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brf-rumortrackinganon · 2 months

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Hello rumor tracking anon 👋🏻 I'm really sad with the horrible way almost all of the western media ganged up and bashing Princess Catherine for something so insignificant just because she refused to divulge her medical records information with the nobodies. She and the babies are subjects horrible memes now. What do you think KP should do in future to ensure they put these rogue press in their places and never bow down to their ridiculous demands of more access into the Waleses' private lives?

Part of it is that their hands are tied because of William's position as Prince of Wales and future king. They're public officials whose lives are subsidized by taxpayer monies, which means they have to allow the people access to parts of their lives. For much of modern history, the people have used the fourth estate as their representatives to the royals (and vice versa), but at some point the press appointed themselves as judge, jury, and executioner of the royal family, which caused most of them to go on enormous power trips and develop astounding cases of entitlement.

Anyway, KP being a quasi-public office means they:

Can't try to censor the press, control what they print, or regulate what the internet/social media says about them. Harry already tried and it's going to be worse if William tries.

Can't not talk to the press. Certainly, William and Kate individually and personally can not talk to the press and just let the KP office speak for them every/any time - but they do this already for the most part.

Can't not include journalists or the rota in their events. They're public officials. Their work has to be covered by the public, no matter how rogue or cooperative their representatives (the press) are.

But there's a loophole. There are a couple loopholes, actually:

KP can either work with the press or without the press - i.e. go directly to the people themselves.

KP can draw separate mutually-exclusive boundaries around private lives/children and their work.

KP can move farther away from the media hub of London.

Work with or without the media

Reform the rota. The main issue here is how? Term limits on the royal beat? Expanding the rota and diversifying the publications represented? Blocking where, when, and how the rota accompanies them (like Anne is able to)? That's something KP/William would need to negotiate with the rota, and based on what Scobie said in Endgame, the rota is not interested in changing anything unless they can personally benefit to the exclusion of everyone else.

Cut the press out of their dealings. This means communicating directly to the people via their social media accounts, which means more transparency. They've started this by controlling who and when photographs of their children are shared, now let's take it a step or two further and start using your social media or an official KP website to more broadly communicate and promote their work and engagements. The press can and will continue to cover them, but by reducing their exclusivity, KP can control the narrative a little better. What does this look like?

KP publishing their press releases, statements, announcements, and photographs exclusively to social media or a website.

Not giving the rota access to their friends for the big articles.

Commissioning and making documentaries of their work. A lot of what they already do is perfect for documentaries and longer content forms. I mean, Earthshot is primed for a documentary series to follow up on their winners or other finalists, show some of the decision-making, etc. When they travel, make a documentary about the trip. Or even produce documentaries/programs about their charities and patronages - they don't have to be in it!

Start using their YouTube channel and create more longer-form content instead of these 40-second Instagram reels. Where are they going? Who are they meeting? Why are they going to these places? What do these charities do? Show us everything that the rota or the press would ordinarily report on, and in doing so they'd take power away from the media.

Become more selective of who gets their personal photographs. Say no. Authorize it only for rota publications. Give the exclusive to one publication at at time. Make everyone use only what was posted.

Reform the KP staff. Especially the communications team. Bring in a lawyer or two. Hire some real communications/PR experts. Get a real social media manager to manage and organize your content. Prioritize communications as equally as the charity work instead of leaving it an afterthought. Develop and implement standards/policies for press engagement like:

KP Comms will accept press inquiries Monday through Friday 9am - 5pm. Press inquiries/requests submitted outside these hours will be addressed within working hours only.

All press inquiries/requests must be answered. Even if it's "no comment," every inquiry/request gets a response so that when a publication does become impatient and writes "KP has not responded," we pull them on the carpet for not giving us a chance to respond.

No comments or answers on questions concerning private matters (e.g. Kate's health) and our minor/still-in-school children.

(I've no idea if this is feasible or not. The bottom line is KP needs to introduce clear standards for working with and handling the press so the fourth estate can't use "they didn't respond to our request for comment" as a weapon anymore.)

Work more. Rumors and conspiracy theories exist when there's an absence of information. When there's no information or there's very little information, we make things up to explain what we see or don't see. The only way to address that is to give more information. And for KP, that means William and Kate both need to work more. They need to be seen more.

We know they're working. We see the results, but it's not enough anymore. They need to be showing progress towards those results. Show us the meetings you're having. Show us the visits you're making. Show us why this work and these accomplishments are important. Show us the meaning and the impact. Show us the bang your taxpayer's pound sterling.

If they want to keep their engagement numbers low because family first, that's fine - but it needs to be compensated elsewhere, and that is not happening currently (excluding the ongoing health crises). Yes, they prefer quality over quantity but what good is quality when you can't see it?

And that's where their content channels and social media can be helpful. (Just to make it full circle.) If they satisfy the people, the press and the media has no choice but to fall in line because the people - their consumers - aren't going to buy their products when they criticize the people they support and like. We see this happen all the time.

Boundaries

So then the next piece of it is their private lives, especially the children. For me, it seems like KP is under the impression that people are only interested in them for their private lives and the children.

I don't think that's true. I think because they're not very transparent about a lot of their work, whether it's the official royal stuff or the Royal Foundation or their personal charity work, people/the fourth estate default to wanting information about their private lives and the children. Maybe this is foolhardy of me, but I truly believe if William and Kate worked more and showed us their work more, most people would feel very satisfied by it and be very happy with the little we get about the children.

So we don't actually need to see the children, and KP doesn't need to include the children in their content. And frankly, KP shouldn't be including the kids in their content until they're old enough and responsible enough to consent to it - so the cadence they've struck with providing access to the children is perfect (family photos 4 times a year, individual photos for birthdays and special milestones, and 3-5 family work events/engagements a year).

On that note, I think KP underestimates how interested the normal general public would be in content produced about or for their work. I mean, people liked Kate and people liked William long before there were children in the picture, and people will continue liking them long after the children are grown and have flown the nest cottage. So why not go back to that very basic element: the main attractions at KP are William and Kate themselves.

Kate narrating a documentary about bee-keeping and honeymaking? Earthshot giving us a 6 episode documentary series about their winners narrated by Cate Blanchett or a 2-hour special about Cape Town and South Africa (and every Earthshot city) by David Attenborough or a local expert? A 30-minute travel program about Cornwall by the Duchy of Cornwall? 3-minute YouTube videos about their charities and patronages produced by the people who work there or who benefit from services posted ahead of their visits? William narrating a documentary about his homeless initiative in Cornwall? A summer exhibition in KP's display hall of Kate's dresses or a Kate-curated show of the Royal Collection or loans from her patronages?

My god, everyone would go ballistic. No one would even care that the kids weren't included.

Physical Distance / Move Away

Then finally, the third option for KP would be to move further away from the nucleus/media hub that is London. It does seem like the farther one lives from London, the easier time it takes to keep the press and media out of their personal lives. We see it with Anne (in Gloucestershire), Edward and Sophie (in Bagshot), and we saw it with the then-Cambridges when they lived at Anmer Hall 2014 - 2017 and during the pandemic. We also saw it with Charles, also in Gloucestershire at Highgrove House (albeit less successfully because he courted the press there at times).

The precedence is there for William and Kate to move their family farther out. Norfolk is out of the question because Rose is there so it would likely cause more media intrusion, so they'd have to find another place, one on enough acreage to ensure security and privacy and good schools. But they just moved the kids to a new school two years ago and would they want to uproot them again? Or so soon? Probably not.

