#vehicle-mounted weapon

[historyofguns]

The article from The Armory Life, written by Will Dabbs, MD, explores the historical significance and enduring legacy of the M2 .50-caliber machine gun, commonly known as "Ma Deuce." Originating in World War I, the gun was developed at the behest of American General John J. Pershing to counter German observation balloons and aircraft. Designed by John Moses Browning, with ammunition developed by Winchester, the M2 has been in service since 1921 and remains a staple in military arsenals worldwide. The weapon is praised for its robustness, versatility, and reliability, capable of being mounted on various platforms, including vehicles, ships, and aircraft. Though more than a century old, advancements like the M2A1 model have upgraded its features, ensuring the Browning-designed machine gun continues to be an integral part of military operations today.

[lynx-013]

Midsummer maintenance - North American B-25J Mitchell medium bomber, Mount Hope, Ontario. por edk7 Por Flickr: 45-8883, built in Kansas City, early 1945 - Canadian Warplane Heritage Museum (CWHM) C-GCWM en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_American_B-25_Mitchell www.warplane.com/aircraft/collection/details.aspx?aircraf... ---- Two Wright R-2600-29A Cyclone 14 (Twin Cyclone) supercharged 42.67-litre two-row radials, 1,850-hp each en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wright_R-2600_Twin_Cyclone ---- Markings: RCAF/RAF D-Day stripes - RCAF crew with Royal Air Force (RAF) No. 98 Squadron, northwest Europe, 1944-45 ---- Olympus PEN Lite E-PL5 + SLR Magic 8mm 1:4 rectilinear ultra-wide-angle manual-focus lens en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olympus_PEN_E-PL5 www.photographyblog.com/reviews/olympus_epl5_review www.dpreview.com/forums/post/59245043 P7294758 Anx2 Q90 1200h f25

[randomitemdrop]

Item: bicycle with a laser-eyed skull mounted on the handlebars

Lyonel Feininger (1871-1956), 'Der Kopflose Radler' (The Headless Rider), ''Das Narrenrad'', 1898 Source

[zvaigzdelasas]

Israeli tanks, jets and bulldozers bombarding Gaza and razing homes in the occupied West Bank are being fueled by a growing number of countries signed up to the genocide and Geneva conventions, new research suggests, which legal experts warn could make them complicit in serious crimes against the Palestinian people.

Four tankers of American jet fuel primarily used for military aircraft have been shipped to Israel since the start of its aerial bombardment of Gaza in October.

Three shipments departed from Texas after the landmark international court of justice (ICJ) ruling on 26 January ordered Israel to prevent genocidal acts in Gaza. The ruling reminded states that under the genocide convention they have a “common interest to ensure the prevention, suppression and punishment of genocide”.

Overall, almost 80% of the jet fuel, diesel and other refined petroleum products supplied to Israel by the US over the past nine months was shipped after the January ruling, according to the new research commissioned by the non-profit Oil Change International and shared exclusively with the Guardian.

Researchers analyzed shipping logs, satellite images and other open-source industry data to track 65 oil and fuel shipments to Israel between 21 October last year and 12 July.

It suggests a handful of countries – Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Gabon, Nigeria, Brazil and most recently the Republic of the Congo and Italy – have supplied 4.1m tons of crude oil to Israel, with almost half shipped since the ICJ ruling. An estimated two-thirds of crude came from investor-owned and private oil companies, according to the research, which is refined by Israel for domestic, industrial and military use.

Israel relies heavily on crude oil and refined petroleum imports to run its large fleet of fighter jets, tanks and other military vehicles and operations, as well as the bulldozers implicated in clearing Palestinian homes and olive groves to make way for unlawful Israeli settlements.

In response to the new findings, UN and other international law experts called for an energy embargo to prevent further human rights violations against the Palestinian people – and an investigation into any oil and fuels shipped to Israel that have been used to aid acts of alleged genocide and other serious international crimes.

“After the 26 January ICJ ruling, states cannot claim they did not know what they were risking to partake in,” said Francesca Albanese, the UN special rapporteur on the occupied Palestinian territory, adding that under international law, states have obligations to prevent genocide and respect and ensure respect for the Geneva conventions.[...]

“In the case of the US jet-fuel shipments, there are serious grounds to believe that there is a breach of the genocide convention for failure to prevent and disavowal of the ICJ January ruling and provisional measures,” said Albanese. “Other countries supplying oil and other fuels absolutely also warrant further investigation.”

In early August, a tanker delivered an estimated 300,000 barrels of US jet fuel to Israel after being unable to dock in Spain or Gibraltar amid mounting protests and warnings from international legal experts. Days later, more than 50 groups wrote to the Greek government calling for a war-crimes investigation after satellite images showed the vessel in Greek waters.

Last week, the US released $3.5bn to Israel to spend on US-made weapons and military equipment, despite reports from UN human rights experts and other independent investigations that Israeli forces are violating international law in Gaza and the occupied West Bank. A day later, the US approved a further $20bn in weapons sales, including 50 fighter jets, tank ammunition and tactical vehicles.

The sale and transfer of jet fuel – and arms – “increase the ability of Israel, the occupying power, to commit serious violations”, according to the UN human rights council resolution in March.

The US is the biggest supplier of fuel and weapons to Israel. Its policy was unchanged by the ICJ ruling, according to the White House.

“The case for the US’s complicity in genocide is very strong,” aid Dr Shahd Hammouri, lecturer in international law at the University of Kent and the author of Shipments of Death. “It’s providing material support, without which the genocide and other illegalities are not possible. The question of complicity for the other countries will rely on assessment of how substantial their material support has been.”[...]

A spokesperson for the Brazilian president’s office said oil and fuel trades were carried out directly by the private sector according to market rules: “Although the government’s stance on Israel’s current military action in Gaza is well known, Brazil’s traditional position on sanctions is to not apply or support them unilaterally.

Azerbaijan, the largest supplier of crude to Israel since October, will host the 29th UN climate summit in November, followed by Brazil in 2025.[...]

The Biden administration did not respond to requests for comment, nor did Vice-President Kamala Harris’s presidential election campaign team.

Israel is a small country with a relatively large army and air force. It has no operational cross-border fossil fuel pipelines, and relies heavily on maritime imports.[...]

The new data suggests:

•Half the crude oil in this period came from Azerbaijan (28%) and Kazakhstan (22%). Azeri crude is delivered via the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline, majority-owned and operated by BP. The crude oil is loaded on to tankers at the Turkish port of Ceyhan for delivery to Israel. Turkey recently submitted a formal bid to join South Africa’s genocide case against Israel at the ICJ.

•African countries supplied 37% of the total crude, with 22% coming from Gabon, 9% from Nigeria and 6% from the Republic of the Congo.

•In Europe, companies in Italy, Greece and Albania appear to have supplied refined petroleum products to Israel since the ICJ ruling. Last month, Israel also received crude from Italy – a major oil importer. A spokesperson said the Italian government had “no information” about the recent shipments.

•Cyprus provided transshipment services to tankers supplying crude oil from Gabon, Nigeria, and Kazakhstan.[...]

Just six major international fossil-fuel companies – BP, Chevron, Eni, ExxonMobil, Shell and TotalEnergies – could be linked to 35% of the crude oil supplied to Israel since October, the OCI analysis suggests. This is based on direct stakes in oilfields supplying Israeli and/or the companies’ shares in production nationally.[...]

Last week, Colombia suspended coal exports to Israel “to prevent and stop acts of genocide against the Palestinian people”, according to the decree signed by President Gustavo Petro. Petro wrote on X: “With Colombian coal they make bombs to kill the children of Palestine.”

20 Aug 24

[daylesspax]

So, I’m sure other people have said this BUT!

TFOne spoilers ahead:

Transformers One’s uses of ‘transformation’ is impeccable. I think I truly got to appreciate it when the race contestants did their transformations and each was uniquely done! Yes, almost all transformations across franchises are unique, but it made me so giddy in the theater to watch it…

And then I saw how the roads changed and, well, transformed

The trains in particular, they survive the surface because, like the surface, the railway/railroads change and adapt to the ever-changing and transforming planet— because of course their railroads can transform!

