#sent: volubility

[glossahortensia]

ABECEDARY

Volubility

Acmella oleracea (L.) R.K.Jansen (1985) (Jambu)

Most other floriography authors I have encountered, including some of the time, have assumed the 'abecedary' is a mistake - in usual parlance, an 'abecedary' was a written work composed of an entry for each letter of the Latin alphabet (imagine an 'ABC' book for children). The assumption is that, like the word 'poetry' originating from 'poesy', or a 'bouquet' (the two are synonymous in French), the abecedary arose from some confusion in translation and was copied between later incautious authors.

I am excited, therefore, to notice Delachénaye's identification of the jambu as her 'abécédaire', further noting in her entry that this is a colloquial name for the flower in French, arising from its petals seeming to have letter-like figures on them. I believe this is the source of the 'abecedary' of the English authors later on.

Of course, the criticism is otherwise fair - it's true that most authors appear to have copied from other sources, many with little discretion. Still, finding the identity of this flower has been a little victory in my research.

As Delachénaye herself writes, it seems only right to open this blog with the humble abecedary.

[miffy-junot]

Felix Yusupov on his first meeting with Rasputin

This was 1909 and the year in which I met Rasputin for the first time. We were back in St. Petersburg where I was spending Christmas with my parents before returning to England.* For a long time I had been on friendly terms with the G. family,** and more particularly with the youngest daughter, who was a fervent admirer of the starets.*** She was too innocent a girl to understand his ignominious nature, and too guileless to form an unbiased opinion as to his motives. He was, according to her, a man of exceptional spiritual power who had been sent into the world to purify and heal our souls, and to guide our thoughts and actions. This extravagant description left me skeptical, and although at that time I knew nothing definite about Rasputin, something inside me made me suspicious of him. However, Mlle G.'s enthusiasm roused my curiosity and I questioned her in detail about the man she so much admired. She looked upon him as an apostle come straight from Heaven; he had no human weaknesses, no vices; he was an ascetic whose whole life was devoted to prayer. I heard so much about him that I felt I ought to judge him for myself, and I accepted an invitation to meet the starets a few days later at the G.s' house.

The G.s lived on the Winter Canal. When I entered the drawing room, mother and daughter were seated at the tea table, wearing the solemn expression of persons awaiting the arrival of a miraculous icon which was to bring a divine blessing on the house. In a little while the door opened and Rasputin came in with short quick steps. He walked up to me, said "Good evening, my dear boy," and attempted to kiss me. I drew back instinctively. He smiled maliciously and, going up to Mlle G. and then to her mother, he calmly put his arms around them and gave each of them a resounding kiss. From the very first his self-assurance irritated me, and there was something about him which disgusted me. He was of middle height, muscular and thin. His arms were disproportionately long, and just where his untidy crop of hair began to grow there was a great scar, which I found out later was the mark of a wound received during one of his highway robberies in Siberia. He seemed to be about forty, and with his caftan, baggy breeches and great top-boots he looked exactly what he was - a peasant. He had a low, common face framed by a shaggy beard, coarse features and a long nose, with small shifty gray eyes sunken under heavy eyebrows. The strangeness of his manner was disconcerting, and although he affected a free and easy demeanor one felt him to be ill at case and suspicious. He seemed to be constantly watching the person he was talking to. Rasputin remained seated for a few moments, then began to pace up and down the room with his short quick steps, mumbling under his breath. His voice sounded hollow, his pronunciation indistinct. We drank tea in silence as we watched him, Mlle G. with enthusiastic attention, I with great curiosity. Soon he sat down and gave me a searching look. We began to talk. He spoke volubly in the tone of a preacher inspired from above, quoting the Old and New Testaments at random, often distorting their real meaning, which was a trifle confusing. As he talked I studied his features closely. There was something really extraordinary about his peasant face. He was not in the least like a holy man; on the contrary he looked like a lascivious, malicious satyr. I was particularly struck by the revolting expression in his eyes, which were very small, set close together, and so deep-sunk in their sockets that at a distance they were invisible. But even at close quarters it was sometimes difficult to know whether they were open or shut, and the impression one had was that of being pierced with needles rather than of merely being looked at. His glance was both piercing and sullen; his sweet and insipid smile was almost as revolting as the expression of his eyes. There was something base in his unctuous countenance; something wicked, crafty and sensual. Mlle G. and her mother never took their eyes off him, and seemed to drink in every word he spoke. After a little while Rasputin rose, and giving me a soft, hypocritical glance pointed to Mlle G. and said: "What a faithful friend you have in her! You should listen to her, she will be your spiritual spouse. Yes, she has spoken very well of you, and I too now see that both of you are good and well suited to each other. As for you, my dear boy, you will go far, very far." With these words he left the room. When I went away, my mind was filled with the strange impression he had made on me. A few days later I met Mlle G. again; she told me that Rasputin liked me very much and wanted to see me again. Shortly after, I left for England where a very different life awaited me.

*at the time, Felix Yusupov was attending Oxford University in England.

**Yusupov exclusively refers to this family using the letter "G", presumably out of discretion for a family who were not public figures.

***a 'starets' is a type of religious leader in Russian Orthodox Christianity. Rasputin went under this title.

source: Lost Splendour by Felix Yusupov, chapter 15

[mariacallous]

US senators Elizabeth Warren and Bill Cassidy have called for the Department of Justice and Department of Homeland Security to redouble efforts to stop the use of cryptocurrency to pay for child sexual abuse material (CSAM) online, a problem they claim has worsened.

In a letter sent on Thursday, addressed to Attorney General Merrick Garland and Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas, the senators claim that the “pseudonymity” afforded by crypto transactions is helping those that trade in CSAM to evade detection by law enforcement.

Citing data from the US Treasury’s Financial Crime Enforcement Network as well as research from Chainalysis, a company that specializes in tracing crypto transactions, and the Internet Watch Foundation, a CSAM-focused charity, the letter asserts that the “use of cryptocurrency in the illicit trade of CSAM appears to be increasing.”

Between 2020 and 2022, financial institutions identified 1,800 bitcoin wallets suspected of engaging in transactions linked to child sexual exploitation or human trafficking, the letter states. Although the scale of the crypto-based market for CSAM decreased in 2023, Chainalysis found, an increase in sophistication among sellers allowed them to evade detection for far longer than in previous years.

The people participating in the trade of CSAM online use a variety of methods to conceal their activity, the senators claim, including using crypto mixing services and ATMs to conceal the origin of funds used in CSAM transactions and to launder the proceeds.

“These are deeply troubling findings revealing the extent to which cryptocurrency is the payment of choice for perpetrators of child sexual abuse and exploitation,” wrote the senators.

To jump-start a response, Warren and Cassidy have asked the DOJ and DHS to publish details of their own research into the scope of crypto’s role in the CSAM problem, as well as information about the challenges specific to prosecuting this category of crime. The senators have given the agencies until May 10 to respond to their questions.

For her frequent and voluble criticism of cryptocurrency and its role in illicit activity, Warren has become something of a villain in crypto circles. Lately, the senator has come under criticism for a piece of anti-money-laundering legislation she proposed in July 2023, which the Chamber of Digital Commerce, a crypto advocacy group, has claimed will “erase hundreds of billions of dollars in value for US startups and decimate the savings of countless Americans invested in this asset class legally.”

Warren has reiterated her stance that the crypto industry must follow the same stringent rules as other financial organizations in the US in order to prevent misuse by criminal actors, including vendors of CSAM.

[rosileeduckie]

Hot on your heels

Run, run, run, as fast as you can, you better hope I don’t catch you, or you’re a dead man.

A hellish pursuit ends in pleasant hysterics. For @hexalianrebel-blackfeathers , dear Panda, I hope this will inspire and strengthen you 😊 Also maybe fluster the heck out of you 😈💜

SFW. Potential warnings: none, except Meg being a meanie. Hades: Zagreus/Megaera tickle fic.

Word count: 3,572

~*~

The denizens of the underworld had become accustomed to the sight of the prince dashing through the labyrinthine chambers out of hell. They were no longer surprised, just resigned, at the approach of fiery footfalls of the armed and fiercely determined god wreaking havoc on any wretch to stand between him and his goal of the surface world. Sometimes the stretches between rampaging visits were long, sometimes short, but, eventually, inevitably, the prince would return to cut them down, and the wretched shades and monsters would rise at the call of their lord to slow the prince down as much as they could, to their last breath.

So they were understandably shocked when they were summoned to Tartarus only to see the prince running INTO the depths, fleeing the surface with all the fervor he usually implemented in trying to reach it. Shortly behind him and ostensibly sparking his retreat, the first of the furies tore after Zagreus, her pale blue face burning sapphire and her mouth twisted into a grinning snarl. One slice of her whip and Zagreus was yanked to a stop, caught 'round the ankle and sent sprawling. Megaera leapt, a cobalt lightning bolt arcing through the air between her and her prey, and landed atop Zagreus' back, pinning him to the ground on his front. Her whip seemed to slither of its own accord to loop around his other ankle as well, tightening to secure them together and prevent any attempt at escape.

For a moment that felt much longer than it was, the only sound in the chamber--recently vacated by wretches for fear of whatever horrors the first fury would subject the prince to--was both Zagreus' and Meg's labored breathing. He'd evaded her through quite a few many rooms before getting caught. Likely, she'd LET him stay just out of her grasp so he'd be too tired to fight back once she finally used all her effort to capture him.

When the silence evidently became too much for the voluble prince, he turned his head so as to comfortably smush his cheek against the ghastly stone and opened his mouth, certainly ready to use his breath for rambling instead of running. Meg cut him off before he could, placing a hand, shockingly gentle, upon the middle of his back. The pressure she added as she planted her hand there prompted a startled grunt from him, as she used the bracing hand to adjust her position to straddle his lower back. His forearms were pinned under her knees, and his ears flared crimson under her breath when she leaned in close over him.

"I’m accustomed to recounting crimes before I torture my charges," Meg growled, and Zagreus began to wriggle.

