#v; once more unto the breach

[tacosaysroar]

Oh my god, why do I have night-before-the-first-day-of-school jitters/insomnia?!

This year, we’ve decided I’ll pack her lunch Mondays and Fridays only. So that’s off my plate for at least 3 days a week. Please let it stick. I HATE packing lunches.

A girl I was very glad to see transfer to another school for 6th grade — someone who’d started to slide into that Middle School Mean some girls develop — is returning this year. I really hope she’s changed course and doesn’t disrupt the vibe.

It’s going to be interesting to see how I manage my food requirements and workout schedule now that the school year is starting again, which means MUCH more rigid weekday and laundry schedules and weekends swallowed by sports and kid things.

Ok, yeah.

Jitters and insomnia are making more sense now.

[emailsfromanactor]

Another excerpt from William Redfield's Letters from an Actor:

...but fate reserved a particularly horrendous booby trap for [Geoffrey] Toone in the production of Henry V. Whoever directed decided, somewhat academically, that it would be an interesting and decorative notion to dress Shakespeare’s fighting men in authentic 15th Century armor fashioned from iron. Mr. Toone was consulted in the matter, but, being a friendly and rather ingenuous young man, he agreed. It was also determined that young Harry’s “Imitate the action of the tiger” speech, in which he exhorts his troops to further battle, should be done straight front to the balcony rail—as though the audience itself were a troop of soldiers and Henry stood challengingly on a promontory before them. This naturally dictated that Mr. Toone’s Henry would be alone on stage when he began the speech. On opening night, several actors endured almost insurmountable difficulties while trying to move about vigorously in their suits of armor. The rehearsals had been sketchy (as they often are at the Vic), and Toone himself had practiced in his armor only once. When he bounded onto the stage, all confidence, and began crying, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!” he realized that the armor was simply not going to cooperate with his agility. By the time he had completed his first pentameter, he fell down flat on the stage. Worse than that, he could not get up. The armor was simply too heavy. Having fallen on his back, he was turned Kafka-like into a helpless turtle or beetle or shell-backed what-you-will. Saddled with a burden of inhuman metal, he could do no more than wave his arms desperately and shout his battle cries from a supine position. The barely suppressed giggles of the audience made it clear to him fairly soon that any continuance of such an erect speech from such a prostrate position was positively grotesque. He paused for a moment but could do nothing but wave his arms again. He tried to move his feet but they lacked sufficient power. He gave a lurch with his body but the armor undid his efforts. He finally did something very brave indeed. He turned his head to the wings and shouted, “Help!” Several supernumeraries appeared on the double and lifted their Prince to his feet. They appeared to be nothing so much as the derricks of Agincourt in human form. Once on balance again, Mr. Toone made certain to move neither his feet nor his hands too abruptly. Though he was bound and determined to avoid a second fall-down, he nevertheless conducted himself in such a robot-like fashion that he recalled nothing so much as the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz. The laughter of the audience became gradually unrestrained. According to Richard Burton, Toone tells this tale on himself. Not only does this prove him ultimately courageous, we clearly see that he is blameless. Moreover, a man who swallows his pride sufficiently to shout for help when all else fails is a man with an obvious talent for survival.

Plenty more where that came from. :D Read it all with Emails from an Actor!

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

In the transcription of the BTS video, I think Tennant is saying "once more unto the breach" and not "under the bridge" because the former is a quote from Shakespeare's Henry V and makes sense for them having another go at the GO universe.

Hiya! :) Thank youu! I fixed it! :) And thank you all who written me this and about the bows. (abou this transcript) I am not a native english speaker so I might get things wrong sometimes so thank you so much for help! :) ❤

[friday411]

"The game's afoot!"

~ William Shakespeare

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger;

...

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"

~ King Henry V

[ranahan]

lo’kaan

Lit. “into war”

“unto the breach”, let’s try once more, “break a leg”. Contraction of "lo akaan", from an ancient epic*, with the famous line: “Sol'tugyc lo akaan, vod'e, tugyc...” “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more...”

* The ancient epic is, of course, Shakespeare's Henry V and the line is the first line of King Henry's speech. I unabashedly stole it.

[shakespearenews]

Another historically ambitious multi-part Shakespeare project is taking shape at the Guthrie Theater. The storied Minneapolis institution is currently performing the Bard’s epic trilogy, Richard II, Henry IV (its parts 1 and 2 have been condensed into a single evening), and Henry V, in rotating repertory. A company of 25 actors is bringing the story to life, swapping characters and costumes depending on the show and night.