I know I’m jumping around— but I also took note of it during the mining montage, about how caves regularly open, close, and shift around. They need special tools to keep rifts open long enough to mine, and as we’ve seen, mining is incredibly dangerous and it shows what miners have to put up with— their lives are constantly in danger because unlike human mines, where we have some certainty in the stability of the terrain, their mines are at risk of spontaneously closing or coming across an unstable energon vein. And also knowing that the material they mine is so volatile is just an extra layer! (And the fact the planet transforms so often leaves room to question why transformers themselves aren’t nomadic— how can cities like Iacon or the High Guard’s hideout exist? Does the Primis simply sense where his people are most concentrated and transforms to accommodate their homes? Do they use similar technology to the stabilizing sticks but stronger to keep the space open?)

Moving away from that tangent…

I would also like to pull attention to the incredible fight scenes! I have only seen the movie once in theatre so I can’t give a deep analyses into things I’ve missed, however, I’d like to share the things I picked up

I adore how incorporated transformation is to a transformer’s movement and what they can do with their bodies— they shouldn’t move like humans because they aren’t humans and I love it when transformers media does stuff with their bodies that makes sense. For example, Elita one spinning her entire torso/waist in a 360 to do a spin-kick rather than doing it with her full body because she doesn’t need to do that! There are no muscles, skin, or bones that could break if she did that!

Sentinel is able to transform his weapon and transform his arm to capture D-16’s rather than simply catching it with his normal fist

They’re able to move their kibble to suit their needs in either mode— my favorite example is when Optimus tears off Megatron’s tank cannon (the one mounted on top of his vehicle, not the black one in his arm) but Megatron fucking flips over and TRANSFORMS IT BACK INTO HIS BODY TO CONSEQUENTLY USE IT AS A WEAPON TO SHOOT OPTIMUS HOLY SHIT THAT’S COOL AS FUCK!

Optimus/Orion is also able to move his little rocket booster thingies on the sides of his arms both in and out of vehicle mode, making it really feel like it’s still the same mech and that the vehicle form is still attached to the mech and not just plain kibble that doesn’t move outside of transformation!

Another example of really incorporating the vehicle mode with the mech, uh— AIRACHNID??? She can just transform her head open (a little)?!! Her entire body is a thin, but deadly frame, and it’s obvious where each of her limbs are in vehicle mode, which I think is super cool!

And just… gods, this movie is good

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 1: nothing's new

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: After nearly two years of peace, you are called back to the Capitol only to find that the future they promised you was a lie.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Use of Weapons, Mention of Injuries, Minor Character Death.

Word Count: 6.5k

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Coriolanus Snow is many things, he thinks to himself, but incompetent is not one of them. So there had been the Lucy Gray hiccup. Helping her cheat the Games only for her to die at the hands of Dr. Gaul’s snakes after he failed to slip the handkerchief into their tank was inconvenient, to say the least. As was his brief stint as a Peacekeeper as punishment for his dishonest tactics following the discovery of a certain compact with her remains. Still, he had learned a valuable lesson. Love is no more than a disadvantage, a distraction lodging itself like an unfortunate bump in his flawless plan. And now, he is back, having traded Sejanus’s life for his own advancement. It was nothing personal, really. Personal is a luxury, the only one he can not afford.

Sure, the loss had hurt, but the District 7 boy made a fine victor and one he could control with a far greater degree of ease, given the detachment he felt in regard to the kid’s safety. New year, new him, new Games, and this time, things would be different. 

His proposals had gone through without much struggle, especially with Dr. Gaul practically eating out of the palm of his hand. He is the protege; his mentor is the kind of woman you do not cross without bearing the consequences. 

And so, on this fine morning, as he stands with the casual grace of a cat, elegantly perched on the corner of his desk, he can’t fight the grin that spreads across his face as he delivers the order he’s been waiting for weeks to give.

“Well? Go get them.”

It is a cold day in District 10, at least colder than most you think as you finish your daily sweep of the ranch and its expansive territory. You pull back lightly on the reins, bringing the horse to a slow stop.

“To name an animal, any animal, it’s counterproductive. Selfish even. Makes for a more difficult slaughter; always best to remain detached.” Your father’s words echo in your head as you dip your neck to whisper soft praise to the creature below, her hind branded with a string of three numbers: 039. Her label, to call it a name, would be to demean anyone granted the privilege of such a thing.

“That was good Bluebell, nice easy ride. Told you it would get better.” She is young. Young enough to spook with a fair amount of ease, but then so are you. Had been ever since your Games.

You dismount, hitting the ground with a soft thud before coming around to face the gentle giant and fishing a handful of sugar cubes out of your pocket. She nuzzles the food in your palm before beginning to eat, and you run a hand up and down the bridge of her nose. The world is quiet, dew still catching the light of the rising sun when you see it in the distance: the armored vehicle speeding towards the cabin housing the front office. It is not unusual for Peacekeepers to come and go from the building, but the night shift typically does not end until 8:00 am, and dawn’s colors still paint the lower half of the sky. Something is wrong.

Two men exit the vehicle, entering the small building before quickly reappearing at its entrance, a third companion in tow. He stands on the porch for one beat, two, a lazy hand draped over his eyes as he scans the field for something. Someone. And then he points. You. They are looking for you.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your body screams at you to mount once more and ride as fast and as far away as you can, but you stay rooted. Frozen. You watch, helplessly still, as the car only comes closer, pulling to a stop on the other side of the fence, keeping the pastures separated from the open road. The Peacekeeper in the passenger seat steps out, boots scraping the gravel.

“Ms. L/N?” You only nod.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us; you’ve been called to the Capitol.” You feel like screaming, but your throat constricts, and all you can do is take slow, encumbered breaths as your body caves in on itself and you crumple to the ground.

“I– What?”

You do not mind the mud on your knees, and the slow chill that begins to spread from the places dampened by the wet grass is barely perceptible in your state of shock. Called to the Capitol. Your mind jumps back home, your brother and sister still tucked away, blankets to their chins. They would not rise for another thirty minutes at least. You picture your mother. Savoring a final moment of quiet in her busy day, sipping the coffee you’d left in the pot just for her. Your mind replays the goodbyes you had paid them this morning. Careless and quick, not like the day of the reaping. Just sloppy kisses pressed haphazardly to their foreheads and a gentle farewell on your way out the door.

“That’s not possible– It’s not– I haven’t…” There is an eerie stillness to the world at this time of day. One that only seems to press inwards, suffocating you. Distantly, you feel the soft pressure of Bluebell’s muzzle on your shoulder as though urging you to get up

Though the man in the driver’s seat seems annoyed by the inconvenience, his partner fails to shield the look of pity that flits across his face as he dips to pass through the fence, pulling you up and then back through the gap with him. He is not rough as he sets you in the backseat, not like the Peacekeepers you remember from your Games, or maybe he is; everything seems a blur as the car makes its way to the train station, and it is only as the compartment doors to close behind you that you think of Bluebell, left out in the pasture, probably licking fallen sugar cubes off the ground.

Treech releases a labored exhale as he tries once more to readjust his grip on the axe. It’s just a tree. He can sense the nearby Peacekeeper shuffling from foot to foot, anxious for him to get on with the process. This is not the arena. I am safe. I am home.

There is no time off granted to returning victors following their stint in the Games. Production is production, and there are quotas to be met, so Treech had arrived home, and the following morning, before the sun had kissed the hilltops with its light, he had risen to go to work. Only work didn’t come easy the way it used to, lulling him into a rhythmic sense of comfort with its repetitive motions, and each time he raised his axe, all he saw was them. The other tributes waiting to receive the killing blow.

Treech wipes the sweat from his brow in a single frustrated motion in spite of the cold, then, squaring his jaw, he takes a swing. Crunch. The axe lodges itself in Teslee’s head, and he stumbles back, eyes wide with fear. Only it is not Teslee. No. He blinks once, twice, and it is only a pine tree, and he is back in the forest, sinking under the weight of the Peacekeeper’s heavy glare. The man, stationed less than a yard away, begins to move towards him, and Treech prepares himself for another beating, the sharp threats from the last time still ringing in his ears.