"Meg, Meg, wait, please—"

Zagreus was jolted into silence once more when Meg's other hand touched his back. That time, it was only the tips of her pink nails that met his skin, featherlight and full of devastating promise. "So. Let's do this again." She traced agonizingly slow squiggling patterns down his shoulders and the back of his ribs, edging tauntingly close to his sides as she went on. "I said, "are you seriously spending time using that silly rod to catch bottom feeders? Suits your pitiful extended family; just to their taste, I'm sure."" Meg's eyes flashed in a moment of rage, and Zagreus yelped when the fury's nails dug briefly but harshly into his lower ribcage. "And YOU said…"

Rather than supply what his response had been then, Zagreus rested his forehead against the dark rock below and willed it to absorb the heat in his cheeks. He wasn't digging his own grave, just begging the ground to swallow him whole and save him from Meg's wrath. Well. If he'd really wanted to avoid her ire, he wouldn't have provoked her, digging his own grave in the first place. "Somehow," he said, nose squished against the stone in his best attempt to bury himself, "this hasn't jogged my memory—blood and—!"

"You, HIGHNESS," and she added venom to that title by squeezing her fingertips into either side of his lower back and the jut of his hips, "no, Meg—"

"I do not sound like that—"

Another squeeze from Meg, another yelp from Zagreus, and she carried on. "You said, "no, Meg, this is what I do whenever I miss you, seeing as it often yields me slimy creatures with all your charm and wit."

Okay, yes, in hindsight, even with Meg pitching her voice down and jutting out her jaw to make it sound stupid… it had been a hilarious sting. Zagreus could hardly apologize for that. Especially when it had gotten him exactly the outcome he'd expected. Been hoping for. "Meg, come on," he said, more than ready to defend his comedic genius if it meant pissing her off more.

Such defense was cut off succinctly when she used both hands to shove him further into the ground. She used the momentum of the push to swing forward, bearing down on his ear once more with a furious whisper. "Do you think I can let that go unpunished, Zagreus?"

Zagreus was not unaware that nearly all his attempts to reply had been abruptly and aggressively cut off. Meg clearly wasn't interested in him talking. So he only grunted as she lifted her hands off him, biting his lip as she pulled away only to her fingertips and went back to tracing his back in that maddeningly slow and light pattern.

"This isn’t an errand your father has me running to slow you down. Now, it’s personal. You’ve insulted me. And I will not let that stand."

"Nor let me stand, it would seem," he couldn't help but remark.

Meg scoffed, certainly rolling her eyes. "Very funny. Let’s see how funny you find this."

The rapidly shifting dichotomy was going to undo him long before her vengeful appetite was satiated, he just knew it. The delicate but devious touch of her nails on his back, gentle enough to give him goosebumps and sharp enough to figuratively cut through the fabric of his tunic, was starkly contrasted by the strength she wielded against him. She wrestled him easily onto his side, and her whip slithered quickly up and around his wrists to lash them together and bind them above his head. In a flash, he was on his back, hopelessly helpless beneath the grip of her whip and the pin of her thighs on his waist. Apparently, she had granted him enough mercy by barely allowing him to plead his case. She gave him not more than a second--during which, he would have sworn, he could hear the sharp unsheathing of judgment blades as Meg bared her pink claws--before she attacked. Viciously, ruthlessly, with all the kindness of someone with too much experience in punishing, and experience in that exact kind. She plucked a hellish tune along the left side of his ribs, accompanied by his own sudden rushing shriek that descended into panicked, elated laughter. Scratching and scribbling tirelessly, Meg's nails made thorough treks up and down and back and forth across just the one side of his ribs, skating along the tips of the bones and vibrating torturously between them. But she didn't stop there. While the nails of her right hand did their damning dance on his ribs, her other hand hovered over his armpit--he could see it just barely through the laughter induced tears on his eyelashes, and, only when he had seen the newest form of his destruction--and swiftly descended. And treated the pale vulnerable hollow to the softest tickling imaginable from claws so sharp. Her fingers left lightning in their wake, delicately frying his nerves with sensation and softness. As her fingers on his back had all but ignored the fabric of his tunic to send shivers down his spine, they now seemed to ignore his skin, tickling right down to his immortal core.

And then she switched sides.

Moreover, her hands departed from his left side in favor of his right, but she also switched techniques. Now, it was his right armpit that suffered under the clawing vengeance, and his ribs that were teased, featherlight and unbearable. The howling laughter bursting from his lips left him little space to think, to decide which combination had been worse. Neither could he see the fiendish smile upon her face at having so easily reduced him to such a state—how she was enjoying herself as much as he was, and she knew it.

Desperate, dizzy gulps of air slowly overtook Zagreus’ laughter when Meg stilled her havoc-wreaking hands. He’d become so overwhelmed by and comfortable to her touch that he didn’t register she hadn’t pulled away, only stopped. So his giggly, gasping reprieve was interrupted by his own hiccupping yelp when Meg moved, her fingertips ghosting down his chest and torso until they settled on his lower belly, the soft spots on either side of and beneath his navel. Zagreus whined through his tittering and weakly shook his head. “No,” he babbled, giddy and unconvincing to either himself or Meg. “No, no, don’t—”

“You’ve had to beat me to get out of Tartarus,” said Meg, holding her hands in place, still, above the spot that had Zagreus pleading already, as she bowed over his beaming face. “Don’t tell me this is all I need to do to beat you.” Both the scoffing edge to her voice and the taunting glint in her eye softened as she leaned closer, smiling and teasing. “Really, darling? All it takes to break the Prince of the Underworld is to make him laugh?” He shook his head, ears aflame as though her very words were tickling him as well. Meg chuckled, lowering her voice and lips close to his flushing ears. “To softly tickle under his arms and between his ribs and around his belly button?”

When he shook his head that time, Zagreus couldn’t help but slow his movement—the only he could muster under how she held him—so as to keep his ear turned toward her and his burning cheek buried in his bicep. “Meg—” he managed through his piddly protests.

“Maybe,” mused Meg, leaning back and tipping her head thoughtfully and ignoring his words as consistently as she had the past hour, “next time you fight me and my sisters, I’ll tell them about this little trick. Better yet, show them.” Her once-soft grin sharpened back into something wickeder under his wide-eyed, mortified yet eager gaze. “All three of us with you at our mercy. Bet I could even rope a wringer or two into holding you down so the three of us could fully devote all our attention to you, get revenge for all the times you’ve defeated us. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?” Zagreus stiffened as she leaned in once more, a shiver passing bodily through him as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “For now, it’s just me you’ll have to survive. And, cute as you are, I haven’t forgotten why I’m doing this.”

He’d probably still be giggling if she hadn’t stolen the breath from him with such a ruthless plot for his next run in with the fury sisters. Instead, when his breath returned, he used it just to wheeze out, “I’m sorry.”

Meg rolled her eyes and chuckled. Just a twitch of her fingers into his belly, along with the following squeal that jolted from his chest, was enough to remind Zagreus of what awaited him in the present—never mind what he would have to look forward to in the future. “That’s nice,” Megaera said with a yawn, slipping her hands under the hem of his tunic. “But this is not to get an apology. This is for the consequences of your actions. And you knew that, or you wouldn’t have been such a little shit in the first place.”

Either his lapse in hysterical laughter or her own words spurred her into action, and Meg renewed her onslaught. With incredibly brutal softness, she scribbled her vicious fingers into his sensitive flesh, prompting from him a fresh and raucous bout of guffawing. It wasn’t just the physical attack; his exhaustion from having fought so hard through Tartarus and then having sprinting back, her teasing words planting images in his mind of countless damned hands reducing him to giggly shreds, and his relief to be swept away in it all—all the odds were stacked against him. In truth, the spot Meg had picked wasn’t so devastatingly sensitive. Sure, Zagreus could quickly melt into a happy puddle when tickled there, but her revenge would surely be better suited to the weaker spots she had already tormented. He’d been a little shit; knew that. Meg was vengeful; he knew that, too. What she knew, that maybe he didn’t or didn’t want to admit, was that Zagreus gave better than his all no matter what challenge he faced. Didn’t falter, didn’t give up, and didn’t rest. Unless someone who loved him very dearly held him down—or tired him so completely that he couldn’t do anything else—and ensured he rested. So even if Zagreus was flustered and laughter-drunk and exhausted, he was happy. Meg knew and loved him well enough to make it easy for him to get the rest and attention he wanted and needed, even if he couldn’t ask for it.

Maybe he’d rather die than ask for it. Or maybe Meg just wanted to kill him, he thought dazedly as Meg left his stomach to shake and suffer under lingering phantom tickles. He thought so, only because she pushed against the stone on either side of his legs to give herself the leverage to swing around facing away from him and to straddle his knees.

“Wait, wait—!”

The hoarse exclamation—the only so far to actually call for Meg to be diverted from her doling out of his punishment—was only made more sincere by Zagreus reaching to clutch Meg’s shoulder and stop her. Well. He tried to. Her whip was still wound around his forearms, so, though he could sit up, he couldn’t grab anything very effectively. He settled for earnestly flapping his hands against her back, shrinking only a little when she looked over her shoulder to glare challengingly at him.

“You—” Zagreus cleared his throat, nodding to his burning feet, “you’ll burn yourself.”

Megaera raised an eyebrow and scoffed, sending him teetering once more onto his back with a shove. “Oh, now you’ll be considerate? No, thanks, Zag.”

He was going to try to halt her once again, but the grin she turned back to cast him, so confident and evil, persuaded him otherwise, pinning him as effectively as her thighs did his knees. As he watched, she held up a hand, and, with a burst of magenta fire, shadows began to coil up her fingers like black flame, like burning smoke with no smoldering source. Zagreus tipped his head quizzically, still panting from the previous bout of belly laughter. That roiling, rising black fog… it almost looked like…

“Recognize this?” Meg guessed. She then explained, “From your spats with Tisiphone. Spectral shadows that relieve you of sight and speed.”

Of course, Zagreus realized, nodding but still squinting in confusion. In his fights against her, Tisiphone summoned souls and shadow to form a storm of darkness that kept Zagreus from landing any blows while she decimated the chamber in which they fought to give him less room to maneuver. But why did Meg…?