In development for years, the project’s scope first turned heads when it was announced pre-pandemic in 2020. But considering the challenges that theaters now face in 2024, the endeavor has reached a new level of dramatic novelty.

“In this moment, with some retraction in the field—and the Guthrie is not outside of those challenges—I felt it was important that we as an organization plant a flag here,” said Guthrie artistic director Joseph Haj, who is helming the plays. “We wanted to show that we’re still very much capable of work of scale, of ambition and of intelligence.” 

[grtmnick]

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, Or close the wall up with our English dead. And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. That those whom you called fathers did beget you."

William Shakespeare. "Henry V". First Folio. First published in full by Edward Blount and Isaac Jaggard, 1693. England.

[ourdawncomes]

THORA CADASH

triggers: drug use/drug trade

Notes

I write Inquisition as having been about three years, not one. I do make the time between Trespasser and Veilguard shorter for the sake of the timeline, so Veilguard still takes place in 9:52 Dragon.

Thora's criminal past becomes common knowledge, although what she did is subject to rumour.

Her default Hero of Ferelden is an f!Paragon Aeducan (Tamar Aeducan) written by Joly. I am happy to write with others, naturally.

Iander Lavellan (@theshirallen) is a canon companion/agent in her story.

Any choices she made in-game can be changed to respect the other writer's choices/preferences regarding their character (for example, Thora will always recruit the mages, but if you prefer human!Cole I would defer to the Cole rper).

Basics

Nickname(s): Sunflower, Salroka Title(s): Inquisitor, First-Thaw, Cometesse, Herald of Andraste Profession: Carta smuggler (formerly) Age: 32 (in Inquisition) Birthday: 4th Solace, 9:9 Dragon Race: Dwarf Gender/Pronouns: Cis Woman, She/Her Orientation: Bisexual

Personality

Faith has always been one of the driving motivations in Thora’s life. Faith in the Chant, faith in the Stone, and faith in the people around her. Her willingness to cooperate and spread work around aided her when she found herself leading a small team of smugglers. As a leader she’s personable, and inspires more loyalty in her subordinates than she often realises. The one person she has very little faith in is herself. She has a tendency to second-guess herself and rarely takes credit for her accomplishments, preferring instead to spread the praise to others.

History

Born in Ostwick to the infamous Cadash family. Thora was given two choices: marry rich, or join the Carta. She had no interest in finding a suitable husband, and so as soon as she was physically capable she joined the Carta alongside her brother, Tetrak. For most of her teenage years she was used as a unassuming mule for lyrium deals, a non-threatening presence that rarely drew the eye of the authorities. It was among the Carta she received her casteless brand, the mark meant she was as good as dust, but at least she was apart of something.

Her first real assignment was in Amaranthine. After the Fifth Blight the Cadash family were ready to get a foothold in Ferelden, with the Ferelden Circle decimated and the Templars in disarray it was easy enough for her team to move in. In Amaranthine she witnessed the the destruction of most of the city, but her team were able to make it out with a tidy profit to show for it.

From Ferelden she was sent to Kirkwall alongside her brother. They arrived at the height of tension between the Chantry and the Qunari. Her brother, moved by the purpose and acceptance the Qunari offered, joined their ranks. Thora was left isolated, establishing ties in the fracturing Templar and mage ranks. She didn’t hear from Tetrak until months after the Qunari attack, in a letter which urged her to join him.

Thora remained in Kirkwall, withdrawing a few months before the Chantry explosion set the Mage-Templar War in motion. When the Conclave was called in 9:41 Dragon, she and a team of Carta dwarves were sent to the summit, knowing the decision would impact the lyrium trade as surely as it would the mages.

Verses

v; once more unto the breach ( thora | inqusition ) default. open.

She was a mistake, an oversight- she was supposed to be dead. Whether it was sheer luck that saved her or divine intervention Thora stumbled from the Breach, broken, but breathing.

Before that day she had never been anyone, at least so far as everyone else was concerned. Most days she was lucky if people used her name, she'd been trained to answer to 'dwarf' and worse, 'Herald' took some adjusting, and 'Inquisitor' took more. Yet Thora is determined to do the most with her newfound power, knowing it was broken before any holes tore the sky in two.

