds on the branches. 

You could find but only a few scarce belongings that survived the conflagration. A couple of gold sleeve garters. His pocket watch, the mechanism somehow still working. The frames of his reading glasses, the crystals having been lost to the heat. No matter how deep you dug, his wedding ring was nowhere to be found. And everything else had turned to ash and dust.

Ashes of the vardo. 

Ashes of your memories together.

Ashes of the man.

The love of your life swept away by the wind.

~

You no longer know if it’s day or night. The heavy drapes are closed, and only a few dying embers remain in the hearth. The room is cold, more than usual, robbed from the warmth of fire and the warmth of love. Time passess differently when grief has its clutches around you. Every second is too slow, yet every day moves by too fast. Three days have swept by, maybe four, plus the month of faked departure in which he roamed the fields while you believed him across the pond. His scent is fading from the pillows, from his clothes, from your memory. You sprayed some of his cologne on your wrists but it's not the same because it is not on his skin. It is not mixed with leather, ink and gunpowder. It is not him.

You already fear you are forgetting the right colour of Tommy’s eyes, the various hues mixing in your mind but none seems quite right. Are they the colour of the sky on a bright summer day? The tranquil sea surrounding the ship that took you to your honeymoon on the continent? Do they match the aquamarines from the demi parure he gifted you on your birthday, just because he said their colour suited your skin?

No. No do. Did. Because his eyes are no more. His bright eyes, his rare smiles, his handsome face, his protective hands and everything in between are no more. They are just ash and dust, a pile abandoned in the middle of an open field being swept by the wind and rain.

Floorboards creak on the hallway, but it could be the scurrying maids as much as the wandering spirits that populate your home, souls rooted in the land due to unfinished businesses from their past lives, acting as owner and keepers of a place where you are but a temporary guest. A door slams shut somewhere in the house, and the windows creak and rattle under the assault of the brewing tempest. The room grows icier, if possible, your breath rising in puffs of white. Your fingers feel stiff, achingly clutching onto an old pocket watch. Even the rings in your hands have turned to ice.

You curl tighter into yourself, if possible, your palms pressed to your face to warm your freezing nose and lips. Sleep threatens to take you, but you fight it with all your might, for the only place worse than life right now, is inside your head. The nightmares have chased you ever since that day, each one more horrifying than the last. But the body beats the mind, and your eyelids, heavy as lead, fall shut, your consciousness slipping away in waves.

You cannot be sure how long you slept, or if you did at all, when something startles you into attention. You sit up abruptly, heart beating frenziedly in your chest. The room is pitch dark, and for a moment you are disoriented, unsure of where you are. It takes long seconds for you to notice there’s a body next to yours, and a heavy, warm hand is pressed against your back to support you.

When you turn your head, the scream falls from your lips involuntarily, and you are positive your heart stops briefly. He looks so well, so perfectly well and common, so alive. Your hands are on his face, on his neck, running down his chest and arms as your mind struggles to come to terms with the image in front of your eyes.

“Tommy?”

Shrouded in black, his hair damp and  tousled, and perfectly unharmed. As if he were just returning from a session in Parliament. His hand slides up your body, from your back to your shoulder, then your neck and up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your tear streaked cheek. You lean instinctively against his touch; the warmth from his palm spreads through your skin like a soothing balm. It feels safe; it feels like home, like the place where you belong. 

His free arms circles your waist and pulls you into him, your head tucked between his chin and shoulder and your body pulled onto his lap. Both of your arms wrap tightly around his middle, fearing that if you let go, he would disappear like smoke, forever this time.

“Tommy? Tommy, what happened? Where have you been?” Tears brim again in your eyes, and the coil tightens around your throat “I…I don’t understand. Arthur said that you were…that you were” The word, that word, cannot make it past the knot. The word you so dreaded to accept. “I saw the ashes in the meadow”

He says nothing, nothing besides a hum of acknowledgement at your words. His thumb brushes back and forth against your cheekbone, the other hand tracing lines up and down the length of your spine, causing your belly to flutter. You are confused, terribly so, your thoughts reeling with the need for answers. But Tommy, as usual, offers none, and you don’t really want to spoil the moment, not when your heart is finally at peace after the terrible weeks you’ve endured.

The embrace goes on forever, none of you making effort to move or speak. Every now and then you feel his lips brush against your forehead, or his nose bury in your hair and inhale deeply, drowning himself in your scent. The storm howls outside, windows rattling with the strength of the wind, the glasses mercilessly pelted by ferocious raindrops. By now, the children would usually be awake and crowding your bed, seeking safety under your blankets. But peacefulness reigns their slumber that night, and you are grateful for it. You desperately need this moment alone with your husband.

His head tilts suddenly, just enough to place a gentle kiss against your temple, then his lips brush against the shell of your ear

“I am sorry” His voice is raspy and worn, as if it has not been used in quite some time “For everything. For keeping you in the dark, for not trusting your strength. For everything I put you through” His embrace around you tightens into an almost painful grip, as if he wishes to fuse his body into yours “You are fierce. And strong. The strongest woman I know. You can overcome anything, nothing could tear you down”

For some reason, those words do not sit right with you. They feel ominous, almost like a forever goodbye. You try to crane your neck to get a better look at his face, to read his expression, but he resists, hidden in the curve of your neck. Your heartbeat quickens in panic.

“I am only strong when I have you by my side. I need you, Tommy. These past days have ruined me. I cannot tread upon an earth you do not exist in.” Your fingers dig on the fabric of his coat, and for the first time you notice his clothes are dampened and smell faintly of wet soil and smoke.

Tommy chuckles, the familiar sound reverberating inside your ribs. He shifts again and his lips are against your forehead, continuing to refuse you a clear glimpse of his face.

“You were strong when I met you. You were strong when I tried to push you away for your own safety. And I know you will continue to be. For the family, for our children. They need you. You are their whole world”

Again those words, those threats of a future in which he had no place. The tears come back with renewed strength, blurring your vision and choking the words in your mouth, but you manage to force them. You cannot leave anything unsaid, not if he’s planning to abandon you once more.

“They need their father too” You protest “Please, Tommy. You can’t walk away again. Not when you are back in my arms” Your grip tightened to accentuate your words “I lost you once, I cannot do this again. Please don’t make me do this again Tommy. If you leave, you might as well kill me now, and spare me such misery”

“I can’t stay” The words cut like blades through your heart and lungs, and for a moment, you can’t remember how to breathe “I’ve got to go, but I promise you, I will always be with you. I’ll never leave your side, whether you can see me or not. I will always be your husband, in this life and the next” You cannot be sure, but he seems to be holding back sobs as well “So many things went wrong. So many mistakes that cannot be fixed. What’s done cannot be undone” Those words do not seem directed to you, but rather thoughts spoken out loud, an airing of frustrations he’s kept bottled up.

You pull away from him, so fiercely not even his strength can keep you still. Your hands cup his cheeks and pull him down until his forehead is against yours. You can barely discern his features in the darkness of the bedroom, so you use your fingers to gently trace the slope of his nose, the sharpness of the jaw, the softness of his lips. His breath fans over your face; he smells all over of nature, of dirt, of open fields and pine woods. 

“There is nothing that cannot be undone. Do you hear me? Nothing. Nothing that we can’t work out together” You can barely contain your desperation “You are Thomas Shelby. You can pull down the moon if you desire; you could bend the King to your will. How can you not fix whatever troubles you?”

His hands envelop yours, fingers gently prying yours away; but instead of dropping them, he cradles them gently, bringing them up to his lips to press tender kisses against your knuckles. His lips linger against your wedding ring until the metal warms.