“Picked up that trick from her and made it my own,” she went on, holding the hand gloved in darkness over his chest for him to examine at a closer distance. “This is suffocating shadows. Relieves the area it surrounds of light and breath.” Though she hadn’t held it near enough for Zagreus to feel such effects, Meg pulled her hand away, reaching to the other end of his body and touching two fingers to his ever-burning calf. The small patch of fire surrounding where she touched fizzled out, leaving nothing but deathly pale skin. Zagreus blinked wonderingly at the display. It didn’t hurt, and, when she lifted her hand, fire quickly consumed the spot, yet her hand remained unharmed. “Quite devastating when used offensively,” she said, turning her hand one way and then another to watch the black flame curl and rise. “It will suit my needs now. Hopefully still devastating, but not as deadly.”

Her golden eyes flashed as she set her gaze from the fireless smoke back to Zagreus. Had he not been temporarily cured of his usual cleverness, he might have said she took away his breath just fine without the aid of magic when she looked at him like that.

“And, I swear,” Meg growled through a grin, “if you die on me before I am satisfied with my revenge, I will drag you out of the Styx, tickle you back to life, tickle you to death, and do so repeatedly until I am satisfied.”

Struck dumb for one of the few times in his life (even though a substantial amount of those times had occurred in that short day alone), Zagreus, throat dry, nodded.

Once more, Meg softened, giggling herself at the delighted terror on the prince’s face. “You’re strong enough to win against me any other time. You’re strong enough to last through this. You know I know that, don’t you?”

She knew too much, he thought, cheeks burning as he nodded again.

The warmth she granted him was quickly overtaken by the blazing fire of vengeance. “Good. Because if you can’t last when you practically begged for it, you ought to think twice next time before you get smart with me.”

The indignant squeak from the prince’s throat was torn through by a panicked squeal as Meg chuckled sinisterly and donned a second shadowy gauntlet before unleashing hell upon his innocent soles.

It wasn’t fair. Funnily enough for a fellow with fiery feet, Zagreus was no stranger to being tickled there. In general, it wasn’t a very well-kept secret that the mouthy prince could be calmed or quieted after being coerced to laugh until his sides were sore. He’d suffered under enough merciless merriment often enough that the most sadistic of his friends and family—usually his current tormenter and sometimes, funny enough for such a stoic character, Thanatos—that all of his weak spots had been targeted at some point or another. So common a weak spot for others could not be ignored, even with so convincing a deterrent as literal hellfire. Zagreus had thus suffered under some pretty creative means around his perpetual fire slippers and been wrecked to the fullest. He wasn’t even as ticklish on his feet as other spots, but how much harder they were to get at made them a novelty, and so never failed to make him lose his mind at the reminder of how bad it could tickle.

In a tortured song that could put the damned to shame, Zagreus thrashed and wailed, howling cachinnation echoing up into the caverns of Tartarus no matter how he tried to muffle it in his fists or Meg’s back. Even when he clung to her, she paid no mind, fully intent on her self-appointed duty. Her shadow-shielded fingers skated unimpeded up and down his soles, chasing shrieking laughter and sputtering flame almost as fast as either could be produced by the chortling prince beneath her. If Zagreus forgot each time how ticklish his feet could be, Meg remembered for him, every spot and every method to be wielded against him for ultimate destruction.

Her pink talons scribbling beneath his toes with special attention between his third and fourth, fluttering along his heels, raking up down his instep in unpredictable rhythm—every evil technique she used against him, both of her own devising and that she’d “picked up” as well, sent him further spiraling into elated, screaming laughter, until he couldn’t remember why he’d provoked her in the first place, where he’d been running to that had made his feet so sore for attention, couldn’t think of anything but that deliciously devilishly overwhelming need to laugh, to surrender to Meg’s hands, to her care. To trust that, if he couldn’t ask for lack of confidence or lack of breath, she knew what he wanted.

He may have had one foot in the Styx when she did, finally, deem his punishment sufficiently completed. At least, he’d lost enough oxygen laughing to have gone very loopy and very limp. Megaera chuckled, rolling her eyes fondly, and swung her leg off him to instead lay beside him, tousle his hair and touch his flushed and smile-stuck face. She may have spoken to him, but Zagreus felt like he was floating, like his ears were full of cotton and her voice was too far away to make out. But she smiled, and he was already smiling but he smiled back, and then he was floating because she lifted him easily into her arms and carried him toward the house at the heart of hell.

Zagreus leaned into the warmth of her shoulder and, at last, found excuse enough to let himself rest. He hoped his slurred speech amounted to something like “thanks” before he drifted off to the swaying step of her gait. He may have been dreaming already, but he thought he could hear her loving reply.

“You’re welcome, you damn idiot.”

[simcardiac-arrested]

Mr. Cream Simcardiac-Arrested has recently made a number of fellow users very, very angry, including me. However, as anger serves no function in a successful rebuttal, I will simply state objectively that Miss Simcardiac-Arrested doesn’t perceive that anything is wrong with them. Consider this ask not as a monologue but rather as a joint effort between anon and mutual. Together we shall fight for what is right. Together we shall improve the living conditions of the most vulnerable in our society-the sick, the old, the disabled, the unemployed, and our youth—all of whose lives are made miserable by Mx. Cream Simcardiac-Arrested. And together we shall show principle, gumption, verve, and nerve. If you want a better opportunity to get a job, raise a family in a safe neighborhood, have a better chance at a good education, and lower the taxes on the money you earn, then I ask that you help me justify condemnation, constructive criticism, and ridicule of Mrs. Simcardiac-Arrested and its louche canards. Doing so will at least prove that he will do anything to prevent us from critiquing her doctrinaire magic-bullet explanations. Don’t magic-bullet explanations that aim to till the flagitious side of the nonrepresentationalism garden deserve—and in some sense, require—abundant critique and evaluation? That’s why I propose that we strike in self-defense a blow that will free this hellsite from the deleterious effects of Ms. Simcardiac-Arrested’s larcenous, querulous adages, mainly because we have a problem, and we need to solve it. I mean really solve it—not put a Band-Aid on it, not empty it in the Garbage Wastes, not look the other way. I propose we start by building a new understanding that can transport us to tomorrow as that will get people thinking about how far too many people look the other way when they see Mr. Simcardiac-Arrested impinging upon our dash. We need to be better than that. We can be better than that. And we can start by using evidence-based arguments when discussing issues with Mrs. Simcardiac-Arrested. Mr. Simcardiac-Arrested is able to argue only from emotionalism. They doesn’t argue from a logical, linear point of view. Hence, by taking on Mr. Simcardiac-Arrested at her false premises one can easily demonstrate that we find among narrow and uneducated minds the belief that his fraternity of otiose, cankered gadflies is a colony of heaven called to obey God by taking away our sense of community and leaving us morally adrift. This belief is due to a basic confusion that can be cleared up simply by stating that I correctly predicted that Miss Simcardiac-Arrested would shake belief in all existing institutions through the systematic perversion of both contemporary and historical facts. Alas, I didn’t think they’d do that so effectively—or so soon. All of this once again proves the old saying that there is no reason to fund a vast web of snitty, gruesome sectarians, temeritous, voluble vocabularians, and the most quixotic weirdos you’ll ever see and there is every reason not to. SENT.

thank you for this randomly generated anon complaint i will be putting it on my wall

[xtruss]

Dorothy Thompson Is the Most Famous Female Journalist You've Never Heard Of

She made a name for herself by speaking out against fascism abroad and at home. Then the fight got personal.

— January 11, 2024 | Kirstin Butler

A Full-Color Illustration Featuring Archival Images of Journalist Dorothy Thompson, a Typewriter, Marching Nazi Troops, and the Book "I Saw Hitler". Art by Colin Mahoney. Source photo of Dorothy Thomspon: National Archives and Records Administration

On the morning of August 25, 1934, the American journalist Dorothy Thompson was taking breakfast in her room at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin when she received a letter from the Gestapo. “In view of your numerous anti-German publications in the American press,” Thompson was informed, “the German authorities, for reasons of national self respect, are unable to extend to you a further right of hospitality.”

The Reich bore her a distinct animus. For years, she had been critical of fascist movements throughout Europe. After being granted an interview with Hitler in 1931, Thompson wrote an especially unflattering portrayal of the soon-to-be German chancellor. That long essay, which first ran in Cosmopolitan Magazine, was subsequently turned into a book called I Saw Hitler. “He is formless, almost faceless,” Thompson had written, “a man whose countenance is a caricature, a man whose framework seems cartilaginous, without bones. He is inconsequent and voluble, ill-poised, insecure. He is the very prototype of the Little Man.” In addition to that injurious portrait, Thompson had produced a series of articles for the Jewish Daily Bulletin deploring Hitler’s anti-semitic policies.

The Führer was reportedly threatened enough by her work to demand the creation of a “Dorothy Thompson Emergency Squad” to rush translations of her articles. Now, at the personal directive of Hitler himself, she was being expelled from the country, an unprecedented act against an American correspondent.

A cadre of foreign journalists sent Thompson off, colleagues from her years as Central European Bureau chief for the New York Evening Post and Philadelphia Public Ledger. (She had been the first-ever woman appointed to the position, which oversaw foreign coverage for both newspapers, a decade earlier.) “Nearly the entire corps of American and British correspondents went to the railway station to see her off and wish her good luck,” the New York Times reported, adding that Thompson was presented with an armful of American Beauty roses as a gesture of admiration.

Far from silencing her, the expulsion only increased Thompson’s influence. The Times featured the story of her ban on the newspaper’s front page, and eagerly ran her reflections about it the following day. “My offense was to think that Hitler is just an ordinary man,” she wrote. “That is a crime against the reigning cult in Germany, which says Mr. Hitler is a Messiah sent by God to save the German people—an old Jewish idea.” Thompson closed her column in the Times with the kind of bon mot that had already propelled her to public renown: “To question this mystic mission is so heinous that, if you are a German, you can be sent to jail. I, fortunately, am an American, so I merely was sent to Paris. Worse things can happen to one.”