Main choices: Mages allied, Celene rules alone, took the Well of Mythal, redeem Solas

v; and then the dawn came ( thora | trespasser ) plotted.

(veilguard spoilers - anything veilguard is a wip)

In the wake of Corypheus's defeat, Thora spent most of her time negotiating and going to banquets. As time went by most of those she considered among her Inner Circle moved on with their lives, with a few exceptions. Though she and Divine Victoria put off the Exalted Council for as long as they could, soon the time came when she had to face them.

She arrived, resolved to keep the Inquisition intact despite Ferelden's call for dissolution, ignoring the ever-present sting in the middle of her left hand that had been getting worse by the day. Considering the revelations of corruption within her own people, and the realities of Solas's plan, Thora disbanded the Inquisition.

In the years since the Exalted Council and Solas's ritual, Thora resides in Kirkwall. Her half-sister takes her family's seat at the Merchant's Guild. She presides over a small network of spies, scouts, and more, and commits to research in her hope of understanding and changing the Dread Wolf's heart.

When the Blighted hordes are at Kirkwall's door, with Morrigan's help, Thora takes refugees to Cadash Thaig through an eluvian. It was discovered during Inquisition by herself and Solas, and now lies under the protection of ancient Elvhen spirits who seek to guard what Kal-Sharok had destroyed long ago. For now, it is safe, and from there she redoubles her efforts to see if there is a better way for her friend's story to end.

v; dust to dust ( thora | youth ) plotted.

Thora is born in the city of Ostwick. She is the eldest daughter, and grows up with an expectation of marrying above her station put upon her by her father. Instead, she joins the Carta when she is old enough to carry a weapon. Though initially she's little more than a kind face to smooth negotiations, she becomes a part of the organisation in her own right.

Over time, she creates a reputation for herself and is given her own team, small though it may be. She deals, for the most part, with breaking deals and pushing lyrium. In the wake of the Fifth Blight the Cadash clan decided that it was best to get their foot in the door of Ferelden, so to speak. They sent several groups, and Thora, now twenty-two, was given a postion in Amaranthine. She was there when the Darkspawn attacked the city, and while the city burned the Carta hid, their swords drawn, but unwilling to fight. She remained just long enough to see that the Carta turned a profit before she left for Kirkwall.

v; because of these souls we sang ( thora | companion ) plotted.

Before or after the events of In Hushed Whispers / Champions of the Just Thora can be recruited as a means to bring more lyrium into the Inquisition. She joins the party, and boasts the powers of a dwarven beserker, albeit an untrained one.

As a companion she is less confident than as Inquisitor, and without the affirmation of a whole organisation is not inclined to think of herself as anything more than a Duster. If befriended, she can be encouraged to leave the life of a Carta agent to pursue other goals. If Leliana is crowned Divine, she may join the Chantry as either a Sister or Left Hand. If it is someone else, then she will put her services to use in some other way.

[askclint]

2024 vibes, courtesy of William Shakespeare:

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;

Or close the wall up with our English dead.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

-Henry V

[thepastisalreadywritten]

9 things you didn't know about Saint George

Think of St. George and you're probably picturing a heroic knight slaying a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon.

As the country's patron saint, St. George's story is as iconic as his white and red flag.

But like many early saints, the exact details of his life remain a mystery.

Here, we separate fact from fiction to try to get closer to the truth behind the legend of St. George.

1. St. George wasn't English ...

St. George might be hailed as a national hero, but he was actually born – in the 3rd century AD – more than 2,000 miles away in Cappadocia (modern day Turkey).

He is thought to have died in Lydda (modern day Israel), in the Roman province of Palestine in AD 303.

It is believed that his tomb was in Lod and was a centre of Christian pilgrimage.

2. ... and he wasn't a knight either.

Although St. George is often depicted in popular culture as a knight in shining armour, the truth is less fanciful.

Whilst St. George was depicted from the 11th century as a chilvaric knight or a warrior on horseback, it is more likely that he was an officer in the Roman army.

3. St. George was a martyr ...

Like many saints, St. George was described as a martyr after he died for his Christian faith.

It is believed that, during the persecutions of the Emperor Diocletian in the early 4th century, St. George was executed for refusing to make a sacrifice in honour of the pagan gods.