“Not everything is fixable, my love. There are things not even I can undo. Some mistakes are permanent. I tried, tried my whole life, but I am not God, not yet” He pulls you into his chest again, and pulls the blankets around you “But you don’t need to worry about that now. The hour is late and the sun will soon be up. You need to rest, my sweet dove. Sleep and dream; I will be with you”

You wanted to protest, to pull away, to not let him finish things like that. But you suddenly felt terribly exhausted, as if the last days had dropped on top of you with the weight of boulders, and his arms were so comforting. He gently rocked you both back and forth, a hand on the back of your head and the other on your back. The last thing you remember is Tommy murmuring sweet words of love in your ear. You cannot remember them exactly, but you fell asleep with a smile on your lips.

The next morning you awake tucked in bed, buried between pillows and blankets and wearing a clean nightgown. You sigh contently and stretch your arm to the side, towards Tommy’s side, but find it to be cold and empty, feeling something powdery between your fingers.

Your eyes shoot open, sitting so abruptly you see spots dancing in your vision. The room is bathed in sunlight, all the curtains drawn back. Outside there’s a perfect spring morning, and you hear the dogs barking and the gardeners going about their duties. Once your eyes adjust to the brightness, you discover that the powdery thing on the mattress appears to be ash, or dirt, you are not quite sure. The sheets are stained with it, and when you stand from the bed, you find a trail of residue all the way to the door. Upon inspection, you notice some of it has been left on the door handle, as if someone grabbed it with dirty hands.

The door nearly slams on your face as Frances pushes it open, carrying a breakfast tray. You both jump with a startle, but she manages to keep her wits enough to not drop the tray at your feet

“That was quite a scare you gave me there, Mrs. Shelby. But it’s wonderful to see you at last out of bed” Frances says, as she leaves the tray on a small table with two chairs “The nanny has taken the children to the stables, so you have a quiet morning ahead of you”

You reach out to pick your robe, your thoughts still filled with the encounter of the previous night. You want to ask Frances, but choose not to, not wishing to be taken as a madwoman. What would she say if you told her your dead husband had slept in your bed the previous night? So you play ignorance, and sit before the table, your stomach rumbling at the sight of buttered toast

“That’s good, but don’t let them out for too long. It ought to be quite muddy and damp outside from the storm, and I don’t want them getting sick”

Your fingers are curled around the steaming teacup when she speaks again.

“Storm? There was no storm, Mrs. Shelby. I was up quite late and the skies were clear, although it was a moonless night, so everything was quite dark”

The teacup stops midair, and a cold shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps covering your flesh. You had heard the wind, the rain, felt the rattling of the windowpanes and the water running down the pipes. Then, you notice a glint on your ring finger. A glint that was not there the night before.

You now wear two wedding bands. One the perfect size, one a few too big. And outside your window, the blackbirds begin to sing.

[gatheringfiki]

The following ficlet was written by @marigoldvance​ based on this photoset.

Fili/Kili, T

You might also be able to read this story on AO3.

If you’ve enjoyed this story, please leave a comment either in replies or on AO3.

Heart & Home

—

The call had come at the ungodly hour of four in the morning. Fili had been awake, occupied, Kili twisted into a position that would make a contortionist jealous. They’d decided a week before to holiday at the family cabin in the Blue Mountains; a winter wonderland of utter solitude, dense woodland around them for as far as the eye could see.

The hunters were on strike. Because of course they were with Uncle Frerin leading the union to revolt against the very government he was a member of. Ever the rebel. Still, it meant that the woods were empty of prying eyes and Fili and Kili could do as they pleased in their time off.

Except that, now, Fili had to go.

                “Right, I’ll be ready in an hour,” He said merrily, detangling himself from a disgruntled Kili who huffed at the ceiling. “Tell Dwalin I’ll need a suit and copies of the agreement to look over before we get there.”

With that, Fili ended the call and tossed his phone on the nightstand, smiling at Kili who looked back with a glare.

                “Why do you have to go?” Kili grumbled, one arm flung across his brow.

Fili chuckled and took a seat at the edge of the bed, leaning over Kili to explain, “Because Granddad isn’t feeling well enough to travel.”

                “What about Thorin? Why can’t he go?”

Fili’s expression turned amused, “Because Uncle has about as much political tact as a wild boar on hallucinogenics.”

                “Vivid,” Kili commented, rolling his eyes. “If you’re going, I’m going with you,” He decided, shifting to sit up, the sheet pooling around his furry navel.

Fili shook his head and grinned, “Not a chance, Kee, you know the rules when dealing with the Fae in their borders.”

                “Oh please, they wouldn’t do anything so risky if they intend to join the MEU.”

                “We both know that’s not true. Remember what happened with the Merfolk in Númenór?”

Kili’s lips twisted into a scowl, “No. I was entranced. It’s like it didn’t happen, therefore it shouldn’t count.”

Fili tossed his head back and laughed. His eyes sparkled when he told Kili, “We had to send their military divers after you, Kee, you were almost sold to the Siren King as a consort.”

                “No idea what you’re talking about.” Kili insisted, crossing his arms and glaring out the window. He turned back to Fili, “And the Fae aren’t Merfolk, Fee, they don’t lure handsome Dwarves into the ocean with promises of ale and fatty meat.”

                “You’re right,” Fili agreed as he flicked the tips of Kili’s nose affectionately, “They steal people’s hearts and then enslave them.” Fili tilted forward to press a kiss between Kili’s expressive eyebrows, “And you, Kili Durin, are my heart. Do you want me to be a slave to the Fae Chieftain’s every whim while you get doted on in a tower cell?”

Kili considered this, the image not as horrific as it would be in reality, “They would treat me very well.” He grinned, cheeky, before accepting that, “But, no, I don’t want you enslaved to anyone’s whims but mine.”

                “Much appreciated.”

Dwalin arrived about forty minutes later, the roar of helicopter blades following him into the cabin until he closed the front door. He met Fili and Kili in the kitchen, a surly expression on his face, his gaze instantly falling on the fancy coffee machine beside the stove. Without a word, he dumped the garment bag and shoebox on the island where Fili stood and marched to the coffee machine with purpose, only grunting in acknowledgment when Fili announced he was going to change and would be ready in ten.

                “Why doesn’t Balin every ask me to go to these summits when Granddad is ill?” Kili asked Dwalin after Dwalin had swallowed his first sip of coffee. Black. With two mounds of sugar and a sprinkle of nutmeg.

Dwalin snorted and indicated with his chin toward Kili’s face, “You come with closed captioning, lad. Just like your mother.”

                “Rude.”

                “Yeah, your eyebrows say as much.”

Just then, Fili returned to the kitchen, dressed impeccably in a deep blue suit, a pale button-down beneath, and a tie sporting a muted though festive pattern. Kili swooned. Dwalin snorted, poking a finger between Kili’s eyes as if to say, your captions are showing. Ducking in for a quick kiss, Fili promised he’d be back by the following morning.

                “I promise.” He said, “Then we’ll spend the rest of the week in bed, just like we planned.”

Kili sighed dramatically, “Just leave me here to languish while you jet off to be important, I suppose. Sad little Kili, all alone in the middle of nowhere. What if a bear eats me?”

Fili snickered, “The only bears in the area are Skin-changers, Kee, and they’re all human for the winter. And on strike. I think you’ll be fine.”

                “Fine,” Kili tried again, “What if a wayward Wraith comes to suck out my soul while I’m chopping wood?”

                “Why on Arda would you be chopping wood? We bought two cords from Lhûn last week.”

                “Mahal, Fili, would you just let me whinge and give me the love I’m so obviously demanding?”

With a fondness in his eyes, Fili dipped Kili and gave him a searing, passionate kiss, hot and hungry and everything Kili had been angling for. Kili was notably disheveled and glassy-eyed when Fili tipped him upright.

                “I’ll call when we get in, all right love?” Fili said, stroking Kili’s cheek with his thumb.

Kili’s gaze sharpened and he smirked, “See? Was that so hard?”

                “Not as hard—”

                “If you finish that sentence while I’m within earshot, I’ll get the Wraith myself,” Dwalin warned, scrolling fiercely through his phone, “They’re on payroll.”

Fili threw up his hands, backing a few steps away from Kili with a mischievous grin before turning and following Dwalin out the door and toward the waiting helicopter.