“Officer,” a voice calls out in their direction as another man of higher rank, from what Treech can gauge, approaches the pair. The two men meet and begin to speak in hushed voices, eyes flitting in his direction every few sentences. They’re gonna fire me. Or worse, string me up in the square and use me as an example. His grip on the axe tightens. His axe. His father’s before him. He will not go down without a fight.

“Hey, you,” Treech keeps his eyes on the forest floor, silently praying to any higher power that will listen that he is not the you in question. 

“Hey! Hey, you!” He can hear the man approaching, but the sound of his footsteps is dulled by the pounding of Treech’s heart. He feels like a child in a bathtub, head halfway under the surface as the water beats at his eardrums, completely still and as loud as a tidal wave. A firm grasp settles around the fabric of his winter coat, far too thin for the cold but the best he can afford.

“Listen to me when I’m fucking speaking to you,” the Peacekeeper spits, and Treech’s mouth settles into a hard line, his hand curled into a tight fist, twitching by his side. The man before him huffs in frustration.

“Call came in from the Capitol; you’re on the next train out,” he moves as though he’s going to release Treech before yanking him back in, close enough to press his mouth to the boy’s ear. 

“You’re lucky the order came from above; if I had a say, I’d gun you down right here for the disrespect.” With that, he gives the kid before him a hard shove before beginning to stalk off.

“Let’s go.” But Treech feels as though the ground beneath him has disappeared. Back to the Capitol? Would they send him into the arena? He was done. Won his Games fair and square. He was supposed to be free. What more could they want?

The first thing you notice about the train is that it is the nicest thing you have ever set foot inside of. During your Games, and all those before and after, transport to the Capitol had been relegated to old cattle cars used to shuttle livestock across Panem, and the same had been true on your return trip. This is different. Every inch of the compartment is decorated with the lavish and ornate, all-cushioned seats and elaborate chandeliers.

The second thing you notice is the boy. He is older than you, you think, by several years. Five, maybe six. He seems out of place, tucked into the corner of one of the booths, sizing you up suspiciously. He looks familiar.

“I– Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met before,” he responds, cold and guarded. But there is something about him, his build, tall and broad, dark skin and brown eyes; you could almost imagine them looking soft and kind in a different environment. 

He keeps the sharp look on his face, and you have yet to move from the doors when it clicks.

“You won seven years ago; I remember you. District 11. Teff, right?”

“You’re the girl from 10,” he says, and his posture relaxes, if only by a fraction.

“Y/N.” You smile, and you mean it to be a comfort, but there’s a fear in your eyes that betrays the anxiety deep in your gut. Still, you move closer, sliding into the seat across from him and bringing your hands into a neat pile on your lap.

“What are we doing here?” It’s small and whispered as it escapes your lips, and your gaze refuses to meet Teff’s as you wait for an answer.

“I have no idea.”

It is several hours before the train stops again, and though they are mostly passed in silence, the occasional attempt is made at small talk. Whispered theories mingle among everyday questions. So, what do you do in District 11? Do you think they’re gonna kill us? There’s lots of horses back home, cows too. They can’t put us back in, right? Only once, that’s what they said. 

The next time the doors open, you are in 2, as indicated by the towering stone walls keeping it separate from neighboring Districts. Three people get on. One of the boys you recognize immediately: Octavian Blackwell, the first victor. His hair is dark, clipped short in a sort of military cut, and his eyes look as though they are carved from steel. Beside him is a girl, small and lithe, her posture relaxed and tense all at once. Antonia. The name echos out from some dark, cavernous corner of your mind. The first female victor, 3rd Hunger Games. The final boy is taller than both his counterparts, though leaner in build than Octavian; you wrack your brain, praying for some form of recollection, but he remains unfamiliar to you.

“More victors,” whispers Teff, and you watch as the three faces before you seem to come to the same realization.

“What the fuck is going on?” It’s the District 2 boy who breaks the silence, the one whose name continues to elude you. 

“Hector,” Antonia hisses, a warning lacing her tone, but her eyes betray a curiosity lingering beneath the surface. 

“They can’t put us back in, right? There’s not enough. Not to mention, half the districts wouldn’t even have tributes,” you sputter the words up, an involuntary torrent of concern spewing from your mouth. Your gaze flits nervously from face to face, and in spite of the many hardened exteriors, you can feel it beneath the surface, a brewing apprehension. Octavian breaks the silence.

“They won’t put us back in.” And he seems certain. He is old, you think. Not old in the way a grandparent is, but aged certainly. You had never taken the time to imagine a tribute outside childhood, escaping adolescence into fully formed adulthood, but here was Octavian, who must have been at least twenty-six, with several deep-set wrinkles beginning to mar his brow.

“Probably just rounding us all up to kill us, send a real message after those shitshow Games last year,” Hector grumbles, moving further into the compartment and thrusting himself into the booth across from you and Teff. “Just watch; I bet we’ll hit 4 next, then 7, and 1.”

The noise of uncomfortable shuffling seems to fill the compartment, and eventually, Octavian and Antonia settle into the booth beside Hector. You can’t help but allow the shell of a laugh to brush past your lips. A whole train car for the lot of you, and here you were, pressed into the two corner booths. Sure, the cage is bigger, but you still cower like animals. Like you’re back in those trucks ushering you from the train to the arena, gleaning a last moment of comfort as you brushed shoulders with the children you would watch die.

Hector was right. The train stopped at 4, though only one boy got on. Trawl, he’d won the 8th Games, just before yours. You remember distantly hearing of another victor from 4, a boy who was killed upon return. Murdered by the father of his district partner, who accused him of killing her. Stabbed him in the town square, they said. The Peacekeepers only watched.

The train grinds once more to a halt in 7, and quick glance outside the window reveals a station made entirely of wood, grand posts carved with ornate designs supporting the massive roof. You glance towards the door, waiting for him, the newest victor. You do not have to work hard to recall his name, Treech; the two syllables had echoed from every radio in your mother's house the day the 10th Games ended.

The doors open with a hiss, and he stumbles in as though pushed, a mop of curls obscuring his eyes. He seems dazed. As he lifts his head, you watch it happen. The same realization that had dawned on every victor to enter the compartment after you, but then his gaze only grows dull as though accepting some secret fate you had yet to be alerted of before he shuffles forward, taking a seat on a longer bench facing the door. Alone. 

It is several more hours before you reach 1, and although some hushed conversation continues to fill the train car, you sit in silence, casting worried glances at the quiet boy with his head in his hands. He is not crying, you think; his shoulders are too still, but his breathing remains too rapid to indicate sleep. Maybe he just likes to listen, you suppose, trying to grasp the newest direction of the chatter around you. Maybe he’s scared. As you turn once more to analyze his hunched shape, Trawl catches your line of sight, speaking up from beside you.

“Just leave him alone; if he wants to sit by himself sulking, that’s his problem,” he mutters close to your ear.

“For all we know, we could be walking into an ambush. Give him a break,” you say, moving to stand before making your way over to the place on the bench beside him. You are quiet for a time, unsure how to start, but as your lips begin to purse around a greeting, he interrupts you.

“I like your hat.” His voice is flat, a single eye visible from behind the curtain of his hair. You forgot you were wearing a hat. It was your father’s from his brief time on the ranch before transferring to the slaughterhouse, where he met your mom. Your hand darts up to trace the brim.

“Thanks, it was–” But then his tone registers, and you recognize the snark behind the compliment, “You don’t mean that, do you?”

“You some sort of cowgirl?”

“How do you know what a cowgirl is?” You ask, and your eyebrows draw together in surprise at the knowledge.

“Read about them in school once, before I dropped out.”

“I guess so. Usually, people just call me a ranch hand.” He lifts his head at this, and you realize he’s quite pretty on closer viewing.

“Doesn’t sound as cool.” The ghost of a smirk lights his face as he says it.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” you say, grinning back. His smile is quick to fade, and he turns once more, fixing his gaze ahead, away from you.