4. ... but he never visited England

Although St. George never visited England, his reputation for virtue and holiness spread across Europe and his feast day – the 23rd April – was celebrated in England from the 9th century onwards.

He became popular with English kings.

Edward I (1272-1307) had banners bearing the emblem of St. George (a red cross on a white background) and Edward III (1327-77) had a strong interest in the saint and owned a relic of his blood.

The St. George cross was not used to represent England until the reign of Henry VIII.

5. The dragon was added later.

The story goes that St. George rode into Silene (modern day Libya) to free the city from a dragon who had a taste for humans, but it’s a story that post-dates the real George by several centuries.

Images of George and the dragon survive from the 9th century – 500 years after his death.

Originally, these may simply have been representations of the battle between Good and Evil.

However, the story was developed and popularised in the Middle Ages in a compendium of stories about saints’ lives, The Golden Legend.

6. St. George was a saint for 1,000 years before the 'holiday'

St. George was canonised in AD 494 by Pope Gelasius, who claimed he was one of those 'whose names are justly revered among men but whose acts are known only to God.'

A feast day of St. George has been celebrated in England for hundreds of years on April 23, which was possibly the date of his martyrdom.

Following the Battle of Agincourt in 1415, St. George's Day became one of the most important feast days in the English calendar.

7. England isn't the only country to celebrate St. George

St. George is truly an international saint and England is not the only country or region to claim him as its patron.

England shares St. George with Venice, Genoa, Portugal, Ethiopia, and Catalonia among others as their patron saint.

Many of these places have their own celebrations and ceremonies in his honour.

8. People turned to St. George for protection

During the Middle Ages, people believed that St.George was one of the 'Fourteen Holy Helpers' – a group of saints who could help during epidemic diseases.

St. George's protection was invoked against several nasty diseases, many fatal and with infectious causes, including the plague and leprosy.

From around 1100, St. George’s help was also sought to protect the English army.

In William Shakespeare’s Henry V, the monarch calls on the saint during his battle cry at the Battle of Harfleur in the famous “Once more unto the breach, dear friends” speech, crying “God for Harry! England, and St. George!”

Five hundred years later – during the First World War – a ghostly apparition of St. George was said to have aided British troops during their retreat from Mons, and the naval commander of the Zeebrugge Raid cited the saint as inspiration.

9. St. George represents those we honour

The Order of the Garter, founded by Edward III in 1348, is the highest order of chivalry in the country and Queen Elizabeth II is at the helm as Sovereign of the Garter.

To this day, St. George’s cross still appears on the Garter badge and his image is the pendant of the Garter chain.

In 1940, King George VI created a new award for acts of the greatest heroism or courage in circumstances of extreme danger.

The George Cross, named after the king, bears the image of St. George vanquishing the dragon.

The image of St. George also adorns many of the memorials built to honour those killed during World War One.

[thischarmingpirate]

Once more unto the breach, dear friends! --Henry V (3.1.1)

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 11: Once more unto the breach

Ao3 link.

Summary:

With the chase of the Darkling ending at the Making of the Heart of the World, Dominik is forced to contend with the realities of what it means to really engage such an old foe in open combat. Alina wrestles with her inner demons, and the crows must realize what it means to become the heroes in a narrative that did not begin as theirs.

Notes:

title taken from Henry V by William Shakespeare.

This chapter is a short one to set up Act III: The Fox Confessor brings the Flood, which allows for the climax to take place over multiple chapters.

TWs: The Darkling is his own TW, and canon-typical violence and usage of merzost.

Chapter below the cut.

Light was all Alina could see around her as she pushed her powers into overdrive. The power of the stag and the sea-whip had done epic things, but this, this was sheer insanity. She’d ended an entire, globe-spanning, years-long eclipse. Sunlight poured down from the heavens, bathing her in its incandescent and heated glow. Yet, she willed it even hotter.

For as long as she’d known, the mantle of sun summoner was incorrect. What it really should have been classified as was light summoner. Even the mere spark of a flintlock pistol, and she could summon. The barest trace of light, whether nature or by flame, was all she needed. So, now, as she drew from the lit match Isaak held out, she let that light bloom. It exploded upwards in a single heat-blast that sent the shadows dissipating through the mid-morning sky. Isaak watched with widened eyes as the shadows writhed, and began plunging down, towards them.

“Run!” She yelled, shoving the former captain and long-serving valet of her lover away. “They’ll be wanting me!”