[dailyanarchistposts]

A total liberation ethic

May 13, 1985, West Philadelphia. The Philadelphia Police Force launch a dawn raid on a suburban house, but clearly the occupants have no intention to leave. Over the course of the morning, about 500 cops fire over 10,000 rounds of ammunition at the house, combined with endless volleys of tear gas and even anti-tank rounds. The occupants hold out all the way into the afternoon, at which point the state makes the decision to bomb them with a military helicopter. Four pounds of plastic explosives are dropped onto the roof, which soon results in a vicious blaze, yet the police commissioner orders the fire department to keep well away. The house burns down, along with 65 others in the (predominantly black) neighbourhood. Only two of the occupants survive, with eleven of them – including five children – failing to outlast the day.

Those defending the house were a group called MOVE. Formed in 1972, MOVE were defined by their combination of black liberation and armed struggle with veganism and deep ecology. The group also balanced a focus on individual campaigns, such as those against local zoos and police brutality, with a broader emphasis on building community autonomy. The statements that outlive its founder, John Africa, speak for themselves, as with his claim that “Revolution means total change, a complete dissociation from everything that is causing the problems you are revolting against,” as well as the group’s assertion that they were fighting for “a revolution to stop man’s system from imposing on life, to stop industry from poisoning the air, water, and soil and to put an end to the enslavement of all life.” Africa happened upon biocentrism, too, even before Næss had written on the topic, as is confirmed by his claim that “All living beings, things that move, are equally important, whether they are human beings, dogs, birds, fish, trees, ants, weeds, rivers, wind or rain.” In the history of social struggle in the West, MOVE were perhaps the first to commit in equal parts to the liberation of humans, animals, and the earth.

Despite being largely crushed by the state, reverberations of MOVE’s struggle have been picked up here and there, gaining pace. A comparable ethic surfaced amongst the Zapatista National Liberation Army, a group comprised mainly of indigenous Maya fighting for land rights. On January 1, 1994, the Zapatistas declared war on the Mexican state, on the very day the North American Free Trade Agreement came into force. They seized large areas of the state of Chiapas, including the key city of San Cristóbal de Las Casas, immediately collectivising the land. Despite eventually being forced into retreat by the Mexican army, the rebels were able to hold up in the mountains, consolidating control over many of their own rural communities. To this day, the autonomy carved out by the Zapatistas amidst the Lacandon Jungle has been successfully maintained, despite numerous incursions at the hands of the state. Which remains an ecological struggle as much as anything: from the outset, the Zapatistas emphasised that their own liberation as indigenous people was one and the same with the liberation of the land.

The front opened up by the Zapatistas was arguably but one in a much larger struggle, namely, the anti-globalisation movement. Peaking in intensity around the turn of the century, this worldwide struggle saw diverse participants – workers, students, indigenous peoples, radical environmentalists, animal rights activists – unite around a shared interest in opposing the expansion of global finance. The international summits of organisations such as the G8 and the World Trade Organisation were the obvious targets, with some of the most spectacular flashpoints including Seattle 1999, Prague 2000, and Genoa 2001. In many cases, moreover, superficial critiques of globalisation and imperialism deepened into resolute rejections of capitalism altogether, even if a frequent outcome was an inebriated expectation of some imminent world revolution. And whilst the anti-globalisation movement is now largely behind us, it continues to offer a legacy focused around a grand convergence of struggles, something vital for taking things forward.

The ‘90s also saw Earth First! move towards a steadfast rejection of all oppressions, dropping the machismo and patriotism that had been present in some of the earlier days. Such a broadening in emphasis was particularly evident in the writings and activism of US member Judi Bari, who placed significant emphasis on the need for Earth First! to reach out to the working class, including timber workers. This marked the arrival at a distinctly revolutionary take on eco-defence, one informed by social ecology as much as deep ecology.

Around the same time, the ALF and ELF also began working ever more closely together, with the two movements becoming indistinguishable in many countries. The same activists would often participate in both fronts, merely swapping banners to suit the specifics of an action, whilst their aboveground networks mingled greatly. Not only that, the communiques published by various cells began making increased reference to the state and capital, confirming a focus that had shifted from targetting specific industries towards attacking the system as a whole. One communique, published during the beginning of ELF activity in the US, remains especially memorable:

Welcome to the struggle of all species to be free. We are the burning rage of this dying planet. The war of greed ravages the earth and species die out every day. ELF works to speed up the collapse of industry, to scare the rich, and to undermine the foundations of the state. We embrace social and deep ecology as a practical resistance movement. (Beltane, 1997)

Diverse though they are, these developments help explain something quite striking: at some point during the last couple of decades, various radical animal rights and environmental activists committed to exceeding single-issue campaigning in favour of a holistic, revolutionary struggle against all forms of hierarchy. As Steve Best puts it, “it is imperative that we no longer speak of human liberation, animal liberation, or earth liberation as if they were independent struggles, but rather that we talk instead of total liberation” (The Politics of Total Liberation, 2014). No instance of oppression can be understood in separation from the whole: different hierarchies interact with one another profoundly, facilitating the domination of one group – human or nonhuman – in virtue of the domination of all others. And so, too, all genuine liberation struggles must recognise that, far from having disconnected goals, each of them depends on the success of the other.

Even though specific circumstances inevitably constrain what we can do as individuals, such efforts must be situated within a shared project that greatly exceeds our isolation. That means learning how to reach out beyond the current milieu in meaningful ways; it also means improving our own practices to make it possible for outsiders to reach back. The point isn’t to subsume the struggle into a single organisation, a single identity, but instead to increase the density of ties between its various fronts, nourishing the strategic alliances and networks of mutual aid necessary to leave the common enemy in ruins.

There can be no quick fixes here. No utopias, perhaps no culminations at all. Truth be told, none of us are likely to witness a totally liberated world – that is, a planet entirely free of hierarchy. Nor can we be sure, from the current standpoint, if such a thing is even possible. There’s no knowing what, if anything, is at the top of the hill; the beauty of the struggle, however, is realised in the very act of climbing. Total liberation isn’t merely a destination, as if to separate the end goal from how we live our lives in the present. No, total liberation is an immediate process. It’s the process of confronting power not as something disconnected, but instead as a totality. It’s one’s refusal to condone any notions of a final frontier – not now, not ever. If anything absolute can be known about such a struggle, it’s that it never ends. But ask not what total liberation can do for us in a hundred years: the point is to realise its full intensity already now.

It seems every generation thinks theirs will be the most remarkable, yet ours might just be the first that turns out to be right. To say this century is the most crucial our species has ever faced is actually an understatement: we’re dealing with the most significant crisis life in general has faced, even amidst billions of years of evolution. We’ve entered the sixth period of global extinction, this one the first caused by a single species of animal. The rate of extinction amongst plants and animals is at least 1,000 times faster than before our arrival on the scene. The vast majority of wild animals have already been killed off. And that includes 90% of large fish vanishing from the oceans. From the air we breathe, to the water we drink – from the highest mountain peak, to the deepest of ocean trenches – the filth of this civilisation pervades it all. To be clear, the apocalypse isn’t something foretold by a prediction: it is already here.

Death, of course, is fundamental to ecological wellbeing, because life could never be sustained without destruction and renewal. Yet the kind of death the system brings isn’t in the slightest a matter of balance, but instead simply of wiping out. Social hierarchy is fundamentally at odds with the very basics of organic development, including diversity, spontaneity, and decentralisation. There’s no longer any doubt that the system will crash, and hard. The important thing left to consider is merely how best to speed up the process, minimising the suffering yet to be wrought, maximising the potential for life to regenerate outside this unfathomable mess.

No compromise with the system of death. Toxic waste cannot be made nutritious, nor can their idea of life be made liveable. Our revolutionary task can only be the creation of our own worlds, destroying theirs in the process. This is exactly the historical moment we were born to inhabit: the apocalypse is already here, yet the extent to which it deepens is quite the open question. Anyone who listens carefully can hear the call.