So the only thing KP can really do to block, or further regulate, demands for access to their private lives is work. Simply put, William and Kate need to do more of it, more frequently, more openly, and more transparently. Give something for people to talk about so there's no time, space, or air for rumors, conspiracy theories, shame, or criticism. But unfortunately, that's not their priority. Their priority is family - which is totally and completely 100% fine - but KP is unwilling to see that boundaries around private lives doesn't mean boundaries around work. Or maybe they can't see how boundaries around the home and boundaries around work can be completely distinct and separate because how traumatic the media intrusion has been for much of their lives.

Anyway. Queen for a day, that's what I'd do. I'd sit William, Kate, and KP down and say "listen, something's gotta give. You want more privacy, you need to pay for it. You can pay for it with your work (do more of it), your kids (put them out in public more), your words (talk more), your distance (live farther from London and commute daily), or your sanity and health (do nothing and let the press run roughshod all over you). What's it going to be?"

And the thing is, it's not a unique question. Everyone everywhere has had to deal with this: what's my priority and how am I going to pay for it? KP has just skated for a very long time on do-nothing-and-hope-for-the-best and as we've all seen in the last 8 weeks, that plan doesn't work anymore.

Re-reading this before I post, I'm pretty sure I lost the plot somewhere in here. Sorry, readers!

#ask #theories #waleses #in this essay i will

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pedropascallme · 5 months

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im just so obsessed with dad pedro rn😓😓😓

AN: Fuck it girl dad Pedro. This genuinely made me weak in the knees. (I'm PMSing and the baby fever is insane and ???? do I need any excuses really?? For dad!Pedro??)

“Papa, hold your hands like this.” Your daughter barked orders at her father, pulling him down to her level and molding his hands into a position she could work with.

Pedro sat crisscross on the floor, your daughter across from him rummaging through a giant bag of nail polish and small stickers. It hadn't taken much convincing to get Pedro to sit for her, let her use him as a canvas, but she was far too stubborn to ever throw away any of the dry, crusty bottles of polish in the deep bag.

“What color, mija?” Pedro hummed and watched her continue to toss the small bottles over the carpet, looking for the ideal shade. She let out a triumphant huff before pulling out a bottle of purple sparkly nail polish, placing it on the floor in front of her father as if asking for approval.

“This is the one we’re using.” She nodded, before quickly reaching her small hand back out for the bottle, satisfied with Pedro’s smile at her as a form of assent.

When you had found out you were pregnant, Pedro didn’t let you do a thing on your own. He went to every doctor’s appointment with you, did all the chores you had planned for yourself—he cancelled every audition, every screentest, just to stay home with you, to rub your feet at the end of your long day of doing nothing. (“You aren’t doing nothing,” he had fussed every time you said it, “You’re growing a little baby! Inside of you!”) Pedro was gentle with you, and with her, and kind, and ever so patient; always willing to model for a fashion show, always willing to watch her school choir performances, always thrilled at the prospect of having breakfast for dinner with her. It was as if he knew from the moment you announced your pregnancy that she would be a daddy’s girl, and the love he had for you multiplied to include her immediately.

Watching them now, from the couch, going back and forth about what animals they might see at the zoo later today, your daughter occasionally reprimanding Pedro for moving, him turning to smile at you where you sat on the sofa, eyes glistening with pride at the tiny person the two of you had created, your heart swelled.

He was such a good husband. Such a good father.

“Let them dry now, papa.” Your daughter stood up, brushing her hands on her capris as if she had just finished a long day of manual labor. “Mama,” she made her way to you, both hands planted on your knees leaning into you before collapsing onto her knees and wrapping her hands around your legs, head buried in your lap, “look at what I did to papa’s nails!” She squealed and her giggle was muffled by the denim of your jeans.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. You did such a good job!” You reached down to lift her up, letting her clamber into your lap, “He’s never looked better.”

“Hey!” Pedro laughed, spreading himself out on the floor, laying his head next to the bag of nail polish.

She leaned in then to whisper to you, her small voice somehow carrying more loudly when she attempted to be sly; “Can I use your makeup to make papa pretty?” Pedro smiled up at you, anticipating your answer.

“Yes,” you quasi-whispered back, “but only the makeup in the top drawer.” It was all she needed to hear, practically leaping off of your lap and bounding to the main bedroom to root through your drawers.

“You can borrow my nail polish remover, if you’d like.” You watched Pedro get up, wiping the palms of his hands on his knees before moving to enfold you in his arms where you sat on the couch.

That’s where she got it.

“No way,” he peppered your face with kisses before dipping down to capture your lips with his own, smiling into the kiss in a show of how pleased he was with you, with your daughter, with his nails. “Want everybody at the zoo to see my new look, querida.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #hehe send me asks

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blue-and-gilt · 8 months

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Georgian Light Cavalry Style Officers' Sabre by S. Brunn

This sword is another one of those obscure British Officer swords of the Georgian era that draw inspiration from the light cavalry style sabres. The scabbard locket is marked "BRUNN Sword Cutler to the Prince Regent 56 Caring Cross London" which dates the swords to between 1811 and 1820.

From 1800 to 1811 Brunn advertised himself with "By Appointment to H.R.H The Prince of Wales" which then changed to "The Prince Regent" from 1811 to 1820. He also changed address once, situated at 55 Caring Cross from 1799 - 1804, while his address was listed in 1805 as 56 Caring Cross.

Samuel Brunn was one of the premier sword cutlers of the Georgian era, which is reflected in the workmanship of this sword. Unfortunately there are no unique identifiers on the sword to give us a clue as to who first owned it, so we can only speculate that it was a well to do gentleman that wished to retain a solid blade.

The half lions head pommel is fairly typical of infantry officers swords of the time, but again there is evidence that this style was used by Naval, Artillery and some Cavalry officers as well. And the short blade length would certainly have been more practical on a ships' deck or behind an artillery battery than on a horse. One other clue is the absence of a frog stud on the scabbard locket, meaning that this sword was only ever intended to be carried on a belt (as opposed to a sword baldric).

But as always, everything is pure speculation, there were just too many variations and quasi-military roles where it was the practice to wear a sword as part of the dress code to ever know for sure.

Stats: Overall Length - 810 mm Blade Length - 695 mm Curve - 57 mm Point of Balance - 130 mm Grip Length - 106 mm Inside Grip Length - 90 mm Weight - 720 grams

#Sabre #swords #British Army #Georgian Era #Napoleonic era #military antiques #antiques #antique weapons #Militia #Samuel Brunn

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 12 days

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Dear Resident Rohan Expert:

I'm not sure if you have given any thought to this, but I could sure use your help! What are your thoughts about how Rohan's government is structured, specifically the King's council at Edoras? I have assumed the King rules with full authority, but with the help of a council of advisors... but how do you think those advisors are selected? How many? Are they military men? Nobility? Elected? Appointed? Are they inherited titles?

Any of your thoughts would be appreciated since your grasp of Rohirrim culture is sounder than of anyone around! Thank you in advance! 😊

Ooh, this comes very close to giving me the chance to answer the question, “What was Éomer’s tax policy?” 😂 (Which, as a public policy major, is something I wouldn’t mind knowing about!) I have thought about Rohan’s government, and I hope you find my answer useful or at least interesting—it’s always my goal to live up to the praise you give me and to make my Rohan even close to being as well contextualized as your Mirkwood universe!!!

I’ve tried to keep a general structure for Rohan’s government in my mind that is at least quasi-related to the way that Anglo Saxon lands were governed, since they were Tolkien’s model. The big deviations are: 1) there is no mixing of religion and government like the Anglo Saxons did, since Rohan has no organized religion; and 2) I like to keep my Rohan government a little more democratic in the sense that everything isn’t based solely on nobility, inheritance or wealth. That’s partly because I don’t vibe with that approach, but also I feel like Tolkien gave us hints that the Rohirrim are pretty laid back about stuff like that anyway (like, Théoden is shockingly casual about the whole issue of royal succession, and he’s totally willing to take advice from guys like Háma or Wídfara even though we have no reason to believe they’re particularly wealthy or elite nobles).