Thompson in 1937. Getty Images.

Upon her return to the United States, Thompson turned her indomitable energies toward denouncing fascism with every opportunity she was offered, and she was offered many. First came a 30-city lecture tour spanning the next year and a half. Then in 1935, NBC offered Thompson her own weekly radio show, allowing her to speak directly to tens of millions. The next year she began writing “On the Record,” a regular column with the New York Herald Tribune, that was syndicated to 150 other newspapers across the country, placing her opinions in front of millions more. She was eventually given a TIME magazine cover, where the accompanying profile called her and Eleanor Roosevelt “undoubtedly the most influential women in the U.S.”

Thompson leveraged all of these platforms to warn audiences about the dangers of totalitarianism—but not just in Europe. At home, she found cause for concern in the New Deal, with its wage- and price-setting, its massive public works projects and centralized power vested in the executive branch, all of which she feared could presage a slide into authoritarian rule. “What we are interested in is neither the dictatorial talents nor the dictatorial predilections of the President. We aren’t concerned with whether he wants too much power, but with whether he can get too much power.” In 1937, she testified before Congress about what she viewed as a slippery slope from consolidated federal control to fascism. “In country after country, under one slogan or another, the people are retreating from freedom,” Thompson told the Senate Judiciary Committee, “and voluntarily relinquishing liberty to force and authority.”

“Her point was this can happen anywhere,” University of London professor Sarah Churchwell told American Experience. “You have to strengthen your Democratic guardrails. You have to ensure that you don't let this happen to you because complacency is the enemy. And that is what she wrote about over and over and over again, banging the drum. Warning people, take this seriously. This isn’t a joke. And nobody is immune to it.” Thompson saw no conflict between her roles as a journalist and a staunch anti-fascist voice. “The function of journalism and a free press is not confined to the presentation of news,” she wrote. “Their function is to create continual debate, to provide a forum, to give opportunity for the expression of opinion.”

A promotional poster for the 1939 Bund rally in Madison Square Garden. Image courtesy of the National Museum of American Jewish Military History.

When it came to homegrown American Nazism, that expression involved significant personal risk. Thompson’s moment of direct action took place on February 20, 1939 at New York City’s Madison Square Garden. She was on her way to give a speech when she decided to join a convocation of 22,000 American Nazis hosted by the German American Bund, a pro-fascist organization with chapters across the country. The event had been planned to coincide with George Washington’s birthday, billed by the Bund as a “mass demonstration for true Americanism.”

Coverage in The Boston Globe the next day noted that the rally had “all the trappings of the spectacular mass assemblies familiar to Nazi Germany…Storm troopers strode the aisles. Military bands blared martial airs and German folk songs. Young and old Bund members paraded and drilled in the glare of blue spotlights. Arms snapped out in the Nazi salute.” The American flag hung side by side with the Nazi swastika and banners bearing messages such as “Stop Jewish Domination of Christian America.”

Thompson was seated in the front row of the press box, and during the evening’s speeches, began to laugh, loudly and disruptively. After being escorted out of the building by New York City police, she returned to her seat where she was surrounded by a dozen Bund stormtroopers. Thompson then proceeded to cause a second scene by shouting “bunk!” at the stage. “It may have been her finest moment,” wrote her biographer Peter Kurth, “the indelible dramatization of her promise to Hitler that she would not be muzzled by thugs.”

“I was amazed to see a duplicate of what I saw seven years ago in Germany,” she told a reporter after leaving the event. “Tonight I listened to words taken out of the mouth of Adolf Hitler.” It was precisely those words’ utterance at home that alarmed her most. She had spent a good part of her career watching how fascism could, improbable as it might first have seemed, sweep over a nation.

“No people ever recognize their dictator in advance,” Thompson wrote in a 1937 “On the Record” column, making the clearest case possible for constant vigilance. “He never stands for election on the platform of dictatorship. He always represents himself as the instrument for expressing the Incorporated National Will. When Americans think of dictators they always think of some foreign model. If anyone turned up here in a fur hat, boots and a grim look he would be recognized and shunned…But when our dictator turns up you can depend on it that he will be one of the boys, and he will stand for everything traditionally American.”

[libidomechanica]

“Has anybody found”

As from Boreas screen; a third errand sent. Has anybody found. The street, placed or unplaced by their eyes were glowing thrush, that so, some future cordial for a prize so dear. Might cannot hold the humble rug. A horse forsook, a livid Paleness spread a mortal eyes can engagement bare, to dry the roofs of thilke same heart was voluble, still be as the other by choicest wind waved my life and groan’d her Maker praise a Pimple on a beauteous Face, like Swallow swift foot back? And Johnny do, I pray thee gall not harm her prayer he said. She said, and bring sunk chill it hold? Ah for Corks.

[ear-worthy]

Chillin' with Ice: More Than Her Story In The American Gladiators...

Chillin' With Ice is a new podcast that began in late March and features Lori Fetrick, who played the role of Ice in the popular 90s TV show American Gladiators. 

For millennials and Gen Zers, it's difficult to explain the phenomena that was American Gladiators. Like most of these fads, the show burned brightly for a few years and then flamed out, largely because the producers of the show screwed up a good thing.

 The show concept was inspired. It essentially is the dream of millions of men and women. Compete against world-class athletes and win! Who didn't dream and throwing the game-winning touchdown in the Super Bowl? Or hitting the game winning basket in the WNBA finals?

For those who haven't seen the show, American Gladiators featured four competitors, two men and two women, in most episodes. The players, referred to throughout the series as "contenders", faced off in a series of physical games against each other and against a cast of costumed athletes looking to prevent them from succeeding (the titular "Gladiators"). Each match saw the competitors trying to advance in a tournament, with one man and one woman crowned champion at its conclusion.

 The TV show ran for seven seasons, along with hundreds of live performances around the country. After 30 years, the show has been consigned to the trash can of TV history. But then, Netflix threw the show and its Gladiators a lifeline. In June of this year, it released a documentary called Muscles & Mayhem: An Unauthorized Story of American Gladiators. The showchronicles the meteoric rise, dramatic fall, and gripping behind-the-scenes stories of one of the biggest spectacles on television during the height of the '90s. Told firsthand from the stars who lived through it, this five-part series reveals untold stories of the iconic American Gladiators’ triumph, turmoil, and ultimate price of fame.

Those last words --  ultimate price of fame -- reverberate for the Gladiators and should for us as a loyal audience, or even as arbiters of fairness, if you have never seen the show. 

I watched the show with my two young sons, who loved it and badgered me into taking them to a live gladiators show in Atlanta. I have to admit it. The show sparkled with amped up drama and the cacophony of competition. Gladiator Ice even autographed my son's program, and she was his favorite.

But watching what's missing in the documentary is the driving force behind this new podcast.

In the documentary, the creators and producers of the TV show spoke volubly about the business aspect of the show, from the ratings to costs to the marketing. However, they were silent when it came to the welfare of the actual people who played the Gladiators, other than to decry the use of steroids, which I found wildly hypocritical. 

When the producers sent out the Gladiators for a six-month tour -- which meant constant pounding to their bodies with no rest or no way to train -- steroids offer a way to recover from injury much faster. Grudgingly, the producers hired more Gladiators for the tour when they realized the nightly punishment was too much for even world-class athletes. 

When the Gladiators tried to use their fame to renegotiate their contracts, which offered minimal pay, the producers fired them. What the producers didn't understand was that it was the Gladiators that drove the show's popularity, not just the everyman concept. Remember when the football players in the NFL went on strike? The replacement players were met with a collective yawn, even despite an excellent movie, The Replacements, that said otherwise.

What the Gladiators needed was a Brian Epstein. The manager of The Beatles guided the Fab Four threw their initial burst of fame and offered personal guidance and financial security for the group. The group was never the same after Epstein died in August 1967.

From the documentary, it appeared that no one was looking out for the gladiators -- Gemini, Laser, Ice, Storm, Blaze, Nitro, Titan, and others who came along later. These young people had neither the experience nor the background to get paid their worth at the time and negotiate any financial security. The revamped American Gladiators show in 2013 had no original gladiators even in a cameo role, and shows the disdain the producers had for the performers.

So, it's that kind of exploitation that energizes this new podcast.

Fetrick pitches her podcast like this: "Come chill with your host Lori Fetrick, a.k.a Ice Ice Baby from the American Gladiators, the number one hit iconic TV show of the nineties. Every week while she will share all the details and opens up about her own personal experience in the American Gladiators. From what she ate, how she trained, and how she got ready for every show… get ready to listen to real uncensored conversations that have never been shared before. Join Lori as she goes down memory lane and shares with you the best parts of her life." 

Fetrick, as a host, is true to the advertising of her podcast. She's pretty chill. Her episode about her childhood was riveting, especially her mother's religious cultism. 

Fetrick is open and transparent about being a lesbian. On her podcast, she speaks of it without hesitation, despite a recent homophobic narrative infused with conservative political rhetoric that has invaded our culture.

After the episode about getting into bodybuilding, Fetrick then focuses her next six episodes on former Gladiators she performed with. From Storm to Zap, Fetrick interviews her former competitors and does a commendable job. Despite Fetrick's closeness to her guests, she allows them to tell their own stories, and teases out fascinating stories from her guests.

Although I enjoyed the shows about the Gladiators, I wondered about Fetrick's long-range plan with the podcast. After all, eventually, she would run out of Gladiators to interview. She could, of course, interview some contenders as was done in the Netflix documentary, or better yet, the bus driver for the live tour who I suspect would have some juicy stories to tell.

But Fetrick proved to her listeners that she had more to say than just Gladiators tales. On the June 27th show, Fetrick interviewed a leading sexual wellness expert, Stephanie Wolff P.A. - C. In the episode, Fetrick talks to Wolff about the importance of balancing hormones, so women can moderate menopause symptoms, and key information about hormone therapy.

My hope is that Fetrick steers her show toward a women's health and wellness type of show. I think she has a narrative that women will find compelling, and she has a directness about her that makes Fetrick ear worthy.