[fromkenari]

Waterloo Letters #1: Paris?

Paris? A agcd@eclare45.com                 3/3/20 7:32 PM to Henry His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Whatever, Don’t make me learn your actual title. Are you going to be at the Paris fund-raiser for rainforest conservation this weekend? Alex First Son of Your Former Colony

Re: Paris? Henry hwales@kensingtonemail.com                 3/4/20 2:14 AM to A Alex, First Son of Off-Brand England: First, you should know how terribly inappropriate it is for you to intentionally botch my title. I could have you made into a royal settee cushion for that kind of lèse-majesté. Fortunately for you, I do not think you would complement my sitting room decor. Secondly, no, I will not be attending the Paris fund-raiser; I have a previous engagement. You shall have to find someone else to accost in a cloakroom. Regards, His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales

Re: Paris? A agcd@eclare45.com                 3/4/20 2:27 AM to Henry Huge Raging Headache Prince Henry of Who Cares, It is amazing you can sit down to write emails with that gigantic royal stick up your ass. I seem to remember you really enjoying being “accosted.” Everyone there is going to be boring anyway. What are you doing? Alex First Son of Hating Fund-raisers

Re: Paris? Henry hwales@kensingtonemail.com                 3/4/20 2:32 AM to A Alex, First Son of Shirking Responsibilities: A royal stick is formally known as a “scepter.” I’ve been sent to a summit in Germany to act as if I know anything about wind power. Primarily, I’ll be getting lectured by old men in lederhosen and posing for photos with windmills. The monarchy has decided we care about sustainable energy, apparently—or at least that we want to appear to. An utter romp. Re: fund-raiser guests, I thought you said I was boring? Regards, Harangued Royal Highness

Re: Paris? A agcd@eclare45.com                 3/4/20 2:34 AM to Henry Horrible Revolting Heir, It’s recently come to my attention you’re not quite as boring as I thought. Sometimes. Namely when you’re doing the thing with your tongue. Alex First Son of Questionable Late Night Emails

Re: Paris? Henry hwales@kensingtonemail.com                 3/4/20 2:37 AM to A Alex, First Son of Inappropriately Timed Emails When I’m in Early Morning Meetings: Are you trying to get fresh with me? Regards, Handsome Royal Heretic

Re: Paris? A agcd@eclare45.com                 3/4/20 2:41 AM to Henry His Royal Horniness, If I were trying to get fresh with you, you would know it. For example: I’ve been thinking about your mouth on me all week, and I was hoping I’d see you in Paris so I could put it to use. I was also thinking you might know how to pick French cheeses. Not my area of expertise. Alex First Son of Cheese Shopping and Blowjobs

Re: Paris? Henry hwales@kensingtonemail.com                 3/4/20 2:43 AM to A Alex, First Son of Making Me Spill My Tea in Said Early Morning Meeting: Hate you. Will try to get out of Germany. x

McQuiston, Casey. Red, White & Royal Blue: A Novel (pp. 152-156). St. Martin's Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

COP30 host Brazil aims to get 2025 climate talks back on track

With the next UN climate summit taking place in Belém, Brazil, in 2025, the host nation faces an uphill struggle to encourage more collaboration and ambition from national governments

In November 2025, climate negotiators will descend on the tropical city of Belém in Brazil, gateway to the Amazon rainforest, for the next round of UN climate talks. Despite the exotic location, delegates are unlikely to be in high spirits. The 2024 talks in Baku, Azerbaijan, ended with a fragile agreement on climate financing that left many lower-income nations disappointed and some in open revolt.

For Brazil, the first task as COP30 host will be to calm tempers and smooth tensions after the quarrelsome atmosphere of Baku. It is no mean feat given years of strained relations between wealthier nations and their poorer counterparts.

ut Brazil has experience in this field, says Joanna Depledge at the University of Cambridge. In 1992, it hosted the Rio Earth Summit, a landmark meeting that brought countries together to establish the COP (conference of the parties) process under the UN. Brazil has “vast diplomatic and climate change experience and huge credibility in the international community”, says Depledge.

More collaboration will be desperately needed at the summit if the world is to avoid runaway climate change. Countries have until February to submit new climate plans to the UN, detailing how they will cut emissions from now to 2035. The hope is that the new plans will help to close the gap between the goals of the Paris Agreement, which aims to limit warming to between 1.5°C and 2°C, and the 2.6-3.1°C we are on course for by the end of the century under current climate plans.

Continue reading.

[tarjeismoeworknews]

FURIA season 2

The second season of "Furia" takes place two years after the first.

Furia resurrects, and once again, undercover agents Ragna and Asgeir must fight the notorious right-wing terrorists that threaten Europe with destruction. Ragna’s true identity is revealed to the world by someone trying to frame her, making everyone believe she is Furia, the right-wing terrorist she is battling. She is now both the hunter and the hunted. With her uncompromising partner, Asgeir, by her side, she is forced into a race against time to foil a new terrorist plot that takes them from the Arctic to Budapest and into the heart of Warsaw.

Episode 1: The Revolution Will Be Televised

Asgeir is in Lofoten, where he follows a money trail to get a hold of Ziminov; Ellen is on leave, but she is restless and eager to return to work; the growing number of online threats against Jonas worries the Ministry of Justice.

Episode 2: Polarize and Mobilize

New clues lead Ellen and Asgeir to Budapest, where they are to arrest Ziminov with the CIA's help; Chief and Ellen are concerned about Asgeir's behaviour when he will face Zimino; Jonas must meet with PST with regard to his own safety.

Episode 3: Enemies of the States

When Ellen and Asgeir learn they have fallen into a trap, they must make an unlikely ally to escape; the Minister of Justice and the PST face repercussions of Budapest's events; Tarje gets new information that completely changes his life.

Episode 4: The Medium Is the Message

Ellen goes undercover to track down the infamous Mateusz Krajewski; Ziminov and Asgeir run into difficulties at the border; in Norway, Tarje is in a tough spot where he has to choose between being loyal to his sister and his best mate.

Episode 5: Everything You Love Must Die

Ellen has taken Krajewski and his wife hostages; Tereza and Asgeir infiltrate a highly guarded warehouse in order to find proof; the NATO summit put the Norwegian government under pressure; the Minister of Justice has bad news for Jonas.

Episode 6: The Past Is Never Dead. It's Not Even Past

Poland is in revolt and the European democracy is in jeopardy; Ellen attempts to stop the attack; Asgeir asks Chief to help him; the NATO summit is about to begin as the Minister of Justice makes a crucial decision.

IMDb

[artisticlegshake]

RADIX NATIONALS RESULTS 2023

OTE! awards that didn’t place in top 5 Junior Groups/Lines/Ex.Lines:

Mannequin - HEAT OTE!

Hands - PAVE OTE!

Here Comes The Rain - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Get It Shawty - AVANTI OTE!

One Step Closer - DANCE DELUXE OTE!

Away - THE DIFFERENCE OTE!

White Wing Dove - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Whatever Lola Wants - DANCE PRECISIONS OTE!

Piece By Piece - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Yebba’s Heartbreak - HEAT OTE!

Work - PAVE OTE!

Hugs - DANCE PRECISIONS OTE!

Eleanor Rigby - IMPACT (IL) OTE!

True Story - EVOKE OTE!

The Gravel Road - THE ROCK OTE!

Roxanne - IMPACT (IL) OTE!

Blinded By Love - SUMMIT OTE!

Pitbull - MILELE OTE!

MSFTS - THE TALENT BOX OTE!

Crazy - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Rompe - DANCE PRECISIONS  OTE!

Hallelujah - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Nobody Rules These Streets - NOR CAL OTE!

The Chain - PAVE OTE!

Tired Horses - IMPACT (AZ) OTE!

Revolting Children - MATHER OTE!

All Night - AVANTI OTE!

En Fuego - AVANTI OTE!