So, the king has ultimate authority in Rohan and, starting with Éomer, that power is equally shared with the queen (I have to believe that he really took in what he learned about Éowyn’s experience in Rohan and would want things to change, starting with his own wife!). The monarchs exercise their authority with the help of a council. That council is comprised of: 1) the advisors of the royal household, a small group that is at Meduseld with the king and queen every day; and 2) the officers of the court, a bigger group who are out in the towns and villages as representatives of the crown. The entire council meets formally a few times a year to discuss and make recommendations on significant issues, though the king and queen can call them more often if needed. And when the officers of the court are back at their homes in between formal council meetings, the advisors of the royal household give the day-to-day advice or handle emergencies that crop up.

The royal household advisors are chosen by the king/queen and would generally include trusted family members as well as others who have distinguished themselves as being particularly skilled in relevant subjects. There would normally be 7 of these, with each specializing in a particular area: defense, diplomacy, justice/law, treasury, trade, infrastructure (roads, bridges, etc.) and public welfare (care of orphans, famine relief, what passed for public health in those days). But there could be more or less depending on the priorities of the particular king/queen, and the individual advisors might have their own staffs to help them.

The royal household advisors would often be members of the most prominent families in Rohan, if only because those are the people with the most access to the education and experience needed to become good at these things, but anyone can be chosen. And younger people of any background who are identified as being particularly bright and with a lot of potential might be referred to extra schooling/study with the idea of training them to be advisors, or work for them, in the future. (In my fics, this is how Gríma ended up in an advisor role – he failed out of éored training, but the brilliance of his mind was recognized, he was given the additional education to become an advisor on diplomatic affairs, got too close to Isengard and everything went to hell.) (It’s a good process, even though the one example I’ve just given is one where things did not work out well!)

The officers of the court who are spread throughout the land are chosen by their communities, though the king/queen can refuse to seat one that they don’t like or trust.* The king and queen decide how many officers there are, adding or subtracting as the population shifts, but there are generally 5 each from the West-mark and the East-mark and 3 from Edoras and its surrounding lands. These officers not only sit on the council that helps the king/queen set law and policy, but they’re also the first line administrators who see those policies carried out around the country (so, they hire the tax collectors in Dunharrow or the work crews that build the new road between Aldburg and Grimslade or whatever). That makes them kind of the face of the crown in most parts of Rohan where regular people are never going to see the king or queen (or, at least, not often). They can also draw on the expertise and knowledge of the royal household advisors as needed when carrying out royal policy.

Thank you again for the opportunity to write something that’s probably far too long about a niche topic that I find very interesting!! If anyone has their own ideas and thoughts—either complementary or conflicting—I would love to hear them. More Rohan for everyone! 👑🐎🗡️♥️

*A king/queen should really try to avoid doing this, especially if the person in question is really popular in their community and has any kind of independent power base. Don’t get me started on how Helm Hammerhand really fucked this up with a member of his own council and got a war started as a result.

#asks #answered asks #lotr #lord of the rings #rohan #governments of middle earth #bless you for giving me a chance to blather about stuff that I like!!!

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goodqueenaly · 5 months

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So in F&B it says that there was a custom of keeping a dragon rider in residence at the Dragonpit in one of the Dance chapters, but unless I’m misremembering I don’t know if that was mentioned in earlier chapters. Do you think that started with Jaehaerys and Alysanne that maybe they had one of their kids there or rotating “shifts”? Thanks and hope you are doing well!

I think this is another area where F&B demonstrates its (IMHO) overall weakness as a narrative. It’s obvious that F&B was Frankenstein’d together from various novellas, stories, and ideas written and (partially) published over the course of years. “The Princess and the Queen” had introduced the idea some 10 years ago that “[i]t had long been the custom for at least one dragonrider to reside at the pit, so as to be able to rise to the defense of the city should the need arise”. However, just as F&B had proven reluctant to expand upon the idea of dragons beyond those already introduced - no word on the fates of all those unnamed “young dragons” and “hatchlings” and “drakes” which seemed to populate the pre-Dance Dragonpit and the Dragonmont - so did F&B refuse to elaborate on that supposedly long-held custom of dragonrider residence in the Dragonpit.

Worse, the often thin and lurid way in which F&B approaches its characters, especially during the reign of Jaehaerys I, hardly provides support for headcanons in this sector. It’s possible the late teenage and early adult Prince Aemon might have been resident in the Dragonpit between his knighting and his appointment as lord justiciar, but there remains the potential problem of how, if at all, Aemon would have divided his days between his full-time job on the small council (nevermind his wartime duties and peacetime progresses) and his residence in the Dragonpit. Too, while Baelon seems to have had no governmental position prior to his appointment as Hand of the King (again, his responsibilities as a prince of House Targaryen notwithstanding), Gyldayn seems little interested in suggesting that Baelon, and his fellow dragonrider Alyssa, did virtually nothing except bed each other for the entirety of their marriage (and specifically in the Red Keep, as Gyldayn seems to gleefully report). Princess Rhaenys might have been sidelined for the succession on the basis of her gender (and as Lady Velaryon after her marriage, she was not ideally locationally suited to be so), but whether this same misogynistic excuse would have been brought up or challenged for the role of resident dragonrider is a question Gyldayn never bothers to bring up in the first place, much less answer.

Indeed, the reign of Viserys I provides several moments where the role might have fit very naturally the plot and characters. If King Viserys wanted to include his brother in the Targaryen government, why wouldn’t he have given this fierce and eager brother a quasi-military role which kept him out of actual political work - and, in turn, would have given Daemon a physical base in the city away from the Red Keep from which he could have cultivated his “Prince of the City” reputation (and his control of his private army of gold cloaks)? (Put aside Daemon’s eventual disappearance from and only partial return to King’s Landing after Viserys I’s remarriage.) Even if Viserys did virtually nothing, certainly with any official political appointment, to promote Rhaenyra as his heiress beyond that 105 AC ceremony of proclamation, and so might not have considered naming her as the resident rider in the Dragonpit, but why didn’t Rhaenyra herself offer to serve as such? With the black and green factions eager to press their respective young princes as the future heirs, and more than willing to use proxy conflicts to jockey for position (as with the infamous Loveday-esque feast and Viserys’s late-reign throne injury), why wouldn’t Alicent and Rhaenyra have petitioned Viserys for such a role for, say, Aemond or Jacaerys? I’m not saying any one of these writing choices would have been perfect, but I am saying that I feel like this was a narrative opportunity GRRM missed exploring.

#asoiaf meta #fire and blood volume 1 #the Dragonpit

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bestworstcase · 4 months

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Wait could you go more into Salem being glinda? (<- person who is bad at allegories but loves your metas)

ok!!

step one is to clear out everything you’ve ever read about rwby’s ozian allusion from your brain because this fandom keeps trying to make it about the wizard of oz and it’s… nnnot about the wizard of oz. the book we’re going to be talking about as the primary text of reference is the second oz book, ‘the marvelous land of oz,’ which is about what happens after dorothy and the wizard go home.

the reason nobody can figure out who rwby’s “dorothy” is is… there is no dorothy. she’s in kansas and not really relevant to this story except insofar as her journey through oz resulted in the wizard’s departure and the end of the wicked witches of the east and west. she’s The Backstory. and—actually as i write this there, um, there IS a dorothy and now i have to go stare at a wall for a little while.