“Why are we here?” He asks, his cocky demeanor gone in an instant. You ache to be able to provide him with an answer, but the same question has been clawing at you since the two men showed up on the ranch this morning. 

“I– I’m not sure.” He nods, and it is solemn, like a prayer, but he does not return his face to his hands, instead watching the miles of land roll by in a blur, no single thing occupying the space outside the window for longer than a second. You find yourself looking, too, imagining how it must feel to go 250 mph. You decide it's probably like flying.

By the time you reach 1 to collect its two victors, a searing silence has spread over the train, the atmosphere tense. The journey to the Capitol is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and as the skyline appears over the barriers built to keep people like you out, you feel the apprehension shrouding the compartment begin to buzz. It is only then that Hector speaks, shattering the stillness with a single phrase.

“Welcome back to Hell.”

The sun is setting as the train pulls into the station, and you twitch nervously, scraping your nails against the pads of your fingertips. Beside you, Treech watches your movements with a fixed gaze as though pondering reaching out to still the repetitive motions himself. He does not, and you fail to notice his attention on you at all, eyes fixed ahead on the double doors. 

When they open, a swarm of Peacekeepers descends on the car within a matter of seconds, hoisting you from the seats, snatching at arms and shoulders in their attempts to muscle you out of the compartment. A startled yelp escapes your lips as the man with a harsh grasp on the collar of your shirt rips you forward and onto the platform, jostling your hat from your head. 

“No–” You lunge for the single remnant of your father, straining against the Peacekeeper working to wrangle you towards an awaiting vehicle, but it is no use. He wraps you in a firm pair of arms, lifting you, kicking and biting from the ground the remainder of the distance before tossing you onto the floor of the car. As you whip around to assail him once more, the doors fall closed with a thud, leaving you to pound futilely against them.

Eventually, your jabs lose their power, and you sink down, forehead pressed to the cool metal, biting your lip to prevent the oncoming tears from spilling over. A hand makes its presence known on your shoulder as the car begins to move, and you turn to glimpse Trawl, his face painted with concern. A quick once over of the vehicle reveals only half the victors had been loaded on: you, Trawl, and the two tributes from 1, Lux, who sits with both hands clasped primly in her lap, and Beau, whose only visible sign of distress is the repeated preening of his hair.

“My– My hat. It was my dad’s–” you stutter out as Trawl helps you onto the seat beside his, “I don’t– there’s nothing else left.” The concern in his eyes settles into pity, and you feel like shrinking under the weight of his compassion, tired of feeling helpless.

It is not long before the car pulls to a stop, and the doors come open once more. It is dark out now, and you can’t help but find it unusual, the feeling that you are being smuggled, rushed in under the cover of night. Typically everything is a display in the Capitol. If they are going to kill you, where are the cameras? You are ushered into an elevator, and one of the Peacekeepers extends an arm, scanning a card before pressing the button for the top floor. You think distantly this might be some sort of hotel. You have never been inside a hotel before. A simple ding alerts you to the fact that you have reached your destination, and you are jostled out and through the door directly before you following the swipe of another card.

It is a large room. You had always believed hotels came with the promise of a bed, but this seems more like a home: a kitchen with appliances you do not recognize, a luxurious lounge with a semicircular couch facing a large projection, and a man, his hair as white as snow.

“Please, let’s not manhandle our guests,” he calls out to the group of Peacekeepers herding you into the center of the room, and they back away, taking up posts on the surrounding walls. Their message is clear: you are not permitted to leave. 

You reach up to rub at the place where, only moments before, your arm had been kept in an iron grip when the door to the room flings open again, the remainder of the victors stumbling in. Teff comes first, ripping his bicep from the man beside him upon entrance, followed by Hector, Antonia, and Octavian, who seem more contained. Last is Treech, a newly formed bruise beginning to darken the area around his eye, and your father's hat held delicately in his hand, fingers pinched around the rim. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor but lifts his head upon hearing your stifled gasp. 

“Come, make yourselves comfortable. I don’t bite, I promise.” The man at the front of the room speaks with a placating tone and words meant to dulcify, but he smiles like a wolf. No one moves.

“Let’s try this again. Sit down.” From behind you, you can hear the Peacekeepers beginning to shuffle from their stations, inching forward. Octavian is the first to budge. He takes a tentative step in the direction of the couch before nodding at Antonia and Hector, who follow close behind. You look to Teff and then to Treech, only a few feet away from him, still holding your father’s hat. The former surveys the room once before giving you a slow nod, and you move to sit. They file in behind you, Trawl quick on their heels, and the four of you occupy a single corner of the couch being sure to leave room for Lux and Beau. As he slides into the seat next to yours, Treech tenderly sets the hat atop your lap, and you mouth a subtle thank you that he leaves unacknowledged.

“Much better.” The man before you grins, and out of the corner of your eye, you see a look of recognition pass across Treech’s face.

“So glad you could all join us.” He claps his hands together before clearing his throat to begin.

“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what you’re doing here, and I want to assure you that in spite of the worries you expressed on the train, we are not going to kill you.” A chill passes down your spine at his implication: they had been watching you.

“See, you represent a new beginning. The birth of a different kind of Games. A better kind of Games.” A wave of confusion seems to pass over the lot of you. Though it is more like anxiety, and you feel a bit like you are drowning in it.

“Now, last year, well, that was quite the mess,” he says, nodding to Treech as though they are in on some sort of joke together. Your stomach turns. 

“But the important thing is, we learned something: the people of the Capitol need someone to care about. To root for, if you will. Which means it’s time for a new way of thinking.” He pauses as though for dramatic effect, and you can’t help but think his speech feels practiced. Had he smiled this morning, delivering his death knell to the bathroom mirror?

“Right now, the Games, they make people sad, uncomfortable even. Too much humanity, not enough spectacle.” Beside you, Treech tenses. “There is nothing commodifiable about the current structure. But if, say, we were to place a higher value on the victors and make you celebrities of sorts, then this blight becomes an honor.” The nine faces before him appear as though they are sculpted from stone; he clears his throat before continuing.

“And how, you may ask, do we plan to do that? Well, starting this year, the past victors will be in charge of mentoring the children from your districts.” Here, there is some breakage. Anger, plain and simple, seeping through the masks. Antonia begins to speak.

“Fuck no–”

“I’m not finished, thank you. Now, this will come with an array of new challenges. There will, of course, be interviews to prepare them for, something you obviously have no experience with, as well as a tribute parade.” Your nose crinkles in disgust as the sole image your mind conjures is last year’s tributes chained to a flatbed truck, Brandy’s dead body swaying from a crane above them. Brandy, who you knew. Who was only one year younger than you. Who had a talent for soothing any creature with which she came in contact and who cried for three days the first time she killed a hog.

“And you will be in charge of organizing sponsorships once they are in the arena, networking, and such. But not to worry, each of you will be given an escort from the Capitol, someone to help you navigate the trickier aspects of the job. And you will not go unrewarded either. Starting this year, victors will be granted financial compensation as well as eventual housing in a Victor’s Village, which will be put up in each of your home districts. Still, we will need to begin with a sort of reintroduction to teach the public what your new role as a victor is, and–”

“That’s not fair,” you mumble, so quiet you think no one hears.

“Excuse me?” The man’s gaze is icy cold, like a knife to the chest.

“That’s– That’s not fair. What about the kids in 12? 8? 6 and 5? If you do this, the same people will win every year.” You stare back, and when your hands begin to shake, you hide them beneath your thighs.

“I don’t typically give lessons in power for free; you should be grateful.”

“You’re evil.” And it is not a question. You are certain.

“Not evil, just practical.”

“The Capitol hates us, they think we’re scum. They’ll never get behind this,” Treech offers from beside you, and you see it on him, the mark of last year's Games. The toll they took.

“If the citizens of the Capitol think we care, they will too. I’ll put you on television with the goddamned President if I have to. This will work.”

“What if we won’t do it?” Teff demands, his voice low, tinged with a warning.