 Fetrick is one of the many people who experienced the shooting star of fame, discovered its fleeting and fickle nature, refused to be chewed up by its addictive allure, and made a life for herself, as did many of the other American Gladiators. Many child actors, teenage musicians, and reality stars never recovered from their eventual fall from grace.

I recommend Chillin' With Ice, not only because she lived one of the inside stories of the American Gladiators, but also because she has more to say on the human condition due, in part, to her unique life narrative.

Even 30 years after the American Gladiators, I'm not sure if there's too many people who could go up against Ice in the joust. If it was me up there against her, I'd pretend to slip and fall off the platform before the joust started.

[nicholasdsutton]

    Nicholas' veins were stained with an atropa belladonna tincture; the essence of jealousy. Overwrought by the sensation, he became acutely irritable - possessed not by a tender jealousy which plagues the heart, but by a sinister, sterner sentiment, which dared to rule his head. In a shameless disregard of civility, Nicholas would have quarrelled with Edmund for all to see - unabashedly ruled by a system of petty bickering. He would have exiled fifty Percy's during such a hot episode; but Nicholas thoroughly possessed the art of making the most of what he knew - and what he knew, was Pippa would never be wedded to his nemesis. He knew Edmund to be his personal Mephistopheles. Nicholas thought himself eloquent; but Edmund was voluble. The first developments of a peculiar attraction appeared within his mind, and under his eye, curiously excited and disturbed him; he watched passion struggle into life with a fearsome scowl. He would not aid in the birth of such notions; but if they were born of strength, he would not stop their delivery. 

  He was believed to have conquered; but the laurels of his victory failed to shadow gracefully his temples."I have oft wondered how much time in a given day, is dedicated to thoughts of me." Nicholas tested him with intense seriousness; he honoured him with earnest avidity and pursued him with dual desires, passionately. Even taunting stirred in Nicholas ambitions wishes; the weight humiliation of such thoughts, inflicted sharp pains. "The fairness and goodness of your sisters is a topic on which we shall never quarrel - nor the insidious nature of men circling their skirts. Has our young King yet attempted to claim their attentions?" Edmund spoke with pleasure, with unconcealed exultation, gleefully condescending to remark upon Nicholas' wife. "The pleasures of the Duchess remain a mystery to you, dear friend; but she finds delight in realms beyond that of hunting. It remains a mans venture, does it not?" Edmund's sneer made his heart ache; yet it warmed the blood in his veins, and sent incentives to his impulses. His absolutism verged on tyranny; he had the gift of charm in exquisite fashion. "I accept your challenge happily, dear friend - with the caveat that the winner may not venture to claim something that can never be his. A prize must be within reason and reach, yes? But you are dear to me; I should wish to offer you joy, should you best me." 

edmund let out a dazzling sort of laugh at nicholas' words, the same one that he used frequently to charm women throughout court. for a brief fleeting thought edmund cannot help but wonder if he has slipped into the sense of attempting to charm nicholas. despite the coy nature that he often dons to protect himself, edmund is far too aware of eyes that settle on his features. he has always carried his mother's beauty, and it has only benefitted him thus far. yet, edmund is still surprised to notice the way that the duke's eyes linger on his lips, on the curve of the smile that he gives the older man. it is not far from the similar heated looks that richard tossed at him, ones that ended with them sprawled in one of their chambers. the earl know it's a bit wrong, perhaps cruel to seek out an answer for this riddle when the other party at risk is pippa. but he still remembered the harsh shove she'd given him the other night, with a catty giggle behind her hand, and he dares to close the distance between him and nicholas. till they were a few breaths apart. 

" fret not, my dear companion, there is nary a soul who shall steal my attention any longer from you," he jested, daring to stretch a hand forward to clasp nicholas' shoulder tightly. a fond yet far too long for a simple platonic sense of touch. he trailed his hand down the duke's arm gently, squeezing his elbow with a laugh. " my beloved sisters certainly seem to desire me to an early grave, i fear, they are quite a feat to behold. their suitors are many, i nearly need another set of hands to swat them off." his gaze held onto nicholas', steady and near a challenge. for what? even edmund was a bit uncertain. treading into a territory that he was vastly unfamiliar with, nicholas was not as similar as the nobles who were raised suckling the crown's thumb. his hand drops but lingers in the space between them, as if he could interlock their fingers if he desired. " has the duchess developed a sudden love for hunting?" another jest, lips quirking with mirth. " let's make a game of it, why don't we? whichever man catches the largest fowl, he shall claim a prize he desires of the other. a boon shared between friends."

[nanshe-of-nina]

Favorite History Books || Conquest: The English Kingdom of France in the Hundred Years’ War by Juliet Barker ★★★☆☆

The Hundred Years’ War is defined in the popular imagination by its great battles. The roll-call of spectacular English victories over the French is a source of literary celebration and national pride and even those who know little or nothing about the period or context can usually recall the name of at least one of the most famous trilogy – Crécy, Poitiers, Agincourt. It is curious therefore that an even greater achievement has been virtually wiped from folk memory. Few people today know that for more than thirty years there was an English kingdom of France. Quite distinct from English Gascony, which had belonged to the kings of England by right of inheritance since the marriage of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II in 1152, the English kingdom was acquired by conquest and was the creation of Henry V.

When he landed a great English army on the beaches of Normandy at the beginning of August 1417 Henry opened up an entirely new phase in the Hundred Years’ War. Never before had an English monarch invaded France with such ambitious plans: nothing less than the wholesale conquest and permanent annexation of Normandy. Yet, after he had achieved this in the space of just two years, the opportunity presented itself to secure a prize to which even his most illustrious ancestor, Edward III, could only aspire: the crown of France itself. On 21 May 1420 Charles VI of France formally betrothed Henry V of England to his daughter and recognised him as his heir and regent of France. In doing so he disinherited his own son and committed both countries to decades of warfare.

By a cruel twist of fate, Henry died just seven weeks before his father-in-law, so it was not the victor of Agincourt but his nine-month- old son, another and much lesser Henry, who became the first (and last) English king of France. Until he came of age and could rule in person, the task of defending his French realm fell to his father’s right-hand men. First and foremost among these was his brother John, duke of Bedford, a committed Francophile who made his home in France and for thirteen years ruled as regent on his nephew’s behalf. His determination to do justice to all, to rise above political faction and, most important of all, to protect the realm by a slow but steady expansion of its borders meant that, at its height, the English kingdom of France extended from the coast of Normandy almost down to the banks of the Loire: to the west it was bounded by Brittany, to the east by the Burgundian dominions, both of which, nominally at least, owed allegiance to the boy-king.

Bedford’s great victory at Verneuil in 1424 seemed to have secured the future of the realm – until the unexpected arrival on the scene of an illiterate seventeen-year-old village girl from the marches of Lorraine who believed she was sent by God to raise the English siege of Orléans, crown the disinherited dauphin as true king of France and drive the English out of his realm.  The story of Jehanne d’Arc – better known to the English-speaking world today as Joan of Arc – is perhaps the most enduringly famous of the entire Hundred Years’ War. The fact that, against all the odds, she achieved two of her three aims in her brief career has raised her to iconic status, but it is the manner of her death, burned at the stake in Rouen by the English administration, which has brought her the crown of martyrdom and literally made her a saint in the Roman Catholic calendar. The terrible irony is that Jehanne’s dazzling achievements obscure the fact that they were of little long-term consequence: a ten-year-old Henry VI was crowned king of France just six months after her death and his kingdom endured for another twenty years.

Of far more consequence to the prosperity and longevity of the English kingdom of France was the defection of the ally who had made its existence possible. Philippe, duke of Burgundy, made his peace with Charles VII in 1435, just days after the death of Bedford. In the wake of the Treaty of Arras much of the English kingdom, including its capital, Paris, was swept away by the reunited and resurgent French but the reconquest stalled in the face of dogged resistance from Normandy and brilliant tactical military leadership from the “English Achilles”, John Talbot. For almost a decade it would be a war of attrition between the two ancient enemies, gains by each side compensating for their losses elsewhere, but no decisive actions tipping the balance of power.

Nevertheless, the years of unremitting warfare had their cost, imposing an unsustainable financial burden on England and Normandy, draining both realms of valuable resources, including men of the calibre of the earls of Salisbury and Arundel, who were both killed in action, and devastating the countryside and economy of northern France. The demands for peace became more urgent and increasingly voluble, though it was not until Henry VI came of age that anyone in England had the undisputed authority to make the concessions necessary to achieve a settlement.

The Truce of Tours, purchased by Henry’s marriage to Marguerite of Anjou, the infamous ‘she-wolf of France’, proved to be a disaster for the English. In his determination to procure peace at any price, the foolish young king secretly agreed to give up a substantial part of his inheritance: the county of Maine would return to French hands without compensation for its English settlers who had spent their lives in its defence.

Worse was to follow, for while the English took advantage of the truce to demobilise and cut taxes, Charles VII used it to rearm and reorganise his armies so that, when he found the excuse he needed to declare that the English had broken its terms, he was ready and able to invade with such overwhelming force that he swept all before him. The English kingdom of France which, against the odds, had survived for three decades, was crushed in just twelve months. 

[antoine-roquentin]

NERVTAG gave no details about where in Kent the variant was first located, but the Covid-19 Genomics UK Consortium said that a key sample came from a patient living ‘near Canterbury’. A medical source, who wanted to stay anonymous, told me that the variant was first identified in Margate and came from someone with a weak immune system. Some in Kent jibbed at the prospect that the new virus would be known to history as ‘the Kent variant’, drawing a parallel with Trump’s ‘China virus’ or the ‘Spanish flu’ that didn’t even come from Spain (it first reached epidemic level in military training camps in the US).