All around her, Alina heard the call of bugles and the snarling of men lost in the fog of war. Raising her head, her eyes bulged. Galloping straight towards her, locked low over his panting and frothing black steed was the Darkling.

And following him? Banners raised, men screaming on foot and horseback, was the entirety of the First Army. But at their head wasn’t Nikolai. Dominik led the charge, saber thrust out, kepi lowered to keep the glare of new-born sunlight off his face. Among the calvary, all 28 regiments of the Army gave chase. The trenches she knew were here were about to be overrun with men.

She had an idea. A foolhardy, stupid, dangerous idea. In order for it to work, she needed to be inside the Fold.

She paused to snatch up the box of matches Isaak had dropped, and pelted headlong for the Fold’s shadowy expanse. Her boots barely even touched the ground, though her chest screamed with the pain, and she felt light-headed. Behind her, the thunder of horses hooves and footsteps grew louder and ever closer. She prayed Dominik would be able to maintain order before the entire army was massacred by Nichevo’ya and Volcra.

As soon as Alina’s feet sunk into the sandy marsh of the Fold’s outskirts, she pulled to a stop. The Darkling’s steed had collapsed, throwing him from the saddle and rolling across the hardened ground. Behind him, the First Army was halting, prepping rifles. She skirted her gaze to either flank - the artillery shells were being unloaded and the guns themselves being prepped to fire.

Amongst the crews she caught sight of flashes of purple Keftas, and grinned. One man, with glasses and unruly brown hair, made that smile widen.

Thank the saints. Tolya or Tamar got Second Army.

Looking to the eastern flank, she noted Kaz and his Crows in heavy discussion with the fox-head mantled Drüskelle. One of them - Matthias - was standing at the side of a massive armored polar bear. Both were peering over a map and making calculations as a few of the bear’s fellows hauled into place what looked like a massive trebuchet and began checking that over.

Alina’s gaze returned to the Darkling, and she noted him moving to his feet. His shadows swirled about him, lengthening the Kefta until it bore a train of court-dress length. She already had an idea of what it was emblazoned on it, and smirked again.

Her smirk disappeared however as she rubbed her hand over the Lantsov emerald, and looked longingly for a glint of golden-blonde amongst the soldiers. Where was Nikolai?

Alina’s lip, gnawed raw already, got bitten again as she let her composure waver.

Steel tempers steel.

She sighed.

Tapping her fist against her thigh twice, she took in a deep breath, exhaled, and stormed into the Fold. Alina was armed not even with a proper weapon, just the hunting knife that had killed three amplifiers, and would kill but one more. She needed to light a match, and let her powers burst.

But first, The Darkling.

Raising her hands, Alina knew the Fold held ambient light despite being wholly dark. She drew on the mere specs of light cast, and created two things for herself. One was a dome of light for protection, and the other was a sword. This wasn’t truly needed, but she’d seen how Nikolai fabrikated metal with just the tips of his fingers, and did so exactly.

The sword hummed with energy as she shrunk the length to be about court-sword sized, and strode off. The dome around her pulsed and fritzed with a manic energy reflected in the crackling sparks in her silver hair. The kefta she wore, torn and threadbare as it was, turned into a gossamer gold confection that hardened into a set of lightweight armor.

Outside the Fold, Dominik raced back and forth on his horse, shouting out orders. Digging trenches, setting up the few maxim machine guns they possessed; readying the men with tots of rum. All of it came down to this. Dominik knew, as he wheeled his horse about to hear Isaak, that Alina had run into the Fold.

Now they would wait to see if it came tumbling down around them, or she died inside. The thought of Alina being martyred again made the hairs on the back of Dominik’s neck prickle with the stench of heresy. He’d already lost Nikolai - again. He couldn’t lose Alina either.

From across the expanse of marshland and sand, Dominik saw the Darkling get to his feet from his collapsed steed. The Kefta he wore had become almost imperial, and was wholly impractical for battle. With a flick of his hand, he sent a mass of writhing shadows across the expanse of the entire Unsea, and swept away into its massive, roiling darkness.

Dominik lowered his pistol, sighed, and turned his head. He raised the pistol again above his head, and watched in startled horror as the shadows burst from the ground, and rushed toward them.