“You have a family, do you not?” The man asks, and the threat pools in his eyes, but he voices it anyway. “Would you like to continue having a family?” It is quiet for a moment, and the weight of his words feels heavier than anything you’ve ever carried in your life.

“We were supposed to be done. We won our Games,” It is Hector who speaks this time, rising from his seat. He pauses for a moment, then raises his brow as though in a challenge. “Well, I don’t have any family. Not anymore. Not thanks to this bullshit fucking system, so you know what? I think I’ll pass.” From beside him, Antonia claws at his arm, a pleading look in her eyes. It is too late. The man with the white hair nods, and two of the Peacekeepers on the back wall step forward. 

“That’s too bad. He can go.” They are on Hector in a matter of seconds, but they do not make for the door; instead, they seize him, one on each arm, and turn towards the hallway, splitting off from the large central room. Several victors move to stand, with Trawl and Octavian making an attempt to follow, but they are swiftly restrained, and you sit in silent shock as the sounds of Hector’s struggle become distant. A door slams. Then, a gunshot. After that, it is quiet. Your limbs feel stiff, frozen even. From your other side, Lux releases a stifled sob. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Teff throw up.

“Anyone else have any concerns they wish to voice?” It’s as though you have all stopped breathing.

“Wonderful. We’ll begin in the morning. You’ll each have a team here to prepare you for the press tour. Your rooms are numbered by district. Be ready at 5:00 am sharp. I’d hate to have any more incidents.”

“So, we’re trapped here?” You speak again, though the sound of your own voice comes as a shock. The man only sighs.

“This is not a prison, no. Though we would prefer you not leave the premises–” You don’t give him time to finish, making a hasty exit through the door where you came in.

“Just make sure she doesn’t leave the building,” he sighs with a haphazard wave of his hand in your direction.

You are at the bar when Treech finds you, two glasses of Posca deep.

He hadn’t meant to go looking for you, really, only to clear his head and get away from that room. Shortly after your departure, two men had entered with a stretcher and left only minutes later with it full, the vague outline of a body visible beneath a white linen sheet. He had followed them out and then quickly abandoned their company at the prospect of sharing their elevator, instead descending the stairs. From the 32nd floor. And there you were, right as the door to the lobby opened, hat on the bar and your eyes fixed on something he wasn’t sure was really there.

“No hard liquor here. At least not for us,” you huff, slumping in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“And don’t bother asking for the bottle either. They’ll just give you one of these. Nothing more dignified than drowning my sorrows in a glass that costs more than my mother’s house,” you wave a limp hand at the ornate flute before you, doing little to disguise the biting sarcasm in your tone.

“I’ll take what she’s having,” Treech mutters to the man behind the bar, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the counter, unwilling to bear the weight of the curious gaze being pressed upon the pair of you.

“Do you remember them, the other tributes?” You ask suddenly, as though the thought had been clouding your mind for hours.

“The other victors?” You shake your head.

“No. The other kids in the arena.” Treech freezes for only a moment, caught off guard, but it’s enough time for the truth to plaster itself across his face. Every day.

“Sure.” You don’t say anything, only sit patiently, waiting for him to continue. “There was– There was Lamina; she was from home.” I watched her die. I sat by and did nothing. “And there was Coral and Mizzen; they were from 4. And the youngest. She was from 8. Had these hearts made of buttons on her pants. Wovey, I think. From 12, there was Lucy Gray, the girl who sang. Reaper, he was the last to die. I killed him. Killed the girl from 3, too. Teslee.”

He feels his voice begin to waver and opts to stop talking. You sit in silence for a moment, trading quiet nods with the bartender as he returns with Treech’s drink.

“Rye.”

“Sorry?” Treech asks, still lost in the memories of his fellow tributes.

“He was the youngest. He had these eyes just like my kid brother, big and sad. He just stood there, I remember, when the games started. The boy from 2 killed him; just walked up and broke his neck. Couldn’t have been that hard; he was so small. But he looked so surprised like he hadn’t known it was coming, even after he hit the ground.” Treech thinks he might be sick, and beside him, the color has drained from your face.

“Twenty-four kids every year, and we’ll have front-row seats to all of it. The people in the districts, in the Capitol, they’ll forget, let a name or two slip, but we’ll see them all. Watch them train, see their interviews, pick them apart in hopes of a weakness.” Treech downs his glass in one go before signaling to the bartender he needs a refill. You push your flute in the same direction, looking the District 7 boy up and down as though you’d never given him too much thought before.

“I never envied you. The way the Capitol dragged you through the streets for all those funerals, put you behind bars in a fuckin’ zoo, had you play nice and pleasant before sending you off to slaughter. At least ours was quick. Picked us all up on the train, threw us in the back of a truck, and then dumped us in the arena. Nobody knew who we were. Nobody wanted to.” You break off in a laugh that is brittle and unforgiving.

“Maybe it’ll be better this way. I’m in the market for a new job. Turns out you’re no good at chopping trees when you can barely hold an axe anymore,” Treech jokes, but the smile on his face does not reach his eyes.

“They–” but you are quick to pause, halting mid-sentence as though contemplating continuing. You exhale softly before clearing your throat and lifting your eyes once more to meet his. 

“They had to fire me.” Treech’s brows lurch forward in confusion, creating two dimples in the flesh just above his nose. 

“At the slaughterhouse,” you supply. “They had to fire me. I couldn’t– I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t kill anything. The Peacekeepers, they just wanted me gone. I’m pretty sure they would have just gotten rid of me too, you know, set an example, but I knew the guy who ran the place. I used to give his daughter art lessons. He made a call, and I got transferred. Started working as a ranch hand instead.” You stop, and for a moment, Treech thinks you’ve finished.

“I kept thinking they were him. I would pick up the knife, and suddenly, it was like I was back in the arena, watching him die.” The last part came out in a whisper.

“They say what I did to that kid; they say it was mercy. A mercy kill. But I still killed him, and he’s still dead. And I have never stopped thinking about it.” You clear your throat once more and cast your gaze down, hoping to disguise the tears collecting in your eyes. Treech takes notice. He remembers a conversation not two months prior with his mother. The way his voice shook as he spoke. About the games. About the other tributes. He recalls the twisted expression of discomfort she bore, the pity, and above all, his own anger at feeling helpless. Wounded.

“Art lessons? You paint?” Relief, instant and undisguised, etches itself across your features. 

“Draw, mostly. Charcoal, pencil, anything easy to come by. I was gonna be a veterinarian before– Well, you know. I was practicing for scientific sketches, but I just sort of fell in love with the way they moved– animals.”

“You have a favorite?”

“Horses are the hardest. Cows– they’re soft, like people. Some people, I guess. I saw a fox once, little gray thing, sleeping in the grass. I think maybe I liked that one the best. My mom used to say it was good luck, a fox crossing your path. Though, I can’t imagine how. That– That was the day before my reaping.”

You sit in silence for a moment before Treech speaks again.

“You lived. Maybe that was it: the good luck.”

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Like maybe everyone else got out easy, and here we are still living in a nightmare.”

“It won’t be like this forever,” he whispers, but it’s as though he’s pleading with some higher power that it might be true. “It can’t be.”

“Wake up, Treech. This is it for us. They are gonna drag us out here every year to flounce around the capitol, parading new kids to their deaths– or worse, whatever this is, the horrible aftermath–”

“There’ll be new mentors. New winners–”

“Yeah, in 1 and 2 and maybe 4. Don’t you get it? We’re the runt districts. We’ll be lucky if we see another Victor in the next twenty-five years,” Treech swallows hard, willing his mouth to stop tasting so dry; he can feel his heart in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe you ran with the pack in your games, but things are gonna change. Look around. They already are.”

[pyreo]

I've never thought about this in the 11 years I've played but I just realised gw2 must look.. pretty zany to outsiders? It didn't even occur to me. I'm really glad it's in a low fantasy setting that allows for pretty much anything and I think it's inkeeping with the focus on player creativity in an MMO to have that kind of range.

Like I know the overall aesthetic can get wacky but because that's so fitting for a multiplayer game... it's never occured to me that anything looks odd.