[mariacallous]

Alexei Navalny, the most formidable critic of Russian President Vladimir Putin and his corrupt circles, who survived a poisoning and endured brutal persecution for years, died in the “Polar Wolf” Arctic penal colony. The Federal Penitentiary Service of the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous District claimed that Navalny “felt unwell” after he went on a walk and “almost immediately lost consciousness.” Prison officials said that a resuscitation was unsuccessfully attempted.

Navalny has long been a thorn in Putin’s side and was relentlessly smeared by the Kremlin’s cheerleaders. Even after his demise, Russian propagandists couldn’t feign any dignity or humanity. Head of RT Margarita Simonyan posted on X (formerly Twitter) that the so-called “victims” of Navalny’s corruption investigations keep calling her, wishing for him not to rest in peace. She hypocritically claimed she couldn’t join them in those wishes, but only because she is observing an Armenian Lent.

In 2021, Simonyan described Navalny as “a traitor of the Motherland” and argued that like any traitor, he deserves to die. Referring to the Skripals and Litvinenko, Simonyan asserted that any method is acceptable when it comes to the people she deemed to be “traitors.”

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg said that “Russia needs to answer all the serious questions about the circumstances of his death." Simonyan sniped back, “Russia owes nothing to no one, let’s start with that.”

Since in Russia “death of natural causes” can mean many different things, especially with respect to the opposition leaders and journalists, Simonyan immediately started to stir up rumors of foul play—not by Putin, but his enemies. She wrote, “Everyone has long forgotten him, there was no point in killing him, especially before the elections, it would be beneficial to completely opposite forces.”

Simonyan shared a post from a Telegram channel “BP Online” that said, “This is the retaliation for the interview. Thankfully, it wasn’t [Tucker] Carlson.” Despite Putin’s displeasure with the way Carlson’s interview with him had unfolded, the former Fox News host is a darling of the Russian state media, where he is described as the only American they wouldn’t want to kill.

This feeling is clearly mutual. On Monday, while he was at the World Government Summit in Dubai, Carlson was asked by Egyptian journalist Emad El Din Adeeb why he never pressed Putin about the freedom of speech in Russia and why he “did not talk about Navalny, about assassinations, about restrictions on opposition in the coming elections.”

Carlson coldly replied, in part, “Every leader kills people. Some kill more than others. Leadership requires killing people.” He openly endorsed the elimination of inconvenient opposition figures and journalists, falsely alleging that this kind of a domestic policy is common everywhere.

Other Russian propagandists also pushed the idea that Navalny’s death was somehow beneficial to the West, implying that foul play was involved. Writer Nikolai Starikov posted on Telegram, “Navalny departed from life at a very convenient time for the Western puppeteers” and argued that this may have been done to undermine the PR effect of Carlson’s interview and to prompt the U.S. Congress to approve the aid to Ukraine. Starikov claimed that Navalny’s wife Yulia is at the Munich Security Conference on the same day, which is “part of the plan.”

Despicably, Starikov claimed that Navalny’s widow “is barely holding back her smile.” His revolting post was boosted by Vladimir Solovyov, a notorious state TV host who for years maligned Navalny as a “traitor,” smeared his followers as “Satanists” and proclaimed that he deserved the death penalty. Now, in light of an untimely death of Russia’s most prominent opposition leader, Russian propagandists are both enjoying it and pretending that anyone but Putin is to blame.

[contes-de-rheio]

Masterpost

Hi y’all!! I’m Julie (French, mid-thirties, bi). I’m not new to writeblr, but I like only post sparingly my own content now. Life’s been too busy.

I write high fantasy, but when it comes to reading I also enjoy SF and history (essays, not novels). I’ll follow from @julie-oc, and I have a secondary blog @fukusigma where I reblog a bit of everything. Feel free to tag me in games (except for “Search the Word”, this is too difficult because I write in French).

Click to learn more about my wips. Some titles and summary may have changed since I first posted about them.

These stories take place in the same universe, but in different times and places. They're in chronological order of events.

Here, walked Marka | wip intro post | Status: unstrung scenes

Niensheria has been turned into a desert by the reckless acts of Marka and her friends. The gods, angered, force their gift her eternal yout upon her. Until she finds a way to repair the harm she caused, she will witness the fall of her people. Years pass, new generations are born, and the people of Niensheria, stuck between the desert and their unwelcoming neighbours, reduced to extreme poverty, decide to rise one last time to rebuild their lost home.

The Coriant Trilogy | wip intro post | Status: Plotting

The rise, the summit and the fall of the Coriant Empire through the stories of Hermione the warrior queen who founded the empire, then Erinye queen and protector of the arts, and finally Andromeda the last general who was defeated by the powerful queen Iseult of Aqualos.

The Living Library | wip intro post | Status: unstrung scenes

Zhou has faithfully served the Emperor in his quest for the Living Library, but after one too many massacre, he decides to retire from the political affair. For a few years, he lives peacefully as the only healer in a remote village, until people come ask for payback.

The Dragons of Jamaedo | wip intro post | Status: 1st Draft

The Choo royal family reigns over the archipelago of Jamaedo with an iron hand using magic, it reserves for itself, to snuff out all revolts.

Goo Mihee, eldest daughter of her clan, must marry a man she has no love for: Choo’s Dog, Kwon Taeyeon. But, as she tries to keep the appearance of a dutiful wife, the events around her only fuels her anger, until she seizes the chance to maybe end Choo's hegemony once and for all.

The pirates of Hokusho | wip intro post | Status: Researching

Takeru has risen to the top of his pirate band. But profits are drying up as the warriors from the main islands fight for power, and other pirates try to safegard their place before they're forced to disappear. Against his will, Takeru must serve a cunning samurai or see his band die. Meanwhile, Oharu is sent to kill Take's new master.

The Fall of Baschenka | wip intro post | Status: Plotting

Rinka Zima has spent most of his youth in the mines. No longer hoping for another life, he obtains the king's pardon of his father's crime and is reestablished in his titles, but not in his fortune. Struggling to maintain his family afloat and looking for his sister, he rises at Court while his city, under political turmoil, is conquered by the neighboring Valiski.

The Union of Dahran Cities | wip intro post | Status: Plotting

Forty years passed since the fall of Baschenka. The northern city-states have stallen their infights as Southern-Darah army threatens to conquer them all. In Tara, Gleb Polzin and Fenna are the two newest representants of their respective cities and must find the words to unite them all, under the eyes of a disillusioned Rinka.

The Last War | wip intro post | Status: 1st Draft - Paused

Trélyse, queen of Aqualos, is fighting what she hopes to be the last war against Niensheria. The siege on Alhamra is set and she expects a swift reddition, but, on the northern frontier of Aqualos, alarm fires lit up. Suddenly Trélyse is stuck in a foreign country, cut from her own. Little does she knows, the attack against Aqualos is just a diversion. The Memory Tower, library of sorcerers’ knowledge from the past millennium has been burned to the ground. But one book was retrieved from its shelves. With the secrets revealed within, Ketal could rise again and rebuild his empire of terror.

Shadows and Woods | wip intro post | Status: Plotting

In the capital, Niau, young police inspector who can't meet the approbation of his superiors, must solve the disappearance of a judge's son. But as he digs deeper, he only find unidentified dead corpses, until he must questions his loyalties.

Phā is sent to the capital by the prophet of his mountain village. His best friend has mysteriously disappeared, no magic can find her anymore. Only him can track her back, but her last steps only lead to Niau.

A Train in Roue-Champêtre | wip intro post | Status: Plotting

Ludélien has fallen in disgrace with the queen. No longer welcome at court, he joins some friends in Roue-Champêtre. They're working to extend the train line into the town center, but between the unexplainable crumbling of the tunnel and the angry protests of the porters on foot, their task may never come to an end.

Le Randonneur | wip intro post | Status: On hold

Ensemble of stories in various format about a world where an ice age result in the rarefaction of water and the soon impossibility to trade long distance. Two siblings, a brother and a sister, create the first flying ships which will give rise to all powerful Guild Post.