…

we’ll get there.

context:

at the end of the first oz book, ‘the wonderful wizard of oz,’ the wizard leaves and glinda, the good witch of the south, tells dorothy how to return home to kansas with the glass slippers (which fall off her feet and are lost forever whilst carrying dorothy home)

(the classic film makes something of a mess by combining glinda and the good witch of the north into a composite character, creating the problem of why glinda would not simply tell dorothy how to use the slippers right away. in the book, the good witch of the north sends dorothy to the wizard, who is secretly a fraud, and after he inadvertently leaves dorothy behind she is advised to travel south to consult with glinda instead.)

now, the wizard was the ruler of oz, so his departure created a political problem that he attempted to solve by appointing the scarecrow to rule in his absence. that choice is what ‘marvelous land’ is chiefly about because, you see, before the wizard came along, oz was ruled by a king named pastoria, who had an infant daughter named ozma. then the wizard deposed pastoria, and princess ozma disappeared.

the book’s protagonist is a boy named tippetarius (tip) who’s been raised all his life by the bad witch mombi. tip is in fact ozma, stolen by mombi and transformed into a boy to secure the wizard on the throne of oz. he has no idea; he just knows that mombi isn’t very nice to him and he wants to leave.

when he runs away, he takes with him jack pumpkinhead—a fellow tip made by carving a jack-o-lantern head for a wooden man, animated by mombi’s magic. their relationship is quasi-parental (jack calls tip “father” but tip is, you know, a boy and not especially fatherly). they’re joined by a living saw horse en route to the emerald city. the trio is briefly separated, with jack and the horse rushing ahead and being received by the scarecrow while tip is waylaid and meets general jinjur, who is leading an army of revolt to the emerald city to overthrow the scarecrow.

that happens. jinjur wins more or less by default because the soldier with green whiskers, who guards the emerald city’s gate, is too cowardly to fight them and simply lets them into the city. the scarecrow flees, along with tip, the sawhorse, and jack. this motley crew heads west to winkie country, once the domain of the wicked witch of the west, now ruled by nick chopper—the tin man. en route to winkie country, the scarecrow mentions to jack that pumpkins rot and jack spends the remainder of the story in a state of ever-present existential dread over his imminent decay.

anyway, nick accompanies them back to the emerald city, along with the woggle-bug—a very large, knowledgeable bug whom none of them like particularly and whose backstory involves transformation by a professor, an incident about which the woggle-bug has ambivalent feelings—whom they meet along the way. they’re hindered by various illusory traps mombi throws at them because she’s trying to get tip back under control.

reclaiming the emerald city from jinjur does not Go Well. they’re forced to flee again, briefly end up stranded in an inhospitable place on the far side of the desert and attacked by birds. the woggle bug saves them by using a silver wishing pill to repair their means of transportation so that they can reach glinda’s home, in southern quadling country.

they want glinda to help them restore the scarecrow to the throne of oz. glinda has other plans, because she’s spent all this time trying to find ozma and set right the wizard’s various injustices. she’s narrowed it down to mombi as the culprit, and upon learning that the witch has hidden herself in the emerald city, she… um, immediately lays siege to the emerald city to “starve it into submission” and flush mombi out, then chases her to the impassable desert at the edge of oz, ties a rope around her neck to silence her magical powers, and bodily drags her back to the emerald city to account for her wrongdoing on pain of death:

Glinda had been carefully considering what to do, and now she turned to Mombi and said: "You will gain nothing, I assure you, by thus defying us. For I am determined to learn the truth about the girl Ozma, and unless you tell me all that you know, I will certainly put you to death." "Oh, no! Don't do that!" exclaimed the Tin Woodman. "It would be an awful thing to kill anyone—even old Mombi!" "But it is merely a threat," returned Glinda. "I shall not put Mombi to death, because she will prefer to tell me the truth." "Oh, I see!" said the Tin Man, much relieved. "Suppose I tell you all that you wish to know,". said Mombi, speaking so suddenly that she startled them all. "What will you do with me then?" "In that case," replied Glinda, "I shall merely ask you to drink a powerful draught which will cause you to forget all the magic you have ever learned." "Then I would become a helpless old woman!" "But you would be alive," suggested the Pumpkinhead, consolingly. […] "You may make your choice," Glinda said to old Mombi, "between death if you remain silent, and the loss of your magical powers if you tell me the truth. But I think you will prefer to live." Mombi cast an uneasy glance at the Sorceress, and saw that she was in earnest, and not to be trifled with.

thus mombi is forced to tell the truth, remove the curse she placed on tippetarius (turning him back into ozma), and take glinda’s potion to strip all of her magical power away.

folds hands.

here are some facts about glinda:

she rules over quadling country—in the oz books, the cardinal kingdoms are all color-coded; northern gillikin country is purple, eastern munchkinland is blue, western winkie country is yellow, and quadling country? red. (glynda goodwitch’s purple is the first hint that she is not glinda, but rather the good witch of the north who believes in the wizard’s power. her absolute faith in ozpin is the second hint.)

glinda is, despite her youthful appearance, implied to be thousands of years old, and by any measure the most powerful sorceress in all of oz.

in demeanor, she is always calm and collected and resolutely truthful; so great is her dedication to the truth that she has no power over mombi’s magical deception and illusions, hence the need to force mombi to undo her own curse. she always knows when she’s lied to, but she can be fooled (fleetingly) by powerful illusions. and she can be utterly ruthless in pursuit of what she believes is right for oz.

she, as noted in the last post, is responsible for freeing the flying monkeys from their enslavement by the golden cap.

now!

the allusions rwby is making to ‘marvelous land’ are really very straightforward—much like cinder and cinderella or salem and maiden-in-tower stories. it is impossible to read the book with rwby in mind and not see the connections:

the god of light is mombi.

ozma is ozma; as ozpin, he has become the wizard (complicit in his own cursed imprisonment), and within oscar he’s tippetarius (a boy who’s lost his true self).

oscar is jack pumpkinhead, ozma’s heir (thus, symbolically, his “son”), brought to life at least symbolically by light’s power (he’s in the story at all because he’s ozma’s vessel), and preoccupied with existential dread inspired by the looming immediacy of his spiritual death.

qrow is the scarecrow, left to carry the symbol of ozpin’s authority in ozpin’s absence and forced to flee beacon, the “emerald city,” by

summer rose, who is general jinjur, holding beacon academy while she searches for the crown. (jinjur spends a considerable portion of the story trying to get the royal crown.)

lionheart is the soldier with green whiskers: not the fearful but truly courageous lion, but the cowardly old soldier who all but hands jinjur the keys to the city in his terror.

ironwood is the tin man, ruling over a land once subjugated by the wizard’s bitter enemy (pre-war, fascist mantle) now remade into a shining and prosperous kingdom under the command of the wizard’s ally (atlas)—and it is he who gives sanctuary to the scarecrow and tip’s party after the emerald city falls, and he who leads the failed first attempt to take the city back by force.

vacuo is the nest of jackdaws where the party ends up stranded, far from oz—they cross a desert to get there and i suspect the point of theodore is to signal that vacuo isn’t “in” oz but rather standing in for the deserts and the lands beyond. because dorothy is in kansas, you see. (he’s not the Real Dorothy, though, we’ll get there momentarily).

the woggle-bug is raven, the maiden of knowledge who knows the secret that will bridge the impassable divide between vacuo and salem; her knowledge of what summer did is the silver wishing pill which, incidentally, poisons tip when he tries to use it.

and salem is, of course, glinda: ancient and aloof and coldly ruthless in her pursuit of the truth, searching for ozma (<- note the congruence here with rapunzel searching for her prince in the wasteland!) and ready to GO TO WAR to bring the god of light to account for what he’s done. i really must emphasize the GOING TO WAR bit: the glinda of the books is not the soft, mistily benevolent lady the classic film makes of her. she has an extremely well-disciplined standing army which she marches on the emerald city with the explicit intention of delivering a siege to “starve it into submission.” mombi looks this woman in the eye, sees death staring back at her, and surrenders with a whimper. glinda is ruthless.