As the shadows reached the first lines of trenches, they burst from the soil in a volley of inky darts and sunk into the soldier's skins. Screams echoed up and down the line as the men became what Nikolai was, and turned their hungry gazes on their allies. Claws erupted from fingernails, teeth lengthened, blackened, and those wings with their beetle-like clicking filled the air.

But the shadow darts didn’t stop at just one line of men. Dominik’s eyes widened further as the artillery gunners fell to the ground shrieking. The grisha’s summoning couldn’t even stop it. David screamed, clawing at his Kefta as his infection drove deep into his neck and veins, pulsating under his skin like a rotting tumor turned cancerous. Genya lay beside him, oddly still. The scars she bore had worsened with this sudden re-infection and Dominik could only watch in horror as these thousands of men and women turned their eyes on him.

He swung off his horse as they hopped forward, wings flapping, teeth clicking and spitting. All of them seemed hesitant to attack. Over their shoulders, Dominik watched the Darkling’s obsidian black eyes glitter in the morning sunlight.

“Spare the general and the boy. A pitiful waste, but I suppose, sodomy has its merits.” He sneered.

“Where are you sending them?!” Dominik shouted, stepping forward. One of the creatures, bearing the uniform of a fellow general - Pensky - skittered back, screeching. It hissed at him and bared black-needle sharp teeth.

He merely sighed, and raised his pistol straight at the Darkling. All around him, shrieks and screams of the dying rolled over him. The noise poured through his ear canals and sent his heart racing a million miles a minute.

“Everywhere in Ravka, dear General Vertov. I will have this wretched country bend the knee whether it wishes to or not. The Grisha will live in safety. Those with you will die. They have served their purpose.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dominik saw Oncat give a frightened mew and spring away from Harshaw. The ginger-haired boy almost gutted the poor creature in two. From his right, Dominik heard a cry in Kerch that set his heart lurching from his chest. Kaz Brekker was pinned down by the Wraith - her eyes as inky dark as these other monsters, wings protruding from her back. The shadows hadn’t gotten the boy yet, but the look of horror and pain upon his face made Dominik shoot his pistol without thinking.

The bullet clipped The Darkling’s ear.

The old fool merely scoffed, rolled his neck till it popped, and cracked his knuckles. Then, he spread his hands apart. A wave of darkness some thirty feet high poured from his nimble fingers and roared straight for Dominik.

A bullet to the brain would have been less painful.

The wave hit him like a gut punch to the stomach, and he stumbled back. The shadows flowed through any orifice they could find, sinking into his pores and down his nostrils. It felt like drowning, like dying all over again.

And this time, there was no Nikolai to save him.

Alina was gone, saints knew where.

There was no hope left in this world anymore. He only hoped Isaak wasn’t the same thing as him. He prayed that wherever Nikolai was, what with his death, that he was at peace. Something only a prince could afford.

This country gets you in the end, brother. Don’t forget it.

I’ll do better. I vow it.

Dominik the Bold, hold on just a little longer.

Dominik’s eyes fluttered closed, and he surrendered himself to the shadow tearing its way through its ribcage. He let the creature sink into his heart and embed its sickly-sweet tar-like blood into his veins.

He didn’t even scream.

He let it take him, and as he lay there, dying once more, he thought of Halmhend. He thought of the years in the Great Palace building boats with Nikolai; his parent’s farm in the countryside east of Os Alta.

Then, the darkness became all encompassing and he slipped into the quiet once more.

The Darkling raised his hands and the former soldiers, gunners, calvary-men, Grisha, raised their heads. They crawled forward, wings flapping as they tussled and hissed at one another. However, amongst the motley, there was a break. Crowded in a small huddle, wings folded wide to protect them was Inej. She bore the same inky-black void eyes as her brethren, but she was not driven to the same madness as the volcra-like monsters surged upwards in a stream of flapping wings and high-pitched, eardrum breaking screeches.

“Inej,” Nina murmured, taking the Wraith’s wrist in her hands. She drew on her heartrender powers and slowed Inej’s pulse as the woman’s feral instincts sent her scrabbling to bite Kaz’s neck. He nearly screamed and slashed out with the oyster knife hidden under his sleeve. It nicked Inej’s neck, and she whimpered.

“Easy!” Jesper hissed, reaching across Wyland to grab a bottle of smelling salts. He opened them, waved them under Inej’s nose. The crows leaned closer to watch, and Matthias’s fingers tensed on his sword as he watched.