Like, here's a screenshot of me, someone's bird, and some lovely folks from the last pride march

Like real pride marches, being over the top and loud is the point. We have the tools to do that, even in regular gameplay. I think it's fascinating that nothing about this feels out of place. Magic in this universe does practically anything you want it to. Technology varies from nonexistent to far beyond real life. There's a massive range but everything feels kind of.... justified?

Some people will wear fantasy armour and keep everything on a theme. Some people are going to group transform into giant frogs and some people are going to cosplay as Johnny Bravo. It happens. The game doesn't mind. It doesn't shy away from people being incredibly weird. I remember the devs recalling a decision they had to make about letting players jump on top of a plot-important table where NPCs sat for serious discussions. The decision was they they shouldn't stop people from doing that if they wanted to.

The openness of the setting means these are all things that could exist. People reanimate corpses here for the hell of it. The weapons are magic and can be literally anything. The mounts are all creatures that have been tamed, or vehicles someone could have invented. Even the living plushie mounts are lore-compliant because... magic.

But on top of this, this game has one of the most sincere stories of anything I've ever played? Whether it's to your taste or not, I don't think you could deny how much care goes into it. From terminal conditions to villains having tantrums over childish insecurities to symbolic anticapitalism to racial superiority rallies, it has treated its topics with dead-solid respect. It does not undercut its serious moments - but it allows you the privilege if you'd like.

Maybe it's the balance of being so immersed in that that's stopped me from thinking any of this looks silly. The players can be silly, sure. Maybe there's a kind of game-and-player suspension of disbelief. We tell our story, and you have your freedom, and for the most part they won't intersect (except for the infamous Wynne cutscene).

In the MMO space there's other ways to approach this. You've got ESO which holds back very tightly to its high fantasy setting. That's for people with different tastes who don't want anything aesthetic-breaking in their game, and they have to cut back the player freedom to get it while trying to introduce a steady stream of new armours that can't be too interesting. They have magic, but don't go too far. It also means you get deals begging you to come to the cash shop to buy, like, rags. Fun rags for your character!

Then inbetween those two there's 'your name has to be lore compliant but fuck it, flying convertible'

[falconfate]

Hello ranger’s apprentice fandom can we talk real quick about the stupidest thing Flanagan ever wrote

It’s about the bows. Yanno, the rangers’ Iconique™️ main weapon. That one. You know the one.

Flanagan. Flanagan why are your rangers using longbows.

“uh well recurve arrows drop faster” BUT DO THEY. FLANAGAN. DO THEY.

the answer is no they don’t. Compared to a MODERN, COMPOUND (aka cheating) bow, yes, but compared to a longbow? Y’know, what the rangers use in canon? Yeah no a recurve actually has a FLATTER trajectory. It drops LATER.

This from an article comparing the two:

“Both a longbow and a recurve bow, when equipped with the right arrow and broadhead combination, are capable of taking down big game animals. Afterall, hunters have been doing it for centuries with both types of bows.

However, generally speaking and all things equal, a recurve bow will offer more arrow speed, creating a flatter flight trajectory and retain more kinetic energy at impact.

The archers draw length, along with the weight of the arrow also affect speed and kinetic energy. However, the curved design of the limbs on a recurve adds to its output of force.”

It doesn’t actually mention ANY distance in range! And this is from a resource for bow hunting, which, presumably, WOULD CARE ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING!

Okay so that’s just. That’s just the first thing.

The MAIN thing is that even accounting for “hur dur recurves drop faster” LONGBOWS ARE STILL THE STUPID OPTION.

Longbows, particularly and especially ENGLISH longbows, are—as their name suggests—very long. English longbows in particular are often as tall or taller than their wielder even while strung, but especially when unstrung. An unstrung longbow is a very long and expensive stick, one that will GLADLY entangle itself in nearby trees, other people’s clothes, and any doorway you’re passing through.

And yes, there are shorter longbows, but at that point if you’re shortening your longbow, just get a goddamn recurve. And Flanagan makes a point to compare his rangers’ bows to the Very Long English Longbow.

Oh, do you know how the Very Long English Longbow was mostly historically militarily used? BY ON-FOOT ARCHER UNITS. Do you know what they’re TERRIBLE for? MOUNTED ARCHERY.

Trust me. Go look up right now “mounted archery longbow.” You’ll find MAYBE one or two pictures of some guy on a horse struggling with a big stick; mostly you will actually see either mounted archers with RECURVES, or comparisons of Roman longbow archers to Mongolian horse archers (which are neat, can’t lie, I love comparing archery styles like that).

Anyway. Why are longbows terrible for mounted archery? Because they’re so damn long. Think about it: imagine you’re on a horse. You’re straddling a beast that can think for itself and moves at your command, but ultimately independently of you; if you’re both well-trained enough, you’re barely paying attention to your horse except to give it commands. And you have a bow in your hands. If your target is close enough to you that you know, from years of shooting experience, you will need to actually angle your bow down to hit it because of your equine height advantage, guess what? If you have a longbow, YOU CAN’T! YOUR HORSE IS IN THE WAY BECAUSE YOUR BOW IS TOO LONG! Worse, it’s probably going to get in the general area of your horse’s shoulder or legs, aka moving parts, which WILL injure your horse AND your bow and leave you fresh out of both a getaway vehicle and a ranged weapon. It’s stupid. Don’t do it.

A recurve, on the other hand, is short. It was literally made for horse archers. You have SO much range of motion with a recurve on horseback; and if you’re REALLY good, you know how to give yourself even more, with techniques like Jamarkee, a Turkish technique where you LITERALLY CAN AIM BACKWARDS.

For your viewing enjoyment, Serena Lynn of Texas demonstrating Jamarkee:

Yes, that’s real! This type of draw style is INCREDIBLY versatile: you can shoot backwards on horseback, straight down from a parapet or sally port without exposing yourself as a target, or from low to the ground to keep stealthy without banging your bow against the ground. And, while I’m sure you could attempt it with a longbow, I wouldn’t recommend it: a recurve’s smaller size makes it far more maneuverable up and over your head to actually get it into position for a Jamarkee shot.

A recurve just makes so much more SENSE. It’s not a baby bow! It’s not the longbow’s lesser cousin! It’s a COMPLETELY different instrument made to be used in a completely different context! For the rangers of Araluen, who put soooo much stock in being stealthy and their strong bonds with their horses, a recurve is the perfect fit! It’s small and easily transportable, it’s more maneuverable in combat and especially on horseback, it offers more power than a longbow of the same draw weight—really, truly, the only advantage in this case that a longbow has over the recurve is that longbows are quicker and easier to make. But we KNOW the rangers don’t care about that, their KNIVES use a forging technique (folding) that takes several times as long as standard Araluen forging practices at the time!

Okay.

Okay I think I’m done. For now.

[carionto]

Humans and Boredom III

Interceptors and fighter craft.

Almost nothing in the Galaxy can go toe to toe with a Human built Dreadnought. Practically nobody had built anything even close to that size before Humanity emerged and shocked everyone with such an arsenal, and now a few are looking to catch up. Most had figured that at least the smaller Human ships would be somewhat equivalent to their own existing ones. They were wrong.

While the neural interface drone swarms were actually comparable to our own in both design philosophy and usage for civil and military needs, what they call "Fighters" were terrifying.

Armed with countless weapons facing forward and incinerating thrusters out back, there's nothing one of these small dual or single pilot vehicles wouldn't try to pick a fight with. And probably win. Save for a direct hit to a core section, the typical Human redundancies and manual overrides for literally every system make taking one of these nimble horrors out a challenge. A full squadron? Pray.

So, despite their already ludicrous advantages, the Humans never stop upgrading and innovating. There is no such thing as a ceiling for any aspect of their weapons. In with the new, out with the old, as they say. When we asked what happens to the things that become outdated or obsolete, they said that if it can't be retrofitted anymore, it gets sent to a recycling station. They naturally have a specific one for military hardware to maintain secrecy.

___________________

At said station two operators were having a slower week and Patricia decided to try something different with all these old drone piloting kits and scrapped fighters and transports.