so it isn’t even “glinda would go to war if she thought it necessary” it’s that glinda does in fact go to war and rwby is, with salem, taking glinda’s decision to go to war to achieve her ends very seriously and putting that in a context where salem isn’t revered as a protector and loved by all. the only difference between salem and glinda is that glinda is beloved by the people of oz!

but i also promised you dorothy. so:

allow me to direct your attention back to what glinda does to mombi after ozma’s curse is lifted. mombi is made to drink a potion that causes her to forget all the magic she’s ever learned, leaving her to live as an ordinary old woman—but she is not left alone to suffer afterwards, because ozma makes arrangements to provide for her indefinitely.

this is, of course, what’s in store for the god of light. he’s going to ascend—that’s obvious—and the fairytale ‘the two brothers’ hints quite strongly that he’ll come back as a man (i’d wager a faunus specifically), leaving his power and memories of divinity behind and given a peaceful life in return. mombi’s resolution in ‘marvelous land’ offers a direct 1:1 comparison to ascension.

but what about the god of darkness?

he’s– he’s dorothy.

dorothy doesn’t appear in ‘marvelous land’ and she has no presence in the book whatsoever except as one of the two characters whose departure at the end of the last book created the circumstances that allow this story to occur: it is dorothy’s adventure that convinces the wizard to leave oz, and then she leaves too. the wizard—through mombi, the real power behind his throne—retains his influence and authority over the land of oz until she is forced to undo her wrongs, but dorothy is simply… gone. she went home, she’s remembered fondly by her friends, she has nothing whatsoever to do with this story, and the silver shoes that bore her home at the end of the last book fell from her feet and were lost forever.

(she does eventually make it back to oz, in a roundabout way, by accident. but for rwby’s purposes, and within the context of ‘marvelous land’ taken in isolation, dorothy is Gone Forever.)

afterans refer to the tree as home; they think of ascension as returning home to rest and find renewal after a long journey through the world outside. at the end of her journey through oz, she asks glinda to send her home, and glinda tells her:

“The Silver Shoes," said the Good Witch, "have wonderful powers. And one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye. All you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go.”

and, as i noted, the shoes carry her home but are lost in the process, never to be found again.

glinda teaches dorothy how to go home. likewise, salem is a repetition of jabber—the argument between the brothers comes full circle—and through this experience dark realizes that he needs to “go home,” i.e. ascend. he’s been trapped in this same disagreement for thousands of years and nothing has changed; nothing will change unless he tries something new. he shatters the moon on his way out and, unlike his brother, there’s nothing to suggest he’s still present in this world or relevant to this story as anything but backstory… because he ascended and became something new.

(the spirits in the relics.)

(which in terms of the ozian narrative, represent the golden cap, which glinda receives from dorothy before she gives it to the king of the flying monkeys to set them all free, so the symbolic through line between dark-as-dorothy becoming the spirits-as-flying-monkeys through his and their relation to salem is relatively straightforward.)

anyway, behold.

toto.

#i just—brgdgks #DOROTHY.#''GIFT OF GOD.''#it’s another goddamned stealth pun

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moosemonstrous · 5 months

Text

I never write in the second person, but it seemed to fit, so 🤷

Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU - Yegor Ivanov's edition

Say, you're in charge of security on a large, well-appointed quasi-military base housing twenty thousand people - mostly J-techs and their families, but also a sizeable assortment of soldiers, scientists, medical staff, relief workers and support crew. It's the most stable job you've ever had. The general populace is just so grateful for the giant robots you deploy to fight the ever-nastier demons crawling out of The Breach, you barely have to pay any attention to actual security part of it. Your subordinates haven't reported a single issue they couldn't deal with themselves in years. The eggheads fight between each other to secure your approval. You have the respect of the international leaders for keeping Hong-Kong off of their priority list. Somehow, in this beautiful, messed up world you managed to carve yourself out an existence most people can only dream of.

And you got there by making a hard decision once, ten years ago. Eli Morrow was a dangerous psychopath and once his usefulness ran its course, it was your responsibility to put him down. Sometimes, one man has to pull the trigger for the good of the many, and that day you pulled the trigger. Figuratively. It was a regrettable situation, but you don't really regret it, because you gave Eli every chance under the sun to pull himself together.

You said it broke your heart, to see what he did to his brother, but secretly you were relieved. You've done many terrible things together, before the monsters stopped being just men in a different uniform. You had a good handle on Eli for so long, you almost forgot that rabid dogs will bite their master's hand given half a chance. If it hadn't been poor Alberto, it would've been you.

You didn't believe for a second Beto's kids turned up on base purely by accident. Call it fate, or karma, or whatever you want, you can't pretend seeing a mirror image of a young Eli in your own damn hangar doesn't strike a chord deep in your chest. It's not a pleasant sensation.

You have no idea what their mother told them - she was smart enough to get out before all hell came loose, so maybe she was also smart enough to keep her mouth shut. The younger one is a non-issue, at least. You forgot he had the--the whatsit, some condition the medical was working on, the hook you had on the Reyeses to keep them on base. You should dig into the files, see if the same hook will work on the older one.

And you need all the hooks you can think of, because you fucked up. You panicked and figured, well, he doesn't know his old man's jaeger is a goddamn death trap kept only because it would be more expensive to take it apart. He doesn't know it killed every recruit to ever step a foot in it. And he's as sentimental as his father was, all wide-eyed at the sight of the machine making up a good portion of your nightmares.

Only Robbie Reyes is a little too much like his uncle, too, because he doesn't. Fucking. Die.

The whole K-Sci department is very excited, of course. The techs aren't. You should've timed yourself better, made sure Canelo and the rest of the old guard were off-shift when you brought Robbie to The Charger. Now they're watching your hands and lowering their voices whenever you step into the hangar. You can't make the problem disappear without someone starting to ask questions. You need to be smarter than that.

If you can't get rid of him, you must learn to control him. He's no Eli Morrow - and you kept a lid on that can of worms for nearly a decade, from boot camp through black ops to TJP. One scowling teenager is nothing. He needs a strong hand and a little misdirection, that's all.

He watches you too, though. Like he already knows. He can't--can he? How? Who would've told him?

That broken eye of his is tripping you up, that's all. A strong hand, and a promise of medical support for the younger one - you will have him asking 'how high' before the next demon is due.

Besides, piloting jaegers is such a dangerous job. Anything could happen out in the sea. You can live through another regrettable loss. You don't think you can live through whatever Robbie Reyes is planning when he looks at you like that.

#Ghost Rider Pacific Rim AU #Yegor Ivanov #robbie reyes #Meanwhile Robbie’s internal monologue consists of 'oh my god is it schizophrenia' on a loop

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seat-safety-switch · 1 year

Text

When I took my first, tentative steps into adult life, leaving behind the quasi-government-appointed not-relative who had taken care of me when my aspiring-circus-performer parents found a travelling gig that they refused to give up, I moved into a teeny-tiny condominium. Such a construct is not uncommon in today’s rush-rush society, where we spend more conscious time at work than we do at home. I simply didn’t need a big house, and besides, it brought some aspects of community and shared struggle. Namely, I realized the first time I showed up and saw two greasy-looking guys in the parking lot hauling a 2-litre engine out of a Jetta, there might be an engine crane I can borrow.

Of course, it didn’t work out that way. Back then, I was still convinced that a full-time job was the way to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Before the squatting and shoplifting. Before the real heaps. So I was at work all the time, filing reports, knowing how to operate PowerPoint, and trying desperately to climb up the ladder fast enough that I wouldn’t be consumed by the dark fires of lifestyle creep and endless debt. The Jetta guys moved on, or they were evicted, or they went to prison, and they took their engine crane with them.