Contes à l’envers | wip intro post | Status: On hold

As a kid, Manon cross to a magical world. There, she learns magic and helps the people of that world reclaim their independance from a powerful witch who destroyed all other witches and wizards. Once this is achieved, Manon is sent back to her world, as a kid again. But she kept all her memories and, while her parents are convinced she suffers of some mental illnesses, she starts a quest to find a way back convinced she cannot be happy anywhere else.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 5.9

328 – Athanasius is elected Patriarch of Alexandria. 1009 – Lombard Revolt: Lombard forces led by Melus revolt in Bari against the Byzantine Catepanate of Italy. 1386 – England and Portugal formally ratify their alliance with the signing of the Treaty of Windsor, making it the oldest diplomatic alliance in the world which is still in force. 1450 – 'Abd al-Latif (Timurid monarch) is assassinated. 1540 – Hernando de Alarcón sets sail on an expedition to the Gulf of California. 1662 – The figure who later became Mr. Punch makes his first recorded appearance in England. 1671 – Thomas Blood, disguised as a clergyman, attempts to steal England's Crown Jewels from the Tower of London. 1726 – Five men arrested during a raid on Mother Clap's molly house in London are executed at Tyburn. 1864 – Second Schleswig War: The Danish navy defeats the Austrian and Prussian fleets in the Battle of Heligoland. 1865 – American Civil War: Nathan Bedford Forrest surrenders his forces at Gainesville, Alabama. 1865 – American Civil War: President Andrew Johnson issues a proclamation ending belligerent rights of the rebels and enjoining foreign nations to intern or expel Confederate ships. 1873 – Der Krach: The Vienna stock exchange crash heralds the Long Depression. 1877 – Mihail Kogălniceanu reads, in the Chamber of Deputies, the Declaration of Independence of Romania. The date will become recognised as the Independence Day of Romania. 1901 – Australia opens its first national parliament in Melbourne. 1915 – World War I: Second Battle of Artois between German and French forces. 1918 – World War I: Germany repels Britain's second attempt to blockade the port of Ostend, Belgium. 1920 – Polish–Soviet War: The Polish army under General Edward Rydz-Śmigły celebrates its capture of Kiev with a victory parade on Khreshchatyk. 1926 – Admiral Richard E. Byrd and Floyd Bennett claim to have flown over the North Pole (later discovery of Byrd's diary appears to cast some doubt on the claim.) 1927 – The Old Parliament House, Canberra, Australia, officially opens. 1936 – Italy formally annexes Ethiopia after taking the capital Addis Ababa on May 5. 1941 – World War II: The German submarine U-110 is captured by the Royal Navy. On board is the latest Enigma machine which Allied cryptographers later use to break coded German messages. 1942 – The Holocaust in Ukraine: The SS executes 588 Jewish residents of the Podolian town of Zinkiv (Khmelnytska oblast. The Zoludek Ghetto (in Belarus) is destroyed and all its inhabitants executed or deported. 1946 – King Victor Emmanuel III of Italy abdicates and is succeeded by Umberto II. 1948 – Czechoslovakia's Ninth-of-May Constitution comes into effect. 1950 – Robert Schuman presents the "Schuman Declaration", considered by some to be the beginning of the creation of what is now the European Union. 1955 – Cold War: West Germany joins NATO. 1960 – The Food and Drug Administration announces it will approve birth control as an additional indication for Searle's Enovid, making Enovid the world's first approved oral contraceptive pill. 1969 – Carlos Lamarca leads the first urban guerrilla action against the military dictatorship of Brazil in São Paulo, by robbing two banks. 1974 – Watergate scandal: The United States House Committee on the Judiciary opens formal and public impeachment hearings against President Richard Nixon. 1979 – Iranian Jewish businessman Habib Elghanian is executed by firing squad in Tehran, prompting the mass exodus of the once 100,000-strong Jewish community of Iran. 1980 – In Florida, United States, Liberian freighter MV Summit Venture collides with the Sunshine Skyway Bridge over Tampa Bay, making a 1,400-ft. section of the southbound span collapse. Thirty-five people in six cars and a Greyhound bus fall 150 ft. into the water and die. 1980 – In Norco, California, United States, five masked gunmen hold up a Security Pacific bank, leading to a violent shoot-out and one of the largest pursuits in California history. Two of the gunmen and one police officer are killed and thirty-three police and civilian vehicles are destroyed in the chase. 1987 – LOT Flight 5055 Tadeusz Kościuszko crashes after takeoff in Warsaw, Poland, killing all 183 people on board. 1988 – New Parliament House, Canberra officially opens. 1992 – Armenian forces capture Shusha, marking a major turning point in the First Nagorno-Karabakh War. 1992 – Westray Mine disaster kills 26 workers in Nova Scotia, Canada. 2001 – In Ghana, 129 football fans die in what became known as the Accra Sports Stadium disaster. The deaths are caused by a stampede (caused by the firing of tear gas by police personnel at the stadium) that followed a controversial decision by the referee. 2002 – The 38-day stand-off in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem comes to an end when the Palestinians inside agree to have 13 suspected terrorists among them deported to several different countries. 2018 – The historic defeat for Barisan Nasional, the governing coalition of Malaysia since the country's independence in 1957 in 2018 Malaysian general election. 2020 – The COVID-19 recession causes the U.S. unemployment rate to hit 14.9 percent, its worst rate since the Great Depression. 2022 – Russo-Ukrainian War: United States President Joe Biden signs the 2022 Lend-Lease Act into law, a rebooted World War II-era policy expediting American equipment to Ukraine and other Eastern European countries.

[mattnicholls69]

Anger, frustration and revolt: Inside the final day of NSW’s drug summit

[readingsquotes]

The rise of the keffiyeh as a symbol of solidarity, however, mirrors issues of state surveillance that we still see today. During British colonial rule in Palestine in the 1930s, rural freedom fighters—known as fedayeen—began resisting occupation and were easily identifiable by their head scarves. As a result, Palestinian men in urban areas, who had previously donned the Ottoman-style fez, answered calls to stand in solidarity with the fedayeen and remove class identifiers by wearing the keffiyeh.

In 1936, during the Arab Revolt, Palestinian nationalists also began to use the keffiyeh to conceal their identity and avoid arrest by British colonial forces. Much like today’s lawmakers in the United States, the British unsuccessfully attempted to ban the headscarf, because they could no longer identify who was an urban Palestinian and who was a revolutionary. (Their solution to this challenge was to indiscriminately kill everyone.) As Jane Tynan, an assistant professor in design history and theory at Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam, told Middle East Eye: “From its function in the revolt as a tool to disguise the identity of the wearer from British authorities, the keffiyeh became shorthand for the Palestinian struggle”.

The keffiyeh spread around the world as Palestinian liberation became a central cause of the global left. In 1990, just one month after he was released from prison, Nelson Mandela donned the keffiyeh at a summit in Algiers in a now-famous picture. Three years after apartheid officially ended in South Africa, he declared, “We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.” When South African leaders brought their genocide case against Israel to the International Court of Justice in January, many of their delegates wore their keffiyehs to court while giving public statements.

..The keffiyeh is a simple act of resistance against the colonial system that seeks to erase us.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Ourown parables

One of the ways that I understand Sun Tzu is through the use of the genre in which he expressed himself. While there is no reason to reinvent useful philosophies of combat and conflict, we can pass on new parables, ones that grow out of our own experience and insights. For instance, based on some of the discussions that friends and I have been having, new ideas have begun to emerge which might be helpful to others. The notion here is that we can all contribute to philosophical meditations on revolt, based on our own study and experience. This sharing might help our projects and attempts and make each of us more worthy opponents of the megamachine.