After convincing Matthias, they mounted gravity hooks on a bunch of vehicles and set the drones on a bunch of junked boosters, and programmed them to move in a partially randomized pattern towards the main atomizer bay. While they would gently float around to their demise, after a coin toss, Patricia would try to block a different set of much faster, thruster-enabled scraps, controlled by Matthias and which had deconstruction lasers instead.

The goal for Matthias was to turn as much mass of the slow moving horde into slag before they reach the end. Patricia would use whatever other junk is around to strategically shield the horde from taking direct hits to get as much of it into the bay. You get disqualified if you target the gravity hooks/lasers. Whoever "recycles" the most spaceship mass wins and gets first dibs on any one thing they want from the next shipment. Well, anything that isn't explicitly marked "Classified" in the manual.

Matthias dominated the first match and they both agreed to significantly reduced the laser potency and control only two at once. The second match was far more fair and Patricia, still in control of the horde, managed to eke out a win. They thought about doing a best of three, but realized they had in their excitement completed the entire week's worth of scrapping in an afternoon.

So they decided to play some board games with the few leftover scraps, both to just pass the time, and to appear busy to any supervisor who might make a surprise visit.

[xxdemonicheartxx]

The flights and their major exports

Ice: furs, fish, culinary or food grade ice, unique and seasonal herbs, spices and flora that only grow there in the spring, super rich culinary culture has formed here and it attracts tourism and foodies, cooking oils and fats, seeds and nuts for consumption

Nature: lumber, meats, spices, fertile soil, insect cuisine, perfumes, freshwater fish, houseplants, seeds and shoots for farming, decorative plant or wood working, plant based oils for cooking or fuel

Light: wheat, plant based fibers and fabrics, paper and or papyrus, chalk and marble, huge bread and baked goods industry, baskets, porcelain, exotic percivore cuisine, pigments, seasonal fruits

Earth: cactus fruits, minerals and stones, gemstones, terracotta creations or construction pieces, ceramic work, glass tile work, roots and tubers, fossils, pigments,

Wind: rice, grains, construction grade bamboo, paper, rice paper, fabrics, plants and small birds for consumption, instruments (specifically wood-wind), silks, ribbon, sonorous sculptures

Shadow: fungal harvests, wire craft, tactical suits and mantles to conceal the body, iron weaponry with decorative detailing, insect and plant exports, huge root farming industry, lantern exports, candles, woodturned tools/utensils/decor/etc

Water: shells and abalone, fish, seaweed and kelp cuisine, boats and boat blueprints, crustacean cuisine, huge huge huge provider for the pescatarians, opal

Lightning: machinery parts, batteries, cactus harvests, insulation for both heat and electricity, exotic insect cuisine, dried and aged foods, electricity is produced in excess enough to provide immediately to the surrounding territories

Arcane: stained glass, lumber from the starwood strand (has unique properties and could be used for construction or artistic works), magical batteries made from the crystals, tomes and books, lenses, exotic herbivore cuisine, luminous pigments, tapestry work

Plague: immunizers/immunizations, craft and construction grade bones, leather, ale/mead/wine/whiskey/etc because they have the most intricate and detailed brewing and fermenting processes due to the understanding they have surrounding bacteria, pickled foods and pickling kits, surgical grade tools, cheeses, dry aged meats, medical practices unlike any other

Fire: weapons and armor, exotic carnivore cuisine, glasswork and glass blowing, obsidian and basalt export, geothermic energy(they can provide power enough to the surrounding territories) intricate mosaic and tile work, mineral exports, ceramic exports, blackened foods, metal shells and armor for vessels and vehicles and mounts

These are just what I can think of by examining the map and element at face value, there are millions of things these places can produce and export but I think these are the big ones or what they are known for, maybe even just the best quality versions of the export! If you want to use these ideas or add your own feel free!

[novankenn]

Jaune Arc of Orleans

Land-Train... Waylaid

Jaune was panting, as he often did after having a vision from the Light. Most times he was only aware of just the meeting, and the sense of fulfillment and peace such meetings gave him... but other times. He remembered everything, instead of just fuzzy feelings. This was one of those times.

HIs hands were shaking as he recalled the grotesque beast the Light had bested. He did not know what it was, just that it radiated pure malice and hatred. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he rose to his feet and approached the sleeping form of his escort.

Jaune was sure they were about to be attacked, and even though Land-Trains were designed to shrug off such assaults, there was still a chance that injuries, or worse could happen. He had been warned, he had the power to change that fate.

"Qrow?" Jaune spoke as he reached out a began to gentle shake the huntsman shoulder. "Qrow!"

"Stop... sleep..." Qrow muttered as he tried to roll over.

"QROW!" Jaune yelled, accompanied with a jab of his finger into his exposed cheek. But still there was no response, or at least the one Jaune was seeking. Seeing no alternative Jaune reached out and played the ageless tactic of siblings everywhere. He pinched Qrow's nose shut.

Qrow flailed about, snorting and roughly twisting his head side to side.

"I'm up! I'm up!"

"We're going to be attacked!" Jaune shouted as the still groggy huntsman. "Did you hear me? We're going to be attacked!"

"Huh? What? I... quit yelling kid." Qrow commented as he attempted to blink the slumber from his eyes. "What are you..."

"We're going to be attacked!" Jaune once again shouted.

"What? When? How... how do you know that?"

"I just had a vision."

"Sorry, a vision?"

"Darkness encroaches! Death approaches!"

"Shit!" Qrow swore as he swung his lungs off the side of his bed and quickly got to his feet. After hearing about Jaune's previous visions and the warnings that foretold of the bandit attack... Qrow knew better than to just dismiss the young man's words.

"I'll alert the crews, you hunker down here." Qrow ordered as he pulled Harbinger from storage above his bunk.

"But I can..."

"I know you can, but I can't risk you getting hurt. Stay here! Got it?"

Jaune just nodded. Qrow nodded in return and reached up to pull the alarm lever. Flashing red lights soon filled ever compartment of the ten vehicle long land-train. It was common practice to have one huntsman or huntress per two vehicles. So Qrow knew aside from himself, and possibly any other huntsmen or huntresses on board as just normal passengers, there would be at least six abled bodies for the approaching fight.

That didn't include the crew members trained to provide fire support, via the roof mounted twin .50cal Ma Deuces. While standard rail systems were faster, there was something to be said about sturdiness of the tracked 10 ton armored vehicles. There was little aside from the largest of grimm that could really be considered a threat to this type of transportation.

"Stay here." Qrow commanded as he stepped out of the small private cabin, that was situated near the center of the series of articulate arm joined vehicles and pods.

Jaune remained where he was told to, in fact returning to sit upon his bunk. He was pretty sure he knew what Qrow was doing, or at least he thought he did. The other huntsmen and huntresses assigned to the land-train would need to be informed and defensive measures devised.

Jaune knew this would probably not be an issue if they had commandeered seats on one of the airships that did travel from Orleans to it's various trading partners... but motion sickness was a bitch and he did not want to suffer through an almost 24 hour long flight due to the multiple "hops" such travel required, due to mainly being short range cargo ships.

So it was the land-train, and a solid 60 hours of overland travel. Suddenly the loud rapid and heavy thundering thud of a multiple heavy weapons firing cut through the air. It had started... Jaune's warning had been issued just in time.

==> Table of Contents <==

[askganon]

I'm not sure if you can drive, but if you can, do you have advice on getting over fear of driving? I need to learn but I'm afraid of it and nobody takes me seriously, so I'm not sure how to get over my fear. Thank you even if you cant help me.

I do not drive, but I am well-versed in riding a mount. From what I understand, a vehicle is a mount without a mind, which likely makes it easier to utilize.

It is a tool, not a monster. It only responds to your command. A carpenter does not fear his saw, but will respect its danger. A warrior holds the same respect and knowledge of their weapon. A vehicle is no different.

Respect the harm it can create, but also be aware that its danger only comes from you. Respect the tool, and it will not fail you. Understand this, and how it functions, and you will be its master.