All this is probably for the best. I think sometimes about the alternate path that my life would have taken if I had hung out with Volkswagen owners, instead of the rag-tag pile of beatniks that I did eventually find on my third complete stress-related mental breakdown. I’d probably be working at some bank on Wall Street now, pinstripe suit, hair cut, doing rails of coke at my desk between arbitrage deals. And I’d be driving something like a base-model Passat that I could barely afford. Is that other me happy? Probably, because he would likely also have a garage full of 1970s through modern-era German trashmobiles to fiddle with.

One day, I’ll find someone who is willing to lend me an engine crane, too. For now, I’ve been using a complicated block-and-tackle arrangement known as “drive it up on a Jersey barrier and sawzall the only good part of the car out onto a skateboard.” They don’t build skateboards like they used to, I can tell you that much.

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rosewaterandivy · 6 months

Text

exsanguinate

Summary: exsanguinate - the action or process of draining or losing blood.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, if you squint (it's really more of a character study)

WC: 2.5k

Warnings/Themes: 18 +, MINORS DNI. Graphic depictions of violence and sex. Psychological horror/trauma, botched forced sterilization, abortion, memory loss, body horror, dark and sacrilegious themes, and mutual corruption.

A/N: prosaic idolatry, smut, horror, and the sublime. please re-read the warnings/themes section above because this is not for everyone. if you can't watch a David Cronenberg film or have issues with any of the warnings above, please move along. and before you can ask, yes, this is a quasi-winter soldier!au

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not.

Enjoy! 💜

series masterlist | playlist | currently spinning:

previous ||

“There’s a ticket out for you too,” The American says, eyes cutting to yours.

You nod, lips pursed and observe the painting before you: Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Beheading Holofernes. You know the story well, the Biblical Judith and her maidservant bear down on their victim, the invading Assyrian general Holofernes, as Judith saws at his neck with a sword.

Your eye travels to take in the blood spattering in long, ropy arcs, spraying Judith’s chest and neck. Holofernes’s tortured expression and copious amounts of blood are familiar to you, a slow smile crept its way across your face.

I got your one way ticket right here, mister.

Stepping to the next painting, the American trails alongside you.

“I appreciate that.”

It’s a calculated response, one you’d inevitably settled on anticipating this very conversation.

“We’ll be in touch.”

His footsteps echo along the corridor leaving you alone in the gallery.

Eyes taking in the somber hues of blue and gray, along with the warmth of a red dress and ochre wall. Magritte’s The Lovers II stares back at you. It was always a favorite of yours, embodying the protagonists’ frustrations all too well.

The hoods could very well double as burial shrouds, a final separation of the lovers in their last embrace.

The knife twisted inside you once more.

Moscow likes a sure thing.

So when you were brought in, an amalgamation of skin, bruises, and bones, he was suspicious.

And when the handler ordered him to fight you, he nearly balked.

But not you.

Barrelling at him with all your might and the grace of a dancer, you were ready to rip him to shreds.

The Asset.

The man you could never possibly live up to.

How wrong they turned out to be.

He wakes to a disembodied blood curdling scream.

Jolts upright in his cell, briefly disoriented by the faint tingle of a phantom limb. Goes to flex his fingers and shake out the tinge to find nothing there.

The prosthesis was being recalibrated. He usually slept better without it, anyway.

Silence echoes through the hallway, the faint whirring of machines fading away like an afterthought.

Looking to the left, he finds you aren’t in your cell. Which is odd, given the hour.

He stays awake, lays back against the bed and waits.

Not an hour later, two medics drag you back to your cell. The tops of your feet are bloody from scraping against the concrete, and two red spots bloom through the flimsy white gown near your hips.

They place you back on your bed, promising to return a few hours later to check on you. A brief nod of understanding and they’re walking back to the operating room.

You’d stifled your pain as long as you dared, hiccupping sobs erupting from your throat as you turn toward the concrete wall.

“What happened?”

It’s the first question he’s asked you since your appointment as his partner. His voice was controlled, but concerned. He doesn’t like not knowing things.

You sniff, an effort to stop your tears and snot but it does no good. When the sobs and hiccups subside, you reply: “Moscow likes a sure thing.”

No accidents. No fuck-ups. No survivors.

One day, maybe, you’ll tell him how the good doctor didn’t put you under (couldn’t spare the expense) as he sterilized you. How the medical staff had to hold you down limb by limb to quell your thrashing.

“Now, now, Lilith,” he tsked with scalpel in hand, “Either you comply or we get the little red book, eh?”

A cold sweat broke out against your skin. Anything but the little red book. The trigger words and their inevitable countdown to oblivion and the chair.

“N-no,” you manage to eek out through the bit in your mouth, “I’ll be good.”

A slow smile, like splitting skin with the tip of a nail, “Of course you will dear.”

He turns toward the camera in the operating theater just as a nurse jabs a needle into your neck. The chemical concoction burns its way through your veins.

“Let us begin.”

You’re late.

Uncharacteristically so.

Your partner trudges on ahead of you, boots crunching in the snow. Coming back from a mission in the outer reaches of the taiga, in December.

Fucking Moscow.

The safe house is within sight now, at least. The promise of a warm fire and the ability to feel your toes again was within reach.

The drop, which he knows nothing of, is tomorrow.

The pills, which he knows nothing of, will be administered by the pharmacist the day after tomorrow.

You could do this.

You had to do this.

There were no other options.

Time had run out.

You’d been in denial until a week or so ago.

You had, after all, been sterilized via tubal ligation several years ago.

So, when you’d run out of condoms during a recon mission in Budapest sometime after midnight, the risk was negligible.

And he’d talked so low and sweet, made your body positively sing sin, that the obstacle was quickly forgotten.

Somehow, you never did manage to grab another box.

So it goes.

Color you surprised when you realize you’ve gone the greater part of a month without your period.

The test itself nearly falls out of your hand and clatters to the ground when the two lines appear.

A familiar rap on the door.

“Mon coeur, we’re going to be late.”

Yeah, about that…

But there was no time to spare, Moscow was calling. And if this extraction was going to go off without a hitch, there could be no question of your loyalties.

Scrambling to hide the evidence, you toss the plastic test into the bin and give yourself a final once over in the mirror.

Deep breath.

“Of course, Soldat,” you purr opening the door. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

He was furious, of course.

Holed up in the safe house with someone he thought he could trust, who turned out to be a traitor.

“They approached me,” you say for the umpteenth time.

He rakes his hand through his hair again; the strands standing this way and that evidence of his frustration.

“You kept saying things in your sleep, over and over again,” you try to reason with him. “Robin, Hawkins, Star Court, Upside Down, Dustin—”

“What?”

You pause, taking in the low pitch of his voice. “Like I said, you were talking in your sleep.”

He sits in front of the fireplace, warm golds and oranges cascading across his face. He shakes his head, “Those words mean nothing to me.”

“Well,” you bite your lip, “Agree to disagree.”

You recount how you intercepted a cipher from someone named Murray and sent another back.

“Under a pseudonym, Laika.”

“The Sputnik II dog?”

“The patron saint of one-way trips,” you reply, with a sad turn of your lips.

Continuing to fill him in on how the American made contract and gained your tentative trust.

“He showed me pictures.”

A younger man, maybe not entirely carefree but at least carrying a different burden from the man in front of you now.

“You looked happy.”

He grunts, disbelieving.

Rising from your perch against the windowsill, you step toward him. He makes room for you in front of the fire, head resting against the crown of yours as he pulls you to his lap. Breathes in the familiar scent of you, nose buried at the nape of your neck.