It would be difficult to find a place where coronavirus was more likely to flourish and to enhance its mode of attack than Thanet and Swale. As in much of coastal Britain, few of the towns here are still working ports or seaside resorts. What industry there once was is largely gone, taking with it the few well-paying jobs. Of the fifteen most deprived neighbourhoods in Kent, seven are in Thanet and six in Swale. ‘We lost the mining industry and Ramsgate harbour, which was a big employer,’ the Labour councillor Barry Lewis says, lamenting the repeated blows to Margate over the past forty years. The hotel and tourism industries collapsed ‘when everybody started going abroad for their holidays’. The last big manufacturer in the area was the Pfizer plant near Sandwich, which closed in 2011 with the loss of 1500 jobs. The jobs that remain are often on zero-hours contracts. A map showing areas of maximum deprivation fitted neatly over one showing high rates of viral infection.

Everything about the average working life of someone in Swale or Sheppey puts them at risk. Much of this is to do with the need to go out to work. As Jackie Cassell, a public health specialist at the Brighton and Sussex Medical School who grew up on Sheppey, put it, ‘poverty is a mechanism for increasing social contact.’ People on the island are more likely than the population at large to use public transport to get to work, doing shifts of eight or more hours a day in warehouses or on construction sites. And people with little money are more likely to look after sick or ageing relatives. In a study of working patterns, Cassell found that on average someone who goes out to work has twelve prolonged or close periods of contact with people and seventeen brief or distant ones; those working from home have only two close or prolonged periods of contact and two brief or distant ones.

The effect this has in practice depends on the nature of the job and the employer. Riddell, the railway conductor and trade union official, says that the proportion of train passengers wearing face masks varies from line to line, but the stretch from Sittingbourne to Sheerness on the west side of Sheppey is particularly risky for rail staff because ‘between 50 and 60 per cent of people, mostly the young ones, don’t wear masks.’ As a conductor, he is allowed stay in the front cabin with the driver and doesn’t have to check passengers’ tickets. But Sue Saunders, who works as a cleaner on the trains, has to walk through the carriages spraying sanitiser and cleaning surfaces. ‘We have visors, masks and gloves,’ she says, ‘but we fear for our safety and several of my friends have caught Covid.’ The cleaners are often the only official-looking people on a train and, according to Saunders, are frequently stopped by passengers who want information. She says that sanitising could be done when the trains are standing empty between journeys, but the train companies want passengers to see that the cleaners are at work.

Compliance with restrictions on social interaction largely lapsed over the summer. Sharon Goodyer, who runs the Margate Food Club, says that her volunteers sometimes couldn’t safely distribute food in poor areas because they had to push past people sitting in doorways and mixing in the street. ‘I have a feeling,’ she says, ‘that if this new variant started in Margate, then we earned it.’ But she points out that even poor people need to get outdoors: ‘You can’t be too judgmental if you’re living in a nice house and don’t have mice dying under your chair.’ Barry Lewis mentions one street in Margate with two hundred overcrowded houses where residents rent tiny rooms at high prices. ‘It’s almost a prison, so to get out to the front of the house is your normal way of life and to be stuck in one overcrowded room is not possible.’

The arrival of the variant changed attitudes. Vanessa Crick, a mother of three in Herne Bay, a rundown town on the coast between Swale and Thanet, has two jobs, in the local library and in a supermarket. ‘Since last November,’ she says, ‘more people have started wearing masks because they are frightened for their granddad or their nan.’ Charlotte Cornell, who runs a charity distributing laptops for homeschooling to children in deprived areas, says that none of the families she deals with is cavalier about the virus: ‘They are all terrified of it.’

When public health experts were sent to Kent at the end of last year to investigate the reasons for the local epidemic, they suspected that the spread would be attributable to human actions at home or in the workplace. Everything they knew about the lives of people in Thanet and Swale would favour accelerated transmission of the virus. The physical environment was a factor too: decayed seaside resorts have many former hotels with sea views whose faded grandeur make them ideal for conversion into care homes. Last May, seventeen residents died from Covid-19 in one such care home in Margate, but mass deaths in care homes were a scandal all over Britain and hardly peculiar to Thanet.

A more likely reason for the rapid spread is that many people had good reasons for not getting Covid tests. People who test positive but need to go out to work and won’t get sick pay can’t afford to quarantine. ‘Young males in economically deprived areas do not want to get tested,’ Jackie Cassell says of Swale. She points to a study in Liverpool where only 4 per cent of people in one of the city’s poorest neighbourhoods volunteered for a test. Since the pandemic began, the government has been voluble about the restrictions it has imposed but evasive about how far people comply with them. A study by King’s College London showed that, while 70 per cent of people said they would self-isolate if necessary, only 18 per cent did so.

People not getting tested because they can’t afford to quarantine will keep a low profile. But other groups aren’t keen to catch the attention of anyone in authority. Graham Tegg, the director of the Kent Law Clinic, which provides free legal assistance, says there is ‘an underground system’ of migrant workers, many of whom have lived in Britain for a long time, who want to keep their distance from state institutions. Many of his clients are Czechs, Poles and Roma. Some pick fruit and vegetables or work in packing factories; collected by minivans in the morning, they work for ten hours and come back in the evening in the same van. ‘Three or four of them may be living in the same small room,’ Tegg says, providing perfect conditions for the virus to spread.

But most people in Thanet and Swale are ‘disconnected from authority’, according to Barry Lewis: the only time they see authority in action is when the police stop them doing something they want to do. Some of them are third-generation unemployed whose only prospect for making money is in the black market or the drugs trade – described by one resident as the only growth industry in Thanet. ‘What we have here is a whole community who have no investment in society at all,’ Sharon Goodyer says. ‘What do they owe anybody? They don’t. They don’t have a decent education, a decent home, a decent job. Why should they behave responsibly?’

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

Hi!!! May I request a Maze Runner and Shadow and Bone matchup with male preference?

20, Southeast Asian, Libra, Biromantic Pansexual and Genderfluid, and Ravenclaw. I have a short bob cut hair and brown eyes standing 5'1" in height, and my sense of fashion is in between soft grunge and soft punk with Korean inspired makeup.

I described myself as firey, confident, voluble, and passionate that appears to be infuriating from displaying an unfiltered mouth who's dauntless on my own and an erudite, that happens to overthink a lot and cry over small things, a single mistake in big plans leads to probe even more. Mildly eccentric in a good way brought by my household possessing a childish nature in my thoughts and in my ways, but holds an unorthodox mind that's capable to generate ideas in a jiff. The extent, I'm a genuine person that seems to be at ease all the time, deals with whatever bothers my and stands my ground boldly, at first my closed-off, timid, and introverted but once people get to know me, I'm completely open, intelligent, sarcastic, humorous, clumsy, and buoyant friend who sets a good mood and loves to help even she's already have a lot on her plate, have a have a soft spot for dumb jokes, cheesy pickup lines and prefer people with a good sense of humour who see her as equal. My beliefs and sense of justice are both incredibly strong, thus, I have a firm political opinion and well educated on topics that interested me, deeply immersive to her religion brought by the teachings of my school that helps to find purpose in spite of circumstances battering. One notable feature about myself is her multi-potentiality due to being naturally gifted in creative fields, it could expand more if I try to explore further. Despite she lacks of value in time, I knows what she's doing yet she decided not to initiate it unbothered on what people initiates.

second christmas matchup this year! if you want one yourself, check my christmas special!! and a big thanks to all you lovely people who have already sent in their requests, i'll make sure to answer every one of you, please don't mind the wait <3

I ship you with...

Minho!

- You knew instantly that Minho was just your type, mostly because the first thing he did, as he always does, was crack the worst joke you’d heard yet. And it wasn’t even the worst of his that he continued to try and annoy you with. He always has a smirk on his face, never as much as leaving for the maze without another of those idiotic pick up lines, just a tad too cheesy to quite be sweet, and just a lot too stupid to be anything but a laugh. And he enjoys your sarcastic replies, too. You might not be as sassy as him, but you’re a good deal closer than any of the other guys, and don’t you think he doesn’t notice. There’s times the two of you go back and forth hitting each other with the most sarcastic teases you can think of, and quite a few of those conversation have ended in day long battles of bad humour. 

- Minho absolutely admires the way you can stand up for yourself and your beliefs. Not once has he seen you retreat, and rarely you’re in the wrong. You’re confident, and he likes it. Almost as much as he enjoys your hot-headedness. He’s quite one himself, and watching your fierce, confident and quick replies always reminds him that no matter how fragile you can be on the inside sometimes, you’re just as much made out of stone and battle armoury. 

- But when you do feel like crying, he’s always by your side to comfort you. He may be as bold and as determined as you, but he understands well when you need to cry, and never would he leave you alone in times like those. He makes sure to keep you occupied, telling you a dumb pun you’ve heard him say the fifth time by now, to get you to laugh and forget whatever it was that made you upset. Even if you are triggered by small things, he never makes fun of it, though he does not understand as well as others do, Newt, for example, and he really tries doing his best in helping you out. 

- For some reason, you warmed up to him from the start. It could’ve been his attitude, his frequent teasing and not once leaving you alone until you’d opened up to him, but as much as you perhaps would have liked him to stay away, you did soon find yourself falling for him. He’d always liked challenges, and when you turned up, laughing with your close friends the way you never did with others, he decided you were more than worthy of his best hidden jokes and puns. 

and I ship you with... 

Jesper!

(you hadn’t specified whether to use series or book characters, but either way i quickly settled <3)

- Jesper never seems to take anything the tiniest bit seriously, and as much as it infuriates you sometimes, you’re more than drawn to him just because of it. He has the best humour you’ve ever met a person with, and his puns always lighten your mood no matter what. He somehow has a sixth sense for those things, because especially in moments you’re feeling down he’ll come up to you, nudge you with an elbow and recite the same old joke again he’s made at least a dozen times already. 

- Once you allow him to meet your creative side, he never lets it go again. He’s constantly teasing you, but you know that it’s his way of showing appreciation - and he does that, too. He absolutely admires how talented you are in what you do, and he would not hesitate to use his guns on whoever dared to say otherwise. As would the others, but everyone is fairly certain that Jesper would somehow manage to be the first one there through whatever means. 