I think that it is safe to say that anarchist insurgents are a small minority within almost every given population; itis certainly true where I live. For many reasons, mobility, lack of kinship ties, etc., we are a dispersed group of people. Yet, it is important, from the perspective of the art of rebellion, to at times concentrate one’s forces, especially on a vital point of an opponent. Naturally those in control of the repressive apparatus are aware of such things and have planned and trained accordingly. Riot control techniques, for instance, are an example of this. So rather than remaining inactive out of fear of losing a direct confrontation as a group and thus remaining defeated, we can find ways to act as a group without appearing to be a group. Remember Sun Tzu: “subtle, subtle, they become formless.” We can concentrate our forces, we just can’t let our enemy know that we are doing so until it is too late. Black blocs often come close to achieving this.

Every potential rebel exists in different circumstances, regardless of the fact that we all live within various prisons of capitalist civilization. Therefore it is up to you to decide if it is best for an in-the- street, prolonged, collective confrontation at a counter summit all dressed in black, for instance, or whether it is wiser to avoid uniforms, appear to be unconnected individuals, and coordinate an action that occurs quickly, following which the participants melt away. The latter would be an example of acting as a group without appearing to be a group.

[swldx]

BBC 0425 15 Nov 2023

12095Khz 0358 15 NOV 2023 - BBC (UNITED KINGDOM) in ENGLISH from TALATA VOLONONDRY. SINPO = 55344. English, dead carrier s/on @0358z then ID@0359z pips and Newsroom preview. @0401z World News anchored by Danielle Jalowiecka. Israel says its military is carrying out an operation against Hamas in Al-Shifa Hospital in Gaza City. An eyewitness inside the hospital tells the BBC they saw tanks and commando soldiers enter its main emergency department. The US says it has intelligence backing Israel's claim that Hamas has a command centre under Al-Shifa, Hamas denies this. When Xi Jinping stepped off his plane in San Francisco yesterday for the Apec summit, it was in circumstances very different to the last time he landed on American soil. "Mr Xi will want to receive reassurance from Mr Biden that the US will not expand its trade war or tech rivalry, nor take additional measures to decouple economically." Beijing has complained vociferously about the US imposing tariffs on Chinese imports, blacklisting Chinese companies, and restricting China's access to advanced chip-making tech. The US House of Representatives has passed a short-term funding bill in a bid to avert a government shutdown that looms on Friday, despite a major Republican revolt. It keeps federal agencies open at current spending levels until mid-January. A heat wave that has settled over large parts of Brazil sent temperatures on Tuesday soaring in Rio de Janeiro to levels more akin to an oven. Unseasonably high temperatures, around 5 degrees C above seasonal normal, have been punishing Brazilians especially since last weekend and will remain until Friday, Inmet estimated in a bulletin issued on Monday. The United States Agency for International Development said Thursday it is resuming food deliveries to hundreds of thousands of refugees in Ethiopia, four months after assistance was halted over a widespread scheme to steal supplies. The pace of gains in Japan’s producer prices decelerated more than expected in October to the weakest in over two years, supporting the Bank of Japan’s view that inflation is cooling. A measure of input prices for Japanese firms rose 0.8% from a year earlier, the slowest pace of growth since gains resumed in March 2021. The pūteketeke has been crowned New Zealand's Bird of the Century after US talk show host John Oliver's controversial intervention in the poll. @0406z "The Newsroom" begins. Backyard gutter antenna, Etón e1XM. 250kW, beamAz 315°, bearing 63°. Received at Plymouth, United States, 15359KM from transmitter at Talata Volonondry. Local time: 2158.

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the world in 80 days, Jules Verne

CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG SECURES A CURIOUS MEANS OF CONVEYANCE AT A FABULOUS PRICE

The train had started punctually. Among the passengers were a number of officers, Government officials, and opium and indigo merchants, whose business called them to the eastern coast. Passepartout rode in the same carriage with his master, and a third passenger occupied a seat opposite to them. This was Sir Francis Cromarty, one of Mr. Fogg’s whist partners on the “Mongolia,” now on his way to join his corps at Benares. Sir Francis was a tall, fair man of fifty, who had greatly distinguished himself in the last Sepoy revolt. He made India his home, only paying brief visits to England at rare intervals; and was almost as familiar as a native with the customs, history, and character of India and its people. But Phileas Fogg, who was not travelling, but only describing a circumference, took no pains to inquire into these subjects; he was a solid body, traversing an orbit around the terrestrial globe, according to the laws of rational mechanics. He was at this moment calculating in his mind the number of hours spent since his departure from London, and, had it been in his nature to make a useless demonstration, would have rubbed his hands for satisfaction. Sir Francis Cromarty had observed the oddity of his travelling companion—although the only opportunity he had for studying him had been while he was dealing the cards, and between two rubbers—and questioned himself whether a human heart really beat beneath this cold exterior, and whether Phileas Fogg had any sense of the beauties of nature. The brigadier-general was free to mentally confess that, of all the eccentric persons he had ever met, none was comparable to this product of the exact sciences.

Phileas Fogg had not concealed from Sir Francis his design of going round the world, nor the circumstances under which he set out; and the general only saw in the wager a useless eccentricity and a lack of sound common sense. In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else.

An hour after leaving Bombay the train had passed the viaducts and the Island of Salcette, and had got into the open country. At Callyan they reached the junction of the branch line which descends towards south-eastern India by Kandallah and Pounah; and, passing Pauwell, they entered the defiles of the mountains, with their basalt bases, and their summits crowned with thick and verdant forests. Phileas Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty exchanged a few words from time to time, and now Sir Francis, reviving the conversation, observed, “Some years ago, Mr. Fogg, you would have met with a delay at this point which would probably have lost you your wager.”

“How so, Sir Francis?”

“Because the railway stopped at the base of these mountains, which the passengers were obliged to cross in palanquins or on ponies to Kandallah, on the other side.”

“Such a delay would not have deranged my plans in the least,” said Mr. Fogg. “I have constantly foreseen the likelihood of certain obstacles.”

“But, Mr. Fogg,” pursued Sir Francis, “you run the risk of having some difficulty about this worthy fellow’s adventure at the pagoda.” Passepartout, his feet comfortably wrapped in his travelling-blanket, was sound asleep and did not dream that anybody was talking about him. “The Government is very severe upon that kind of offence. It takes particular care that the religious customs of the Indians should be respected, and if your servant were caught—”

“Very well, Sir Francis,” replied Mr. Fogg; “if he had been caught he would have been condemned and punished, and then would have quietly returned to Europe. I don’t see how this affair could have delayed his master.”

The conversation fell again. During the night the train left the mountains behind, and passed Nassik, and the next day proceeded over the flat, well-cultivated country of the Khandeish, with its straggling villages, above which rose the minarets of the pagodas. This fertile territory is watered by numerous small rivers and limpid streams, mostly tributaries of the Godavery.

Passepartout, on waking and looking out, could not realise that he was actually crossing India in a railway train. The locomotive, guided by an English engineer and fed with English coal, threw out its smoke upon cotton, coffee, nutmeg, clove, and pepper plantations, while the steam curled in spirals around groups of palm-trees, in the midst of which were seen picturesque bungalows, viharis (sort of abandoned monasteries), and marvellous temples enriched by the exhaustless ornamentation of Indian architecture. Then they came upon vast tracts extending to the horizon, with jungles inhabited by snakes and tigers, which fled at the noise of the train; succeeded by forests penetrated by the railway, and still haunted by elephants which, with pensive eyes, gazed at the train as it passed. The travellers crossed, beyond Milligaum, the fatal country so often stained with blood by the sectaries of the goddess Kali. Not far off rose Ellora, with its graceful pagodas, and the famous Aurungabad, capital of the ferocious Aureng-Zeb, now the chief town of one of the detached provinces of the kingdom of the Nizam. It was thereabouts that Feringhea, the Thuggee chief, king of the stranglers, held his sway. These ruffians, united by a secret bond, strangled victims of every age in honour of the goddess Death, without ever shedding blood; there was a period when this part of the country could scarcely be travelled over without corpses being found in every direction. The English Government has succeeded in greatly diminishing these murders, though the Thuggees still exist, and pursue the exercise of their horrible rites.