“The name. Tell it to me again.”

“Steve,” you say, “Steve Harrington.”

You feel his lips moving against your sensitive skin, mouthing it back to you, tasting the syllables against his tongue.

“Who the fuck is Steve?”

Despite yourself, you let out a laugh.

“That’s for you to find out, Любимый.”

The American arrives at daybreak, just as he promised.

The knocks on the door match the code you’d agreed upon. The Soldat is less than enthused— his brows have been furrowed since he'd woke up.

Kits packed, and the fire extinguished, you hazard a glance for anything left behind. Deeming the safe house cleaner than when you’d arrived, you open the front door and step outside.

Fresh snow blankets the area as the American waits for you to approach. You nod in greeting and turn back to the cabin, “Get a move on,” you call out in Russian.

Facing the American you’re privy to his reaction upon seeing this so-called Steve Harrington. And it does not disappoint. His eyes widen ever so slightly, the light blue appearing cooler in the winter light. He takes a breath, gaze falling to the metal prosthesis of his left arm.

“Steve.”

The door slams shut and echoes throughout the clearing. He shoulders his bag and assesses the American, coming to a stop at your side.

“Do you trust me?"

He regards you briefly, gaze softening on your features. “Of course, my love.”

His eyes search your face for any signs of apprehension. Finding none, he sighs and gestures to the American as if to say, ‘lead the way.’

The three of you trek into the forest for several kilometers. The American says little and for that you are grateful. The Solda— Steve speaks to you every so often in Russian; you’re lagging behind and he’s concerned.

You spy the snowmobile out of the corner of your eye, just where Stanislav said it would be.

You owe me, She-Wolf.

Called in every favor you had, ledger bleeding red at this point. But it was worth it, you’d do it all over again if it meant he could be free.

After all, one of you should be happy.

The telltale sound of a twig snapping halts your party. The American pulls a glock from his coat and slowly turns back toward you.

Your partner, armed to the teeth as ever, already has his M4 carbine loaded and scope trained on the outlying forest.

“How many?”

Checking the magazine on the M294 SAW, you sigh. “Too many.”

The first shot whizzes just past The American and you play your hand. Returning fire and stepping off the trail, you jerk your chin to the west.

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“Not happening sweetheart,” he grouses, picking off a sniper.

“We’re nearly there already, less than a kilometer to the Ukranian border.”

“All the more reason to go together.”

Stanislav was not going to like this. The sooner you convinced him to leave with the American, the better.

“I’ll be fine, mon lion.” You assure him, covering his flank. “Get the American out of here, I’m right behind you.”

And this would be the hardest part.

Breaking his trust could very well be the end of you, but it had to be done to ensure his safety and survival.

You hear the bullet before you can feel it graze your temple. As you fall, you see him turn toward you and run faster than he has in his entire life.

Voices are muffled, but you can tell that there’s shouting.

“We have to go now!” The American says, tugging at your partner’s arm.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” he bites back, hands searching for injuries along your torso.

In the fall, your head had lolled to the side and effectively hidden the wound. The blood still poured however, head wounds bled like a bitch anyway, and you know him well enough that he won’t move you until it’s necessary.

His lips form your name, not Lilith or ma louve, not darlin’ nor malishka. Your actual name, the one Moscow hadn’t managed to scrape from you; something you held close and dear, reserved for only him.

Everything is so still.

Quiet.

The American attempts to bargain with him, unsuccessfully.

“C’mon honey,” he croaks, “I’m here, I’ve got you. Just gotta wake up, hmm? We’re so close, you can’t leave me now.”

It’s a funny thing, you never wanted to leave him in the first place. Just wanted him safe and sound, away from the rot of Moscow and your blood-stained hands.

His right hand lingers over your arm.

Warm.

His fingers touch your cheek.

Nothing.

Your face has gone slack, eyes shut, body lax against the white snow.

Well, mostly white.

Arms wrap around you, a hand cradles your head, you feel the tremor in his hold before he croaks out in English, “Help her. Help–”

“Don’t look kid,” The American advises, voice low and pleading. “We gotta go, Steve. She’d want you to.”

He’s ignored.

Pulling away from his grip, cool fingers turn your face toward him before they flinch back as if burned.

A hollowness carving its way through his chest.

So many things he never got to tell you. Never had the right words to say— And now, there are simply none.

He chokes down the feeling. The pain, torment, sacrifice, torture— all of it. Wills himself to stop trembling, and stop being weak but the voice echoing through his mind is unfamiliar to him. Older, stern, and perpetually disappointed.

Finally, he turns his hand.

A blood-red bloom.

Stanislav held up his end of the bargain and patched you up as best he could before depositing you back in Moscow under the care of the pharmacist.

You wake in a dimly lit room, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The wound at your temple has already begun to heal, thanks to the KGB serum no doubt.

The old woman enters with a tray of food and a glass of water. She sets it down at the foot of the bed with a sad smile.

You clock the paper cup immediately and swallow what feels like is your heart crawling its way out of your throat.

You pick at the food until she deems you’ve eaten a decent amount. She hands you the paper cup and a glass of water. Eyeing the four pills in the cup, you glance up to ask, “Got anything stronger?”

A slow shake of her head.

With a sigh, you tuck the four pills under your tongue and wait for them to dissolve. After a few minutes, you take a sip of water and swallow the last remnants of the pills. Upon your arrival, you’d be conscious enough to take enough pain killers to down a horse, just in case.

You finish drinking the water and pass it back to her.

She regards you carefully, sadness in her eyes. “I’ll bring you vodka,” she concludes lifting the tray from you bed on her way out the door, “After, for the pain.”

As the door closes, you hand rests against your abdomen briefly. Nothing more than a clump of cells now, a hurricane of genetics containing both you and him.

In another life, it would have been good.

As it was, there was hardly a choice to be made.

A choice between you and him.

(Him, always.)

A choice between survival and death.

(Survival, at all costs.)

Moscow, after all, likes a sure thing.

It was all but assured that you would raze the organization to the ground with your very hands. Dissemble their precious assets brick by fucking brick. The handlers, the medics, and the good old doctor himself would have to answer for their crimes blood for blood.

And you knew all too well the many and varied ways to make them bleed.

Hell hath no fury, after all.

#steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things fan fiction #stranger things fanfic #winter soldier!steve #Spotify

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raayllum · 9 months

Note

I am fascinated by the Skywing elf holding the coronet wearing a blindfold, and its implications re: the justice or nature of the justice of Aaravos' imprisonment and what that means regarding Harrow's choice to take the blindfold, out of Lady Justice's implements. Do you have any thoughts on this?

I'm very very curious as to why Skywing elves specifically, and if they'll be almost Valkyrie-esque inspired with the Startouch elves having their quasi-Valhalla. There is also extremely old concept art out there in which Aaravos' design was very different (no long white flowing locks and I forget if elves had horns yet) with almost priest-like robes and a blindfold:

Which, given the parallels between Harrow and Aaravos to begin with from a thematic standpoint, and Harrow's emphasis on the blindfold, is probably noteworthy. We also see another blindfolded elf with horns that form an almost broken looking halo on the Star chart map:

The Startouch elves are already seen as gods, to a degree ("Have our Gods died? Where do the fabled Great Ones hide?") and Lady Justice is indeed the closest thing to a religious figure (deity or otherwise) that we see Katolis have. It wouldn't surprise me if the Startouch elves are so removed from like, mortality (and indeed, S5 confirmed they are seemingly pretty damn Immortal) that they're completely indifferent to the plight of everyone else, under the guise of being 'impartial' and therefore fair judges. Aaravos' first short story supports this as well (although he is, of course, a biased source like any other):

The stars, after all, had no interest in the lives of mortals. The stars are arrogant, blinded by their own incandescent light. As though nothing else in all the universe could burn so brightly, so beautifully! As though nothing else could be so cruel!