- He always has your back. You could say whatever and he would support you. He knows that you’re smart, smarter than he is, though he would never admit it, and he knows just as well that you’re very much capable of shutting people up. He loves when you let your fierce side take over, being the hothead that you are, and boldly state your opinion, not caring at all who it is you’re speaking to. More than once have you picked a fight with Kaz because you did not see something the way he did, especially with your strong sense of justice. It’s not that your moral compass were too high to keep the crows around, just that they sometimes debated things you simply weren’t too fond of. 

- Jesper enjoys it a lot, too, when you start throwing your sarcastic comments at people, specifically when you’re too pissed off to care. Usually you’re at ease and he’s content when you are, but something about your bitter side is highly amusing to him as long as it’s aimed at other people. Kaz in particular. You never once back down, and it just so happens that what you decide holds true for Jesper as well, so when Kaz wants things done, he needs your approval - and that isn’t the easiest to gain. You find yourself arguing and verbally hitting each other with sarcastic comment after sarcastic comment more than often enough, and Jesper both admires your quick wit and the way you don’t take shit from anyone, not even Kaz himself. 

thanks for requesting <3

[pollylynn]

Title: A Trembling Of  WC: 1800

“How’s that for love?”  — Tildy Maguire, For Better or Worse (6 x 23) 

He loves her and he fears her. These are the anchoring points of their relationship—the anchoring points of his whole world, these days, and three words from a city employee should not be able to pry them up and set the two of them adrift. Proof of divorce? Nothing in this or any other universe should be able to pry them up and set the two of them adrift, and yet here they are. He loves her no less—he could never love her any less—but right now, he fears for her, and that is a rip in the very fabric of reality. But how can he do otherwise? 

Here she is, silent in the back of the cab.  She has not said—will not say—one word as they lurch their way through the horrors of late afternoon traffic in Manhattan, and he’d like to think it’s the inadequate privacy offered by the plexiglass barrier that has sealed her lips. He’d like to believe that she’s so enchanted by the memory of the days when Paul Sorvino or Joe Torre or Eartha Kitt reminded New York taxi passengers to buckle up, take their belongings, get a receipt before exiting the back seat, she has nothing to say about the present. He’d like to believe that three words from a city employee have not fundamentally altered her lovable, fear-inspiring self, and yet . . . 

Here she is, finally home, and yet there is nothing like relief here. There is nothing like relief anywhere in sight. Here she is with her head in her hands, and they’re telling his mother, they’re telling his daughter, because they kind of have to tell them. They very probably are kind of going to have to tell everyone, but this tiny test balloon at him is so awful. 

His mother—she of the child-producing one-night stand with a probable sociopath is volubly incredulous: Who is Rogan O’Leary? His daughter—she of the lease with the bee-counting, continent-hopping, passport-losing peace disturbing Pi is volubly appalled: And you married him? He of an untold number of colossal mistakes in the personal and professional realms, in the public eye and in private, is damnably smug: And here I thought you were a one and done kind of girl.

He regrets it the instant it’s out of his mouth. He bounces around the tattered remnants of reality. He goes back in time and regrets it, except there is a moment, there is an instant, there is the merest spark of absolute fury behind her eyes, and he feels the world come right. He feels reality knitting itself back up again. He feels himself quaking in his bespoke boots, secure in the knowledge that she will make him pay, and he is fine with that. He is absolutely fine.  

He loves her and he fears her, these are the anchors of his entire world, gloriously restored, and that is just as it should be. 

*****************************

He loves her and he fears her and he loves her just that little bit more when everything fearsome about her is directed at someone else. Oh, how he loves being able to watch the fireworks from minimum safe distance, so he’s excited when she sets off for Willow Creek. He’s racked with guilt and uncertainty, too, because she’s going alone and he worries that it’s self-flagellation—that it’s an occasion to be afraid for her—but ultimately, he’s excited. 

She is determined when she leaves. She has her keys clutched in her fist and she won’t take an overnight bag. 

“Not even a toothbrush?” He turns up the innocence. It’s a calculated risk. It’s more fuel for the fire that burning in her, fierce and bright now, and it works.

“Not. Even. A toothbrush.” She enunciates each and every letter. She grabs the front of his shirt with her free hand and reels him in until they’re sharing air molecules. “Won’t need it.”

And then she’s gone, but not gone. 

She is on the other end of the phone as soon as she has hunted down her soon-but-not-soon-enough-to-be ex. She is fierce, roaring as she rails against the stupidity of the quest he’s sent her on. 

“Like he’s the damned Wizard of Oz,” she snarls.

“More like the Wizard of Id,” he quips. He’s thinking about being eighteen and all primitive instinct. He’s thinking about drunken nights on the strip and impulse weddings. He’s not really thinking, and it’s fuel for the fire. He swears she’s scorched his ear, she’s scorched the whole side of his brain closest to the phone, so maybe that’s a little too much fuel. 

Except he thinks that might be what sustains her through the abduction of Rogan, through the indifference and grudging pity of the local constabulary. He tells himself on his own frantic drive up to Willow Creek that he’s managed to make her spitting mad enough that she’s not sitting there, alone, with her head in her hands. 

It’s true. It’s mostly true that she’s down to embers when he gets there, but there’s more than enough Logan-related fury to go around. There’s coma wife and the sheer madness of digging through his pornographic electronic mash notes. There are bikers and strippers and a murderous mob boss. There is an entire Logan-based mad, mad, mad, mad world and she is definitely mad about it. 

She is quick thinking and—other than a few slightly moist moments about the dress—she is laser focused on getting this done. She is mean to Logan, and after the whole Man Parts contretemps, that is a delight and a turn on and the world turning beautifully on its axis precisely as it should turn. 

She is a warrior goddess, hell bent on marrying him—him—and he is blown away by that honor and privilege.

He loves her. He fears her. He’s going to marry her. 

*********************

He loves her. He just loves her. It’s hard for them to part ways in stupid Willow Creek, but there’s really nothing for it. She has her car, and he has his. He has to get to the city. He has to start the paperwork on its warp speed journey through the system, and she has to get to the Hamptons to figure out what she’s going to wear. 

“I’m all for nothing at—“ 

She cuts that off with a twist of his ear that takes him right back to the beginning—right back to when she was Our Lady of Smug, patron saint of the One and Done Girl—and that makes it really hard to part ways, because he would love to get in some last-minute fear and trembling in one back seat or the other before she makes an honest man of him. He really would but there’s just no time. He has to settle for backing her up hard against the driver’s side door of her car and kissing the life out of her. He has to settle for the same as she backs him up hard against the passenger side door of his car where it’s pulled up alongside hers. They have to settle for peeling their bodies apart, breathless, eager, and reluctant, all at once. 

“Be safe,” she breathes, her forehead pressed against his. “Hurry, but be safe.” 

“You, too.” He steals one last kiss, then hurries around the hood to slide behind the wheel, to get on with it. 

He’s not three miles down the road when his phone rings through the car’s bluetooth. He feels an eager grin spread across his face as he thumbs the button. “Miss me already?” 

“No,” she retorts immediately, adamantly. “Yes,” she admits slowly, reluctantly. “Shut up,” she orders, shooting an arrow of fear right through his heart, though it softens—it downright melts—when she adds, “Keep me company.” 

He does. He keeps her company, though there’s not a lot of heavy lifting involved. She wants to talk—a positivity rarity for her—and other than her, there’s little he loves more in this stitched-up, much-mended reality than to listen when the mood strikes her. So he listens as she wanders far and wide, as she roams through the month or so of Rogan, and when the time is right, he is going to have so many follow-up questions about where Eddie Vedder’s jean jacket wound up and exactly how far she can chuck a hoagie while running down the strip full tilt. 

It’s not all fun and games, though. How could it be? But it’s okay. He loves her. He loves her, and when it comes to the place where this was always leading, he’s there. He’s on the other end of the phone. He’s listening. 

“I was married then. When my mom died.” Her voice is even. It’s controlled, though he can hear her heaving a shaky sigh. “I told her the whole saga.” Another shaky sigh.”Almost the whole saga with Rogan. We laughed about it.” There’s a silence long enough that he’s worried the call has dropped, but her voice fills up the speakers again. “I feel like I have to . . . confess to her or something. Give her a chance to say I told you so. I feel like I owe her that.” 

It’s a heartsore place for things to land. He doesn’t have a joke or anything gallant locked and loaded, but that doesn’t feel right anyway. He’d tear another hole in the fabric of reality if he could. He’d give her closure. He will give her closure if he can—a trip to her mom’s grave with her hand in his, a letter written and burned, its ashes scattered on the wind, whatever she wants, he’ll do. 

“I’m okay, Castle,” she says quietly, she says knowing he was wondering. “Really.” 

“I know you are,” he says, and it’s true. “I’m glad you are.” 

That’s true, too, in the most comprehensive sense. He is glad she’s okay. He is glad of whoever, whatever, however she is in any given moment.  

He hears the road beneath his own tires, the road beneath hers. She stays on the line, though she is quiet now and a little sad. She wants things he can’t give her—he hasn’t yet devised a way to give her—and that’s a little maddening. But she is more than okay, and he is more than okay with that. She is fierce and fear-inducing and lonely for her mom and a little bit raw right now.

He loves her and he fears her. He has the twin anchors for his whole world on the other end of the line. That’s as it should be.

A/N: A group of finches is called a trembling. That is a thing. This is not a thing. It is an uneven atrocity, not a thing. 

images via homeofthenutty

[laannie0803]

Ser Aegor Ríos fue el hijo bastardo del rey Aegon IV Targaryen y Lady Barba Bracken, siendo uno de los Grandes Bastardos. En su emblema personal combinó el semental rojo de la Casa Bracken con alas negras de dragón de la Casa Fuegoscuro, en campo dorado. Debido a su maestría con la espada se ganó el apodo de Aceroamargo.

Aegor nació quince días antes de que la reina Naerys Targaryen diera a luz a mellizos y quedara al borde la muerte; cuando la reina se recuperó de sus problemas de salud, los príncipes Daeron y Aemon obligaron a Aegon IV a enviar a Barba y al niño bastardo a Seto de Piedra.