[oshlet]

Edward South's Vagabond MBT, used against S-11 rebels and his own allies during the revolutionary war. Modern at the time, it was still fairly practical, mounting a tried and tested 120mm smoothbore gun for anti-surface use. South's model was a solo-tank conversion, featuring additional automation and a Brain Interface System, allowing it to be controlled by only a single person.

In his re-emergence as a mercenary, he's now behind the wheel of a jury-rigged civilian crawler. Such a vehicle is slow, and not nearly as well suited to receiving weapons fire, however it makes up for it with its truly eye-watering armament of a huge laser cannon, fitted with three separate hybrid cooling/power cells, each of which can only squeeze out a single shot from the weapon.

Despite all the downsides, the intimidation factor of a weapon that doesn't even require a direct hit to disable an enemy vehicle is hard to pass up, and South has become feared for his ambush tactics using it.

[toaster-boi]

from what i can tell mech primary weapons seem to exist on a spectrum with "half of the arm's mass is taken up by the integrated gun and its autoloader" on one end and "these are just giant kalashnikovs" on the other, with Titanfall 2 falling squarely in the middle with what appear to be vehicle- or turret-mounted weapons given pistol grips and handguards

(i love all of them)

[boinkingbattlemechs]

King Crab

Designed by Cosara Weaponries in 2741 at the request of General Aleksandr Kerensky for an assault 'Mech that could "cripple or destroy another 'Mech in one salvo," the King Crab is one of the most fearsome BattleMechs to have ever existed. Its primary weapons, super-heavy autocannons mounted in its arms, can strip the armor off of any 'Mech in a few bursts. Its secondary weapons give the slow King Crab the firepower to see off attackers attempting to pick it off at range, and while not sporting the heaviest armor of any assault 'Mech, there are absolutely no weak points to its protection. If there is a drawback to the King Crab, it's the reliance on ammunition for the autocannons, an aspect to consider on extended campaigns with no guarantee of resupply. If it runs out of ammo, most King Crab pilots will withdraw from the field, making it vulnerable to enemy attacks. The only reliable way to destroy a King Crab is with overwhelming numbers of heavy and assault 'Mechs, and casualties will be suffered in the attempt.

While an excellent close-range combatant, the King Crab proved to be less versatile as a command vehicle, a role eventually filled by the Atlas. Later production models eventually had the state-of-the-art communications systems swapped out for common systems more suited for the brawling nature of the King Crab. At the start of the Amaris Civil War in 2767 Cosara's Mars factory was destroyed by Republican forces, although its factory on Northwind managed to escape unscathed. When General Kerensky and the majority of the Star League Defense Force left the Inner Sphere on their Exodus, they brought with them most of the initial production run of King Crabs, including all of the prototype KGC-010 models. The number of remaining King Crabs was further reduced when the Northwind factory was destroyed in 2786, one of the early casualties of the First Succession War. Since the design used few Lostech parts, it was easier to repair than other Star League era 'Mechs. Still, by the end of the Third Succession War a mere handful of King Crabs were still in active service with the Great Houses.

When ComStar initiated the takeover of the Terra system, they were able to repair the King Crab factory on Mars, mothball it, and secretly secure a number of King Crabs in storage. By the dawn of the thirty-first century ComStar contracted Cosara Weaponries to resume production in order to restock their supply, which had begun to degrade with age and was later used to outfit the Com Guards. For the pivotal Battle of Tukayyid the King Crab was among a number of designs upgraded to meet the challenge of the Clans, the so-called "Clanbusters." The success of the KGC-001 model was such that ComStar allowed Cosara to begin general production from their Mars and Northwind factories and sell it on the open market in exchange for a share of the profits.

The Word of Blake brought about a radical shift in King Crab production, first by their own conquest of Terra, then a few years later when they blockaded Northwind, infiltrated and took over the factory in 3069. New variants of the King Crab were now being produced and shipped to the Word of Blake and its Protectorate, forcing ComStar to attempt something unusual for the once-secretive organization. They hired a small mercenary team specialized in corporate espionage and inserted them into the Northwind factory to steal the plans for these new 'Mechs. With the technical information in hand they then went to StarCorps Industries and offered them the chance to begin production of the new KGC-007 models. The company was thrilled at the prospect and accepted, building new King Crabs out of Son Hoa not just for ComStar but the Federated Suns and Lyran Alliance as well.

The King Crab's primary weapons are two massive Deathgiver Autocannon/20s, among the most powerful BattleMech weapons ever created. Each arm carries one of these massive weapons, and they are fed by two tons of ammo split between the side torsos. The firepower of these weapons is enough to destroy a medium 'Mech in one salvo. To protect the autocannons in combat, engineers designed the King Crab with simple hand actuators. In appearance and movement, the actuators are very similar to pincers or claws found on real crabs, a contributing factor to the 'Mech's name. To back up the autocannons, and provide some long-range capabilities, the King Crab carries a Simpson-15 LRM-15 launcher, mounted in the left torso and fed by one ton of reloads in the same location, and an Exostar Large Laser in the right torso. While not the most heavily armored 'Mech, the King Crab is still tough to crack, with sixteen tons of ferro-fibrous armor and CASE protecting its ammunition stores; however, the arms are probably the most susceptible area to receive damage and an internal hit is likely to knock an autocannon out of the fight. The 'Mech is also slow, with a cruising speed of 32 km/h and top speed of 54 km/h, and has been described as a "notorious hangar queen".

[good-old-gossip]

U.S. Government PROUDLY ARMS & SPONSORS TERRORISTS

On Tuesday, US Secretary of State Antony Blinken approved a new batch of arms sales to Israel, totalling over $20bn in military equipment, according to the Pentagon.

In a statement, the Pentagon said, "The United States is committed to the security of Israel, and it is vital to US national interests to assist Israel in developing and maintaining a strong and ready self-defense capability. This proposed sale is consistent with those objectives."

The Pentagon confirmed that Blinken approved the potential sale of F-15 jets and related equipment worth nearly $19 billion.

Additionally, he approved the possible sale of tank cartridges valued at approximately $774m and army vehicles worth $583m.

The tank rounds would be almost immediately available for delivery.

This multibillion-dollar package is the latest in a series of arms deals that Israel is set to receive from the US, adding to the $14bn in additional military aid approved earlier this year.

The sale comes amid mounting criticism of the Biden administration for continuing to authorise arms transfers to Israel despite the death toll in Gaza approaching more than 40,000 Palestinians, most of them women and children.

Since Israel's war on Gaza began last October, Israeli forces have destroyed much of Gaza's civilian infrastructure, including schools, hospitals, mosques, and UN shelters.

Over the past ten months, the Biden administration has transferred hundreds of millions of dollars worth of arms and munitions to Israel.

Weapons sales as ICC warrants loom The weapons sales to Israel come despite the International Criminal Court (ICC) seeking arrest warrants for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Defence Minister Yoav Gallant on the grounds of war crimes and crimes against humanity.

Gallant and Netanyahu face war crimes and crimes against humanity charges over the starvation of civilians as a method of warfare; wilfully causing great suffering; wilful killing; intentional attacks on a civilian population and extermination, alongside several other charges.

Even as the US continues to pump billions worth of weapons to Israel, the country increasingly boasts record sales from its weapons industry internationally. Israel's defence ministry said in June that its arms exports for 2023 hit a record in sales.

The report by the defence ministry said that the total exports of Israeli arms reached $13.1bn in 2022, an increase of $500m from the previous year and double the amount of exports from five years ago.

More than a third of the sales comprised missiles, rockets and air-defence systems, with one of the biggest contracts of 2023 being with Germany, which signed a deal to purchase the Arrow 3 long-range air defence system for around $4bn.

"While our industries are primarily focused on providing the defence establishment with the capabilities to support our troops and defend our citizens, they are also continuing to pursue areas of cooperation and exports to international partners," Israeli Defence Minister Gallant said in a statement.

Roughly half, 48 percent, of all sales, went to the Asia and Pacific region, while Europe accounted for 35 percent of sales, and North America accounted for nine percent.