At half-past twelve the train stopped at Burhampoor where Passepartout was able to purchase some Indian slippers, ornamented with false pearls, in which, with evident vanity, he proceeded to encase his feet. The travellers made a hasty breakfast and started off for Assurghur, after skirting for a little the banks of the small river Tapty, which empties into the Gulf of Cambray, near Surat.

Passepartout was now plunged into absorbing reverie. Up to his arrival at Bombay, he had entertained hopes that their journey would end there; but, now that they were plainly whirling across India at full speed, a sudden change had come over the spirit of his dreams. His old vagabond nature returned to him; the fantastic ideas of his youth once more took possession of him. He came to regard his master’s project as intended in good earnest, believed in the reality of the bet, and therefore in the tour of the world and the necessity of making it without fail within the designated period. Already he began to worry about possible delays, and accidents which might happen on the way. He recognised himself as being personally interested in the wager, and trembled at the thought that he might have been the means of losing it by his unpardonable folly of the night before. Being much less cool-headed than Mr. Fogg, he was much more restless, counting and recounting the days passed over, uttering maledictions when the train stopped, and accusing it of sluggishness, and mentally blaming Mr. Fogg for not having bribed the engineer. The worthy fellow was ignorant that, while it was possible by such means to hasten the rate of a steamer, it could not be done on the railway.

The train entered the defiles of the Sutpour Mountains, which separate the Khandeish from Bundelcund, towards evening. The next day Sir Francis Cromarty asked Passepartout what time it was; to which, on consulting his watch, he replied that it was three in the morning. This famous timepiece, always regulated on the Greenwich meridian, which was now some seventy-seven degrees westward, was at least four hours slow. Sir Francis corrected Passepartout’s time, whereupon the latter made the same remark that he had done to Fix; and upon the general insisting that the watch should be regulated in each new meridian, since he was constantly going eastward, that is in the face of the sun, and therefore the days were shorter by four minutes for each degree gone over, Passepartout obstinately refused to alter his watch, which he kept at London time. It was an innocent delusion which could harm no one.

The train stopped, at eight o’clock, in the midst of a glade some fifteen miles beyond Rothal, where there were several bungalows, and workmen’s cabins. The conductor, passing along the carriages, shouted, “Passengers will get out here!”

Phileas Fogg looked at Sir Francis Cromarty for an explanation; but the general could not tell what meant a halt in the midst of this forest of dates and acacias.

Passepartout, not less surprised, rushed out and speedily returned, crying: “Monsieur, no more railway!”

“What do you mean?” asked Sir Francis.

“I mean to say that the train isn’t going on.”

The general at once stepped out, while Phileas Fogg calmly followed him, and they proceeded together to the conductor.

“Where are we?” asked Sir Francis.

“At the hamlet of Kholby.”

“Do we stop here?”

“Certainly. The railway isn’t finished.”

“What! not finished?”

“No. There’s still a matter of fifty miles to be laid from here to Allahabad, where the line begins again.”

“But the papers announced the opening of the railway throughout.”

“What would you have, officer? The papers were mistaken.”

“Yet you sell tickets from Bombay to Calcutta,” retorted Sir Francis, who was growing warm.

“No doubt,” replied the conductor; “but the passengers know that they must provide means of transportation for themselves from Kholby to Allahabad.”

Sir Francis was furious. Passepartout would willingly have knocked the conductor down, and did not dare to look at his master.

“Sir Francis,” said Mr. Fogg quietly, “we will, if you please, look about for some means of conveyance to Allahabad.”

“Mr. Fogg, this is a delay greatly to your disadvantage.”

“No, Sir Francis; it was foreseen.”

“What! You knew that the way—”

“Not at all; but I knew that some obstacle or other would sooner or later arise on my route. Nothing, therefore, is lost. I have two days, which I have already gained, to sacrifice. A steamer leaves Calcutta for Hong Kong at noon, on the 25th. This is the 22nd, and we shall reach Calcutta in time.”

There was nothing to say to so confident a response.

It was but too true that the railway came to a termination at this point. The papers were like some watches, which have a way of getting too fast, and had been premature in their announcement of the completion of the line. The greater part of the travellers were aware of this interruption, and, leaving the train, they began to engage such vehicles as the village could provide four-wheeled palkigharis, waggons drawn by zebus, carriages that looked like perambulating pagodas, palanquins, ponies, and what not.

Mr. Fogg and Sir Francis Cromarty, after searching the village from end to end, came back without having found anything.

“I shall go afoot,” said Phileas Fogg.

Passepartout, who had now rejoined his master, made a wry grimace, as he thought of his magnificent, but too frail Indian shoes. Happily he too had been looking about him, and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “Monsieur, I think I have found a means of conveyance.”

“What?”

“An elephant! An elephant that belongs to an Indian who lives but a hundred steps from here.”

“Let’s go and see the elephant,” replied Mr. Fogg.

They soon reached a small hut, near which, enclosed within some high palings, was the animal in question. An Indian came out of the hut, and, at their request, conducted them within the enclosure. The elephant, which its owner had reared, not for a beast of burden, but for warlike purposes, was half domesticated. The Indian had begun already, by often irritating him, and feeding him every three months on sugar and butter, to impart to him a ferocity not in his nature, this method being often employed by those who train the Indian elephants for battle. Happily, however, for Mr. Fogg, the animal’s instruction in this direction had not gone far, and the elephant still preserved his natural gentleness. Kiouni—this was the name of the beast—could doubtless travel rapidly for a long time, and, in default of any other means of conveyance, Mr. Fogg resolved to hire him. But elephants are far from cheap in India, where they are becoming scarce, the males, which alone are suitable for circus shows, are much sought, especially as but few of them are domesticated. When therefore Mr. Fogg proposed to the Indian to hire Kiouni, he refused point-blank. Mr. Fogg persisted, offering the excessive sum of ten pounds an hour for the loan of the beast to Allahabad. Refused. Twenty pounds? Refused also. Forty pounds? Still refused. Passepartout jumped at each advance; but the Indian declined to be tempted. Yet the offer was an alluring one, for, supposing it took the elephant fifteen hours to reach Allahabad, his owner would receive no less than six hundred pounds sterling.

Phileas Fogg, without getting in the least flurried, then proposed to purchase the animal outright, and at first offered a thousand pounds for him. The Indian, perhaps thinking he was going to make a great bargain, still refused.

Sir Francis Cromarty took Mr. Fogg aside, and begged him to reflect before he went any further; to which that gentleman replied that he was not in the habit of acting rashly, that a bet of twenty thousand pounds was at stake, that the elephant was absolutely necessary to him, and that he would secure him if he had to pay twenty times his value. Returning to the Indian, whose small, sharp eyes, glistening with avarice, betrayed that with him it was only a question of how great a price he could obtain. Mr. Fogg offered first twelve hundred, then fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand pounds. Passepartout, usually so rubicund, was fairly white with suspense.

At two thousand pounds the Indian yielded.

“What a price, good heavens!” cried Passepartout, “for an elephant.”

It only remained now to find a guide, which was comparatively easy. A young Parsee, with an intelligent face, offered his services, which Mr. Fogg accepted, promising so generous a reward as to materially stimulate his zeal. The elephant was led out and equipped. The Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle-cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs. Phileas Fogg paid the Indian with some banknotes which he extracted from the famous carpet-bag, a proceeding that seemed to deprive poor Passepartout of his vitals. Then he offered to carry Sir Francis to Allahabad, which the brigadier gratefully accepted, as one traveller the more would not be likely to fatigue the gigantic beast. Provisions were purchased at Kholby, and, while Sir Francis and Mr. Fogg took the howdahs on either side, Passepartout got astride the saddle-cloth between them. The Parsee perched himself on the elephant’s neck, and at nine o’clock they set out from the village, the animal marching off through the dense forest of palms by the shortest cut.