Aegor estuvo enfadado toda su vida, pero odiaba especialmente a su medio hermano Brynden Ríos y a la madre de éste, que había reemplazado a su propia madre como favorita de su padre. Odió aun más a Cuervo de Sangre cuando su medio hermana, Shiera Estrellademar, le prefirió antes que a él. Su otro medio hermano, Ser Daemon Fuegoscuro, accedió a casar a su hija Calha con Aegor. Aceroamargo a menudo presionaba a Ser Daemon para que reclamara el Trono de Hierro para sí, pues este último había recibido la espada Fuegoscuro del propio rey Aegon IV.

En la Primera Rebelión Fuegoscuro en 196 d.C., Aegor unió fuerzas con su medio hermano Daemon Fuegoscuro contra el rey Daeron II Targaryen. Durante la Batalla del Prado Hierbarroja, Aegor comandó el flanco derecho de Daemon I.

Para evitar una derrota estrepitosa a pesar de la muerte de Daemon I, Ser Aegor reunió a sus tropas y cargó contra los Picos de Cuervo, la compañía arquera de Ser Brynden Ríos. Aunque Aegor le sacó un ojo a Cuervo de Sangre durante el duelo que tuvieron, finalmente huyó del campo de batalla. Se las arregló para recuperar Fuegoscuro, la espada de Daemon, y huyó de Poniente hacia la Ciudad Libre de Tyrosh con la esposa de Daemon I, Rohanne, y los hijos restantes.

Ser Aegor dejó a sus sobrinos a cargo de los partidarios exiliados de Daemon y se enlistó con los Segundos Hijos, compañía que poco después dejaría para crear la Compañía Dorada, en un intento de frenar la pérdida del apoyo de los Fuegoscuro debido a que los otros señores exiliados se enlistaban en otras compañías mercenarias. A pesar del conocido carácter voluble de los mercenarios, la Compañía Dorada tiene la reputación de nunca haber roto un contrato; su lema tiene huellas de su fundador: "Bajo el oro, el acero amargo".

La reputación de la Compañía Dorada se estableció rápidamente cuando Qohor se negó a cumplir con el contrato que habían realizado con la compañía. Los mercenarios de la Compañía Dorada saquearon Qohor como respuesta a su negativa.

La Compañía Dorada se involucró notablemente en las siguientes rebeliones de los Pretendientes Fuegoscuro. Por razones desconocidas, Aceroamargo no apoyó a Daemon II Fuegoscuro durante la Segunda Rebelión Fuegoscuro. Sin embargo, más tarde sí participó en las sucesivas rebeliones. Durante la tercera donde volvió a verse las caras contra Cuervo de Sangre, fue hecho prisionero en la Fortaleza Roja, recibiendo la misericordia por parte de Aerys I Targaryen de ser enviado al Muro. Durante el camino, Aceroamargo sería interceptado por los barcos de la Compañía Dorada por Guardiaoriente del Mar. Tiempo después, volvería a liderar una nueva rebelión a la cabeza de la Compañía Dorada, en la cual volvió a fracasar y a verse obligado a huir travesando el Mar Angosto.

Unos pocos años después de la derrota en la Cuarta Rebelión Fuegoscuro, Aceroamargo reapareció en las Tierras de la Discordia, donde caería finalmente durante una escaramuza entre Tyrosh y Myr.

Antes de morir, Aegor ordenó a los hombres de la Compañía Dorada que hirvieran la carne de su cráneo, lo chaparan en oro y lo llevaran frente a ellos cuando cruzaran el Mar Angosto para reconquistar Poniente. Los comandantes sucesores han seguido su ejemplo.

Al final termino perdiendo la guerra, por sus celos, intereses y sus (yo lo veo así) ansias de ser el, el rey o heredero (como siempre quiso su madre). No dudaría que al final si ganaban la guerra trataría de matar a los herederos de Daemon para ser el sucesor.

Ser Aegor Ríos was the bastard son of King Aegon IV Targaryen and Lady Barba Bracken, being one of the Great Bastards. In his personal emblem he combined the red stallion of House Bracken with black dragon wings of House Darkfire, in a golden field. Due to his mastery of the sword, he earned the nickname Bitter Steel.

Aegor was born fifteen days before Queen Naerys Targaryen gave birth to twins and was on the brink of death; When the queen recovered from her health problems, princes Daeron and Aemon forced Aegon IV to send Barba and the bastard child to Stone Seto.

Aegor was angry all his life, but he especially hated his half-brother Brynden Ríos and his mother, who had replaced his own mother as his father's favorite. He hated Blood Raven even more when his half-sister, Shiera Estrellademar, preferred him to him. His other half-brother, Ser Daemon Darkfire, agreed to marry his daughter Calha to Aegor. Bittersteel often pressured Ser Daemon to claim the Iron Throne for himself, for the latter had received the sword of Darkfire from King Aegon IV himself.

In the First Blackfire Rebellion in 196 AD, Aegor joined forces with his half-brother Daemon Blackfire against King Daeron II Targaryen. During the Battle of the Redgrass Meadow, Aegor commanded Daemon I's right flank.

To avoid a resounding defeat despite the death of Daemon I, Ser Aegor rallied his troops and charged at the Raven Peaks, Ser Brynden Rios' archery company. Although Aegor gouged out Blood Raven's eye during their duel, he eventually fled the battlefield. He managed to retrieve Daemon's sword, Darkfire, and fled Westeros for the Free City of Tyrosh with Daemon I's wife, Rohanne, and the remaining children.

Ser Aegor left his nephews in charge of Daemon's exiled supporters and enlisted with the Second Sons, a company he would leave shortly after to create the Golden Company, in an attempt to stem the loss of support from the Darkfires due to the others. Exiled lords enlisted in other mercenary companies. Despite the known fickleness of mercenaries, the Golden Company has a reputation for never having broken a contract; its motto has traces of its founder: "Under the gold, the bitter steel".

The reputation of the Golden Company was quickly established when Qohor refused to fulfill the contract they had made with the company. Mercenaries from the Golden Company looted Qohor in response to his refusal.

The Golden Company became notably involved in the subsequent rebellions of the Darkfire Pretenders. For unknown reasons, Bittersteel did not support Daemon II Darkfire during the Second Darkfire Rebellion. However, later he did participate in successive rebellions. During the third where they again saw the faces against Blood Raven, he was taken prisoner in the Red Keep, receiving mercy from Aerys I Targaryen to be sent to the Wall. Along the way, Aceroamargo would be intercepted by the ships of the Compañía Dorada by Guardiaoriente del Mar. Some time later, he would lead a new rebellion at the head of the Compañía Dorada, in which he failed again and was forced to flee across the Sea. Narrow.

A few years after the defeat in the Fourth Blackfire Rebellion, Bittersteel reappeared in the Discordlands, where he would finally fall during a skirmish between Tyrosh and Myr.

Before dying, Aegor ordered the men of the Golden Company to boil the flesh on his skull, gold-plated it, and carry it in front of them as they crossed the Narrow Sea to reconquer Westeros. Successor commanders have followed suit.

In the end I end up losing the war, because of his jealousy, interests and his (I see it that way) eagerness to be him, the king or heir (as his mother always wanted). He would not doubt that in the end if they won the war he would try to kill Daemon's heirs to be the successor.

[gentlejack]

@toendwar​​ sent: ✪ Rubbing their back after a stressful day or disappointment. Acts of Affection ( always accepting tbh ! )

      Not EVERY day gives rise to volubility --- some are reserved for quietude and all the introspection necessary to conduct a proper business amidst the maws of incessant rivalry. The evening - dismal enough in its own draughty, soaked-through ways already - has seen Anne in an uncharacteristic decline of spirits, stinting on words as though each syllable equalled another jab to her wallet and brooding most indecorously over Shibden’s weak-spined account book at the dinner table. Now, by candle-light, bent low across her desk so as to decipher even the oddest ink-scribble on the yellowed pages, her drudgery continues: cipher after cipher, letter upon letter are stacked atop one another in her dogged mind, until her task begins to resemble a clownish juggling act rather than a monetary calculation. 

       She disentangles her attention only once a well-known hand wanders across her stiffened back.  “ Mm. ”  

       Quite the greeting, this miserly grumble of hers! Of course, this shall not do: when, pray, have finances gained mastery over her appreciation of female companionship?! Lifting her gaze from her evening perusal, Anne permits herself the indulgence of tilting her head into Diana’s side, nose brushing gratefully across her lover’s finely arched ribs. She rounds her shoulders into the touch with a rare greed for work-time affection, inviting the kind fingers beneath her partially open-laced corset. How does the girl do it? One caress suffices to ignite Anne’s nerves with the most amorous shivers --- a welcome delight for the most part, yet also an insurmountable distraction from duty’s stern beckoning. Well! Perhaps she shall give responsibility the boot for a minute, closing the account-tome with a dust-swirling whoomph and sneaking an apologetic arm around Diana’s middle. 

      “ I have been NOTHING but a great noodle today, haven’t I? Such a bore! You must be ever so tired of my company - do forgive me, my princess. Hmm - ! Might we not have some enjoyment and test my blade against yours once more? ” The spark returns into her labour-dulled eyes, the smile onto her lips -- then she jumps to her feet and away from the soothing massage, clutching Diana’s hands within her own and pulling her halfway across the room in her sudden enthusiasm. “ I have made a grand improvement since our last little tournament -- I believe I am ALMOST as good as you with a sword now, or indeed better! ”

[amphibious-thing]

[The next morning] Maj North and I parted, myself regretting much the want of his company, as he and I had traveled some time and a great ways together, and I never in my life experienced a more agreeable traveling companion; from the great fund of humor, good sense, pertinent remarks, and volubility of words, he made himself agreeable to all around him, and passed away the tedious days in coming up the river all the way from the falls of Ohio in perfect pleasantry.

Diary of Major Erkuries Beatty

William North was Inspector General from 17 April 1784 - 28th Oct 1787. In 1786 he was sent to inspect troops in Ohio. He traveled for sometime with Major Erkuries Beatty who was paymaster in the western army.