Inej’s eyes widened, and then, the demon in her receded. Her eyes returned to their dark brown and her claws retracted. The wings faded away into the late morning light, and she crouched down under Kaz’s elbow, her face pale.

The six teens could only watch the Darkling as he regarded his army of shadow monsters surging into the sky. They’d seen Dominik Vertov fall, the pincer movement that sent the First Army sprawling and dead. Some hadn’t taken to the bite, too weakened by famine and war to rise again. Inej and Matthais each offered prayers to the Saints and Djel to deliver them to brighter shores. Inej’s eyes rose to the wall of the Fold, and she grasped her knives a little tighter.

Above her, Kaz glared at the expanse of darkness with beady eyes. Going into the Fold with only the six of them would be suicide. But Alina was in there, and Matthais had sworn his fealty to The Korol Rezni. They’d all seen Nikolai fall, but somehow, for some unknown reason, all doubted his death.

It felt strangely anticlimactic.

“Little humans, and a Demjinn. How interesting.”

The Crows’s heads whipped up as one to stare at Iorek Byrnison. He and his kin had not evidently been the target of the Darkling’s attack. Kaz leaned forward, his right hand gripping his cane and the other fishing in the dirt and sand for something to give him purchase. No one moved to touch him, and for good reason.

If looks could kill, the bears in front of them would be deader than doornails. Iorek snorted, a harsh breath of air that ruffled Jesper’s hair and made Wylan shrink closer to him. Nina craned her neck up and Matthais stood level.

“What do we do?” Wylan asked, fingering a vial of something explosive. The music notes were Beethovan’s 5th symphony. If it had been Scott Joplin, that was for poisons or toxins. Kaz couldn’t remember what the other musicians he used were.

“The little Saint is alone, in there.” A bear murmured, looking uncertain if what he was saying was heresy or not. Iorek didn’t move to reprimand him, so he continued. “And with the Korol Rezni’s army… scattered, this place is alone and poorly defended.” He jerked his head towards the Fold.

“Then, wise Pamserbjørne, what do you suggest?” Matthias asked, gripping his blade tighter. “I fight for the King, but I am not remiss to take my orders from one of his generals.”

Iorek sniffed, moving a clawed paw under the strap of his helmet. He scratched it thoughtfully, then nodded.

“You, the boy with the cane - Mr Brekker.”

Kaz straightened and moved gingerly to his feet. He dusted off his coat, planted his cane more firmly in the sandy ground, and then adjusted his weight for it. At his side, Inej rose to her feet, followed by Wylan and Jesper. The two boys examined their weapons, and glanced at Matthais and Nina, the latter of whom was testing around for any familiar heartbeats.

“The Fold’s undefended, but also a death trap. To go into it blindly is suicide. We’d be better off letting the Wraith here turn back into a demon and killing us. Plus, the Korol Rezni hired us, and I for one would like to get my 40 million kruge payment in hard gold. It would be horrible for the money to go to my grave with me.”

“As if you wouldn’t want to be buried with it, Brekker.” Matthias hissed. Kaz gave him a stony glare edged with a sharp, sharks-teeth grin. The Fjerdan rolled his eyes and muttered something to do with stoning miscreants to death being very en vogue under Grimjer rule.

Iorek ignored Matthais and sniffed Inej’s foot. “The Demjin within her is largely passive. The smelling salts did little to actually repress it. That was entirely through her own extremely strong sense of will.”

Inej blinked, blushed gently and then murmured something in Kerch - a prayer? Kaz wasn’t listening. He turned once more to settling his gaze on the Fold, then he tightened his grip on the cane through his gloves, and leaned forward once more.

“Even with the 40 million riding on this, I would like to see the blasted thing come down. It’s high time Ravka joined this wretched century, even with the last war, and all. I want to see that day come before I die, at least.”

“How patriotic.” Nina replied drolly.

“Oh, shut up.” Kaz snapped back, then schooled himself. He reached for the oyster knife again, and sighed. With a jerk of his head, he limped forwards. Inej and Jesper fell into step beside him, Nina and Matthais behind them. Wylan rode on Iorek’s back, while the other bears dismantled themselves from the Fire hurler and reached for some strange hanging lanterns they took in their mouths.

“It’s lit with Lumiya. One of the King’s fabrikator’s gave the patent to us. We stabilized it as a low burning flame that doesn’t attract Volcra.”

