#what is life if not trying in the face of destruction and loss and peril and suffering?

[shelterdogswag]

this is nubkin

faq

-

q: what does nubkin love to do ?

a: nubkin loves to eat the pellet !

q: what pellets does nubkin love to eat ?

a: nubkin loves to eat the red pellets.

q: what if nubkin wanted to try the blue pellets ?

a:

n̵̥̩̳̜̪͑͂̈̕͠͠ŭ̵̦̞̣͔́́̐b̷͕̮̮̲͑̈́̑̇́ͅk̸̡̥̭̯̼̙͎̜̳̙̃͗́̑̌̈́͒͘i̶͕͛̆̑͑͠n̸͎̝̬̠͓̠̈͂̑'̴̨̨̧̝̩̺̲͓͓͊͗͘ş̴̨̯͙͚̘̖͈̒͆ ̴̖̰͎̼̫͔͊̊͝b̷͖͕̾̈́̇̋̄̄͌̓͝ơ̸̢̝̦̦̰̓̋̒̾̑́̊̎d̸̲̈͆̿̃͐͌̚̕y̴̡̺̰̪͎̎ ̷͕̞̯͉̤̹̾̾͌̋̌͛̋̚w̵͍̫̩̍̈́́̍̉̌̀ī̴̫̦̜̟̲̪̤̊͘͜͜l̶̟̣͕̭̂̽̐̓̇̈́l̴̢̺̖͉̇̒̉̄͛ͅ ̵̥̭̈́͛͒̋̓͗͂ḇ̴̨͙̱̰̺͚͎̹̅́̐̓̌e̴̢̥̱̜̭͔̻͔̱̎̌̓̈́̈͋̀ ̵̛͔̗̙̠̱̈́̄̒͆̈͋v̶̳̝͖̮̳͉̲̝̈͋̂̽̎́â̶̤̪͖̝̗͎̪̐̃̀̊͑͘͜͜͝p̶̺̞̍̇́͑̈́́̎̈́̐͐ö̷̟͎̥͍́̉͑̀̽̉̅̾r̶̲̠͍̭̒̾̊͠i̷̧͖̝̜̮̱̤̪̮̫͆̑̓̐̚͠z̶̜̤̞͖̖̓̀̒̈̀̚͠e̵̟͛̚̚d̵̡̢̖̲̳̰̤̄͗̾̈́̈́͋̀̕̚ ̸̛͍͖̩͕̄͊̀͑̚͝͝a̵̰̦͕͍̯̭̺̽̈́̉̏̕ņ̷̝̺̗̦̮̮̦̍́͋͑͌̋͐͊d̷͙̞͒ ̶̡͙̮͓̲̫̜͚̑̃̆͐̔̍̄̽͘͝ṫ̷̢̧̩̪͖̭͈͕̈́͠i̷̳͎̓��m̶̪̜̼̠̰̫̮̙̼̀̊ȩ̸̬̻̬̓̾̏́̓̿̉̃̓̕ ̵̥̮̖͖̱̗̃̇͜͜r̵̛͙̼̹̥͎̺̖̃͂̿̈́́̿é̴͇̞͂̈͋̃̇̋s̶͙̣̘͙̦͑ë̷̡̛̲́̓̉̓̃̐̿̑̕t̶̡̛͚̭͙̼̫̲̜̭̀͐͗͊,̷̜̦̜̰͕̝͒̿́̓͐͋̎̎ ̵̝͙̠͍̩͔̲̜͕̑͆̏̌̆̕͘͠͝ṅ̶͍̹̝̖̤̬͇̫̯͋́̈́͗̅̈͌̐͜͝ũ̷̮̺̀͂̄̀͋̈́́̚͠b̶̭̟͕̟͆k̶̹͔̦͙͙̺͈̻͎͑̿̐͗̃̽̃͝i̴̦̪̳͍̖̘̝̠̗͂̍n̵̢̼̥͓͚̪̈́̚ ̷̖͚͉̞͈̫̑͝m̶̬̦̮͇̅̑ṵ̴̯͎̥̼̹̭̞̫̣̽̇̎̄̈́̀͛͐s̶̰̻̥̃̾͌̓̑̒̈́͒̽͑t̷̡̺͓̞̹̟̭̼̣̃̀̑̀̕̚ ̶̬͚͚̝̭̇̓̆̔̋̍͘b̶̡͔̣̬̫͍̠͈̥̐e̸̪̤̭͙͎̤̤͎̭̐̋̋́̇̌̐͜͝ ̸̢̳̲͖̞͉̦͇̲͖̓̊̓͐̓̾͊p̴̧̥͖̝͍͍͍̟̽̉̚̕ů̵̲̠̭̻̕͜͠n̶̫̹̥̠̈i̷̫̫̞̹̻̱͉̼̣͊͠s̵̱͖̹͔̳̽͌̏͝h̷͎̽̋̃̀͊͝é̴̢͎͚̩͙͖̃̈́̾̆͝ḓ̶̫̟̤̼͑̊̈́̎̓́̄̀͌ ̴̘̋͐͋͘f̸̠͇͎̭̌̔o̶͂̊̇̕͜͝r̴̘̯̓͒̆̋̅͌͒̓ ̴̻͔̪͚̩̠̳̉m̸̬͉͍͈̞̄ȯ̵̧̬͖͍̣͉̣́͗̓̔͘͝v̷̨͙̬̱̙̦̯̤̐̍̎́͗͑̄͋̑̀ȉ̶̝̜͋̉̇͠n̵͉̩̲̩͒̂͆̓͐̕̚͝g̸̡̡̲͓̠͕̀̎͑̎ ̴̗̬̺̙̯̊̉̐̾͑t̷̤̎͑ó̷͓̤̗̠̺͙w̷̧͙̭̘͖̲̝̗̣̔̾̆a̴̧̯̞̲̝̗̯͎̤̞͋̎̀̀̐̈̈̎̚̚r̴̖͍͉̩̉͑̈́̾͂͐̕ḍ̵̘̲̖̮̗̮̪̓̈́̓͒͊̽͘ͅs̷̗͆̂̎̅͋̒̋̈́͘ ̸̧̧͖̰͕͍̆͒͆́t̵͚͚̟͚̣̖͙͇̼͖͂̽́̅̕͝h̶̨̡͍͍̦̪̊é̶̹͎͙͔̯͒͐̑̀ ̸̥̯̬͉͕͔̭̬̒̌̄̃́͗̕͠b̶͕͍̱̼̖̂̉͑̈́̇͝l̴̡͕̟̗̭͎̻̯̉̊̈́̀̂̑̓̓͆͝ͅú̷̢̙̩̺͙̄͝ͅế̵̡̙̟͙̅ ̵͍̬̓̉̂p̵͚͎̬̩̳̰̳̾e̵̹͛͒̽̈́̈̓̕l̴̝̜̗̄̋́̍̀͊̈́̈́̀͝l̷̡̜̯̤̤͈̰̜̖̪̾e̸̦͔̭͖̯̪̐ṫ̵̰̝̳͊́̃̃͒͐,̸̼̩̣͎̙̀͝ ̸̨͈̺̼͚̰̩̀̀͑͒f̸̢͔̥̳̘̥͈̩̀o̶̡̧͚̻̗̜̒͑ŕ̸̢̘̤̲͕ ̵̦̦̿̈̔͐͗͠ţ̷̪̪̳̳̬͈̰̩͇̿̆͊̀̾̑͐̎̿̌h̷͈̦̞͉̪̘̉́̔͐͛̀͝͠ȩ̶͖̱̟̗̥̘̀͒́̀̔͐͘͝͝ ̶̣̥͓͖́̃̇͂̈́̓̏̌͐͝b̸̧̨̺̤̼̼͚̃͜l̶͉̺̾u̸̺̎̀̈̓̆̇̃̓͝ę̶̼̲̥̻̫̑̑̆͌̂ͅ ̶͓̟̺̭͊̆̾̇͋̈́̆p̴̨͚̭̥̝̗̠̼̖̪̔ȩ̶͔̪̯̮̪̽̑̀̅̆̄̕ͅḻ̶̘́͝l̸̢̰̝̀͊̍e̴͈̲̪͖̳̥̹̳̤͒̇̒̐̌̓͛̾͜t̵̖̮͇͉̻̙̆͋͘ ̶̡̛̬͇̼̬̫̫͈̤̘̅̈́̊̅̍̾ĭ̴̦̘̼̻͉̪̉͑̀s̵̨̢̼̟̩͔̟̮̈́͜͝͠ ̵̦̜̳͍̱͐̃̾̉̓̾̇̀̈́͑f̵̛̬̟̭͇̻̘̩̯̮̉̀́̕ỏ̵̦̥̟͆̔ͅr̵̬͗́̈́̐b̶̦̫̺̙̈́̒̓̉̽͐̈͠i̶̺̫̘͛̒̎̏̏̉̄̍̇͜ḑ̷̪̳̪̦͔̳̓́̎̍͊̓̈̕͠ḑ̶̥̙̗͙͉̺̠͕́͛̋̓̾̀ë̵͈́n̴͖͍̦̜̹͛ͅ,̴͙͂͋̒͛͜ ̸̢̻̤̩̌̓̑̎̋a̴̛͉̪̝̼̲͌͌̒́̍͂͌n̴̪̳̯̙͉̱̅̏͠͝ͅͅd̵̝͚͎̩̭̋̈̉̓̑̃̀ ̴̢͕̭̀̆n̷̨̠̜̥̹̬̾͑͛͆̀̈́́̎͊͘u̶̢̻͎͍̪̐̄̆́͘͜͝b̵̜͆ḳ̸̨̺̥̪̗̜̥̂́̃̈͠ȋ̸̙͚͎̥͚̼̀̅̓̅̾͘̕͜n̷̞͇̙̦̋́͝ ̴̻̬̺͚̇̑́̒̚ç̵̧͓̺͈̻̰͓̜̈́̈̈̍́͑͊̕͝ǎ̸̡̯͙͉͔͕̎̄̈́͜ň̵̢̯̖̾̋͛̉ ̴̡͇̣̱̗̯̋̐̇͊̈́̉̏̚͝ṇ̵͔̲̀͑ë̴̫̘̖͎̫̰̭̳̳͐̋͜ṿ̷̨̛̳̰͖̬͂̋e̵̟̗͎͉̠̟̝̦͗̃̀̀͘r̷̮̪̼̳̝̟̬̲̻͐̕ ̵̮̤̝̪̱̜̘̳̝͔̂̆͗̑̕k̶̫̳̮̃̾̏̔͗̌͐̈́͘͜͜n̵̺̱͑̐̐̈́̄o̷̮̙̞͐̈́̓̑̿́͂̉̚͠w̵̬̭̹͕̲̿́̀͗́̅͂̚͝ ̷̱͇͍̣̮̱̏͋͐̔ͅi̶̛̛͑̏͆̊̓̾̓̌͜t̸̢̨̛̝̗̜̜̞͂̕'̴̗̩̥͎̖͍̄͑̓̈́̽̆̀̆͠s̸̙͍̦͗͐́̒̈̓̃̇ͅ ̶͇̫͇͖̙͉͇̰̳̾̿ͅt̴̢̤͙̬̫̐͑͋̑͒̌̎͘͝a̷̦͌͊̈̊̾̉̄̈́͠s̶̢͕̭͉̪̼̓̀̈́͒̄̑̚̕͜t̸̨̹͙̞̞̤̠͉̫͌̓͗̇̀͋̄̀́͘͜e̶̜̩̤̲̘̭̞͍̲͊̉̀͌͑͗͜͠

q: what is nubkin's profession ?

a: nubkin is a man of science !

-

this has been nubkin. say goodbye to nubkin.

[vibke]

My holidays are over, now I won't have that much time to draw (TヘT)

However, because of that i decided to post some more accurate information about how the Vanilla's new physiology works, since before that there were only some interesting facts. Here is the same pic but with silly notes (ノ*°▽°*)

Sooooo, what the hell has happen?

Basically,

Shadow Milk cookie infused a substantial amount of his life magic into Pure Vanilla cookie, fundamentally transforming his essence to mirror that of milk itself, establishing a familial connection between them. Milk, being a pristine wellspring of vital energy, sustains himself internally without the need for external sources, unlike Vanilla, who must assimilate the life force of other cookies to thrive. This absorption can only be achieved by consuming another cookie alive, with the intensity of their suffering directly correlating to the energy garnered.

The constant expenditure of this vital energy is essential for Vanilla's survival, yet it can also be deliberately harnessed for magical purposes. Also existing in the physical realm demands a higher energy expenditure compared to the void. Vanilla feels hungry all the time, regardless of the energy level. Despite the persistent gnawing hunger, Vanilla exercises restraint, indulging in consumption only as a last resort when energy levels dwindle perilously low.

When the energy level reaches this point or when grievously wounded, Vanilla's sanity unravels, plunging him into a frenzied state where he indiscriminately attacks and devours any cookie in sight, save for Milk. Even at maximum energy capacity, this ravenous frenzy persists, transforming Vanilla into a feral being devoid of speech, reveling in the carnage and suffering inflicted upon others. Respite from this state is only achieved once energy peaks and no viable targets remain for consumption.

However, a glimmer of hope resides in Lily's voice, capable of momentarily grounding Vanilla and averting complete loss of control, hinting at a potential emotional tether that may offer salvation. The preservation of memory and knowledge during these frenzied episodes contrasts starkly with the loss of coherent communication, replaced by primal vocalizations akin to predatory animals.

Taking all this into account, Vanilla's main goal is to prevent loss of sanity. If, even in a wild state, Vanilla cannot find and eat anyone, or if he is killed, then his physical shell will collapse. However, the symbiotic relationship between Vanilla and Milk ensures their physical shells can regenerate using the vital energy of the other upon destruction, rendering their demise nearly impossible. This makes the destruction of each of them almost impossible, since they both have to be killed within a fairly short period of time. Milk as a whole is not set up to lose, and Vanilla enters a state of savagery when seriously injured, so you need to try hard to kill two at once. Vanilla predominantly resides in the void, emerging sporadically to hunt in the outside world to conserve energy, while Milk adopts a congenial demeanor, advocating for joint dominance in the world, a proposition Vanilla resists.

The psychological toll of wanton violence and senseless slaughter weighs heavily on Vanilla, compelling compliance in the face of Milk's dominance, exacerbated by the threat of descending into unrestrained savagery when resisting. The trauma inflicted by brutal acts of violence reinforces Vanilla's obedience, believing himself unworthy and trapped in a cycle of submission.

[kits-shrine]

Rotten Stinkin' Onions

Below is the sad end! Read at your own peril~

"You're my mate." she protested tearfully "I should have tried harder. Done everything. Done anything." Kit bowed her head in shame "And I didn't even think to try." After what happened to his mother, she'd assumed everything about him that made him, him was gone. But she should have tried "I'm so s-sorry that I left you alone when you needed me most." “You never left me, Kit,” he chided softly, taking her hand into his to kiss them both before placing them over his heart, “you were with me the whole time, right here.” She gave a little sob curling to lay her head against his chest overwhelmed by emotion. The beads brushing against his fingers from around her wrist gave a little shiver a hairline crack spreading on one of them. The crack grew and grew, just like the ones on her poor battered Soul. It was just too much and she was already too weak, she whisper little apologies over and over before she let out a pained gasp... as her Soul shattered and her body turned to stone in his arms.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis as the woman he loved lay cold and still in his arms, “Kit,” he tried to shake her, but stone does not yield, “this isn’t funny, Kit,” his breathing grew ragged as the reality that his love was gone slowly sank in. Her hands felt like white-hot branding irons over his erratic heart, “No, not like this,” he moaned quietly, “No. No. No. No. No. NO!” the elf’s soft refutes turning into wails of heart wrenching agony and rage. He was home; they were together, so why? Why was she gone? It was his fault, he thought brokenly, that goddess may have started it, but he, he was the weak-willed one. He hadn’t been strong enough to stop the possession. He abandoned his mate, leaving her to suffer, letting her broken heart slowly consume her Soul until it was too late. He was to blame. Wild magic as turbulent as his emotions rolled off him in waves, tearing at the earth, shredding the slip of paper that rested near them. Though if the silver kitsune siblings were there, Ingall was blind to them in his grief. Leaves trembled, falling from their perches, trunks bowed, and bark cracked, flowers wilted as grass brown; all nature grieved with the Elven King, all felt his loss, all mourned the dear lady who would have been Queen. (edited)

Thick brambles sprouted from the earth, winding around the King and his lost love, barring all from disturbing him in what would be a tomb. It was only when the wickedly thorned vines threatened to choke the Heart did the elf had a moment of clarity, “No,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper; he would not destroy that which his mate had fought so hard to protect in life. He reached inward even as he felt his Spirit beginning to fade, waves of magic pouring from the elf once again, but these were gentle, healing. This magic was born of love, not grief. Brambles receded as the scarring on the great tree healed, bright red flowers blanketed the earth around the Heart. The spider lilies held an otherwordly glow as they swayed in a soft breeze. A bed of clovers rested beneath the lovers, one of stone, the other green growing things delicate purple blooms sprouted from their clasped hands, heliotrope: eternal love.

Summoned both by the destruction of the slip and the chimes of distress from the Heart itself the silver kitsunes looked at the scene in horrified disbelief and heartache. With tears streaming down her face Ginko checked that both were really and truly gone, whilst her brother checked the Heart whose creaking branches sounded like it was crying with them.

At the house Tony had his hands full with a hysterical Byakko, who couldn’t even speak enough for her siblings to understand. But seeing ones parents perish in each others arm in a magical mirror would do that to most any one, but most certainly one as young as she.

The following days and weeks were spent in mourning not only for the kitsunes or for the monsters once they heard the news, but for the very Shrine itself. The elder kitsunes had to not only carry their grief and the children’s grief but there was a rise in Spirit activity drawn by the negative energy drawn by their sadness causing them to get no rest.

With the help of their friends in both their parents worlds to help them through this dark time. Ginko tried to split her attention between caring for the children and the Shrine and her brother the same, though the later swore off ever allowing himself the weakness of having a mate. The twins picked up mantles in truth of being the next Shrine Guardians, working harder than ever to help working through their grief that way. Touma had been taken in largely by Tamashii. The little one was very confused why and where his mother and Ingall had gone and his father seemed to be the only one capable for distracting him overlong. And Bya… Bya was often found curled up against her mama and papa’s side at the Heart’s base more often than not semi catatonic.

Eventually they would perhaps grow past the pain… but it would not be for many years to come.

~sad fin~

True End

Rotten Stinkin' Onions-You are here

Sweet Onions

Wild Onions -

[flordivina]

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉. 𝒻𝓉 — @valiantthearts

It was a Beautiful Tragedy to witness, quite poetical even...

The Enchantress couldn’t help but compare Mel to a crumbling castle of cards. Marvelous as long all its foundations were in the right places, holding its weight to perfection, compelling the gaze of anyone with awe at its unblemished creation. Flawless & Admirable, as long as wind would not blow or a single unprompted step would not draw it all to fall.

Humming contemplative as the Arcane radiated a crimson hue & power accumulated, Emilia would briefly fade away from her among the shadows, permitting the magic to do as it pleased. Only for parsimonious & elegant materialize once more by the Empath’s side after some seconds of lingering power… 

Every movement may seem measured as her silhouette would slowly kneel by Mel’s side, inquisitive bright eyes tracing through every single aureate mark glimmering upon her form, looking for any mismatching path, something that would not seat correctly, & yet all in her was perfectly done by Nature’s desire. A vessel adapting to the Arcane within, crafted just like her own golden threads would sew her body with every crack & every tear… 

…It was simply cruel to listen how the weight of a Mother’s words could still push her down.

Blame it to be a Mother herself; to her own blood & adopted ones, & even every little blossom of her garden too if they lacked the caring hand. Maybe, below is the portrayal of a ruthless Matron & in the crave to convert this Nation into something that could face what awaited behind the veil, she was too soft for a modern Noxian just as she was too soft among Sahn Uzal´s servitude, & despite her own Cruelty & desires to bend anything to her will, she still wondered about how Ambessa could had broken this Child to such point… 

“You had too much to bear upon your shoulders, my Dear… Words can be weapons & poisons with horrible accuracy if said by someone we love.” Oh dear Elora, such facade she had been, as her hand would raise with the same timid manner to touch Mel’s shoulder with honest patience & silent support, fingers drumming gingerly upon golden lines. “... The Arcane itself doesn't demand Perfection out of you to master it, it demands emotion, sincerity with yourself. You are strong enough, capable enough… the Arcane doesn’t come for the weak, but you seem to have refrained for too long who you really are…” 

Careful, as if allowing Mel to escape from her touch at any instant she chose to, the Sorceress’ fingertips would grace below her chin & lift it to gaze at her. This time it was not the Ionian Princess to greet her, but her real face, without even the glamour spell to show untarnished porcelain… 

Mel had seen through her illusions once & saw her feature, what point was demanding of her such Honesty if she was still attempting to play through facades. Irony was delectable, but not in this case when time was running out.

“I know the burden you carry, I had to syphon more magic than belonged to me once, & it almost broke me apart, took more from me that I could ever gain… It is not a kind thing to attempt command by force, you have to stop thinking, you have to feel it, set it free.” Her gaze softened, less perilous than when wearing the face of the Princess. Her voice, carrying a melodious tone in contrast when shadows veiled her. The phantom weight of her withered wings still lingered on her back, as the memories still set her blood ablaze.

“Like the Emotions you try to control & bury, My Dear, you need to feel them to master them, not push them away…” 

There was compassion in her eyes this time, a gentle condolence for the side of her who needed to grief. Not for those around her but the loss of Self, for there was no greater lost than the destruction of identity, & even more terrible, no way to run back to the time before Life had shaped us into something we had never been. 

Oh Elora, how she would have instinctively rushed to embrace Mel & bleed affection on her, as if harmed by the dagger of Love. How LeBlanc's arms tingled as if electricity rushed through her nerves, how her eyes reflected tenderness that came from that facade. What a Sin it was for The Deceiver to be caught in her own lies, when the faux relationships turned to blooming real emotions she was not meant to pursue nor carry such burden… 

Cassandra she had painfully adored as Evan, she had fallen in everlasting love for her as Monique, so strongly & needed for closeness among Centuries, that it had bloomed even into a precious Child. & Elora, oh Elora, had loved Mel with such intensity, Emilia had committed the mistake of not severing the connection back to her in time, drunk in the intoxicating liquor of endearment... 

But she had to do so now. In one way or another, & return to her Goal, for it was her duty to sacrifice herself for this land, regardless of what others may see her deeds as...

“Maybe what you need is to simply feel it… just as you had done now, let go of the emotions you hold, not even think or attempt to control… Let go of the burden you carry, for a Vessel cannot hold more water if it's full already.” Her face would be impassive, serene & full of calm, but the condescending care would still glow at her aurate glare, even as her fingertips would almost begrudgingly leave her chin & return to the peacefulness of sitting by her side.

“Feel free to do it here, destroy all around those training grounds, don’t think, just act…give vent to every single one of your frustrations, cry if you need to, tire yourself out of your anger…  I won’t judge you for being able to Feel, Mel.”

[mikkeneko]

So the engine of the idea, and this is the part I remember seeing at least once in a fic, is Luo Binghe ending up getting captured and stuck in a dungeon under Cang Qiong while Shen Qingqiu dithers around and has highly conflicted feelings about it. I don't specifically remember how he ended up there or how it resolved, though obviously it didn't last for long.

The plot that I'm imagining would go sort of like this:

Shen Qingqiu doesn't quite manage to self-destruct completely at Hua Yue City (possibly he does, but the System, aka me! kicks him back.) He wakes up at Cang Qiong to find a worried YQY hovering over him. YGY fills him in on what happened after his blowout, which involved Luo Binghe flipping his shit and revealing his demon heritage, and Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge managing to overpower him together. Luo Binghe is now stuck under a mountain somewhere in Cang Qiong, much like his dad. Meanwhile most of the charges against Shen Qingqiu have been dropped -- the disciple abuse charge isn't going to stick if the accuser turned out to be a demon, and Luo Binghe claimed responsibility for the sower attack. (The Qiu family massacre is still up in the air, but Huan Hua Palace has lost 2/3rds of its charges and also physical possession of Shen Qingqiu, so Cang Qiong ain't giving him back.)

Shen Qingqiu is completely floored by this turn of events. The protagonist... lost? Lost?? That shouldn't have happened! Literally, fundamentally could not have happened! Except... Yue Qingyuan was always the one cultivator too strong for Luo Binghe to face head-on. And Liu Qingge was always an unknown factor. The two of them working together, maybe... just maybe... it happened.

Shen Qingqiu finds himself at a bit of a loss. He got what he wanted -- protection from Luo Binghe, but -- not like this! He wanted to be safe, but he never wanted Binghe to be locked up, to be trapped, to suffer!

Shen Qingqiu decides he has to do something to help Binghe. He has to go visit him.

In disguise, of course! He's not about to deliver himself up for vengeance on a platter!

So he decides to disguise himself and sneak in... as one of the love interests.

I'm thinking he picks Liu Mingyan to be his wifesona, mostly because iirc Liu Mingyan was his favorite wife/the wife he thought was most deserving of Luo Binghe. (It's @cerusee's suggestion that he should go In Disguise As Liu Mingyan Also In Disguise For Plausible Deniability Reasons, but I'll have to see whether I can make that work.) Either way, he sneaks in with a cloak, a veil and a few disguise talismans, and poses as a young cultivator woman who has always admired Luo Binghe from afar, pined for him, and is now willing to go against the will of Cang Qiong for him.

Some back-and-forth goes on here with SQQ repeatedly visiting Luo Binghe in disguise, bringing food and water and comforts, and they talk. Shen Qingqiu LARPing his wifesona gets perilously close to real honesty about his feelings here, though of course he is not going to achieve the self-realization moment just yet.

By the way, just in case there is any doubt, Luo Binghe is not fooled for an instant. But he plays along, because playing along is the whole reason he's here; these bindings are really only meant to contain full demons and he could break out of them at any time. But the near-brush with (Shizun's) death at Hua Yue City spooked him, and he's been doing some self-reflection of his own. He's decided that trying to chase or overpower SQQ clearly isn't going to work, so the only way to get Shizun back in his life is to pretend to be harmless and pathetic. And look! It's working! Even if Shizun feels the need to pretend he isn't himself, for whatever dumb fucking reason.

I'm thinking this eventually ends when Tianlang-jun attacks Cang Qiong (probably as revenge for YQY's part in the initial sealing of him,) and while everyone is running around like chickens with their heads cut off SQQ rushes to the dungeons to let Luo Binghe out. While he's trying to figure out how to undo the bindings he distractedly explains the problem and Luo Binghe agrees to help, stands up, shrugs, and the chains snap like ribbons.

Shen Qingqiu: ...are you telling me that you could have got out of those cuffs at any time?? Luo Binghe: No, Shizun! Only when it was funny.

Pondering a new Bingqiu fic idea 🤔

[lastxviolet]

Madripoor is for Lovers (Zemo x F!Reader) - Ch. 3

Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?

Warnings: 18+ / smut / oral sex / f receiving

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32878015/chapters/81589774

The hypnotic bass and Zemo's enthusiastic dance moves almost got you carried away. But over the bouncing crowd, you saw Sharon, Bucky, and Sam on the stairs, looking for you.

“Shit,” you mumbled, breaking the trance. “We gotta go.”

Zemo followed your line of sight and turned to lead you back to the group in silence. You try to hide the disappointment on your face.

“We found him,” Sharon yelled over the music upon your approach.

The five of you went over the plan for tomorrow back in Sharon’s suite. You doubted that even with your experience, you could’ve found Dr. Nagel without Sharon's help. In the states, it was easy to pick a needle out of a haystack, because you always knew what you were looking for. But here, everyone was a criminal. Uncharted territory where you had to find the sharpest needle amongst thousands.

“You good?”

Sam’s voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up and noticed the dissipating group. Sharon showed Bucky to his room, and Zemo sat with his eyes glued to a book on the couch. Only Sam remained standing in front of you, looking like he was about to pass out.

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement. “We gotta get the hell out of here. Madripoor has aged me at least ten years.”

“Me too. I miss places where being a criminal makes you the odd one out, not the other way around.”

“Goody two-shoes,” he teased before turning to find his room.

Sharon waved him on from down the hall and they got back into it about her pardon and what she’d missed in the states.

Your attention shifted to the only other person in the room. Zemo’s eyes wasted no time abandoning his book and landing on you as soon as you were alone.

“The Odyssey,” you asked, pointing to his book. “I didn’t take you for someone who enjoys fiction.”

He smiled at the attention and made room for you on the couch.

“I often find that there are elements of truth in every fantasy. The human spirit is sometimes better examined by poets than by professors. This, for instance, is a brilliant study on heroes.”

“Hmm, studying heroes? An attempt to know thy enemy?”

He laughed and turned to you with his elbow up on the back of the couch, bringing him less than a foot away from your face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the lights down the hall go out. There were no interruptions, or easy outs, now. All that was left was you, and the only man who’d ever made you truly nervous.

“Y/N, if you were in Odysseus’s place, content and immortal, would you give it up to go back home?”

“You’re asking me if I’d abandon my legacy and family to shack up on an island with some mistress?”

He chuckled and nodded in approval. “Very wise. But what does he gain by leaving? Struggle? Hardship? Mortality?”

You tilted your head to match his. “Are you telling me that you’d stay on the island?”

His expression shifted for the first time since you’d stepped foot in Madripoor. The overconfident, smirking Baron dissolved into a man.

A man who hid the sense of riotousness that he carried with dramatic flair. A man whose charm and wit seemed fabricated.

This man now, fighting off sleepy eyes and grappling with the moral quandary posed, seemed burdened. You wondered if his quest for justice would ever get to be too much. After all the destruction he’d caused, could he still see himself as the exactor of fairness? Were the Avengers still his enemy? Were you?

“No,” he confessed looking down at the copy in his hands.

Your lips twitched but you didn’t smile. “You’d make the hard choice — the hero’s choice if it came down to it.”

He looked almost somber at your words and nodded.

“In another life…perhaps.”

His voice wavered, almost as if he regretted saying it out loud. The briefing that Sam and Bucky had given you about him flashed in your mind.

A hero's choice was the right thing to do; the hard thing to do. You knew that he was a soldier before everything happened. Just like you.

Was that not a hero’s choice?

He tore the Avengers apart in an attempt to stitch up his own heart. An eye for an eye. Avenging his country because its destruction had been glossed over by the world. His loss fueled his anger but he was more capable than most. A man without armor, or mystical abilities was able to wreak havoc on those who had wronged him.

Was that heroism?

If losing those you love didn’t permit revenge, you weren't sure what did.

He broke the silence by tapping his knuckle on the book.

“It is the perfect testament to the valiance of heroes,” he continued. "But, I must say that the wisest thing Odysseus did was marry his wife.”

You laughed and nodded, remembering how she saved the day. Without her, Odysseus’s homecoming would’ve been much more perilous for him.

“I often find that behind every great man is an even better woman.”

He smirked and didn’t miss a beat. “Like you with…your Avengers.”

“I stand beside them,” you corrected.

He raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Semantics."

You gave him an eye roll in return.

He smiled then, wider than you had ever seen. It almost made him seem shy. Perhaps it was because he was making a genuine point, masked in humor.

You were well aware of your importance to this mission and yet burdened by the fact that it didn’t make you a member of their special club. When this was all over, you wouldn’t be an Avenger, or anywhere close. You’d go back to S.W.O.R.D to wait until called upon again. It hadn’t occurred to you before, but there was a pang of sadness there where the thought rested. It’d be a mistake to let Zemo know but it seemed to be too late.

“You’re making fun of me.”

His hand brushed yours. “No. I am merely expressing my concerns about your allegiances.”

Still aware of the small amount of alcohol left in your system, you looked away from his quirked moving lips.

“Enlighten me, Baron. What wrong decisions do you think I’m making?”

Frozen in place, you let him brush his fingers along your wrist to your arm. He took his time, tracing patterns on your skin and inspecting his work with an unwavering gaze. Only when his thumb caressed your cheek, and his hand landed on your neck did he look you in the eyes again. The air in your lungs was gone and your body betrayed you with a furious eruption of butterflies.

“Living a hero’s life,” he said somber-eyed and serious.

Your heart rate quickened. As if you’d learned nothing in S.W.O.R.D about manipulation, you were back to watching his lips. They parted slightly, as if he had something else to say but thought better of it.

A hero.

You didn't feel like one.

A sidekick, maybe. But even then, no one knew your name. No one sang your praises at home or breathed a sigh of relief knowing you were out there in the world fighting evil. It seemed that the only one who thought of you as more than an assistant was Zemo.

Your heart felt heavy then. The two of you were impossible. An inconceivable pair brought together by chance.

But that didn’t make his dark eyes any less enticing or his words any less intoxicating.

That didn’t make you any further from his lips.

He was a breath away, but so was your own destruction.

In another life, the island might tempt you.

“Look,” you said glancing past him to find something to change the subject. “It’s a full moon.”

Without sparing him another glance, you crossed the floor in four quick steps to the large windows. Never one to give up easily, you heard him follow close behind.

He beat you there and pushed open the glass door before gesturing towards the balcony in silence.

You looked down at your feet until the skyline drew your eyes. The plan to diffuse the tension had not worked in the slightest. The moonlit balcony overlooking the beautiful city had only made it worse.

You heard him stop a few feet from you and then settle on the lone armchair. The reality of the situation hit you like a train. Away from the windows, you had privacy. This high up no one would see you and everyone else was in bed. You'd meant to creep out of the lion's den but instead, you'd locked yourself in.

“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to,” Zemo mused from behind you.

“Carl Sanburg,” you confirmed, so he knew you didn't think he'd made it up.

Both of you were silent then. Swaying in the tension you'd built. Sanity pulling you back inside, inexplicable hope keeping you planted in place.

“Are you lonely, Baron?”

The words fell from your lips more delicate and intimate than you had meant them to. You let slip that you cared about his answer. That you might even care to cure him of the ailment.

“Me? No.”

You turned and scoffed.

“Liar. You were in a cell for years and you hardly talk to anyone now that you’re out.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms on either rest and a leg crossed with the ankle of his right knee. His demeanor was harmless in the same way that a predator poised to pounce was. Elegant, still, and ready for the kill.

“Not true,” he corrected. “I talk to you.”

“One person isn’t enough,” you said, taking a step closer.

Were you walking into disaster? Or being pulled? You couldn't tell the difference between his seduction and your own reckless desires any longer.

“The right person though…can be,” he half-whispered. “And you, Y/N, are more than I deserve.”

He gazed up at you from the chair. Kings throughout history, in war-won golden thrones and elegant capes, paled in comparisons to how regal he looked. Anointed with a crown of moonlight, ruling over whomever he pleased.

Your eyes widened with the admission. “Baron — ”

“Helmut, please.” He stood then and met you near the railing, his hand grazing your hip. “Only if for tonight.”

You shook your head, knowing this was a bad idea. His hand made its way to your waist regardless. He pulled you against his chest before searching your eyes for any signal that you were going to run. You knew he’d find nothing. You knew you mirrored his look of lust with blown pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Have I gone too far,” he whispered, bringing his other hand to brush loose hair behind your ear.

“No,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer and brush his lips to your cheek and jaw.

“Tell me if I do,” he whispered again before finally capturing your lips with his.

You uttered no complaints as his tentative kiss turned bruising and possessive. His arms wound around your waist, crushing you into him. But you needed to feel closer. He grunted as you sprung to action, flinging your arms around his neck, deepening the desperate kiss. He tasted like whiskey and something sweet. A cool breeze brushed against the exposed parts of your body. You let your hands wander beneath his coat, chasing warmth and proximity. He let you do as you please, only insisting that his lips stayed on yours.

You let out a whimper as his hand explored the front of your dress. He stopped to press his warm hand against your breast, before holding your face.

It was then that he pulled away, steadying your searching lips with a grip on your chin.

“Ich esse nicht,” he sighed, kissing a pattern to your ear. “Ich schlafe nicht, ich tue nichts anderes, als an dich zu denken.”

His teeth grazed your pulse point, leaving you gasping for air.

“I don’t speak German,” you managed to stutter out.

A hand slid up the back of your dress, gripping the zipper before undoing it in one swift motion and the fabric fell to the floor. The cool air seized your naked torso for only a moment before Zemo pressed himself against you again. The coat you’d complained about before, now provided warmth and security. You tipped your head back, almost over the edge of the balcony as he continued worshipping your neck and chest.

“I don’t eat, I don’t sleep,” he said between wet open-mouthed kisses on your breasts. His hot mouth left purple spots that cooled instantly in the chilly night air.

“I do nothing but think of you,” he finished before toying with your hardened nipple between his teeth.

You moaned then, louder than you should’ve, and let your eyes flutter open. The world was upside-down but you made no motion to move. You were making Madripoor proud by being pressed up against a balcony by an international criminal.

Utterly pleased with himself, Zemo raised his face back towards yours, leaning you both over the edge.

“Shhh liebling,” he cooed.

He pulled you back over, kissing your shoulder before removing his jacket and draping it over you. Each brush of his lips feeling more improper than the last.

“We would not want your friends to see you like this.”

In the next second, he swept you off of your feet and hoisted you into his strong arms. You watched the world sway around you and then settle when he placed you on the lounge chair, letting you get some warmth back from the coat and cushions.

He draped one of your legs over an armrest, exposing you to him except for a thin pair of underwear.

“Not with you spread open for me,” he growled. He towered over you for only a moment before kneeling between your legs. The man whose stature made him the tallest amongst giants; the most important in any room he chose, knelt before you.

“What would they say,” he mumbled in a trace. His hands gripped both of your thighs, causing an eruption of goosebumps across your whole body. “If they saw you like this, with me?”

He looked up at you then, raising an eyebrow, and tracing the inside of your thigh with his thumb.

You answered him breathlessly. “They’d tell you to stop.”

“And what would you say to that?”

His voice sent shockwaves through your system. Dark and sultry, with a hint of danger. You threw your head back again, barely able to keep a single thought straight. Your body shuddered but you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the need for his touch. When you looked back to him, he was surveying your body with the hunger of a starved wolf.

“Would you want me to stop?” His voice was gentle and sweet then, asking in earnest.

“Meine Liebe," he taunted you for consent as he flashed a smirk and pulled something from his pocket.

Cold metal grazed your thigh. A moan escaped your throat as he unsheathed a serrated knife and caressed your skin with the dull side.

“I wouldn’t want you to stop,” you gasped, almost vibrating with anticipation. “I don’t want you to stop — Helmut — please don’t stop.”

He chucked again, before focusing his attention on the area between your legs. You bucked slightly as the icy knife slid underneath the fabric. He made one strong slash upwards and you felt the fabric fall away from your wet core. One of his hands gripped your ass, but only for a second before he tore the rest of the fabric from your body.

“How could I ever withhold something from you, liebling?” His nose grazed your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to where you needed him most. It was only a moment before you felt his breath between your legs.

“How cruel it would be,” he growled. You moaned and slapped a hand over your mouth as he kissed your sensitive bundle of nerves. “To not give you everything.”

His tongue swirled against you in a tantalizing pattern, stroking you deliciously. He licked you methodically like he was reading the blueprint of your body right then and there. He held each thigh in a punishing grip, pressing you deeper into the cushions as he made a meal of you. The stars above your head blurred and the universe shifted.

If this was your destruction then it was illustrious. You'd do it over and over again until you landed in a cell right next to him.

“Helmut,” you whined with a heaving chest.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled between flicks of his tongue. “And it is yours.”

You would’ve begged him to let you cum but he beat you to it, making your back arch and mouth fall open in ecstasy. You trembled beneath him, over and over, but he didn’t let up. Your legs strained from being extended by his unflinching hands. You tried to stutter something out to him but no sound came except for content sighs and haphazard gasps. But his eyes remained closed regardless of the noise.

Without his mouth on you, he would’ve been mistakable for a good Christian, deep in prayer. Brow's furrowed in focus and devotion; lips moving in silent divine appeals. Only he could make you feel worthy of an alter. You couldn't picture anyone ever worshipping you in the same way again. It was his, you thought. I am his.

Lost in pleasure and shock, you reached up to run your nails against his scalp. Only then did he release you, and raise to meet your waiting lips as they trembled.

“You,” was all you could manage to whisper. “Only you.”

He pulled you from the seat, to wrap your legs around him. You brought your forehead to his and let him pepper you with chaste kisses.

“When I have you,” he said, before pulling the coat around you again. “It will be in a proper bed.”

You stared at him, confused and overwhelmed. The space between your legs ached with a longing to be filled but he let your legs fall away, and stood up.

“We can’t…I mean not now — they’ll hear.”

Zemo smiled and nodded while looking for something on the ground. After a moment of searching, he picked up the torn pieces of the red underwear you had been wearing. Before you could retrieve it, he pocketed the shorn fabric and stared you straight in the eyes.

“Worry not, Y/N,” he purred, reaching a hand out to help you up. “We have all the time in the world.”

[sasorikigai]

“  ah  !  a  smile  !  i  told  you  i  could  make  you  smile.  ” ( any of Hanryou's modern verses plz )

** protective  sentence  starters. || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || For far too long, Hanzo Hasashi has lost the reflections upon what were thought to be good old days, which could never be emulated; they remained as unexcavated memories for seemingly a decade (perhaps more), lest his naïve and innocent days would leave him inn a daze. Commander Hasashi nowadays manifests himself more as a stoic rock under a waterfall; seemingly immovable and unperturbed with timeless, severe appearance, and yet how he still erodes, attempting to resiliently resist the onslaught of currents. How he seeks to be metamorphosed into a flying beast at the summit, looming over the whole world. 

That may be a preposterous, wishful thinking of experiencing adversity and the outcome. His healing had bee as complicated as it had been simple. For he could never allow himself to be freed from his problems, but to face them. To come to terms with them. It had been for that reason that his healing had been chaotic and took quite considerable time. The grueling journey, of its purpose was never to do a spring clean of all his past trauma and return him as the person that he was before he experienced everything. The true purpose was to let all those lessons grow him and mold him into someone else. Ever since he lost his Harumi and Satoshi, Hanzo vowed to become someone stronger. Someone that his past self would be so fucking proud of. He may never be indestructible, but he could damn try to be one, as he perpetually attempts to fight and come to the terms with the reality of his grief, which would never leave him. 

This day had been one of the days when it sits quietly, hidden in the shadows of his austere reflection. In the depth of his subconscious, how the plethora of emotions resurface painful feelings. This is what the bereaved have to live with every single day, reminded of the abyss of his loss, the nothingness of his heart that often spreads through the entirety of his being akin to a contagion. And every now and then, the proverbial light of his joviality swims right through the candor glass of his expression. Ryou Sakai has seen them before, perhaps a hundred times, more like a hundred thousand times of ephemeral passing seconds, and now, Hanzo Hasashi wonders if such countless occurrences had been because of his beloved. 

“It took me more than a few decades to realize that I no longer have to keep searching for love in the crevices of heart that were made hollow, as I blamed myself for desperately trying to fill them with pieces of lost self, to make me whole again,” no longer molded by hate, molded by the fists of ruthless wrath, all molten mud and bloody tears awaiting for righteous justice as Hanzo held the broken clock in the chamber of his heart. No longer, he strives to become perfect, for he never was meant to govern the flow of time, which knows no direction and trajectory. Instead of attempting to endure the whipping currents of his tribulations, Hanzo has learned to flow in tandem with them. Lest a storm of foamy white overwhelms and plunges him into the depths of perilousness, Commander Hasashi has learned to capture the essence of halcyon, magnificent life, in having a lifelong friend, a camaraderie, and a lover encapsulated in one. 

A spreading grin peaks atop the swollen cheeks, as the intense polished stone of his tenebrous gaze remains fixed as the encircled arm around Ryou’s pectorals tighten, bringing his beloved closer to his bare proximity. “I no longer dream of destructions and annihilations, an assembly-line of cut throats and blasted skulls, but of cultivated flora of our love, keeping us afloat and passionate.”  💥 ||

[pitiless-achilles-wept]

2020 Can Take My Hair, But Not My Hope

My hair started falling out on election night.

I thought at first it might be the anxiety, that I was literally pulling my hair out with worry over numbers I already knew were not going to be definitive before the night wore into morning but which I stayed up until 3:30am watching anyway. I tweeted rapidly, reassuring my jittery timeline that not only had we all known that the night would bring no results but that we had even expected Trump to lead in key states because of the greater number of mail-in ballots from urban areas that would largely count for Biden. We knew. We all knew. But we were all terrified, flashing back to 2016 and already dreading another four years of living life on high alert, in constant survival mode.

I posted a selfie with a tweet that read, "Could be the last presidential election I vote in (blah blah stage 4 cancer blah blah) and I wish it were better and clearer than this but it's a crucial privilege to have voted. Remember, whatever the outcome, the last thing they can take from you is your hope."

To me that last sentence has been a mantra for these years and for my treatment. I have consistently refused, despite overwhelmingly terrible odds, to lose hope. The story of Pandora's Box tells us that the very last thing left inside was Hope--that even once all the demons were out in the world there was that tiny, feathered creature left to hang on to. It hasn't been easy, but I am one of the most stubborn people you will ever meet (and if you doubt this just ask anyone who's ever fought me on anything!) and it has turned out to be a saving grace rather than an irritating personality trait. Feeling like the world was trying to take my hope away made me angry. And when I get angry I will fight back.

I know I'm not alone in feeling like we entered some kind of alternate nightmare timeline on election night 2016. To that point, despite periods of immense personal difficulty, nothing truly terrible had happened to me. Then, in short order, my marriage ended and I was diagnosed with and began being treated for a terminal illness, all against the backdrop of a regime so deliberately hateful that it was truly incomprehensible to me. Then, a global pandemic and national crisis swept away the small consolations I'd found in my new life with cancer. The temptation to feel hopeless was strong and I struggled with it, particularly in the isolation of quarantine. I'm struggling with it now, facing a winter of further lockdowns, social isolation, continued chemo, and the added indignity (and chilliness!) of not having any hair. But somehow the coincidence of my hair loss with election night seemed like a good omen for the future, if a sad thing for the present.

I heard the news that they had called Pennsylvania for Biden at a peaceful Airbnb in the Catskills after stepping out of a shower where lost hair in handfuls. It felt oddly like a sacrifice I had made personally. I joked about this with friends on the text chains that lit up and that (despite my promise to myself and my writing partner that we'd "go off the grid") I responded to immediately. Instant replies, with emojis and GIFs, participated in the fiction: "Thank you for your service!!!"; "We ALL appreciate your sacrifice!"; "Who among us would NOT give up their hair for no more Trump?". The feeling was real for me, though. It was as though the good news demanded some kind of karmic offering. You never get something for nothing, I thought, and really it was a small price to pay.

The rest of the weekend passed too quickly, with absorption in the novel I plan (madly, given that I also work full-time) to work on for "National Novel Writing Month" (NaNoWriMo), walks in the unseasonably warm woods, and nighttime drinks on the back deck under the stars, watching my hair blow off in fine strands and drift through the sodium porch light. My friend and I read tarot and both our layouts contained The Tower, the card for new beginnings from total annihilation, the moment of destruction in which (as the novel's title says) everything is illuminated. "This might sound dumb," he said, "but maybe yours is about your hair." It did not sound dumb.

[shaved heads, the 2020 election, and a couple pics under the cut]

There is probably no more iconic visual shorthand for cancer than hair loss. It happens because chemo agents target fast-proliferating cells, which tend to inhabit things that grow rapidly by nature (hair, fingernails), or that we need to replenish often (cells in the gut), as well as out-of-control cancer cells. But not all cancer treatments, not even all chemotherapies, cause hair loss. In my 20 months of being treated for cancer and my three previous treatments (four, if you count the surgery I had) nothing had yet affected my hair beyond a bit of thinning. This despite the fact that my first-ever treatment (Taxol) was widely known to cause hair loss for "everyone." I had been fortunate with this particular side effect in a narrow way that I have absolutely not been on a broader scale. "Maybe," I had let myself think, "I can have this one thing." The odds were in my favor too; only 38% of people in clinical trials being treated with Saci lost their hair. I liked the odds of being in the 62% who didn't. But--as we all felt deep in our gut while they counted votes in battleground states--odds aren't everything.

I had come to treat the "strength" of my hair as a kind of relative consolation (though as with everything cancer "strength," "weakness," and the rhetoric of battle have nothing to do with outcomes). I treasured still having it, not just out of vanity (though I have always loved my hair whatever length, style, or color it has been) but because it allowed me to pass among regular people as one of them. I had no visible markers of the illness that is killing me, concealed as first the tumor and then the scars were by my clothing. "You look wonderful," people would tell me, even when I suffered from stress fractures from nothing more than running or sneezing; muscle spasms in my shoulder and nerve death in my fingertips; nausea that I swallowed with swigs from my water bottle that just made me look all the more like a hydration-conscious athlete; and profound, constant, and debilitating fatigue. Invisible illness had its own perils but I would take them--take all of them at once if necessary!--if only I could keep my hair and look normal.

It was not to be. A part of me had known this, since a lifetime with metastatic cancer means a lifetime of treatments a solid proportion of which result in hair loss. But I had hoped. And I had liked the odds.

The hardest thing for me is having to give up this particular consolation before knowing whether or not my new treatment is also working on my cancer. Unfortunately, there really isn't a correlation between side effects like hair loss and effectiveness of treatment. If it is working then I will feel that--like the election to which I felt I had karmically contributed--it was all completely worth it. Yet, even in this best case scenario, there's a new reality for me which is that while I am on this treatment I will stay bald. When you are a chronic patient you hope for a treatment that will work well with manageable side effects. And if this treatment works--and if the other side effects are as ok-ish as they are now--then I will remain on it.

It's that future that I am furious about more than anything else. I want to continue to live my life, of course, but I don't want to have to do it bald! In part that is because I don't want to register to people constantly as an archetypal "cancer patient" when I know that I am so much more. It is also in part because I don't want to think of myself as being ill, and living every day having to disguise my absent hair will make that all the tougher. I have already noticed that I feel, physically, as though I am sicker because of my constantly shedding hair. How could I not, in some ways, when every move I make and every glance at myself (including in endless Zoom windows) shows me this highly visible change?

For that reason, I'm shaving my remaining hair tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a way to feel less disempowered--less like hair loss is happening to me--and wrest control of the situation back. I will try to find agreeable things about it: wigs, scarves, cozy caps, bright lipstick, statement earrings, and a general punk/Mad Max vibe that is appropriate to 2020. But I don't want anyone to think for a second that I find this agreeable, or even acceptable, or that I don't mind. I mind a whole hell of a lot. My hair was my consolation prize, my camouflage, my vanity, my folly, and my battle cry.

I dyed it purple when I was first diagnosed because I knew (or thought I knew) that I would be losing it soon. I didn't, and I came to cherish it as a symbol of my boldness in the face of circumstances trying to oppress me, to make me shrink, to tempt me to become invisible. I refused and used it to "shout" all the louder in response. Because of what it came to mean to me, I'm nearly as sad about losing the purple as I am about losing the hair itself. It both symbolized the weight I was carrying and also that I would not let that weight grind me down. It was my act of resistance and my sign resilience all at once.

I sent a text to my friends, explaining this and offering, as an idea, that I could "pass the purple" to them in some way, small or large. It would feel more like handing off a torch or a weight (or the One Ring) than anyone shaving their head in solidarity. (After all, if they did that it would just remind me as I watched theirs grow back that, in fact, our positions were very different.) You're welcome to do it if you'd like too, internet friends, with temporary or permanent dye or a wig or a headband or one of those terrible 90s hairwraps or whatever. But I don't require that anyone do it because I feel support from you all in myriad ways, all the time. (But if you do, please send me pictures!)

It's November 2020. The election is over and Joe Biden has won. I still have cancer and I'll be bald tomorrow. I hope it's a turning point, both personal and global, because it feels like one. We've given up a lot in the last four years and I cannot say that I feel in any way peaceful or accepting about having to give up yet one more thing. But in losing my hair I absolutely refuse to also give up my hope.

(On our walk we did also seem to find a version of The Tower, all that was left of an abandoned house)

[aliaoutsider]

PICK A CARD LOVE READING

Choose between three piles:

PILE 1

Your own personality is mirrored in the first card. It is Cruelty. Consider it as the natural source of your perspectives. The Nine of Swords represents the belligerent power of its' element to the highest degree. Even in a difficult situation it will never surrender, will always fight for its convictions. As it lacks ability to compromise there is a danger of self-destruction. If you feel confident, get ready for confrontation. Sometimes struggle cannot be avoided, and you should be ready for it. However, if you are weak, consider carefully your situation in order to avoid dangerous rage.

As you are represented by the first card, your partner's overall condition is shown in the second card The Lovers which stands for an elementary tendency. The relationship of The Lovers is a colourful blend of beauty and doubt, understanding and eternity. Alas, the price for celestial correspondence is uncertainty. Inspiration and Intuition are powerful where The Lovers dwell - but so are contradiction and instability. Apply affection, delight and endurance to everything you consider important. Hasty and careless behaviour results in misunderstanding and creates distrust. Be aware of your own priorities and ensure yourself about the quality of your feelings.

This is the symbol for your emotions. The card is Futility. Try to perceive even the faintest of your feelings. Every toil is endangered to come to grief. Strength and power will be employed in vain where the Seven of the Swords rules. Exhaustion and depression are the results of wasted energy. Willpower and initiative are about to be obliterated. Do not waste your resources in useless attempts to achieve impossible results. If you do not employ your forces carefully, you might get stuck and neither find the way back nor reach your aim. Assess your possibilities carefully.

The range of the emotions of your partner is shown by Oppression. Beware of the multitude of meanings this card is carrying.The toiling energy of the element fire has turned itself into the tyranny of Strength. It is not the powerful advance, but a burning circle of endless repetition, leading nowhere. Stubbornness and narrow-mindedness attract bad luck. Try to perceive the circumstances beyond your daily life. The Ten of Wands is a warning to re-orientate as soon as possible. Otherwise you might find yourself limited by borders you have created yourself and that you cannot cross any longer.

Your partner's emotional development grows in the spirit of the card The Sun. Many unknown factors will meet here. Thus the interpretation has to be as intuitive as possible. In the blazing light of the most powerful star nothing remains in the dark. While the sun is shining, life and success grow securely. If abundance matches wantonness the warming rays will scorch the earth. Enjoy the warmth and sense the energy. With The Sun also power is your ally. Take initiatives as long as The Sun is with you. As long as the day lasts you should also enjoy it's beauty - but beware of nightfall.

Your relationship, the very centre of the cards, is represented by a single card called The Chariot, which is linked directly to all of the other cards. Full of strength and movement The Chariot is pure dynamic energy. It is moving restlessly and thus constitutes a symbol of the steady advance of all living things. If running too fast, The Chariot is endangering itself and others. Steer The Chariot with great care. It's strength will take you to your desired destination, if you can assess your potential correctly. The wheels of The Chariot often crush what should have remained unharmed. Control your emotions.

Future aspects are found in the card closing this reading. It is Virtue. The winding road that lies ahead may carry many of its' characteristics. The Three of Wands combines willpower with self-control - thus it results in virtue. The certainty of righteousness creates security and tranquillity. Enhancing self-consciousness Virtue is a silent but powerful force. Live according to your convictions in order to be in consonance with the universe. The strength of the soul guarantees a satisfactory balance of body and soul. Virtue is an important precondition for collaboration and cooperation.

PILE 2

Your own personality is mirrored in the first card. It is Saturation. Consider it as the natural source of your perspectives. Saturation The Ten of Cups marks the end of acquisition. Saturation is the name of this card representing ultimate triumph and success. Sometimes it may though announce a lack of orientation and insecurity - feelings sometimes arising after the completion of a difficult task. Perfect development according to your wishes and intentions is likely. Advance faithfully and optimistically. Do not concentrate all your longing into one single desire. Would not emptiness follow the completion of your dream?

As you are represented by the first card, your partner's overall condition is shown in the second card Change which stands for an elementary tendency. The eternal stream of life is a steady tide of loss and gain. Seeming treasures loose their importance little by little, while time gives birth to new values. These alterations generate experience and multitude. Change prevents stagnation and monotonousness. Do not cling to whatever is about to pass. Take advantage of the change, for there is as much to be gained as can be lost. Welcome the new circumstances and find your approach to them. Even material loss can offer a chance for a change for the better.

This is the symbol for your emotions. The card is The Empress. Try to perceive even the faintest of your feelings. Prosperity and wealth grow in the realm of The Empress. Love is her central attribute. She loves to host guests and cares motherly for her children. Sometimes she is living in prodigal luxury and boundless exaggeration. Enjoy your days and head for satisfaction in everything you do. Do not despair, if your situation seems troubled at the moment. Like The Empress you can attract new spiritual and material wealth with prudent decisions and firm faith in your strength.

The range of the emotions of your partner is shown by Page of Swords. Beware of the multitude of meanings this card is carrying. The Page of Swords is a strong symbol for activity. As a member of the family of Swords also the Page is dominated by the power of rational thought. His actions are always effective, but often impetuous and insensitive. In emotional issues you should follow the Page of Swords only with great caution. He favours vengeance and lacks sensitivity. If - on the other hand - you are in need of practical or logical advance the help of the Page of Swords is invaluable

Your desires, your dreams, and your development are displayed as the card Affluence. This aspect may be present consciously, or develop slowly in future. The Ten of Coins represents the completion of a wealth, that cannot grow any longer for it has reached its' limits. Only the prudent and careful investment of those riches can prevent stagnation and keep the stream of lasting growth flowing. Perceive the plenitude of what you have got. Use your means carefully. Beware - not only squandering but also greed and avarice are harmful. Control your desire for those things that are out of reach for the moment. The time has not come yet.

Your partner's emotional development grows in the spirit of the card Strength. Many unknown factors will meet here. Thus the interpretation has to be as intuitive as possible. Great deeds are done with the spirit of Strength. It faces perils wide awake and will never evade struggle. Where Strength enfolds its' power the path is straight. Self-consciousness is the precious fruit of inner Strength. Trust in your abilities and live an active life. Use the full potential of your Strength and activate all your powers. If you follow this path without compromise you will find the energies you need until you reach your goals.

Your relationship, the very centre of the cards, is represented by a single card called Futility, which is linked directly to all of the other cards. Every toil is endangered to come to grief. Strength and power will be employed in vain where the Seven of the Swords rules. Exhaustion and depression are the results of wasted energy. Willpower and initiative are about to be obliterated. Do not waste your resources in useless attempts to achieve impossible results. If you do not employ your forces carefully, you might get stuck and neither find the way back nor reach your aim. Assess your possibilities carefully.

Future aspects are found in the card closing this reading. It is Failure. The winding road that lies ahead may carry many of its' characteristics. Lack of effort, will, and hope is the attribute of the Seven of the Coins. What will be begun in their spirit is likely to end in an endless chain of disappointments and drawbacks. Often it is the fear of Failure, that finally causes Failure. Check carefully whether you are still at the right road. If there are doubts, you might better return. Conquer your fear, for fear is a bad counsellor. Uncertainty and Failure often cause each other - break this vicious circle.

PILE 3

Your own personality is mirrored in the first card. It is Affluence. Consider it as the natural source of your perspectives.The Ten of Coins represents the completion of a wealth, that cannot grow any longer for it has reached its' limits. Only the prudent and careful investment of those riches can prevent stagnation and keep the stream of lasting growth flowing.Perceive the plenitude of what you have got. Use your means carefully. Beware - not only squandering but also greed and avarice are harmful. Control your desire for those things that are out of reach for the moment. The time has not come yet. As you are represented by the first card, your partner's overall condition is shown in the second card Love which stands for an elementary tendency. 

Love is the most intimate bond between two souls. The two cups are symbols for a steady interchange, a continuous giving and taking in perfect balance. The nature of this card does not know of calculation and deception. Life and Love are an inseparable unity. Give your love joyfully - and never be ashamed to also accept the love that is given to you. Exchange is the only way to keep love alive. If honesty stays strong and dominant there is no room for disappointment.

This is the symbol for your emotions. The card is Page of Wands. Try to perceive even the faintest of your feelings. The Page of Wands is juvenile and full of power. He represents awakening desire, force and abundant vivacity. His weak point is the hastiness of decision. Often his deeds have to be excused with his juvenile inexperience and rashness. f want for activity and strong emotions meet, the Page of Wands cannot be far. Surrender to the enticement, if you feel confident and secure. If you can sense peril or doubts arise you should be cautious, as playing with the fire might burn you.

The range of the emotions of your partner is shown by Success. Beware of the multitude of meanings this card is carrying. A chapter will be closed successfully. There is time to celebrate the advance and to replace labour with enjoyment. After exhaustion and effort and toiling a phase of reward has to follow, in order to instil aristocracy in the achieved labour. Reward the completion of important plans, regardless whether it is your own project or the success of the ones you love. The truthful quality of whatever you may succeed in will become visible only in those moments of merry contemplation.

Your desires, your dreams, and your development are displayed as the card Futility. This aspect may be present consciously, or develop slowly in future.Every toil is endangered to come to grief. Strength and power will be employed in vain where the Seven of the Swords rules. Exhaustion and depression are the results of wasted energy. Willpower and initiative are about to be obliterated. Do not waste your resources in useless attempts to achieve impossible results. If you do not employ your forces carefully, you might get stuck and neither find the way back nor reach your aim. Assess your possibilities carefully. Your partner's emotional development grows in the spirit of the card Doom. Many unknown factors will meet here. Thus the interpretation has to be as intuitive as possible. 

The Seven of the Cups is a harbinger of wrong decisions and unfortunate interconnections. It announces a defect of judgement. Where this force enfolds it's power misery is lurking. Reorientation is the cure that can stop the misleading influence. A veil distorts your perception of the waking world. Be careful with your judgement in order to prevent the unpleasant developments at their roots. Check always all the possibilities and ask unbiased friends for their honest advise.

Your relationship, the very centre of the cards, is represented by a single card called Queen of Coins, which is linked directly to all of the other cards. Tranquil virtue is the noble quality of the Queen of Coins. She is neither living for the spectacular nor longing for risky adventures. Devotion and participation are her characteristics. As her emotions are balanced, she is strong in supporting others.Get rid of oppressive thoughts and dreams about the impossible. Accept yourself and others in order to understand your immediate environment which is forming your life. Spread affection and harvest the fruits of this precious seed.

Future aspects are found in the card closing this reading. It is King of Swords. The winding road that lies ahead may carry many of its' characteristics. Acuteness and vitality are the attributes of the King of Swords. His strong mind is free. Nobody is able to influence his reasoned judgement. Thus the power of thought joins the want for action. The King of Swords is a mighty ally. Follow him on his ways of independent thought and realize your ideas. If this king should ever appear as your enemy you should not underestimate him. Get prepared to counteract brilliant plans.

[scotianostra]

I have a number of posts already scheduled by Tumblr for the coming days, this is an add on as I just discovered it while Rummaging around, I think it's only right to post it and take a few moments to remember all those in the emergency services that work through the festive season, and indeed all year to keep us safe. 

Disaster struck on Christmas Eve 1927 when four firemen were killed during a warehouse fire on Graham Street.

49-year-old James Conn , Morrison Dunbar, 23, 31-year-old Harry W. McKellar and David Jeffrey, 24 died in the Gallowgate blaze.

Heartbroken colleagues worked through Christmas and for the next three days to recover their bodies.

The following is taken from The Glasgow Herald Tuesday, December 27, 1927.

FOUR FIREMEN PERISH

Christmas Eve Tragedy in Glasgow

EAST END WAREHOUSES GUTTED

ESTIMATED LOSS, £50,000

Four members of Glasgow Fire Brigade lost their lives while on duty at a fire in the East end of the city on Saturday night. 

The scene of the fire was a six storey warehouse in Graham Square, and owing to the threatening circumstances many tenants of adjoining dwellings were warned out.Some of the tenants were absent at the time of the outbreak, and on return – carrying with them, in numerous instances, their parcels got in the course of Christmas shopping – were surprised and alarmed when informed that it was unsafe to enter their houses.A touching feature of the fire tragedy is that the men of the Eastern Division were enjoying Christmas festivities with their families in the Fire Station when the call which was to mean death to some of their colleagues in the Central. 

FROM JOY TO SORROW

In the long history of the Fire Brigade of Glasgow many deeds of heroism stand to the credit of the men. In the great majority of cases their bravery has gone unnoticed or been known to a limited few – the instances of calm courage and of grave risks taken to save property and frequently life have come in the ordinary course of duty when no eye was there to see or pen to chronicle. It is only when such a tragedy as that of Christmas Eve shocks the community that full light is thrown on the dangerous nature of the fireman’s calling and recognition is paid to the magnificent manner in which he carries out his trying and difficult work.

While the Fire Brigade in Glasgow has enjoyed a remarkable immunity from loss of life when a period of, say, half a century is scanned, nevertheless death with unwelcome frequency has exacted a grim toll.

Surely never was the toll made under more distressing circumstances than on Saturday evening. The Eastern Division men, with their children and friends, were in the midst of Christmas rejoicings when the call came. The men are used to such breaks in the social round, and cheerfully they responded to the summons to duty, which is taken as a matter of course. With the celerity characteristic of the Brigade, the men from this and other Divisions with their equipment quickly set out for the scene of the fire, and the civilians remained behind to continue the happy entertainment, not dreaming of the dreadful fate that was soon to overtake four members of the Brigade, who, in the face of obvious danger, carried on till death overtook them.

The missing firemen are:–

James Conn (49), married, and with three of a family, who had 23 years’ service with the brigade.

H. W. M’Kellar (31), married.

David Jeffery (24), single.

Morrison Dunbar (23), single.

SCENE OF THE FIRE

The fire was located in Graham Square, a cul-de-sac on the north side of Gallowgate, which leads to an entrance to the Corporation Cattle Market. The east side of the square consists, starting from the Gallowgate end, of a modern tenement and of a brick building of six storeys with a frontage of 135ft, and a depth of 30ft. This building, which was totally destroyed, along with corrugated iron sheds, and a warehouse at the rear, contained business premises, workshops, and an hotel. The tenants of these premises are Messrs P. and R. Fleming, engineers 8-16 Graham Square; David Arthur, auctioneer, 12 Graham Square; Alexander Jack and Son (Limited), implement makers 20 Graham Square; Wilson, Ronald and Co. (Limited), wholesale grocers, 26-30 Graham Square; A. M’Vean and Co., manufacturers, 30 Graham Square; Thomas Dunlop, implement maker, 38 Graham Square; Pringle, Logan and Gallocher, seed merchants, 38 Graham Square; and James Houston, cabinetmaker, 12 Graham Square.

THE ALARM

About 8pm two constables on duty in Graham Square observed that fire had broken out in the premises occupied by James Houston. Further examination revealed that the outbreak had originated in a hoist at 34 Graham Square, which was used by several of the firms in the block. The constables smashed the fire alarm and turned out several detachments of the Fire Brigade. By this time the fire was extending to other parts of the building. On the arrival of the first two detachments of the Fire Brigade from the Central Station great volumes of smoke pouring from the building indicated that the flames had taken a firm hold, and further reinforcements were summoned, along with four pumps and the fire escape, Firemaster Waddell took charge of the operations.

FIREMEN WITHDRAWN

Immediately, the fire was attacked both from the interior of the building and from the street. The intense heat, the density of the smoke, and the general threat to the structure, made it obvious at an early stage of the operations that it was highly perilous for the firemen to remain for long periods inside the building. Therefore, adopting what methods they could, the firemen continued the main attack from the roadway in Graham Square, from the roofs of buildings to the east and south of the endangered premises, and even from the top of the fire escape. It soon became apparent that the entire structure was doomed and that any measures adopted by the Fire Brigade would be futile except to restrict the area of devastation.

TRAM SERVICE STOPPED

The flames were being strongly fanned by a north easterly breeze, and showers of sparks and poisonous clouds of smoke were causing much alarm in Gallowgate towards which they were drifting, and in which large crowds of spectators had gathered. The pungent smoke hung in dense clouds over the streets and sparks floated thickly down. The tramcar service, interrupted owing to the lines of hose across the street, was diverted for a period, and then was ultimately resumed over rail bridges. The tenants of houses, who had been Christmas shopping when the fire occurred, mingled with the crowd, their arms full of parcels. Some of them were unable to reach their homes, and experienced grave anxiety as the flames darted ominously higher and seemed to endanger the tenement.

TENANTS WARNED OUT

This tenement building, which adjoins the ruined warehouses was considered at this time to be within the danger zone, and the tenants were advised to consult with their own ultimate safety and desert their homes. There are nine families in the tenement, and the alarm was raised when most of the children had hung up their stockings and retired early to bed in eager expectation of Christmas morning. Some of the tenants elected to leave, and these assembled in the street to watch the battle with the flames, but others stayed in their homes during the entire course of the fire.

COLLAPSE OF WALLS AND ROOF

A thrill ran through the watching crowd when the roof of the burning building collapsed amid an awesome pyrotechnic display of flame and sparks, to be followed a few minutes later by the thunderous crash of large portions of the walls into the interior of the structure. Dust and smoke arose in suffocating clouds. With this fresh development the career of the fire was checked, however, and half an hour later – that is, two hours after the raising of the first alarm – the outbreak was under control, and the occupiers of the tenement were informed that they might return to their homes. Lines of hose were in use all through the night, however, as a precaution against further outbreak.

FATE OF THE FIREMEN

About ten o’clock the fire was so far extinguished that several detachments of the Fire Brigade were ordered to prepare to return to their stations. The discovery was then made as the motors were about to depart that four firemen from the Central Division were missing. An exhaustive inquiry was at once begun, but it was early feared that the men had been trapped in the building when the walls and flooring had collapsed. So far as can be ascertained the four missing men, along with others, were on the third floor at the south end of the building when the flames were first attacked. At that time the fire was confined largely to the northern end of the building, and it is assumed that with great fortitude the men had pressed some distance through the building towards the seat of the fire so as to be of greater service.

INSTANTANEOUS DEATH

Suddenly, it appears, there was a loud crash and the north end of the structure, towards which the men had gone, tumbled inwards, carrying several floors in a downward rush of destruction. Several of the firemen who were inside managed to get clear, and at that time it was thought that all of the firemen had emerged safely. When the first collapse occurred one of the officers at once dashed into the building and up the stairways right to the top flat to warn out the men. He met one fireman who was under the impression that he was the last to leave. Jeffrey was last observed when he called for more hose, and it is one theory that, furnished with the extra length of hose, he and his colleagues had courageously penetrated towards the seat of the fire unknown to their comrades – numbering 60, and widely dispersed – who were all actively at work. There seems no doubt, at all events, that they were caught in the devastating fall of beams and brickwork and hurled down to be buried in the immense heap of debris. It is certain, whether due to injuries or fire, that their death must have been practically instantaneous.

THE SEARCH BEGINS

As portions of the remaining walls were in an extremely dangerous condition, it was recognised, reluctantly, that it would be unwise to risk the lives of other firemen in an immediate endeavour to extricate the missing men from among the still smoking wreckage during the darkness of the night. Several firemen were posted on duty, and immediately daylight broke on Christmas morning a well equipped rescue party of firemen were dispatched to take up the tragic task of attempting to recover the bodies of their unfortunate comrades. A preliminary search was conducted with the assistance of a ladder and the fire escape, but it was found impossible to interfere to any great extent with the debris until the dangerous tottering and smoke blackened walls which marked the site of the destroyed building had been taken down. Accordingly another unavoidable hitch occurred in the work of retrieving the bodies while a gang of workmen, under the supervision of Mr Thomas Somers, Master of Works, demolished the dangerous walls.

THE DAMAGE

The loss caused by the fire is provisionally estimated at between £40,000 and £50,000.

SOCIAL FUNCTIONS CANCELLED

All of the social functions which usually take place at this time of year at the various fire stations in the city have been cancelled owing to the tragedy at Graham Square.

IN THE RUINS

SEARCHING FOR THE MISSING MEN

Throughout the day on Sunday gangs of firemen, working in relays, continued their tragic task of endeavouring to locate the bodies of their unfortunate comrades. They dug amongst the broken masonry with picks and shovels until darkness descended, but no trace of the bodies could then be found. Flare lamps were obtained in order that the work of the rescue might not be interrupted.

OXY-ACETYLENE BURNERS

Portions of shafting and heavy machinery had become so intertwined when the floors collapsed that it was extremely difficult to separate and remove the twisted metal from the debris. A number of skilled operators armed with oxy-acetylene burners were obtained from the Corporation Tramway Department. Many pieces of metal were cut through, and the task of removal was thus made less difficult. As the broken masonry, charred timber, and twisted machinery were taken from the building these were removed to the street by a large number of workmen. All night long the firemen laboured heroically, but their efforts to reach the entombed men were unsuccessful when daylight broke yesterday.

FRESH RELAYS OF WORKERS

Another batch of firemen took up the search, and were engaged all day in removing the tons of debris which separated them from their unfortunate comrades. By the afternoon they had succeeded in penetrating to a considerable depth in the centre of the ruined building, and they were hopeful of being able to reach the flooring at that point before darkness came on. The search is being continued.

Further articles tell us that the mens "badly ,mutilated" bodies were discovered on the Sunday and only identified by personal affects and remains of their uniforms, their funeral took place on December 30th The second pic is the grave in the city's Necropolis.

It's fair to say Glasgow has been blighted by fire much more than any other Scottish town or city, the Cheapside Street whisky bond fire in Glasgow on 28 March 1960 was Britain's worst peacetime fire services disaster. The fire at a whisky bond killed 14 fire service and 5 salvage corps personnel. The Kilbirnie Street fire, on Friday 25 August 1972, was a warehouse fire in the Port Eglinton area, on the south side of Glasgow cost seven firefighters their lives. 

Thankfully the recent fires at most notably The Glasgow School of Art, even in the past week 40 firefighters were needed to extinguish a fire at Pitt Street in the city centre.

Nearby Paisley has not been immune either with the death toll at Glen Cinema disaster in 1929 being 71, I will post more on this very sad disaster on December 31st.

I sourced this story from this page which details The History of Scottish Fire Brigades http://www.graemekirkwood.co.uk/

I must add a shout out to Jennifer at Random Scottish History, a must read page for anyone interested in Scottish history https://randomscottishhistory.com/

[okay-j-hannah]

Many Questions

Harry Potter : Fic

Fred x Reader

Word Count: 2018

Warnings: More and more angst... Fred has a bad encounter with Death Eaters... reader has the feels :) enjoy

A/N: Regaining consciousness isn’t as great as it sounds as you witness Fred, the person you finally realize you love, switch places with you as the victim of the fight

Here’s a link to

Part 1: Many Battles 

Part 3: Many Returns

Author’s Note: I had a few people ask for a part 2 so I came up with this :) please enjoy! @lostgirl677  @fallingforhumanity

Finally (Y/N) seemed to come to. She strained to open her eyes and immediately felt a stabbing pain at her temple. Her head felt like a ton of bricks as she tried to lift it from the dust and bits of stone on the floor.

As her vision began to clear, she noticed that no one was in the corridor anymore. That included Fred.

She tried to get to her feet as she began to remember what had happened right before she was knocked out. Fred had just confessed to her how he had felt all these years. She needed to get to him.

Fred liked her. He really liked her.

She seemed entirely and utterly confused. Sure she liked Fred, but as friends. She’s never considered anything else between them.

Although, it would explain a lot. Like how his ears would always get red when she touched him. How he would gaze at her during conversations with a group of people around. How he would always ask her for help at Quidditch or homework first before anyone else.

She did love spending time with him and always got excited when he entered a room. He always knew how to make her laugh. Always knew how to cheer her up when she was sad.

Come to think of it, she really couldn’t think of a life without Fred Weasley there. His whole family took her in and loved her. 

Making her way down another corridor, she made sure her wand was at the ready. 

Suddenly, she stopped, looking out another blasted hole in the wall to see some Death Eaters exploding the stone of the castle. Soon another explosion crashed and the wall and ceiling in front of her crumbled to the ground.

She began to dodge falling rock and the blinding dust to follow the Death Eaters and stop them from destroying more of the castle.

Running down the corridor, she came to a sudden halt at the start of one. At the end she saw Fred and Percy. They were attacking a few Death Eaters, shooting and casting spells. They seemed to be enjoying it, smiles on both of their faces.

A smile grew on her face as she came closer to him. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted those same Death Eaters aiming at the castle wall, right where Fred and Percy were dueling.

Terror ripped at (Y/N)’s insides as she yelled out to them, trying to get their attention.

“FRED! FRED YOU NEED TO MOVE BEFORE THE…”

“You’re joking Perce! You actually are joking…. I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were-“

But then the Death Eaters all threw the same spell at the wall and it exploded into a thousand pieces, right onto Fred.

All (Y/N) managed out was a soft, “No,” before she ran as fast as she could right towards Fred.

After what felt like an eternity, she found him lying on the ground. Percy was yelling.

“No! Fred! No!” And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron appeared, kneeling beside them, and Fred’s eyes were shut peacefully.

(Y/N) fell to her knees, her whole body limp.

In that exact moment, right then and there, she knew. She felt it in her heart. She knew she wouldn’t be able to live without him. 

Seeing him lying there, she knew that she truly did love him back. That he was her everything. His jokes making her laugh. His smile making her day. His touch giving her chills.

Tears filled her eyes and her face contorted as she slowly lifted a numb hand and rested it on Fred’s arm.

The tears fell onto her cheeks and a quiet sob left her as a pain like nothing she imagined went through her. So this is what she’d been feeling all this time. The emotions that had been building since day one. It was love.

And right this second it was it being ripped from her.

Then suddenly, Percy went silent and lifted his head quickly, looking into Fred’s still face.

“He’s alive,” he said quietly.

(Y/N) stopped her sobbing and looked up with red eyes, “He’s what?”

Percy checked Fred’s pulse and sighed in relief, “He has a heartbeat. He’s alive,” he grinned.

(Y/N) was in hysteria, half crying half laughing. She grabbed Percy around the neck and kissed him on the cheek. That didn’t seem to faze Percy in the slightest as he tried to rally some people to help him lift his brother and carry him to the Great Hall, which was acting as a Hospital Wing.

The war was now on stand-by and everyone was tending to the wounded and mourning the dead in the Great Hall.

The Weasley family was gathered around a stretcher with Fred laying on it. Many of their friends were lying around them, not as lucky as Fred. Lupin and Tonks were on their own stretchers, side by side, their lifeless hands touching by their fingertips.

(Y/N) had made her way towards the family, where she was greeted like one of their own. George was right next to his twin, shock and tears in his eyes as he kept one hand in his brothers. Mrs. Weasley was stroking Fred’s hair and (Y/N) went over to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Mrs. Weasley whipped her eyes her and gasped, “(Y/N), dear. Oh thank goodness,” she wrapped her in a hug then cupped her face. “We’ve been so worried. All Fred’s been murmuring is your name.”

(Y/N) then nodded and fell onto Fred’s chest. She clutched at his shirt and cried - everyone letting new tears fall onto their cheeks as they watched this girl cry over her best friend.

She concentrated on the steady thumping of Fred’s heart. She listened through her sobs. The beating was soft and quiet. She longed for that noise. She needed to hear it continuously. As long as she did, he was safe.

~~~

It was now three days after the Battle of Hogwarts. Everything was in chaos still.

One of the most needed locations currently was St. Mungo’s and after the Battle, people were in need of medical attention more than ever.

This was no exception to the Weasley family. Fred was still unconscious, though he was still breathing fine and his condition didn’t seem to be deteriorating.

Due to the destruction and duels that happened at St. Mungo’s during Voldemort’s reign, there were multiple precautions to consider. The waiting room was now almost always packed to the door. People couldn’t wait outside and down the street because the hospital was right in the middle of a Muggle community.

The Ministry devised a plan to alert people to portkey’s whenever there was more space in the waiting room. It was moving along slowly, but people were getting the medical attention they needed. 

There was also a one accompaniment limit considering the number of people requiring attention. Everyone agreed that Mr. Weasley was the man of the household and the one who’d take information the most calmly.

(Y/N) would have been more than happy to take Fred to St. Mungo’s, but currently she was in a dilemma. No one knew that she actually loved him and that he loved her back. It was eating up inside of her, not telling anybody about the feelings that she’d been having towards him turned out to be love.

Currently, Mr. Weasley had taken Fred to St. Mungo’s. The family was anxiously waiting around the living room and kitchen. Percy and Charlie were at the Ministry, helping with whatever they could. George had shut himself up in his room; he had been a nervous wreck.

“How’s Harry doing?” (Y/N) asked, trying to keep conversation going. 

“He’s still at Grimmauld Place, probably thinking about what he’s going to do now,” Ron answered.

Mrs. Weasley came in with a plate of sandwiches, “He deserves it, the poor dear. He’s been through enough as it is.”

“I heard Andromeda say that Teddy was doing fine,” Hermione added, “He won’t stop changing his hair color though.”

That made a few people smile; Teddy was one of the only things that still seemed pure and innocent in all of the chaos. The loss of his parents took a toll on everyone, but Teddy and Andromeda seemed to bring some light to the tension.

The silence was still lingering and there wasn’t much people wanted to say. 

(Y/N) sighed as she reached for one of the sandwiches Mrs. Weasley had prepared. She was completely lost in thought and wasn’t sure what the conversation was in the room. She caught one saying something about Hogwarts.

“You know McGonagall will be the new Headmistress of Hogwarts?” Hermione said.

“Better her than Snape,” Ginny replied. Ron and Hermione gave her a skeptical look.

(Y/N) had the suspicion that they knew something that everyone else didn’t, “She’ll be able to put everything back into shape. Ever since she stood up to that Umbridge woman I believe she can do anything.”

This was followed by many nods of approval and giggles. It made (Y/N) think back to what Fred had said to her at the Battle. How he realized that he really did love her after a detention she had had with Umbridge.

Looking back on it now, (Y/N) saw how that would be a moment for Fred. She remembered how his heart seemed to be beating a bit fast, she blamed it on how angry he was at Umbridge. She also remembered the blush on his face that never appeared on George’s.

Snapping out of her dazed stare, she heard Mrs. Weasley squeal, “He’s coming home, Arthur’s coming!”

The whole family snapped their eyes to the clock in the room. It had seven hands, and each one had the face of one of the Weasley family members.

Mr. Weasley’s hand was on traveling and was moving towards home.

Fred’s hand was on mortal peril.

With a pop there was a noise coming from outside the back door. Mr. Weasley came walking into the living room, his shoulders slumped and his arms limp at his sides. Just by looking at his face you knew something was wrong. He refused to lift his head until he was comfortably sitting on the couch.

Mrs. Weasley ran to his side and grasped his hand. (Y/N) stood and stared at him, not daring to make a move. She held her breath and listened to the sound of her own thumping heart.

George peeked his head from upstairs and upon seeing his father he came dashing the rest of the way down and into the room.

“What’s wrong Arthur?” Mrs. Weasley pleaded looking into his eyes, “What’s wrong with our boy?”

Mr. Weasley looked as if he was about to deliver horrendous news. That wasn’t far from the truth.

“The healers aren’t sure what is exactly wrong with him,” he gulped and rubbed his forehead. “He’s been hit with extreme Dark Magic, most likely from the spell that destroyed the castle walls.”

There was a pause in which George spoke. His voice sounded tired and strained, “Will he get better?”

Those were the first words he had said in days.

Mr. Weasley looked at him dead in the eyes and replied, “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Weasley, along with Ginny and Hermione, gasped. (Y/N) felt a sting in her eyes and found that tears were filling them.

“Because of being hit with Dark Magic, nothing the healers do is affecting him. Much to like how George can’t fix his ear, Fred won’t wake up,” He rubbed his hands over his legs. “It doesn’t seem to be worsening his condition any further, for now. The healers are monitoring him and will alert us if anything changes.”

“You mean we just have to sit here?” George asked, “And wait to see if he lives or dies?”

His voice sounded hurt when Mr. Weasley replied, “There’s nothing else we can do.”

(Y/N) couldn’t imagine what George was feeling at the moment, but she knew she was close. 

~~~

Buy Me a Coffee?

[tcm]

The Story They Deserved: William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives by Jill Blake

Throughout World War II, Hollywood cranked out countless feature-length films, animated shorts, radio programs and various government-sanctioned propaganda in support of the war effort. These films ranged from serious dramas set on the frontlines of battle, to lighter romantic comedies featuring servicemen on leave, to glimpses of how families were coping on the homefront. After the war ended in September 1945, it was back to business as usual for Hollywood cranking out splashy musicals, costume dramas and comedies. Of course, there were movies that focused on the post-war experience for Americans—settling down, having children and moving from the big city to the idyllic picket-fenced suburbia—but most of these films either glossed over or completely ignored the struggles of servicemen returning to civilian life, as well as the strain placed on their families, desperate to reclaim years of lost time while remaining hopeful for the future. One Hollywood director understood the importance of telling the stories of these servicemen and their families, drawing upon his own harrowing experiences during the war and his acclimation back to civilian life: William Wyler.

In 1942, months after the United States entered World War II, William Wyler voluntarily joined the United States Army Air Forces, serving as a major in the Army Pictorial Service, which produced educational and propaganda films to promote the war effort. During his service from 1942 to 1945, Wyler and his assembled crew filmed hours of footage from the air, resulting in two documentary films. The first was THE MEMPHIS BELLE: A STORY OF A FLYING FORTRESS (1944), the story of the crew of a Boeing B-17 bomber, which Wyler accompanied on numerous dangerous missions in enemy territory; the second was THUNDERBOLT (1947), a profile of a P-47 fighter squadron. During the filming of both documentaries, Wyler and his film crew faced extremely dangerous conditions, with the director’s cinematographer Harold J. Tannenbaum killed during one perilous mission. While Wyler returned home safely at the end of his service, he did not do so unscathed. During his time with the P-47 squadron in the Mediterranean, Wyler lost consciousness and suffered severe nerve damage in one of his ears, resulting in a total loss of hearing. Eventually, Wyler was able to regain partial hearing with the help of a hearing aid, but the problem affected him for the rest of his life.

Like his fellow Hollywood filmmakers who also served during World War II—John Ford, John Huston, George Stevens and Frank Capra—Wyler wasn’t quite sure how to proceed with his directorial career upon his return. However, it wasn’t long before the perfect project landed in Wyler’s lap: an adaptation of MacKinlay Kantor’s novella Glory for Me, a story of three servicemen returning home after the war and the various struggles they face as they acclimate to civilian life. Produced by Samuel Goldwyn, with an adapted screenplay by Robert E. Sherwood, Kantor’s story became THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES (1946)—Wyler’s most personal film and a loving tribute to the men he served alongside during his three years at war, as well as the families those servicemen left behind.

What makes THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES so unique is its unflinching look at the harsh realities faced by returning veterans. These were men whose lives and careers were upended with absolutely no warning; their plans for the future put indefinitely on hold; their jobs and very livelihoods stripped away from them with no promise of return. They were expected to fight, regardless of their civilian professions. In the case of the three servicemen portrayed in THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES, a successful banker is relegated to the frontlines of the Pacific as a sergeant (Fredric March as Al Stephenson); a high school football star finds himself in the belly of a Navy destroyer (real-life veteran Harold Russell as Homer Parrish); and a soda jerk finally finds purpose as a captain for the Army Air Force (Dana Andrews as Fred Derry).

Each man does what he must to not only serve his country, but survive, so as to return home to the lives they had before the war. However, war is cruel, and although they survived, their battles are far from over. The good will and patriotism that was worn on the sleeve of every American has faded as life returns to normal. But what is normal anymore for these men and their families? Are they really expected to pick up exactly where they left off when nothing is truly the same as it was before? Why can’t people understand what they’ve been through?

Wyler carefully explores the journey of these three servicemen as they try to find their place in this new post-war world, amidst dealing with their own personal demons, from self-medicating with alcohol; dealing with horrid PTSD flashbacks with little to no support and certainly no treatment (in an era when this was hardly taken seriously and afflicted veterans were expected to simply “snap out of it”—and is unfortunately still a problem today); and reclaiming some form of independence after serious physical injury.

But it’s not just the veterans’ stories that Wyler tells here. He also empathetically shows the struggles of their families, overjoyed yet guilt-ridden that they are the lucky ones in welcoming their heroes back home, while also silently cursing years of lost time and mourning for the simplicity of life before the war. No other film so delicately balances the patriotic call of duty, its sacrifices and the utter destruction of personal lives like THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES. It’s devastating and emotionally raw, and yet there is hope. These men and their families are strong. William Wyler knew firsthand what these servicemen were made of and he gives them the happy ending they deserve.

[ffxiv-ariavitali]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel & Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Player Character, Aymeric de Borel/Reader Characters: Aymeric de Borel, Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Reader, Player Character (Final Fantasy XIV), Francel de Haillenarte, Haurchefant Greystone Additional Tags: Hopeful Ending, Hope, Fluff, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Major Character(s), Slow Romance, Angst and Romance, Romance, Canonical Character Death Series: Part 4 of FFXIV Writing Prompts Summary:

Or personal writing prompt: "What does snow become when it melts?"

.//

When Aymeric was young, he was often regaled of tales involving knights and their heroic deeds. Usually, it consisted of rescuing a fair maiden who was often powerless to their situation. These knights would often be found from the bottom rung and, quite conveniently, rise through the ranks over a single night from one valiant deed involving a princess’ rescue.

However, as the lord commander grew up, he learned just how far those stories were from the truth. He learned of it when he discovered the origins of his birth. He witnessed it when he found Estinien alone at Ever Lakes when they first met during their training as Temple Knights. He was reminded of it when he saw a bastard knight sacrifice himself to preserve what he described as “hope incarnate,” offering to them a smile in their final moments.

Aymeric always tried to remain optimistic despite the endless sea of chaos. He adored Ishgard regardless of its flaws and wished to see his nation rise above the challenges presented to her. He proved himself time and time again and it allowed him to obtain the position that he has now. It is what allowed him the opportunity to befriend the Warrior of Light.

It is what showed him that there was just so much more.

Aymeric found you standing idly in the Pillars. From the way your cheeks have yet to flush from the cold, he assumed that you had recently departed from Fortemps manor. Your eyes sparkled as it stared up at the grey, cloudy skies and showered you gently with fragile crystals as you adjusted your scarf closer to your person. 

By Halone, he wondered what he had done to deserve your attention.

Courage, Aymeric, he thought to himself.

The lord commander straightened his back and his alpine coat before he began striding to close the gap between you and himself. The more he approached, the more detailed your figure became to him. The curve of your body toned through battle, the softness of your lips set at a beautifully curious pout and the distant gaze within your jeweled irises that seemed to see beyond what was before you…

...Are you truly not a heavenly being disguised as a mortal?

You twitched at the sound of his footsteps and your head tilted in his direction. Upon realizing that it was him, you offered a soft smile and a greeting. Aymeric did the same and gave you a courteous bow in true Elezen fashion before reaching out to take your hand in his, pressing his lips to your skin.

“How truly fortuitous it is to find you, my friend,” Aymeric said. “Just as the thought of you had crossed my mind.”

You remember Thancred’s teasing, the snide remarks he would give you when the others weren’t listening. You wouldn’t imagine him a politician…

Aymeric blinked and glanced towards your face and was pleasantly surprised to find your cheeks tinted the color of rolanberries. For a champion as mighty as yourself, it was quite endearing to have the privilege of beholding you in such a humble state. How he wished to keep this to himself.

Yet, he knew that he must be realistic. You were not his to keep. Despite how you two feel, you were both chained to your respective positions. This small fancy...it cannot be. Not when the realm at large was in peril. He can indulge once. But, at the end of the day…

The lord commander jolted when he heard you call out to him. His eyes darted to find yours, gaze locked on gaze, filled with concern. You ask him if he was alright and he smiles all the same.

“Indeed,” he assures you swiftly. “Would you care to accompany me for a walk?”

You nod easily and your lips curl upward at the sight of his excitement, overjoyed when he attempts to smother the better half of it for propriety’s sake. It was, for lack of a better term, quite cute how hard he tried.

You both wandered outside Saint Reymanaud’s cathedral, speaking on novels and interesting plot twists worth sharing. Then, you both end up in front of the Vault and pay respects to a dear friend, blissfully thankful for the silence shared in this intimate moment. Afterwards, you find that both of you have crossed Athenaeum Astrologicum towards the staircase leading to the Brume. Leading to the Firmament.

You and Aymeric exchange greetings to Lord Francel and make a mental note to prepare some meals for the Haillenarte lad. His face had paled and the circles under his eyes seem to be getting darker despite his smiles. Perhaps it’s his exhaustion that prompted him to reveal one of your secrets, one that wasn’t really a secret to begin with.

“Old friend, you have done much and more for the restoration than one could ever dream of and for that, I thank you,” Francel says with an oblivious but grateful smile. “Pray excuse me, for there is much work to be done and surely Haurchefant would be beside himself to catch me idling by!”

Aymeric’s eyes were on you, even as he offered a bid of farewell to Haillenarte’s son. For what reason binds you to Ishgard’s prosperity? You and the Scions have fought with your lives on the line for his people. People who, in turn, threw lies and slander in your direction with claims of heresy. The thought of this prevented him from thinking twice before asking.

“My friend, I mean no slight on your generosity and I truly believe you are of a much purer soul than this realm deserves, but I ask you nonetheless...how is it that you dedicate yourself so entirely to a cause not your own?”

Aymeric sees your initial surprise as your expression falls to one that he cannot read. It isn’t until you display such a forlorn mask with glazed eyes as you take in the sights before you that he obtains a glimpse of the person behind the Warrior of Light. The glory and fame, the memories and heartbreak - what have you asked for and what have you received, he wonders. Your voice breaks him from his musings.

“Tell me, my lord, what does snow become when it melts?”

Aymeric blinks, unsure of what to make of your question. Was it a test? Is there a hidden meaning behind it? Are you trying to tell him something?

The lord commander tilted his head ever so slightly.

“Why, when it melts, it becomes water, my friend,” he replies with a hesitant tone, giving you the benefit of doubt.

Your smile widens, which confuses him.

“Nay, my lord,” you respond. “It becomes spring.”

Aymeric’s brows raised and his lips parted at your answer. He watched as your eyes looked out at the distance towards the stone rubble and mess from the destruction left by the Dravanians. There was a hint of something there. Something that he had felt once before and had forgotten.

Then, it hit him.

When Aymeric was young, he was often regaled of tales involving knights and their heroic deeds. Usually, it consisted of rescuing a fair maiden who was often powerless to their situation. However, as the lord commander grew up, he learned just how far those stories were from the truth. After all, there was always one thing that these stories failed to answer:

When the knight falls to despair, who would save them in kind?

Then, there was you. One of the greatest "knights" of his time and still forging on towards the new dawn. Whatever trials and tribulations you experience, you meet it with a straight back and head held high. Chased from the pinnacle of fortune, thrown into the jaws of despair with the knowledge that you are missing knowledge regarding the whereabouts of your comrades, the turmoil broiling within your heart at the loss of a friend that he knew was a fault of his own...

Yet, in your eyes, he finds the beauty of the world and its inhabitants, the hope that despite any misdeeds they have conducted, they can yet be good people. When all others fall from the challenge, you rise to meet it. You light the beacon so brightly and run with it, prompting everyone that comes to know you to chase after it with such passion and desire.

You are more than just a Warrior. More than just a faerie tale come to life. You are what people could be if they just believed.

Aymeric felt his heart fill once more. He may be a knight, but even the strong need to be weak to become all the better. The gentleness you showed him and the stalwart conviction you hold, he will never forget. In fact, he wants to chase after it. Wants to chase after you.

Maybe it is alright to dream every now and then.

Aymeric takes a breath and reaches out for your hand. He was mildly startled when you had intertwined your fingers with him so readily and was in awe of how your palm rested snugly against his. You hadn’t turned to face him, still lost in your own silent thoughts. He didn’t begrudge you for it as he turned to face the rest of the Firmament, not thinking of what it is right now, but what it could be with the effort of his people striving for a better tomorrow.

Amidst his thoughts, one stands out in particular:

I pray we see the budding spring together when it comes.

[doomedandstoned]

Oakland Doomy Bluesers Phantom Hound Roar ‘Cross The ‘Mountain Pass’

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

Album Art by Molly Stetson & Heather Hughes

I live not far from the railroad and there's something very comforting about hearing a train roll in. It's appropriate that the might and roar of that metallic convoy be responsible for opening the new record from PHANTOM HOUND.

We met them some years back, when the Oakland doom and power blues trio dropped, 'Phantom Hound' (2016), their debut EP. Now Jake Navarra (guitar, vox), Stephen Rogers (bass guitar), and Jack Stiles (drums) are back with a full-length: 'Mountain Pass' (2020). The new spin showcases a sound that's genuinely enticing, much like Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite For Destruction was when I first heard it at age 12 (the first cassette I had to buy clandestinely from my parents).

The riffmaking, from leads to solos, is strong with Mountain Pass, driving each track forward like a mighty engine, from the rush of an opener "The Northern Face" to the grinding blueser "Thunder I Am," the chugging pistons of "Irons In The Fire," and the Matt Pike-like filigrees of "The Southern Face."

Jake's powerful pipes fall somewhere in between Chris Cornell's soaring medium range, the raspy grit of Finnish vocalist Olli Suurmunne (Kaiser, Altar of Betelgeuze), and the commanding force of Australia's Chris Fisher (Field, Lamassu).

You ain't gonna bring me down You ain't gonna bleed me out You ain't gonna kill me now You ain't gonna snuff me out

In fact, if you liked Kaiser's '1st Sound' (2018), this would make a very nice companion.

A pleasant acoustic interlude, "Grace of an Angel" gives us a rest stop from the treacherous uphill journey, leading to the album's expansive namesake track and a very overcast second-half. "Devil Blues" is quite effective in conjuring the rough terrain of the California mountains and the sense of aloneness one feels when traveling deep into the wild.

Steady return into the dark Dealing again my hand the card A whisper, a spark, and a flame Has bitten me again Killing me again the same

We've now travelled from "The Northern Face" to meet "The Southern Face," the Mountain Pass closer. It's a doomy one for sure, though the intrepid tempo gives the sense of determination that this journey will be finished.

"Overall this record is about survival and living for every moment," the band told Doomed & Stoned. "A gritty reflection on what is required to actually live your life rather than be a slave to it."

And now, Doomed & Stoned is pleased to bring you the premiere of Mountain Pass by Phantom Hound, ahead of its wide release on Saturday, March 28th (pre-order here).

Give ear...

Mountain Pass by Phantom Hound

Track By Track: A Listener's Guide to Mountain Pass

We asked the guys to give us a walk-through of each number on Phantom Hound's new album. We got more than we expected and are delighted to share this in-depth breakdown with you from frontman Jake Navarra.

The Northern Face

This song started off early writing sessions for the record as a new riff when I bought a new Jazzmaster not long after that Rob Zombie show. The riff was written hours before my first audition in two years as something aggressive and impressive to take to them. The guys I jammed with didn't get the vision and we didn't click in general so I put it in my back pocket. I brought it home and kept working on it though. My love of all things Alice in Chains carved this track out to serve as our "Them Bones" This main riff would later serve me again on a second song "The Southern Face" I used the main riff from "The Northern Face" as a bridge riff after the second chorus outro in "The Southern Face" but since the song is in B-Standard on the Baritone guitar its nearly unnoticeable. The songs became the beginning and the end of the record pretty early on. Lyrically the song serves as a cry of raw life. The idea being that, we are born into this world and its a fight to stay here. Climbing the northern face is a metaphor for the listener to be the train that has set off to see its railroad completed. (Drop D)

Thunder I Am

I grew up watching old westerns with my grandpa and my old man. There's nobody that doesn't relate to Clint Eastwood's characters and this songs a direct tip of the hat to the attitude portrayed in nearly all of his films. Thunder I Am is essentially that sense of justice that will always rain down. The song wrote itself when I first plugged this guitar into my Orange. Heavily inspired by Down and Soudgarden. (B Standard)

Irons in the Fire

This song directly reflects a love for Down & Pantera. Lyrically a direct reflection on how hard our members work on a daily basis and what it takes to make a band happen these days with all the different DIY elements band members have to juggle. We can never loose faith in ourselves or let the idea of a dream die out. We simply have to stoke the fire and keep it burning at all times. We put some southern style groove at the end of this song to pay homage to some dime style breakdown riffing. (B Standard)

You Don't Know Death

This song was written during The Ether era. How it survived is beyond me. It's tough, fast, and sharp as a dagger so maybe that helped. Lyrically a reflection on the overwhelming amount of death worship. I don't feel like a lot of bands really know what they're talking about sometimes but I was also much younger when I wrote it and far more angsty. I was craving diversity from metal at the time. I simply want life to be valued at its core. Perhaps the opposite of how it sounds I guess. (Drop C Standard)

Grace of an Angel

Throughout 2018 my step mother battled liver cirrhosis. She turned 67 on Dec 11th and passed away two days after Christmas on Dec 27th. She was in my life for 20 of my 30 years and was nothing short of an angel. She brought children into this world for over 30 years in the medical industry working as an RN for Kaiser Permanente. She never drank, smoked, or swore. She retired around the age of 64 and almost instantly got sick. She did her part for a transplant but was denied a liver through the waiting list. It was the single most painful experience of my life as I was there through the end holding her hand and looking after my old man as we all watched helplessly on the wayside. During her pain and suffering she never lost her integrity and showed more strength in her final hours than I think anybody could truly understand. People leave this world in many different ways but she did it as gracefully as only an angel could. I wrote this only weeks before the end. Steve is playing a Fender Rhodes and Jack added some light drums on it. I did more takes of this than any other track on the record. (Drop C)

Mountain Pass

This song started off during the years I walked away from music as the only thing I would play on my only instrument which was the acoustic that I kept. Occasionally I thought of a record that could capture the sound I always wanted to make combining heavy influences and trying to really make a grand opus. Something long and stoneresque calling on some Matt Pike meets Jerry Cantrell riffage. As the years went by and the idea for this record started to form it really honestly felt like we were struggling at every turn to see this record through. Life changes, career changes, the economy, the price of living, the music industry. Its been a struggle for many. This song is an anthem to all of the blue collar workers and dream of the builders putting one foot in front of the other to see their journey through. We have to set examples sometimes or nothing will change. (Drop C)

Devil Blues

This song is tip of the hat to The Blues. When I started playing guitar again I decided to play with a fire and make sure above all else that we were having fun in this band and having fun at our shows. Life is incredibly short and that's all there is to it. This song is about giving into The Blues and letting that feeling live inside you and remind you to stay out late, spend the extra money, go look at the stars, and jump into the ocean. (B Standard)

The Southern Face

The journey ends here. We've fought, we've struggled, we've survived the perilous journey of life and you're all the stronger and wiser for it. a reminder that you did it with your own two hands, your wit, and that not everybody made it. It's not a perfect story and it didn't work out well for everybody. We took losses and we made gains. And when you're done its time to reflect and count your blessings. This song is a steep descent into a smooth arrival back at the destination you set out to reach. This song wraps up the story entirely and leaves a sneak peak for what's to come. You can hear Steve's wizardry as his psychedelia morphs into a trance-like sense of closure and clarity until the train drops you off and carries on. (B Standard)

Wrong Turns & Second Chances: Interview with Phantom Hound

Every band has an origin story. Sometimes if you dig a little beyond the surface and get to know the musicians behind the music, their stories become surprisingly relatable. As Doomed & Stoned is all about both the music and the stories of the heavy underground, we were curious to know more about a lesser known band with a huge sound and grand ideas called Phantom Hound. We got the scoop from frontman Jake Navarra.

The Beginning

We formed in 2013 under the name Hound. Keith Hernandez (bass and engineer) and Dominic Torres (drums) did The Ether EP with me but not long after we recorded and started mixing I got into a motorcycle accident at the end of 2014 and decided to walk away from music altogether. I had been playing music for 10 years at this point and in part of the collapse of my previous band Cast Iron Crow and the continued struggle to keep a band going in general felt that my time as a musician was done. I fucked up my right shoulder and tore my ACL in the crash, had to get reconstructive surgery on my knee, and learn how to use my left leg all over again during recovery.

Because of this and the inability to play any instrument at all I sold off all of my gear except for my acoustic guitar in order to help pay my bills and for nearly two years never looked back. It was in summer of 2016 that I found myself with some free tickets for Rob Zombie. I took my older brother out to see him as we grew up listening to White Zombie and Rob Zombie from all the old Twisted Metal video games growing up. There was a brief moment when John 5 came out on stage at the beginning of House of 1000 Corpses.

The stage went dark and a spotlight came down upon him and he had this glow in the dark Telecaster with the TV screen in between the pickups while an old horror movie was playing on it and had the whole arena at his attention with that ominous riff. My brother elbowed me and said "You're telling me you don't wanna do that anymore? That doesn't look fun to you?" a light bulb went off that night and I called Kieth Hernandez a few days later to dust off The Ether mixes and we spent the fall dialing it in and finishing what we started. I ended up getting introduced to Oz Fritz who's worked with Les Claypool in the past and has some ties in the East Bay Area. I released it digitally that Christmas as a present to close friends and family.

The Rebirth

At the start of 2017, I wanted to really get back into playing again and struggled for some time to secure a lineup. I had two line ups of close friends help me get the ball rolling and things were off to a slow start for a while as we only had the EP material which was written on a Fender Jazzmaster. In the early months of 2017 I acquired a guitar that changed everything. The Hagstrom Viking Baritone. As soon as I plugged this guitar into my amp "Thunder I Am" was the first thing that came back out of it. "Devil Blues" was second and "The Southern Face" was the third. These three songs became the basis for what would become Mountain Pass and for a year-and-a-half my renewed interest in guitar and the blues pumped new life into the band. We played two shows this year and survived only by a slow pulse.

Paths Converge

It wasn't until I met Jack Stiles (drums) in March of 2018 through craigslist and that things got serious. He was the first person in 5 years that was as motivated as myself about the project and we set out to overhaul the band immediately. Jack (44) is a business owner of 10+ years, married, and a father of two little ones with more energy than most people my age (30). Jack has been a drummer for less than 5 years and a bass player of 20+. From sheer motivation he's answered the call and taken every challenge I've thrown his way. Jack strictly plays Ludwig classics and has shaped his playing around the hooks and rhythms these songs call for. A general love for all things music he's been one of the single most important musicians to ever share the stage with.

Through Jack we met Steve Rogers (bass) a few months later in June of 2018. Steve is a guy as casual as they come. (43) 100% Irish. Here's a guy who backpacked the John Muir trail in 8 days and shrugs his shoulders over his accomplishment when you bring it up. An established sound engineer with Dolby in San Francisco he's one of the friendliest people I've ever met. At the time he was pretty upset with his previous audition with some other band because they told him he didn't have the right image. Their loss, our gain. Steve's unwavering dedication to his bass tone filled a huge gap in our sound and with his Ampeg SVT and Music Man offers a brutal low end I didn't realize these songs couldn't benefit so much from. During the recording sessions Jack and I marveled at his ability to convey how these songs should expand with our engineer Chris Hughes. His sense of temp and atmosphere is responsible for all of the psychedelia and the keys hidden in 'Mountain Pass" and "Grace of an Angel."

Phantom Hound, Jake Navarra, and Mountain Pass

In late summer of 2018, the three of us went straight to work. At this time the name "Hound" had become convoluted and our music simply couldn't be found. After much deliberation and research we expanded the name to Phantom Hound. Symbolically this further represented the folklore surrounding the concept of why I chose "Hound" in the first place. Everything from Hell Hounds of the south capturing elements of The Blues, Black Shuck 's and Phantom Hounds of the UK and America to the mighty Cerberus going all the way back to Greek mythology. The Phantom Hound is essentially a guide/gatekeeper between worlds of the living and the spiritual underworld. We felt this helped us fully mature into our sound as were a bit of a mutt ourselves in the sense that we don't particularly fit in anywhere but get by everywhere so far.

As the main guitar player, vocalist, and songwriter it is my primary goal to try and compose records with expansive styles highlighting what the guitar can offer a listener. My own personal inspiration comes a lot from the classic rock I grew up on as a kid like so many, Seattle grunge, Mississippi and Chicago Blues, NOLA sludge, Italian and East Coast Jazz, Californian desert and stoner rock, and even the eclectic resurgence of all things metal in the local Oakland scene.

After rebuilding throughout the summer of 2018 on what had now become the 4th lineup of the band and the 1st lineup of Phantom Hound we came back up for air renewed and rebranded. We spent the winter of 2018/2019 performing, writing, shaping, and designing our brand. Our love for westerns, camping, backpacking, and history brought us to the Theme of "Mountain Pass," which is a loose concept record comparing one's personal journey through adulthood and all of the challenges one faces during those years to construction of the Transcontinental Railroad. In its essence: A perilous journey inward and mission for oneself to see through to its completion.

Producing Mountain Pass

2019 was the biggest year for us by far. We went into the studio with my friend Chris Hughes in May. About 10 years earlier I met him through an old friend back in college down in southern California. During that moment in time I was discovering Sleep's Jerusalem and was so stoked on Sleep I gave it to this transplant from Denver who wanted to get his hands on anything heavy and stoner metal related. Life went on and I didn't see him again for 10 years. During that time he continued to date and eventually marry an old friend of mine from High School and pursue audio engineering up here in the Bay Area at Expressions.

Somewhere along his journey, Chris got connected with the boys in the South Bay in KOOK and they hired him to produce their first album "Kook" and again their follow up "Kook II". This time however and the reason I mention this part of the story is that KOOK is well acquainted with Billy Anderson who came down from Oregon as the executive producer on the follow up record. Chris was able to shadow Billy in these sessions and learn and assist with much of the engineering on this record.

So after not seeing Chris or my old friend Heather we bumped into each other at Bevmo here downtown in Oakland to buy some beer. We instantly caught up having one hell of a laugh that after all these years the chance encounter we had over Sleep led him to working alongside Billy Anderson himself. With Chris fresh off the sessions of Kook II and Phantom Hound locked and loaded with Mountain Pass, everything lined up right and we went into the studio together at Airship Laboratories in Richmond, California and recorded nearly everything but the vocals in the same room Metallica recorded S&M and had a blast combining all our knowledge together and reconnecting as friends.

Chris Hughes took our record to extraordinary levels and our songs gave him a solid platform to apply his newly acquired skill sets on. We continued to perform all throughout the year with as many bands around town as possible as we built our relationships and earned a place here in town. In September of 2019 through Chris Hughes we were introduced to Jeff Wilson from Kook, Heavy San Jose, and Glory or Death Records and got on the bill for his annual Beers in Hell event. This was single handedly the most important gig of the year for us last year as we got to play with tons of killer bands and open for Hippie Death Cult, Kook, Disastroid, Holy Grove, and High Tone Son of a Bitch (which included Billy Anderson on Bass that night). We then played again with Hippie Death Cult in Pacifica a few weeks later and hit it off as friends.

Mastering Mountain Pass

After mixing was completed and our shows for September were wrapped up, we took off into Nevada City to reconnect with Oz Fritz at Ancient Wave Studios. This place is located down a long dirt road deep in the woods of Gold Country. A perfect relaxing place to kick back and watch the record come to life. Oz Fritz worked with me on The Ether EP. He's worked on Primus's Antipop, several Tom Waits records, and Miles Davis to name a few. Oz is straight to the point and gets down to business quick. He was stoked on the variety of the songs he was working with and added a great layer of warmth that comes through the best on vinyl as we've heard with our test pressings. There is a photo attached of us at Ancient Wave with him working his magic. He was once asked by Tom Waits "This mix sounds great but...it needs more brown" and so he figured it out.

The Northern Face Music Video Shoot

In October, we took off to Soda Springs and rented a cabin during filming for the music video. As I mentioned above we filmed in a historical landmark. You can see us at the entrance of Tunnel #6. If you look Closely you can see the scars on the granite as if the black powder and dynamite just blew it up yesterday. The town behind me on the cliff is Truckee and the lake below is Donner Lake. It is my goal to bring our listeners into the outdoors and feel the dirt in their hands and the smell of the woods.

Tragedy nearly took place though as after we finished filming all day on Saturday and celebrating all night Saturday night. What we thought were minor electrical issues with the house itself turned out to be a near fatal one when an electrical short in the gas fireplace sparked around 3AM. The fireplace caught fire thus lighting the outside of the house and chimney on fire proceeding to fill the house with smoke while 9 of us were fast asleep.

At 3:30 AM the smoke alarms went off like a symphony and we scrambled to find the source only to quickly determine that the fireplace was the problem. Black smoke poured out everywhere from behind the fireplace and we used two fire extinguishers in an attempt to put out the flames. What we didn't know and couldn't see was that the fire crept up all the way through the chimney in between the interior and exterior of the chimney. And just like that, within 10 minutes we started evacuating the house and helping each other clear the place out of our belongings, instruments, film equipment, and vehicles. The Truckee Fire Department came out and went to work and kicked ass on the fire while we assisted with information on how the fire and extending the hoses until reinforcement arrived.

In the end we all got out ok and luckily nobody had to go to the hospital. We all got smoked out pretty bad and were pretty shaken up. It was the real deal 100%. That house was on its way to burning down the house. That's the story behind the home footage at the end. If you look closely the entire house is billowing with smoke. We were all fast asleep about 40 minutes before that was filmed.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[eggman-empire]

An Unlikely End

by Jen Irwin [Note:  This has nothing to do with ROTFW, it's a pure SegaSonic fanfic.  Jen, Arashi and the other made-up characters don't exist here.] Just another routine mission, stopping Dr. Robotnik from taking over the world.  Sonic had done this many times before, so it was nothing new to him.  Sure, he faced a few new perils each time, but they were all overcome in short time with as much ease as before.  He blasted through hallways and around corners, smashing through any robots that got in his way, twisted metal flying as it was severed from falling bodies of steel.

Dr. Ivo Robotnik sat in his main control room, growling to himself as he watched the destruction through the security cameras.  Sonic smashed up a few of the cameras themselves, too, just to spite his archenemy.  Watching a large digital map, he tracked the hedgehog's fast movements through his base, shaking his head as Sonic came to the doors of the control room. The large black chair sitting before the control panel turned around, revealing the doctor sitting in it casually, leaning slightly on one elbow.  Sonic stood in the doorway, staring at him with a look of both triumph and defiance.  "Eggman!" he said in a sort of greeting. "Sonic," Ivo replied with a slight, stiff nod.  "Yet again, you've managed to get through my base." "And I always will!  Guess what?  You lose again!  Heheh!"  The hedgehog started charging up a spindash, meaning to obliterate the control panel and take the chaos emeralds that Ivo had stolen so far. "Do I?" Ivo asked, grinning evilly, and pressed a button on the arm of his chair.   The floor then burst open as a huge robot sprang up from it, blocking Sonic's path to Ivo.  He stopped charging his spindash and crouched into a defensive stance, looking up at the massive robot, immediately scanning it for any weak points.  "Whoa, nice one you got here, Egghead," he said, leaping out of the way of a razor-sharp blade as it swung at him.  The robot started clunking towards him, machine-guns on its shoulders blazing away. Zipping around the room, Sonic leaped from one place to the other, hearing bullets ricochet off the metal around him, the ear-piercing screech of blades striking steel.  A spot under each of the four 'arms' appeared weak; Sonic tested this theory by waiting for a blade to swing at him before he zipped forward, ducking under the blade and leaping up, spinning into the gears.  The robot staggered backward, sputtering slightly as the hedgehog bounced off, but kept moving with its attacks. Having found the weak point, Sonic continued skillfully avoiding the attacks, all the while taking the opportunities when he could to strike.  Ivo watched from his chair, brow furrowed, frowning in angry disappointment.  It seems like every time he fights my creations he gets faster!  When am I ever going to make a robot fast enough to defeat him?  He sighed slightly, watching the fight continue on. The eighth blow, the one that almost always disabled the robots, was at hand.  Sonic quickly leaped over a huge blade as it whipped towards his legs, then spun forward and slammed into the weak point again. Bouncing away towards the door, Sonic stopped to catch his breath as he watched the machine stagger around, sputtering.  Ivo sat up straighter in his chair, gritting his teeth slightly as he watched his creation attempt to keep functioning normally.  Circuits fried and gears locked as the process kept on... but then something happened. The robot's control was lost.  It started to spasm as small explosions burst from its seams, loud popping noises filling the air along with a burning smell.  Blades slammed into panels and smashed out screens as Ivo leapt from his chair, shouting, "NO!  You piece of JUNK!  What are you doing!?  You're not supposed to do this!"  He flinched to the side as a huge curved blade glanced off the floor beside him.  Sonic decided not to stay any longer and zipped out the door.  Ivo started to run himself, but it was too late. A huge explosion rocked the base, its already weakened control point shattering along with the rock of the mountain that lay under it.  Sonic, standing on top of the base towards the front, turned as he watched the central point collapse upon itself, huge chunks of rock falling down with it.  He zipped to the edge of the wreckage and looked down into the huge hole that was blown in the side of the mountain. Normally, he saw an escape pod rising up and fleeing the area whenever a base was ruined.  This time was different.  The area below was shadowed, making it hard to see what was what.  Then he heard a sound that made his blood freeze. A choked cry of extreme agony rang out, echoing off the side of the mountain.  It was a wrenching sound in itself; what made it even more severe was the fact that there was no doubt it belonged to Robotnik himself.  It was a sound that never had escaped his lungs until this day. Sonic immediately jumped down into the crater, running in the direction of the sound.  As he hurried around a huge boulder, that's when he saw something that, oddly, was more horrifying to him than anything else he'd ever laid eyes on. There on the ground, buried under several hundred tons of rock and steel from the waist down, was Robotnik, drawing ragged gasps for breath.  Sonic sprinted over to him, kneeling next to him.  "Hey, man, what happened!?" he asked.  "How come you didn't get out of there?!" "I... I didn't... wasn'...  wasn't fast enough... it all happened so... so quickly," the large man managed to wheeze, pain quite evident in his voice.  Sonic looked up at the pile of rock, standing up.  "I'm gonna get you out of there!" he exclaimed, ignoring for the moment the fact that Ivo was his worst enemy. "N... n-no... don't... if you move any of it... it's going to... all come crashing down on us-s both," Ivo said, grabbing Sonic's wrist.  The hedgehog whipped his head around, looking down at the mad scientist in surprise.  "But... why would you warn me..." Ivo swallowed hard, fighting back his pain, and unsteadily shook his head with a somewhat rueful grin.  "I'm...  I'm not a martyr."  He paused, sucking in a shuddering breath as a lance of agony shot through his body.  "You won, fair and s-square..."  His eyes shut tightly for a moment in a grimace, then he took a breath and opened them again, looking helplessly up at Sonic. "S-Sonic, I...  I want you to know something," Ivo continued, his breathing becoming more labored by the minute as he gently tugged on the hedgehog's wrist.  With worry deeply etched into his face, Sonic moved over to kneel by Ivo again. "I've always... had a c-certain res-spect for you, for your persistence... determination... it just... reminded me s-so much of me.  Just... your force of will... all of it.  In a way, I like you.  I don't know if you unders-stand..." Sonic placed a hand on Ivo's shoulder, his worry and confusion growing as he nodded, "Yeah...  I know... I've always felt the same.  ...Man, is there... is there ANY way to get you out of this?" The doctor shook his head, his face now quite pale as sweat dripped from it.  "N-no...  I..."  He paused, eyes closing tightly again, gritting his teeth in pain.  He shifted his position, trying to tug himself out, but it was hopeless, and all he got was a loud shriek of agony out of it.  Sonic flinched, gulping slowly as reality sunk in. Ivo's hands suddenly flew up to his shoulder, grabbing Sonic's hand tightly.  His face twisted in despair, he started to sob... shuddering silently at first, then wheezing through his tears.  "I'm...  I'm scared, Sonic... God, I'm so scared," he sobbed.  Fear had entered his mind in the past, plenty of times, but nothing so extreme as to cause him to admit it.  However, that fear was usually a result of losing his prized machines or losing a battle... never had he truly faced the loss of his life. To Sonic, this was both amazing and terrifying.  Never had he seen Ivo display feelings other than anger or comparitively mild fear.  The hedgehog felt so sad for this man that was his enemy; he was a person, just like everyone else.  He had feelings, whether they had previously been buried deeply before.  And now, he was dying, his missions in life all having failed.  Sonic bit his lip, fighting back tears, and placed his free hand on the two that were already gripping his other one. "Ivo," the hedgehog said, addressing the man by his first, real name for the first time ever, "You... don't worry, you'll be out of pain soon."  With no way to save him, all Sonic could do was comfort him in his first and only hour of need. The minutes dragged painfully on, Ivo's condition worsening rapidly.  His shuddering breathing became hoarse in his throat, and each breath was more shallow than the one before it.  Sonic closed his eyes tightly, tears streaming down his face as Ivo gripped his hands tighter with every streak of pain that occurred. Through his weakening sobs, Ivo managed to say, "S-ssonic... thank you...  I d--... I didn't have to die... alone..." A final ragged breath shuddered through his lungs and turned into a weak sigh as Ivo finally relaxed...  Life abandoned his body as his head dropped slightly to the side. Sonic cried for many hours that night, Ivo's final words and actions replaying in his head over and over again, wrenching his heart harder the more he thought about it.  Extremely traumatized to the point of being delusional, he thought occasionally that he could hear the once-powerful voice of his fallen enemy... but when he'd look up and call out in confusion, all that would answer was the mournful howl of the wind across the crater.

[beautifulpaxielreads]

Title: Lovely war

Author: Julie Berry

Number of pages: 468

Publisher’s blurb (from back cover): A sweeping, multilayered romance set in the perilous days of World Wars I and II, where gods hold the fates – and the hearts – of four mortals in their hands.

They are Hazel, James, Aubrey, and Colette. A classical pianist from London, a British would-be architect turned soldier, a Harlem-born ragtime genius in the US Army, and a Belgian orphan with a gorgeous voice and a devastating past. Their story, as told by goddess Aphrodite, who must spin the tale or face judgement on Mount Olympus, is filled with hope and heartbreak, prejudice and passion, and reveals that, though War is a formidable force, it’s no match for the transcendent power of Love.

Author Julie Berry’s critically acclaimed writing has been called “haunting and unforgettable” by New York Times bestselling author of Salt to the Sea Ruta Sepetys, and “utterly original and instantly engrossing” by Publishers Weekly.

My review

War is not lovely. It is messy, destructive, senseless, heartbreaking, fury-inducing.

So why the title? It actually comes from a song popular at the time of the First World War.

Before I go any further, I must offer this warning. There is very, very heavy racism and violence perpetuated against African-American characters. Do not take this lightly. Julie Berry pulls no punches in her depictions of how black men and women were discriminated against by whites, particularly Southerners. There is violence, both actual and implied. A black character is killed in a particularly violent manner. We never see the event taking place, only its aftermath. There are slurs used against African-Americans, which I won’t go into but which you can probably guess at. Segregation is utilised in army camps, and black men are warned not to mix with white women. Berry makes clear that this violence and racism is deeply, deeply wrong, and indeed, several white characters call others out on their racism.

Following the German invasion, there is a massacre perpetuated against the people in the Belgian town of Dinant, by the Germans as revenge for the losses of German soldiers. One of the main characters is orphaned by the massacre while she hides in an abbey. Horrifyingly, this massacre is not fictional. It actually happened – close to seven hundred people were murdered. This event, as well as others like it, were part of what came to be known as “The Rape of Belgium”.

The horrors of war are also depicted realistically. Characters – and not just minor ones – suffer both physical and mental injuries as a consequence of battles and random attacks. One character is the subject of an attempted rape by a German prisoner of war but is rescued before the attacker can go too far.

I know this all sounds like a lot to deal with, and I hope I haven’t put you off! I will say that, in spite of this heavy content, Julie Berry’s writing treats it with great delicacy and sensitivity.

Did I mention the writing yet? Because it is just stunning. It is romantic, humorous, atmospheric, moving, and yet, as I said earlier, pulls no punches when it comes to difficult topics.

I loved the four main characters – the quietness and sensitivity of James, the pure goodness and boldness of Hazel, the brilliance and cheekiness of Aubrey, and the sophisticated, emotional Colette. The Greek gods were a joy to behold - once I got past the slight oddness of them talking like 1940s people. I loved their meddling as they try to nudge the hapless mortals into making the right decisions, and their despair as it seems everything is going wrong. The one character I didn’t particularly care for was Ares – I thought he was a bit of a jerk, but I think that’s how Berry wrote him.

The entire novel is rich in period detail and atmosphere – it’s clear Berry did her homework on this one. As someone who is a great lover of music, I really appreciated those aspects of the book – In fact, soon after I finished reading it, I created a playlist of the songs and musical pieces mentioned! I also appreciated how real-life figures from history are integrated into the stories of the fictional characters, particularly the members of the 369th Infantry Regiment, which later became known as the Harlem Hellfighters. People who were part of the beginnings of jazz music in the US – people like James Reese Europe. Noble Sissle. Eubie Blake. These names may be familiar to African-American audiences, but for everyone else, Google them.

The historical notes that Berry provides at the end of the book are very much worth reading, and I also appreciated the bibliography of books and other media used in her research – I’ll definitely check some of them out.

In conclusion, Lovely War is a work of great power. It isn’t just about the horror and futility of war – it’s also about the necessity of love in such times. It gave me a real insight into the events and people of the early twentieth century, most of which I had no previous knowledge of. If you think you can handle the sensitive subject matter, you will be richly rewarded.

I know I was.

I rate Lovely War four enthusiastic stars out of five.