The Skywing elves we do see in something other than nomadic lifestyles (Nyx or generally in Tales of Xadia) are Ibis and the other Dragonguard, who although fled, both served the Draconic Royal family (and Ibis unto death). This makes me wonder if the Celestial Elves are like, a group of Skywing elves chasing this idea of Freedom and complete detachment from the world, which they see the Startouch elves as having succeeded (transcending mortal existence/bounds and all that) and aspire to. Something like a self appointed Dragonguard / a sort of Lujanne esque guardian to watch over whatever the Starscraper holds for the Startouch elves (and they may have lost a Quasar Diamond along the way?) and to "uphold" Startouch ways, as it were. Which like - at a certain point you can't be impartial without being neglectful and therefore cruel, so... We'll see where that goes.

For more thoughts on Lady Justice / King Harrow / Ezran, you may like this oneshot I wrote forever ago here <3

#hermitmoss #worldbuilding #s6 speculation #thanks for asking #predictions #s6 #arc 2 #tdp #the dragon prince #eye motif #deep lore dive #requests #mini meta #analysis series

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thelearnedsoldiertoo · 9 months

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Sergeant Caite Shay

I am absolutely DELIGHTED with the finished product by @cadhla182 of my 40k Imperium Maledictum(aka Dank Heresy 3e) Inquisition Acolyte, former Astra Militarum Sergeant and Felinid cutiepie Caite Shay!

As is probably apparent, she's the unit sniper and off-sneeki breeki, and has been quasi-democratically appointed by her fellow Acolytes as the squad leader, something I will admit I did not expect when making her!

I love her so much Cadhla thank you for this! :D

#warhammer 40k #imperium maledictum #inquisition acolyte #felinid #my ocs #ttrpgs #love her so big

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eirenical · 4 months

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So, since I haven't updated you all in a while and it felt like a good time... the hives saga is officially on pause. It's been at least four days since my last hives. Which still means it went on for LIKE A MONTH, but you know... baby steps. OTZ

On the downside, I can no longer taste anything.

So.

That's fun.

(No, it's not COVID, please don't suggest it.)

On the upside, sometimes you make EXACTLY the right friend at EXACTLY the right time (after being in each other's circles but never quite connecting for several years) to give you the piece to the puzzle you were missing that leads to MAYBE ACTUALLY A DIAGNOSIS??? THAT ALSO EXPLAINS THINGS YOU'VE HAD ISSUES WITH FOR YEARS AND NEVER HAD AN ANSWER TO??

So I'm still reeling from that one and the doctor's appointment this morning that tentatively confirmed it. Unfortunately this is one of those "it walks like a duck and talks like a duck but we can't officially SAY it's a duck until we see how it responds to treatment" situations.

So hopefully the treatment will get started soon and hopefully it will help because let me tell you... being unable to taste your food and having it all just be Really Weird and Unappealing Textures in your Mouth That Leave a Bitter/Sour Aftertaste Behind... is really not fun. OTZ

...quasi-related I have SO MANY THOUGHTS NOW about Li Lianhua and food and you WILL all be subjected to them at some point once I'm out of grading hell. ;D

Anyway, my point is, I feel MUCH BETTER knowing that there is maybe possibly an Answer (TM) after all, and my stress level decreasing can only help this situation. So now I can return to my regularly scheduled grading stress. 😁👍

#the hives saga #eirenical babble #medical

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impostoradult · 8 days

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Ugh, god, we just moved and I can already tell our downstairs neighbor is going to be a Problem.

Shes a little old lady who lives by herself and has clearly been living in her apartment for a million years. And it's obvious she thinks that gives her some kind of Standing.

She keeps coming out to "chat" with us every time we leave the apartment to issue underhanded complaints about the fact that our dog barks from time to time. In general he's a quiet dog, but he does bark occasionally and clearly she thinks this is something she should get to have a say in. Also she keeps just trying to make conversation with us and is quasi inappropriate in her timing (we're often leaving the house because we are, ya know, going somewhere) and in content. My partner just left to go to a doctor's appointment (and he only disclosed that hoping she would take the hint that he was in a hurry and couldn't stand around and chat) and she was like "Oh what's the appointment for"? Like, lady, you don't ask people you barely know about their medical conditions. It's fucking rude.

This person is like the absolute sitcom cliche of an annoying old lady neighbor and it does NOT bode well. Which is esp shitty because otherwise the apt is great.

#personal

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yr-obedt-cicero · 1 year

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What were the founding fathers’ reaction to the Haitian Revolution?

Due to the Yellow Fever epidemic having a massive toll on the perception of Dominguans, initially Washington was dubious to support it. As it was believed that the Yellow Fever plague was brought to Philadelphia by ships carrying Dominguan refugees. Doctor Benjamin Rush was an eminent physician and abolitionist, but sincerely believed that the black population had immunity to the illness. And so also thought they had an obligation to attend to the afflicted. Which then created the Free African Society. Anyway, Rush was ultimately wrong; as black people died at a rate almost equal to that of the white's population.

So, while Washington was president (Until 1797), he wasn't supportive towards the Dominguans in rebellion. But this would change later on, when John Adams had been elected president. Following Joseph Bunel's arrival in 1798 - Toussaint L'Ouverture's diplomatic representative - Bunel had reportedly met with Adams and other government officials in 1798 or 1799 accompanied by his wife, Marie Bunel, who was a free Black creole.

This soon evolved into a political party dispute though. As - like many Federalists such as Hamilton, Pickering, and Washington - Adams saw supporting the rebellion as an opportunity to fighting against the common enemy, the French. Because the United States had been harassed by the French for years prior, and was then engaged in a Quasi-war with France. It was also seen as a chance to help the American trade, and merchants by gaining a valuable trading partner in the West Indies. Hamilton and Pickering convinced Adams to appoint Edward Stevens as the United States consul-general in Saint-Domingue. He sent Stevens to Haiti with instructions to establish a relationship with Toussaint and express support for his regime. The Federalist administration hoped to incite a movement toward Haitian independence, but Louverture maintained a colonial relationship with France. Stevens's title, “consul”, suggested a diplomat attached to a country, not a colony, reflecting the Adams administration's view of the Haitian situation. But overall, the Federalists rather saw it as an economic investment, and military enhancement.

But many Democratic-Republican's, or southern politicians/farmers, disagreed with the support to the Haitian revolution, particularly Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson was a slave owner with 600 enslaved people at his disposal. A great motive to his so-called “abolitionist” ideals, which was just that he wanted the slave trade system abolished and for black people to get deported, was the fear of the United States one day being faced with a slave rebellion. Especially since Jefferson lived in the south, where slavery was prominent. He believed that the black population should be deported as to protect planation owners. So, you can imagine that Jefferson's largest concern for the Haitian revolution was that it would inspire American slaves to revolt as well. Not to mention, Jefferson had initially urged the US government to support the French revolution for the common ideals of liberty, and patriotism. But the Federalists had argued they shouldn't cause riffs between America and Great Britain again, especially when their developing country and recovering militia was still all very fragile. Jefferson thought the support for the Haitian revolution was hypocritical, and endangering for the United States. This additionally sparked much slander of claiming the Federalists sided with monarchy and Great Britain, instead of more libertarian country's like France.

This also didn't go smoothly either, for soon relations between the two republics soured after Adams left office in 1800, and when Jefferson took charge, he refused to officially recognize Haiti until 1862.

#amrev #american history #haitian revolution #french history #frev #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #george washington #john adams #timothy pickering #edward stevens #thomas jefferson #founding fathers #history #queries #sincerely anonymous #cicero's history lessons #black history #slavery

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