Kaz nodded, his feet working overtime to keep him upright through the shifting sands. Soon, they were standing just a hairsbreadth from the Fold itself, and as Kaz put his hand through it, he shuddered involuntarily. The feeling of it reminded him of Jordie and the barge, the Queen’s lady plague.

Brick by brick.

Where those words had once brought down Pekka Rollins and his empire, now, they gave him the strength to get Jordie’s ghost to stop screaming. He stepped through the shadowy expanse.

One by one, his Crows followed him. All in search of a Sankta brighter than the sun, and bearing this holy woman gifts of light. Only time would tell if that light brought ruin or reckoning.

For time alone was their one true factor each one clung to. It was all they had left, in these cold and dreary days. With the sun above restored, hope could be spread. But while the Darkling reigned, that was stifled.

It would be up to six miscreants, one Sankta, an armored bear and his kin, all to bring down one power-obsessed megalomaniac.

They would not fail. Not this time.

End of chapter 11.

[pairofsunflowers]

on the morning we were leaving the place our shakespeare through performance class performed Henry V for the last time, we were all saying our tearful goodbyes and my professor/director hugged me and tearfully said i was the heart and soul of the play (which made me even more choked up than i already was) and that maybe the reason they didn't take me last year (it's a relatively small class you have to apply and interview for to get in, and i'd applied and interviewed last year and i really really wanted it, but i didn't get it) was because the universe knew that they would need me this year. and i keep thinking about that. that's crazy... and in a way i think he's right. like. okay, for context. the previous professor/director/program coordinator passed away this past september, but he'd still directed the previous spring and summer classes. my mom passed away at the end of october and the application for this year's spring class was due a couple days after she died. i turned in the application apparently a day late (i still maintain i turned it in On the deadline, not past it, but whatever.) but my (future) prof let it slide and squeezed me in and i got to be in the class for the spring semester and it fucking changed my life, i can't hype it up enough. things were obviously hard for me after my mom passed, and i had a breakdown thinking i wouldn't get in the class, and then this semester i got the news an immediate family member of mine was going to be deported. in personal matters, it was the worst year of my life. but this class gave me friends and experiences and a passion that saved me this semester.

Henry V is one of my favorite plays of all time now and I have SUCH an affection for the character of henry and i could Literally talk about him as a character for hours if you let me. I got to star in this play and perform one of the most iconic and well known shakespeare monologues ever (once more unto the breach). and..... if i'd gotten in the spring class last semester....... i probably wouldn't have done it this year. not because you can't take the class again, you absolutely can and it's not uncommon to do so. but because i would have had the (wonderful, lifechanging) experience already, and the professor i would have done it with, james, would have passed only a month before my mom and then my mom died right before applications were due. i probably would have been too broken and depressed and sad to do it, and rationalized it as saying i wouldn't want to do it without james and without my mom to see it and i'd already experienced it once so whatever. it's fine. but because i hadn't gotten it last year, and i still really really wanted to do it, and unfortunately i'd never gotten the pleasure of getting to know james so his passing didn't hurt me emotionally, i just barely fought past the brokenness and depression i did feel after my mom passed to submit an application and i got in.

all this to say i remember feeling really really sad last year that i didn't get in the class. but. in a way, the universe kind of always works out, huh? like idk maybe not but that's what i like to believe for the most part, personally. it's that one pic of the dog begging for boiling water on the stove and the caption was like 'god when he sees what i'm praying for to happen.' if i'd gotten it last year, more likely than not i wouldn't have done it this year, which is almost inconceivable. who the hell would have played henry in act III..... that's MY role. and there's so many people in this year's class that i'm friends with and adore that i wouldn't have gotten to know if i didn't take the class this year. my director called me the heart and soul of the play and gave me so many compliments whenever he gave me notes. and in another world, i was never in Henry V. that's just so crazy! i guess everything works out down the line!

[bluemoonperegrine]

Smol woof on Shakespeare

Teeny, tiny spoiler for the next chapter of Moon-Crossed Lovers:

This is from Jack via text, so no capitalization or punctuation.

once more into the beach my friend

Marc knows that's not right and chuckles. Steven cracks up and supplies the correct quote from Henry V.

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more"

I love these idiots. 😂

[friday411]

"The game's afoot!"

~ William Shakespeare

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger;

...

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"

~ King Henry V

@stellacartography @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear