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scapegrace74-blog · 1 year

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The Man from Black Water, Chapter 1

A/N Thanks to everyone who voted in my unofficial straw poll. As you can see, I’ve decided to write the Outlander / Man from Snowy River crossover next, mostly because it requires the least amount of planning or research. You can thank 38cm of fresh snow and a busted knee for the fact I churned out this first chapter so quickly. Subsequent chapters should arrive at a rate of 2 or 3 per week.

For those not familiar with The Man from Snowy River, it was a movie released in 1982, set in frontier Australia. This might seem like the least likely contender for a crossover, and maybe it is, but Jim Craig, the protagonist of the film, and Jamie Fraser share a lot of similarities, as do Jessica Harrison and Claire. Plus, I just really love the film. It’s pure rom-com fluff with a side of horses and history - what’s not to love?

For those who do know the movie, I have essentially shifted it to 1880s Scotland and made the necessary adjustments, plus a few extra twists to keep things fresh. I will include a full character mapping in the notes on Ao3, if you’re interested.

Rocky clods of Scottish earth struck the pine coffin, their percussion muffled by a steady downpour and dark clouds that stole the daylight from the sky. Insensible to the punishing weather, Jamie Fraser knelt in the mud by his father’s grave, his lips moving in silent prayer. Rivulets of rain stained his auburn hair to mahogany, dripping from his forelock like tears.

Lallybroch’s thin soil had to be convinced to permit Brian Fraser’s burial, as though protesting his untimely death. A wooden headstone marked the callous details of the Highlander’s life in roughly carved letters:

Brian Robert David Fraser

Died of Accident – May 1885

Next to the freshly turned earth, another headstone was already grey and weathered to the point that it could barely be read:

Ellen Mackenzie Fraser

Gone Home to God – December 1882

At long last, Jamie rose to his full height and redonned his tweed bonnet. He trudged to where Murtagh awaited him in his ramshackle wagon, feeling far too broken for his nineteen years. Rollo, the family dog, followed faithfully behind him.

“United in death, the minister said,” he looked up at Murtagh who sat in his only Sunday suit, impervious to the rain.

“Superstitious rubbish,” Murtagh spat. “Fit fer widows an’ glaikit fools.”

“Tis’ a nice thought, Murtagh,” Jamie defended, tugging at his waistcoat with reddened hands.

“There’s more tae life than death, lad.”

Rollo’s ears pricked up, signaling danger with a low growl. Riding out of the clag were a half dozen men, their faces obscured by thick beards and low-brimmed caps.

“Wha’ do they want?” Jamie said, pulling his shoulders back to brandish the height and breadth he’d inherited from his father.

“Campbells, by the look o’ them. Best go ‘ave a listen tae wha’ they ‘ave tae say.”

By the tone of his voice, it was clear Murtagh knew what was coming, but Jamie did not. The Campbell ringleader, a man with a barrel chest and a thunderous voice, ordered Jamie from his land until he was man enough to farm it.

“Lallybroch is my place now,” his voice rose in defiance. “I own it!”

In the eyes of the law this statement was patently untrue, and Jamie knew it. Centuries of tradition saw Highland crofts passed from father to son, while the local laird technically owned the land and collected rents for farms that were considered next-to-useless. With the arrival of English land barons and the introduction of sheep farming, crofters were being pushed from their holdings, either by ever-increasing rents or through outright eviction. In Glenshee, Brian Fraser had been one of the last hereditary crofters, clinging to his birthright by sheer tenacity and hard graft. Now, Brian Fraser was dead.

“Look!” the Campbell henchman bellowed so loudly his horse jumped. “Ye’ll gang down tae the Lowlands, and earn the right tae live up here, jes as yer faither did.”

Without waiting for Jamie to acknowledge this ultimatum, the men wheeled their horses, galloping away until the mist enveloped them.

“I dinna ken what they’d have me do,” Jamie railed at Murtagh as he loaded his meagre belongings into his godfather’s wagon. “Da sold off the stock bit by bit tae pay their criminal rents. If I leave, wha’s tae stop the Duke from seizing the land outright?”

“Tis a hard country. Makes fer hard men,” Murtagh shared in his dour philosophical way, slapping his wooden prosthetic leg for emphasis.

Jamie slumped on the wagon’s bench, pulling an oilskin over his shoulders to escape the worst of the rain. With a flick of the reins, the old wagon bounced across the rocky ground, heading away from Lallybroch. From behind him, Rollo let out a plaintive whine. Jamie kept his eyes fixed forward, refusing to glance back in farewell.

***

Unlike Brian Fraser, Murtagh Fitzgibbons had no right to his home, customary or otherwise. He lived a bothy high in Glen Isla, so old it appeared to have sprouted directly from the stony earth. There, he scratched out a meagre living raising a small herd of scraggly sheep and reiving the occasional cow that strayed into the secluded glen.

For as long as Jamie could remember, Murtagh also distilled whisky, guarding the location of his still and the source of its water with religious fervour. Only Brian Fraser had known the secret and had taken it with him to his grave.

Entering the bothy with an awkward but surprisingly spry gait, Murtagh set about unsmooring the fire and grabbing an unlabeled bottle from the mantle. Jamie stood in the centre of the familiar room, feeling like he might cry.

“A toast,” Murtagh proposed as he filled two filmy glasses with a pale amber liquid. Lifting his glass to the heavens, he then intoned:

Here’s a bottle and an honest man – What would ye wish for mair, man. Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man.

So catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man. Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man.

The poem was by Robert Burns, and one of Henry Fraser’s favourites. Jamie raised his own glass in reply and knocked back the entire dram. It burned his already tight throat and smoldered in his belly, making him forget the damp chill of the stone hut. Dashing away an errant tear, he filled both glasses again and gave his own short but heartfelt eulogy.

“Tae Brian Fraser, the best man I knew. May I do honour tae him as his son by keeping Lallybroch in Fraser hands.”

Two drams of whisky combined with the sorrows and indignities of the day, making Jamie’s temper burn hot. His adolescent ego licked its wounds, committed to revenge both sudden and complete. He would pour his heart and soul into making Lallybroch profitable once again, and once that was done, he would track down those Campbell henchmen and offer them the rough justice of his fists.

“Ye should concern yerself wi’ keepin’ yerself alive,” Murtagh injected his usual dose of cold reality. “If ye return tae Lallybroch now, the Campbells will shoot first an’ ask questions later.”

“They’d ha’ tae catch me first,” Jamie blustered.

“Shouldna be sae hard, considerin’ ye’d be on foot.”

Seeing the lad crumple at the renewed realization of his dire circumstances, Murtagh took pity on him and led him outside to where a small corral hid in the lee of a rock face. The old nag responsible for pulling Murtagh’s cart stood next to the feed trough, dwarfed by a dark bay gelding with inquisitive ears and a kind eye.

“I’ve no notion of his breeding,” Murtagh began, “but he’s a Highland horse, sure-footed as they come. He’s yours.”

“I canna pay ye fer him,” Jamie sputtered, shocked by his godfather’s generosity.

“He’s no’ fer sale,” the old man insisted gruffly. “A man wi’out a horse is like a man wi’out a leg.”

Brian Fraser would often say that his old friend was like a sea urchin: spiny on the outside but filled with tenderness. Never had this truth been more apparent.

Jamie climbed through the fence, extending a hand until the gelding nuzzled it warmly. Despite everything, he smiled, having always felt a bond with any animal.

“Thank ye, Murtagh. Truly,” he said with the utmost sincerity. “Does he have a name?”

Murtagh grunted in the negative.

“I shall call him Donas, then. A wee devil tae help me rain misery down on those scabby Campbell louts and win back Lallybroch.”

“Dinna throw effort after foolishness,” Murtagh admonished. “Ye’ve got a lot tae learn about bein’ a man, Jamie Fraser.”

#my writing #outlander #fanfiction

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princesseevee06 · 8 months

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hello bestie i was wondering if you could give us a lil more info on ytr nao? im interested in how she functions in mishima’s role. apologies if you already discussed this in another post i have the memory of a large stone or perhaps a clod of dirt

hi bestie!!!! i am happy to expand on ytr nao i love her :D i just haven’t talked about her much because she uh. Dies pretty quickly but she is there and she is lovely!!!

so my main idea for her took inspiration from one of the ytts endings (do not take my word for it i only have a very vague idea of what happens since i’ve never played ytts) where it shows like a grown-up nao who’s become an art teacher. i really wanted to borrow this idea because i found it so interesting :< so she still acts similar to her canon self she’s just a bit older and more mature. i’d like to imagine she’s just starting out as a teacher and so she’s got those first-day-on-the-job nerves and then gets. Goddamn kidnapped

also nao is a candidate in this au so that’s an important note! the girlie was Supposed to be kidnapped this time

one of the most important scenes containing nao in this au is that in place of mishima comforting kanna, nao comforts kugie here. it’s a bit different: she doesn’t lie about her not being able to save kanna (mostly cause that’s not in her personality and because kugie like 99% would not believe that) but instead she focuses on the time kugie and kanna spent together. basically she says something to the effect of: just like how kugie would be there to support kanna whenever she was upset, everyone else wants to be there for kugie because something so awful has happened to her. nao recognizes that she’s a complete stranger to kugie, but she also doesn’t want to sit idly while kugie grieves her sister. this really touches kugie, and for the first time she feels comfortable to show some vulnerability around the other participants.

(there’s also the parallel of when kugie says this same type of thing to comfort ryoko later on ;-;)

oh……..and the second trial. poor nao, who the heck would even vote for her? well-

mishima still suggests to nao that they should vote for each other, hoping to protect his former student when he actually votes for himself. BUT instead of blindly voting for him like he asked, nao also considers: couldn’t it be dangerous if professor mishima gets the most votes? and because she doesn’t want to endanger HIM, SHE ALSO JUST. VOTES FOR HERSELF. THEY BOTH VOTE FOR THEMSELVES 😭

meanwhile, on the other side of the room, there is one person who already knows how the second trial works. our favorite little sou hiyori. he’s ran ai tests countless times, he’s seen this play out. nao votes for mishima, mishima votes for mishima. and he assumes the same will happen here. so he thinks: it would be boring and meaningless for a death to happen here so quickly, i’ll just tie the votes. so thinking there’s no way he could possibly be incorrect, he tells shin to vote for nao and also does so himself.

but….the AIs are outdated here. and this death game is strangely…different. so nao ends up receiving those three votes, and yeah she uh. Uhh. Uh <.<

that isn’t the “last” we see of nao though!!! there’s still the nao ai on the third floor and she’s an absolute sweetheart. but man, nao’s death makes mishima feel so guilty. he feels like he failed in his duty to keep her safe, and he’s devastated about it. but this is a nao post not a mishima post so i will talk more about him another time

tbh, this post is making me realize how many times i’ve put in a scenario where a character doing something selfless/doing something out of love ends up dooming them, but it’s also SO important to their character that they choose that option anyways. like for example, if nao here listened to mishima she would’ve survived, but it’s also important to show her growth in not just wanting to find security in others, but wanting to BE that security for other people and keep them safe.

#my AU makes me so sad.#princesseevee answers #yttd #your turn ryoko #nao egokoro

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beststevenuniverseepisodecomp · 4 months

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Propaganda for "Message Received":

You will vote for Peridot! The funniest character! The autistic gem who discover the joy of living among weirdos. You clods!

#propaganda #message received

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insectoid5 · 6 years

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Finally, I have time to do the most important homework assignment of the year...

The political homework. 😉

#bug musings #politics #(vote vote VOTE!)#(vote the clods out of office!)#(is Tumblr forgetting used tags AGAIN?!?)

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farina-bancroft · 3 years

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Self para // the beginning of the end

At first, she thought it was the hunger, the way the humidity seemed to sap whatever she drank right from her skin as soon as she had it in her belly. There was a pounding in her temples, pulsating right behind her eyes until she had to pause, close out the light until night fell. As the day wore on, she felt dizzy, weak. The pain in her shoulder from the eagle, despite her best efforts to keep it clean and bound tight in the bandages Asher had supplied. She’d hoped that the vote the night before might earn her some prize, something she needed, but nothing had presented itself.

Not everyone is trustworthy.

Who? she wanted to scream back up at the sky. They’d all shown her kindness, mercy, vulnerability. They all seemed to want their own kind of rapture from the Games just as much as she did. Many had even helped her, kept her company, steered her from harm’s way. When night finally fell, she could open her eyes again. Her head still pounded, and her stomach rolled with nausea, but at least now the light wasn’t amplifying the pain a thousand times. Her instincts for survival hadn’t been very strong to this point, but now her thoughts and gut aligned into one universal truth: Get to the ground. So she did. She lowered herself carefully, wound her way downwards through ladders, platforms, ropes, vines, and even a few jumps. It wasn’t without cost-- her arms and legs shook with the effort, and exhaustion crept into her bones quickly. There was nothing to replenish her energy with, and her left shoulder, now screaming in pain and sickeningly moist at her back, was useless. She willed her foot to move again, but the world tilted, her foot slipped, and she was sent tumbling through the leaves. For the second time in two days, she hit something hard. It knocked the wind out of her, and she pushed onto her side, coughing, sputtering. As she inhaled, she nearly sucked in a leaf with it.

Leaves.

She dug her fingers into the earth beneath her, feeling the merciful, cool give of dirt rather than harsh wooden planks. She’d reached the ground after all. Relief flooded her, but she didn’t move, too exhausted, too spent. Before long, she felt her consciousness wandering, unable to remain tethered to her drained body.

She saw her father. He was in the forest too, laying next to her like he would when she was a child and couldn’t sleep for fear of some imagined danger. She didn’t move, afraid that it might make him leave.

“It’s time to sleep, June bug.” She relaxed at the familiar hum of his voice, the rich, gentle tenor of it.

She opened her mouth to tell him what was happening, why she couldn’t sleep, what she was waiting for, but she found she couldn’t speak. Dirt poured from her mouth as she opened it. She coughed, and more earth spilled from her.

“Nothing to be afraid of.”

Stay, please, she begged as loud as she could in her mind. She tried to scream, but only more clods of dirt, filled with bugs and worms. Don’t leave me again, save me, save me, I want to go home. She squeezed her eyes shut then, willing the dirt away.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

She reopened them, and the dirt had gone, but was replaced by pools of blood, glossy as it soaked into the wooden planks beneath her cheek. She followed it-- This time, she screamed, unrestricted. Her father. His luminous, kind eyes now glassy eyed, unseeing. His skin pale, blue-tinted. He was unmoving. Unseeing. Vacant. She could hear boots on the floor behind her. Felt fingers close around her arms, tear her away as she shrieked like a wounded animal, demanded he come back, come back, come back, come back, come back.

Juniper woke with the same words dying on her lips.

For a moment, she lay on the forest floor, staring at the roots of the tree across from her, lumpy shadows in the darkness. Despite the feverish tinge to her thoughts, she knew that this was real this time. He was dead. He wasn’t coming. With the last of her energy, she curled up into herself and sobbed. No tears fell-- her body had nothing to spare-- but her shoulders shook, her lungs gasped for desperate, grieving breaths. “Come back,” she whispered to herself, over and over and over again. “Come back.”

#self para #126 #day 3

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leam1983 · 3 years

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Watched the French debate on Radio-Canada...

Trudeau: poor clod started this election season on the assumption that COVID's boosted his rep in opinion polls. The exact opposite has happened, especially here in Quebec. The Libs have a decent platform, but too much of it amounts to "Hey, we did okay during the past year, and said year was shit! Also, don't think too hard about Mary Simon not speaking French, the WE Charity debacle or the fiasco with residential schools! Oh, and uh, we gave you CERB, so that has to count for something, right?"

The other parties are long-toothed, as expected, and spent the last several weeks tearing those assertions to shreds.

Blanchet: by far the best debater of the four. His points were well-presented, his retorts well-researched; but that's all he effectively served as. The Bloc Québécois is, as ever, a lucid critique of whoever happens to be in power, but not a force to honestly be reckoned with. As ever, their main rigamarole is giving us more executive powers within our own boundaries, but I'd say Christ has more chances of rising up and inverting Newton's Laws of Physics out of pure spite than the BQ has of being an effective executive party for the whole of the country.

Singh: I really, really, really, really want to vote for the guy. He means well, his perspective is fresher than anyone else's and most of his suggestions are reasonably lucid (taxing the American tech bigwigs further, financing more daycare centers and subsidizing nursing and teaching programs at least in part in order to shore up the shortage in both sectors). Unfortunately, he really didn't defend himself all that well. He didn't develop his platform and stuck to generalities. However, of the three English-speaking candidates, he was second-best in French. The NDP doesn't quite have the all-or-nothing Environmental focus of the Green Party, but what's there is a heck of a lot more commendable than the Libs' focus on carbon emissions - and especially more than the Conservatives' basic shrugging-off of the last several heat waves.

O'Toole: "I have a plan" *record-skipping noise* "I have a plan" *record-skipping noise* "I have a plan." *record-skipping noise* "We passed a contract with the population of this province, you can read it on our website." *record-skipping-noise* "We passed a contract with the population of this province, you can read it on our website." *record-skipping noise* "Until I entered the race, there hasn't been a more qualified Conservative candidate since Brian Mulroney." *record-skipping noise* "I'm the best hope this province has had since Stephen Harper."

*the needle skips past a groove, mangles the recording as the arm is guided back towards the centre. A grim mantra is revealed*

"TAX REVISIONS AND TAX CUTS. TAX REVISIONS AND TAX CUTS. TAX REVISIONS AND TAX CUTS. TAX REVISIONS AND TAX CUTS..."

Fuck off, Erin. I'm sure even the most Irish of all Irish-Canadians would tell you to start writing your refund checks for your usual crusty financiers and then find the time to go suck on Harper's dick.

Of course, I say that and I know patently well that The Pattern will not be broken. The Pattern, for my non-Canadian readers, is eight years of Liberal rule, followed by eight years of Conservative rule. The Libs try and spend eight years funding programs and implementing measures, while the Tories basically grunt and squeal about the Sacrosanct Budget and spend the next eight years cutting.

No social platform. No ambitions, no social or moral drives - just being fiscally in the black for a few years. Oh, at the absolute most, you'll spot candidates from the Prairies yeehawing it up in Jesus' name once or twice, just so our own Diet Trumpers feel a vague sense of approval.

Now, to wait for the English debate on CBC... It'll be nice to see if Singh has more meat on his bones in Shakespeare's idiom, and if O'Toole's heart comes up a little more if he goes back to his native tongue.

#canadian elections #the best sitcom beaverlandia's ever known

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docmary · 3 years

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The politics of a pandemic, how not to manage coronavirus

No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were: Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls.

It tolls for thee.

John Donne

1624

The poet John Donne warned of the dangers of isolation and imagining oneself as self-sufficient, without need of community. It was true 500 years ago; it still holds true today. No man is an island…every man is a part of the main. As wave upon wave of SARS-CoV-2 reached every continent, even Antarctica, most of us have tried to isolate ourselves on this crowded planet - with mixed results.

As of May 30, 2021, by every metric, the United States was leading the world in the number of cases and deaths from COVD-19. Brazil and India are catching up quickly. In the US, the underlying tension between public health and personal liberty has had disastrous consequences. As successful as the vaccine roll-out has been, and even with the numbers of new cases, hospitalizations, and deaths dropping, this is no time to be complacent.

India, with a population of over 1 billion, and Brazil, a pariah among countries in Latin America for its poor response to the pandemic, cause or should cause great concern to everyone everywhere. Not having the resources of rich countries, they will require help to manage the tragic situation their leaders have put their populations in and it is in our interest to do so because...the bell tolls for thee.

India

When the World Health Organization (WHO) declared COVID-19 a global pandemic in March 2020, there had been 330,000 cases and 30,000 deaths from SARS-CoV-2 reported worldwide. In the early days of the pandemic, India was considered a model of how to manage the worst public health crisis in recent memory. India responded with a strict lockdown. International flights and exports of masks, ventilators, and certain medicines were banned. As a result, India did not see the same initial explosion in new cases and deaths compared to other countries.

Three months later, India’s Prime Minister Narendra Modi began easing lockdown restrictions - like the American football player who does the end-zone dance on the two-yard line—not a good idea. When the lockdown lifted, many Indians stopped taking precautions. Mr. Modi allowed large gatherings, including campaigns in state elections that he attended, without wearing a mask, at rallies of thousands of mask-less supporters, to help his governing Bharatiya Janata party. Large religious festivals resumed drawing millions of people as well. By July 2020, India had seen 600,000 cases and 17,834 deaths due to COVID. An editorial from The Lancet, said that Mr. Modi “seemed more intent on removing criticism” on social media than “trying to control the pandemic.” Sound familiar?

As recently as March 2021, India’s health minister assured the public that they had reached the pandemic’s “endgame”.

The New York Times reported in May 2021 that India was responsible for more than half of the world’s daily COVID cases, setting a record-breaking pace of 400,000 new cases in one day. Researchers believe the B.1.1.7 variant and the delta variant, which are also major variants in Britain and the US, are to blame for the surge. Clinics across India report desperate shortages of hospital beds, protective equipment, and oxygen.[1]

Just to add to the global disaster, India is one of the world’s leading vaccine manufacturers. It is struggling to inoculate its own citizens; less than 10% of Indians have gotten even one dose.[2] In September 2020, Serum Institute of India (SII) received $150 million from the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation to accelerate production of Oxford University’s AstraZenica (AZ) vaccine and the American vaccine Novavax as soon as the WHO granted regulatory approval. Under the original terms of the agreement, 50% of vaccines would be earmarked for India and the remainder would go to other low- and middle-income countries.[3]Currently, exports of vaccines from India have been shut down.

Brazil

In an editorial from The Lancet, dated May 9, 2020, the president of Brazil, Jair Bolsanoro, was criticized for allowing the SARS-CoV-2 virus to spread widely while presenting himself as a “messiah” touting unproven medicines like hydroxychloroquine, with support from his rightwing allies.

At the time, Brazil had the most cases (105,000) and deaths (72,88) in Latin America. Estimates suggest the death rate was doubling every five days. When asked by a reporter about the rapidly increasing numbers of COVID-19 cases, Mr. Bolsanaro responded: “So what? What do you want me to do?”[4]

In March 2021, Brazil’s pandemic spiraled out of control. Its Latin American neighbors grounded flights, closed land borders, and regional sports events were canceled in attempts to stop the P.1 variant (and approximately 90 other variants) from spreading to their populations.

The British Medical Journal reported that 400,000 Brazilians have died from COVID-19—13% of deaths worldwide.[5] Some models predict the death toll in Brazil will reach half a million this month. That trajectory could be an indicator for what is to come for its neighbors. As Paraguay’s director of health surveillance, Guillermo Sequera, has said: “When Brazil sneezes, Paraguay gets a cold.”[6]

COVAX

With a fast-moving pandemic, no one is safe, unless everyone is safe.

author unknown. Retrieved from: https://www.who.int/initiatives/act-accelerator/covax

COVAX is an initiative dedicated to equitable access to a vaccine, particularly to healthcare workers and those most at risk. To date (5/31/2021), COVAX has shipped more than 77 million COVID-19 vaccines to 127 participants. It is co-led by[7]:

CEPI-Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovations. The governing board has 12 voting members; four investors and eight independent members with competencies in industry, global health, science, resource mobilization, and finance—and five observers (17 total). Financial support comes from public sources including US Agency for International Development (USAID).

Gavi, the Vaccine Alliance-a public/private partnership which has helped to vaccinate 760 million children in the world’s poorest countries.[8] It ensures that infrastructure is in place and technical support is available to make sure that COVID-19 vaccines can be safely delivered to support the participation of 92 lower-middle and lower-income economies. It is part of the health systems work of Access to COVID-19 Tools (ACT) Accelerator effort, focusing on areas where it has expertise and experience, such as keeping vaccines at the correct temperature.

World Health Organization (WHO)

United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF)

COVAX hopes to get 280 million doses of vaccines to Latin America but has been hit with delays to eight manufacturers (including SII) it has deals with and does not expect to deliver them until the end of 2021.[8]This has led South American nations to look to China’s Coronavac and Russia’s Sputnik V vaccine supplies. One study found that Coronovac was only 50% effective after a single dose. The Biden administration has pledged to purchase 500 million doses of Pfizer BioNTech vaccine to give to COVAX; the first 200 million doses will be distributed this year, with the subsequent 300 million in the first half of next year.[10]

My Take

In what can only be called being one step ahead of the game, armed robbers in Hong Kong stole $16,000 worth of toilet paper as coronavirus sparked panic-buying of essential goods a month before WHO declared a global pandemic in March 2020.[11] (Good times)

In July 2020, President Trump formally notified Congress and the United Nations that the US was withdrawing from WHO because of course he did.

Several articles, including one from the Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA)[12] have compared weekly deaths in the US that would be expected from historical trends with COVID and non-COVID deaths from March 2020 until January 2021. There was an increase of 22.9% of all-cause mortality. This far exceeds expectations. Excess deaths attributed to non-COVID causes could be the result of deaths that were, in fact, COVID but misclassified. They might also be due to delayed care, an overwhelmed healthcare system, or behavioral health crises. On the other side of the ledger, no doubt at least some of the deaths that would have been anticipated from non-COVID causes might have died from the coronavirus instead. Which is to say, these are at best estimates of the mortality rates. During surges in various parts of the US, deaths from several non-COVID diseases like heart disease and Alzheimer’s increased. Either way, the excess deaths could have been helped with a better response to the pandemic early on.[13]

For those “give me liberty, or give me death” fans, do I really need to point out that Patrick Henry was referring to his own death, not the deaths of millions all over the world? My parents’ generation made many sacrifices during WWII, including blood and treasure, and considered it worth the price to defeat Hitler. Wearing a mask to defeat a virus? Really? Who have we become?

It comes as a surprise to no one that the countries with the largest death tolls to date, the US, India, and Brazil, are also countries in which partisan politics was the priority over public health measures. It isn’t a good idea. Why don’t we just stop?

[1] What to know about India’s coronavirus crisis. What is behind the explosion of new coronavirus cases that is overwhelming the South Asian country? NY Times, May 25, 2021. Retrieved from: https://www.nytimes.com/article/india-coronavirus-cases-deaths.html

[2] ibid

[3]Raghavan, P. 2020. $150 million dollar shot for serum production of COVID vaccine, India Express.

[4]Lancet editorial. September 19, 2020. COVID-19 in Brazil: “So what?”, Lancet, 395: 1461. doi: 10.1016/s0140-6736(20)31095-3

[5]Taylor, L. 5/20/2021. COVID-19: How the Brazilian variant took hold of South America, BMJ 2021, 373: n1277. doi: 10.1136/bmj.n1277

[6]ibid

[7]World Health Organization: COVAX Working for global equitable access to COVID-19 vaccines. Retrieved from: https://www.who.int/initiatives/act-accelerator/covax

[8]Raghavan. Op cit.

[9]Taylor. Op cit.

[10] Page, T, Rauhala, E. Jun 9, 2021. Biden administration to buy 500 million Pfizer coronavirus vaccine doses to donate to the world, Washington Post, retrieved from: https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/biden-vaccine-donate/2021/06/09/c2744674-c934-11eb-93fa-9053a95eb9f2_story.html

[11]www.thinkglobalhealth.org/article1

[12]Woolf, SH, Chapman, DH, Sabo, RT, Zimmerman, EB. May 4,2021.Excess deaths from COVID-19 and other causes in the US, March 1 2020, to January 2, 2021,JAMA, 325(17): 1786-1789. doi: 10.1001/jama.2021.5199

[13]ibid

#COVID-19 #Brazil #India #COVAX #vaccine #AstraZeneca #PfizerBioNTech

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ihknkm · 3 years

Text

As is typical with scoring, high score wins

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Caggo was the one who finally cut him down, fighting through the king’s protectors on evro kalkulator his monstrous warhorse and opening Cleon the Great from shoulder to hip with one blow of his curved Valyrian arakh. Rhett designed rooms to feature existing beams, with the dining room having a high vaulted ceiling that takes in the full spaciousness of the barn's peaked roof.. If you're going to buy heels, avoid the ones with pointy tips and opt for a pair with a wide toe box, she says. adidas mariposas You need to see which subjects interest you and what you are good at. The Yunkai’i don’t want them near their Yellow City. We've built up social media and basically revamped all of our digital touch points, whether it's the marathon website or our own site or the Facebook page. And as I was imagining zattini promoção de botas that, the thought suddenly came to me: why, I shall pray to God for one minute of you, and meanwhile you have been with me six months, and during those six months how many times we’ve quarrelled, how many days we wouldn’t speak to one another. He came into my clinic but we couldn't save him. Though she didn't appear in the Season 4 trailer, there's still hope. At the age of eight she began to realize that god had given her a talent to sing and perform. They called and they are influenced, heavily, by the jazz organ groups of the 50s and 60s. On days like this the Wall shimmered bright as a septon’s crystal, every crack and crevasse limned by sunlight, as frozen rainbows danced and died behind translucent ripples. There Burch left them. Ef my husband 153was to slip away from me, Missis, dat ar way, it ud wake me right up. 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minibloggerske · 3 years

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Nyoro is Also a Demented clod Just Like Waititu. What Wrong Did Kiambu Populace do to Deserve This?

The electoral agency on Tuesday night suspended votes tallying in Juja constituency after chaos erupted. In a statement, IEBC chairman Wafula Chebukati blamed Kiambu Governor James Nyoro for disrupting the process. “At around 10:20pm tonight there was disruption of the tallying process at Mang’u HighSchool Tallying center in Juja Constituency by a group of individuals led by the KiambuCounty…

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#Ferdinand Waititu #Governor James Nyoro

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theroadgoesonforever · 3 years

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Biden's COVID bill offers up to $21k in paid leave to federal workers whose kids are at home due to school closures - TheBlaze

Isn't this interesting,and you clods that voted for him will probably get another $600. Chronyism & hypocrisy on display daily.

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vindicatedvirgil · 4 years

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amanda’s sanders sides binge reactions, episodes ten-sixteen

losing my motivation — making some changes

home maintenance is not a joke

infinitesimal

i don’t know, LOGIC

the game is on

all business

no you can’t play with us

i’ve been waiting for this day to wear it

he found a dollar

touching up some eyeshadow

what are these grounds

are they coffee grounds

/dadjoke

bleak

you’re not welcome

elementary my dear daddy

what

HE’S NOT ALWAYS THE BAD GUY

how do the sides borrow money from each other i’m confused

sir sing-a-lot

i am a knight thank you very much

oh no how could you do it i trusted you

what’s going on? something good

feelings. the bane of my existence

weird mushy vision you mean my entire catalog of fanfic writing

well who should have done that *cue intense music*

am i in a paradoxical loop

calm down time

that was dark even for me

yes go to the library

logan’s name reveal

Q+A time

laughy cry-y emoji

pouty mcspecs

i really need to up my roman giving nicknames game

his anxiety is heightened VIRGIL IS TALLEST SIDE CONFIRMED

so does roman have a fairy godmother

bippity boppity boo yah

i’m not okay

i promise

but also i am the walrus

wait that needs to be on my patton playlist brb

virgil likes tumblr hence he likes us

i need four cookies

and i will sit on a surface that is not meant to be sat on

patton doesn’t always screw stuff up

i also like podcasts

CAMPFIRE SONG SONG

virgil’s compliments are great what are you talking about

who is texting logan (my guess is orange)

who is texting roman (my guess is remus)

winnie the pooh~

logan tries singing to all star

and virgil just goes “yeahhhh”

i know big words

DO YOU KNOW HOW CUTE YOU ARE

relevant with yesterday’s skirt photo

fanart!

fanfic!

what is a ship?

virgil definitely knows because he’s on tumblr

thomas has a rat in his hair confirmed (it’s remus)

virgil is the first in this one too

sometimes i just gotta be me-an

hide under the covers until the sun goes away

chemically imbalanced romance

we’re donezo

never fear your creativity is here

thomas’ happiness is roman’s mission

cries

you shackle your creativity

wait

remus says something very similar

hmmmmmmmmm

brainstorming extravaganza

patton why were you not wearing your pants

KNIVES

is this why princey spit yogurt at me yesterday

i’m always serious. clearly. i wear a necktie.

roman wears the pants-

they are a family btw

lol time limits

do those exist in current episodes

FIGHTING

...verbally

OMG OMG IT’S TIME

aggressive bouts of beat poetry

nb royalty aka me

*nods like virgil*

WOO!

capita? like the cogitating cap?

patton would love untitled goat game

you tried you failed let’s go to sleep

booyakasha

logan you can’t just call virgil a defeatist

virgil’s face

and he just sinks out without saying anything

am so soft for the boy

roman name reveal!

hey roman

yes?

you’re my hero

SOBBING ENABLED

MY LIFE IS A LIEE

time for my favorite debate, much better than any political debates

analogical time

this could have been a logan centric video if virgil didn’t pop up

wow

we get it, you don’t want me here, but i’m here

i want you here

virgil please be in the video tomorrow

i too call upon very specific facts to feel secure

how bruised is roman

cardigan-clad clod aka me

same, cream based broths upset my tummy unless i take lactaid

wait logan can’t be objective?

haagen daaz dispersion

bad imaginary

vocab word!

a debate *snap*

i wanna be the supreme dark overlord of negative commerce

RIGGED

please help me *screams in agony*

me me big boy

too much pressure, nooo

do they groan in disgust about the butterflies in his tummy because they feel that way about each other or-

this is better than any political debate

TBD = totally believable dude

when did they vote on logan’s proficiency plan i wanna see this

of course it’s not a straight answer no one in this video is straight-

the first FALSEHOOD

did he just hiss at me

i’m right, you’re wrong, shut up

that’s a try guys reference

savage

this is stupid he’s stupid i’m out

LOGAN DOESN’T MIND VIRGIL’S COMPANY

your mom misses you

visual puns are great

amazing!

uhhhh

uhhh

mmmmmmm

no virgil you’re not alone

same patton, i’m always confused

surly temple is one of my favorite nicknames

NEIGH

MOO

BAAA

word association games return

don’t you dare turn breakfast food into a negative metaphor

was this really a necessary visual

screaming

voltron shirt *hits joan*

me watching sanders sides late into the night

great odin’s eyepatch!

well then it’s just 5am and you need to go to bed

keep it up so we get to see virgil more thanks

i’ve dreamed of this moment

NECKTIE

anatomically, thomas is fine

what is the gosh-darn-ding-dang point

adulto

so mean to patton

darude sanderstorm

i want to bounce in a bouncy castle

i want to join a book club with joan and thomas

verisimilitudinous

*gasp* not the necktie

you are the man. you look like the man. i fight the man. i want to fight you now.

janus also fights the man so-

you stole my look

is no one going to acknowledge that he just dabbed

logan asks for patton’s help when they can’t figure out what’s wrong

danny devito reference

mind palace!

star thingies

poor virgil and his eyes

adequate

EEYORE REFERENCE THANKS FOR NOTICING ME

for reference eeyore has always been my favorite disney character

and virgil is my fave

see any connections there

patton-cake

patton name reveal!

growing older is scary but being a kid was also scary because i didn’t know what was going on with my identity

patton understands virgil so well. cries. maybe the asides will fix their relationship

ECHO

listen buddy don’t blame us just because your mind is so empty

that was definitely roman

i didn’t know you made jokes like that

changing...evolving...mutating

why don’t we talk more?

uh oh, feelings

more sentimental than on avalanche

it is flippin sweet man

with you i’m always home-

additional affirmation

whaddup anxiety

if virgil is upset when thomas isn’t near his friends then isolation really has to be messing with him

joan!logan is amazing

terrence!patton though

he/him pronouns all around~

another danny devito reference

okay but talyn!virgil is the best

hissing

breaking the fourth wall?

single column?

aw patton loves thomas

hehe butt

“we are not actually your friends”

...what

VIKINGMETAL

BIBLIOTECA

i love libraries

I AM FRAIL AND BREAKABLE

a man of many talyn’s

also i didn’t make as many comments on this one because it’s 11pm and i’m starting to get a bit sleepy

#amanda binges sanders sides because they are too hype for the asides video #this is very long just a warning

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sztupy · 4 years

Video

youtube

William Dalrymple’s Love Letter to Europe, at Tron Kirk, Hunter Square, Edinburgh, Scotland

Stop! Yes, you. Don’t run away. Fellow Europeans - please. Just give me ten minutes.

I know its bitterly cold. And I know you’ve found all of us on this unhappy island quite incredibly annoying for some time. At this moment, when we’re on the verge of committing a stupid act of catastrophic self-harm, you may think you’re being waylaid in the streets of Edinburgh by a madman. But just ten minutes. That’s all I ask. I won’t be long. Come close. Sit down if you’d like to. Listen.

Well, first of all: it isn’t our fault. Don’t roll your eyes. I know all divorcees try to blame the other party - but this really isn’t. We Scots have always been the most enthusiastic of Europeans, even if we’re on the north-western edge of the continent - indeed maybe because we’re on the edge and have only the Atlantic to our backs as we gaze towards you, longingly, admiring your culture and your food and your wine and your paintings and your music and your weather. Maybe, above all, your weather.

In truth, we’ve always seen you as a lifeline, a counterbalance to our noisy neighbours to the South. It was they who voted for Brexit. Honestly - we didn’t. 62% of us voted Remain. We always knew that we would not be taking back control of anything: instead, we are ceding control, and losing our best friends and natural allies in the process. It’s about much more than than the money. It’s about who we are - where we come from, what we believe in. It’s about who our real friends are, who we can trust. Who we love.

We know already how much we’re going to miss you, more keenly with every day that the separation and divorce draws nearer. We know that soon we’ll be in the wrong lane at immigration, when we try to fly into Rome or Paris or Lisbon or Leiden or Utrecht - towns where we’ve spent so much time, over so many centuries. We know we won’t find it so easy to do business or to buy a flat near you, or even to come on holiday. We may not get a visa to visit you. You may not get a visa to visit us.

I grew up in the Borders during the 1970s, constantly surprised how even in the wildest moorlands, links with distant parts of Europe seemed to lie under every clod of soil. As a teenage would-be archaeologist, I used to drive to a field near Melrose and wander over the berms and earthworks of the site of the Roman fortress of Trimontium - named after the three peaks of the Eildon Hills rising above.

In Edinburgh, in the old Museum of Antiquities in Queen Street, I vividly remember when they put on display the astonishing silver masks of the cavalry officers that the archaeologists had dug up there. In one, the face was completely intact. There was something deeply hypnotic about their silent stare. Their fleeting expressions frozen in silver, mouths forever open, startled, as if suddenly surprised by death itself. Their huge, vacant eyes stared out with all the nakedness of a departed soul.

I remember peering through the glass at them, trying to catch some hint of the strange sights these southern Europeans saw in first century Scotland - what they made of the Votadini of Traprain Law or our proto-Pictish ancestors, among whose fortresses was one that now lies under Castle Rock. The smooth, silver-gleaming neo-classical faces stared me down. But I learned that you never knew where you might run into the oldest ghosts of continental European culture haunting the most surprising and remote parts of Scotland.

One Easter holiday, my parents took me to Galloway where they hired a cottage near Castle Douglas. There, in a small eighteenth century chapel, in a remote one-street village in south west Scotland, I saw one of the most remarkable pieces of Early Christian art to survive anywhere in the British Isles. The Ruthwell Cross, which dates from the early eighth century and stands some five metres tall. A fantastically elegant, sophisticated and intricate creation. One side has the Eucharistic vinescroll, full of plump Mediterranean grapes, symbolic both of the sacrifice of the mass and the Tree of Life. And on the other face were swirls of carpet-like interlace, with intricate knots, perhaps copied from a Roman floor mosaic and used as a talisman to keep the devil at bay.

Nearby, there was an image of the gospel story of the Healing of the Man Born Blind, representing the opening of the eyes of the heathen. Below was a panel showing Mary Magdalen washing the feet of Christ, a symbol of conversion and repentance. In it, Christ is wearing a toga. It’s a deeply Hellenistic image, maybe copied from a Greek icon, sculpted by an eighth century inhabitant of Scotland. I remember being taken to see the cross and descending the circular stairs into the pit where it’s kept, and being astonished by its sophisticated, classical beauty. Who had made these images? What was this exotic Romano-Byzantine masterpiece doing in the middle of sleepy rural Galloway?

Nor was it just a one way one traffic. The Celtic monks of Iona received a visit from a Gaulish traveller named Arculf who told them of his visits to the Holy Places of Palestine. As a teenager on my first visit to Italy, I was astonished to find a very Scottish, Celtic-looking reliquary sitting in the monastery of San Salvatore on the slopes of Mount Amiata in Tuscany, left by some 9th century Scottish pilgrims heading along the Via Francigena on their way to Rome.

I soon learned of just how early many learned Scots made their careers in the warm South. My favourite were the tales I had heard of another young Borderer, Michael Scott the Wizard, also from Melrose, who in the 13th century ended up travelling to Rome, where he briefly became tutor to the Pope. He went on to Toledo, where he acquired a sophisticated knowledge of Arabic. He began to dress in Arab clothes and developed a passion for Islamic literature, mathematics, medicine, alchemy and astrology. In time he became court astrologer to the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II, Stupor Mundi - Wonder of the World, in Palermo, and successfully predicted the outcome of wars that had yet to happen.

Scott’s dark magic even enabled him to foresee his own death, which he believed would be caused by a stone falling on his head. As a precaution, he wore an iron helmet at all times. But according to Border folklore, he took it off while taking mass in Melrose and, as predicted, a small stone did indeed fall on his head, causing his death in 1235. He is the only Scot to appear in Dante’s Inferno, where his reputation as a necromancer won him a posthumous place in the Eighth Circle of Hell, enduring horrific tortures in the company of other distinguished sorcerers, magi and enchantresses.

As with any relationship, not all contacts were happy, of course. When Aeneas Piccollomini of Pienza was made Pope Pius II, he failed to launch the last Crusade that he spent much of his life planning. This was because he died prematurely of the chilblains he caught making an ill-advised, barefoot winter pilgrimage from Dunbar to the shrine of Our Lady in Whitekirk, through an East Lothian landscape he described in his memoirs as 'wild, bare and never visited by the sun in winter.'

The Auld Alliance between Edinburgh and Paris led us into close political union with the French court, and led to a succession of marriage alliances with European grandees like Mary of Guise, who brought over from the continent waves of Europeans architects, painters and musicians to beautify our buildings and act like leaven to our arts and literature.

Our European links lasted long after the Auld Alliance lapsed at the Union, and long after Bonnie Prince Charlie, himself descended from the Medici, retired to drink himself to death in his Florentine Palazzo. Scottish castles were built with pointed turrets, like witches hats, modelled on those of the Loire, and Scottish domestic houses had crows-step gables based on those in the Hague and Amsterdam. The red pantiles that roofed the steadings of East Lothian first came over as ballast from Rotterdam. Alan Ramsay learned his skills in portraiture in Naples. When Robert Adam returned from the Grand Tour, he reinvented British architecture with ideas taken from the sketches he made as a boy from the Palladian palaces of Italy and from amidst the ruins of Pompeii and Herculaneum and the palace of Diocletian in Split. Colen Campbell of Cawdor’s architectural ideas, also brought back from his Italian travels, became the basis for the architecture of the new city of St Petersburg.

Continental European tastes permeated every aspect of Scottish life. We drank Claret from vineyards that Scottish vintners bought up in the Bordeaux, and port which Scottish families like the Cockburns and the Sandemans made from their estates in the Portuguese Douro. When our scholars wished to undertake further studies they left their books in Edinburgh and St Andrews, not only for Oxford but for Paris and Utrecht: from 1572 to 1800, 1460 Scots students enrolled in the University of Leiden.

So when the Little Britain Brexiteers tell us now that our future lies with them, and that we must turn our backs on Europe, I feel not just angry but understand that this dictat goes against all that we are, and all that has formed us. It is not just an act of economic and political suicide, it is an act of massive cultural and philosophical vandalism. How did we allow this to happen? How do we begin to unravel this mess? How badly have we failed both our forefathers and our children?

This came home to me most bitterly in November, when I saw Angela Merkel and Emmanuel Macron arm in arm on Remembrance Day. They both braved the wind and rain, in a way that President Trump refused to do, to remember all our dead, and to learn the lesson that we must all come together to make sure it never happens again. I understood then the scale of what had been achieved in the last sixty years by a continent which had torn itself apart so often, and I realised then, my fellow Europeans, more clearly than ever who our real friends are - and the bleak, utter foolishness of separating ourselves from them.

About the creative team

Writer: William Dalrymple is the author of nine books about India and the Islamic world, including City of Djinns (Thomas Cook Travel Book Award and Sunday Times Young British Writer of the Year Prize), White Mughals (Wolfson Prize for History and SAC Scottish Book of the Year Prize), The Last Mughal (Duff Cooper Prize and Vodafone Award for Non-Fiction) and Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India (Asia House Literary Award). He recently curated a major show of Mughal art for the Asia Society in New York, Princes and Painters in Mughal Delhi 1707-1857. Return of a King: The Battle for Afghanistan 1839-42 was published in 2012 and won the Hemingway and Kapuściński Prizes and was shortlisted for the Samuel Johnson, Duff Cooper and PEN Hessel-Tiltman History Prizes. In 2016 he published a history of the Koh-i-Noor, co-written with Anita Anand. He writes regularly for the New Yorker, the New York Review of Books and the Guardian, and is one of the founders and a co-director of the Jaipur Literary Festival. He has honorary doctorates of letters from the universities of Edinburgh, St Andrews, Aberdeen, Bradford and Lucknow, and visiting fellowships at Princeton and Brown. This year he was awarded the President's medal of the British Academy. For most of the year he lives on a farm outside Delhi with his wife Olivia and his three children, Ibby, Sam and Adam.

Film-maker: Double Take Projections is an innovative Scottish design consultancy specialising in creating immersive visual experiences using a recently developed technique called projection mapping. Projection Mapping harnesses recent advances in high powered projection equipment, allowing any surface to be animated. The technique radically alters an environment or object by projecting from different angles, onto a variety of surfaces. Video mapping creates an illusion, with moving images, which captivates live audiences, leaving them with an unforgettable impression. Double Take has created one-off spectacles for a diverse range of clients, including The Scottish Government, Irn-Bru, the National Theatre of Scotland and T in the Park.

Composer: RJ McConnell is a composer and sound designer based in Fife, working in theatre and film. His work combines the use of transformed recorded sounds with a minimalistic composition style to create a homogeneous blend of both disciplines. He has created music and soundscapes for a vast array of theatre productions for Dundee Rep, Tron Theatre, Pilot Theatre, The Arches, Pitlochry Festival Theatre and others - creating complex and layered atmospheres whilst evoking an emotive audience reaction through music. He has composed eight soundtracks for the multi award-winning Enchanted Forest in collaboration with Jon Beales, contributing to the growing popularity of the event. RJ’s recent work in film has been a natural progression where he has enjoyed constructing meticulous compositions.

About this location

Edinburgh World Heritage is an independent charity with the aim of ensuring the city’s World Heritage status is a dynamic force that benefits everyone. Our mission is to connect people to their heritage in everything we do – whether through the conservation of historic buildings, delivering improvements to the public realm, or engaging people directly with the rich heritage of their city.

#message from the skies #mfts #brexit #scotland #edinburgh #love letter to europe #rant #post

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backroombuzz · 5 years

Text

House Passes Worthless Resolution Scolding Trump For His 'Clod Squad' Tweets

The US House of Representatives voted to scold President Trump on Tuesday for his “go back” to your country tweets targeting the Democrats Clueless Caucus' "Clod Squad"

Ironically, the Trump condemnation resolution, just like the Democrats "Clod Squad" carries no legal weight and is an absurd waste of time.

Read the full article

#alexandriaOcasioCortez #AyannaPressley #ClodSquad #CluelessCaucus #DonaldTrump #HouseDemocrats #IlhanOmar #MAGA #NancyPelosi #RashidaTlaib #Resolution #Trump #Video

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wowerehouse · 5 years

Text

The Point Of A Fight

There was no such thing as an organized retreat from the Nightmare.

Thorns tore at their pelts as the band of druids struggled through the undergrowth, wild-eyed in their attempts to stay together. Desiccated plants whipped at their eyes, branches catching and dragging. The earth twisted in tortured, unnatural patterns; the earth-sense of their kind was useless here.

There was no magical energy to fuel them, no second sense to guarantee their landings. The big cats leapt for outcroppings and missed; eagles and stormcrows and Darkspear bats found themselves pinioned by interwoven branches and cried out in panic as they fought their way free; lumbering bears breathed heavily just trying to keep pace as their footing sank into decaying muck. Stags gathered themselves to leap down sunken banks and found the expertly-eyed distance misjudged, stumbling or falling to their knees at the impact only to scrabble back again and race in the wake of their fellows.

And then, between one stride and the next, they were free.

Levaden Mountaincall could not have shapeshifted if she tried; the stag was in full rout and could do nothing but run. She ripped her antlers free of clinging vines, ignoring the bloody whiplashes in her side from fleeing through the undergrowth, and thundered across the boundary and into living light.

The Nightmare was aptly named. Crossing back into Val’sharah was as jarring as being slapped awake from a bad dream, and caused the same spike of panic and confusion.

She half checked herself, heavy hooves biting into the soil as she pranced, head tossing at the threat her pounding heart knew was there. A Tauren lion blundered into her hindquarters, and Levaden barely managed to control a reflexive kick at his head; abruptly she was back in her right mind. And, she realized with consternation, blocking one of the only paths out of the Nightmare. She shook her head sharply as she stepped to one side, letting the stag form melt away.

Shifting had been a mistake, she thought as she immediately tripped over her own feet and collapsed into the grass. Her hands trembled; but she took some comfort in the fact that, looking around, the real druids seemed no better off.

Not even Malfurion, it seemed. Something deep in her chest clicked into place like an arrow striking home, and she felt her hands steady.

“Tell me, hero,” he was saying, breathing heavily. One feathered hand rested lightly on the shoulder of a nearby kaldorei; one who bore the traditional sickle-moon tattoo of the Circle. Older than Levaden, likely by at least a few thousand years. More powerful, that much could be sensed in the earth. “Where is Tyrande? I must go to her, immediately.”

“She was...” the other druid panted. “Temple of Elune, shan’do. She had no choice. They were holding well, last I...last I heard...”

“Thank you. Rest, but do not delay too long. Meet me at the Temple when you are able.”

He turned to stride away from the group, and Levaden--

Congruence.

She never made the conscious choice to shift, never called on the stag; but she surged upward in a rush of hooves and flashing tines and met Malfurion Stormrage mid-stride.

It was the stupidest fight she had ever picked, an accomplishment and a condemnation in one; but the first blow landed, clean and brutal, uncontested.

Antlers locked with antlers, a web of combat-sharpened scythe points snaring the rounded, decorative crown of an archdruid, wrenching his head under control; and Levaden caught that split-second advantage and pushed. Steel hooves lashed out once, twice, as she reared and drove him forward; and then a surge of power flung her back, and no less than seven different druids dragged her bellowing onto her side

“Stand back!” Malfurion commanded, and only a few obeyed; the others--three bears, a tiger, and a fierce-eyed Highmountain eagle poised to blind Levaden if she moved again--held her tighter in place. “Do her no harm! This young druid has been touched by the Nightmare.”

Rage surged through her blood with dizzying force, pounding like the wild drums of the autumn rut.

“To hell with the Nightmare, you nearly got us all killed!”

A troll wreathed in the ethereal image of the moonkin knelt at Levaden’s side, ignoring the murderous glaring deer to pass shining hands over her.

“I be sensin’ no corruption, shan’do,” she murmured. “The anger be natural.”

“You’re damn fucking--get off me!”

Malfurion gestured to her captors. Warily, the bears and cat backed away. The eagle continued clinging to Levaden’s antlers as she rolled and hauled herself back onto her feet; eventually she gave her head a sharp shake and tossed the suspicious, glaring druid free.

The archdruid raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Center yourself, young one.” His voice was low and soothing. “I have many regrets, and this will not undue my mistakes. The Legion is at our door; this is no time to fight amongst ourselves, nor to take out your anger this--”

He leapt back as Levaden reared again; a warning, only a warning, and yet she still crumpled to the ground under the searing pain of the concentrated energy flung at her by several watching casters.

Those, too, had only been warnings. Some of these druids were ancient, power rolling off them in waves; if they wanted to boil Levaden’s blood, sear her skin off, they could do it with a wave of the hand. If Malfurion had tried to send a warning shot across her bows, she would be dead already.

With difficulty, she got her feet under her again.

“You think this is--” She swayed, heavy hooves biting into the earth as she struggled into a fighting stance. “You think this is a temper tantrum, Stormrage? You’ve been asleep too long, no one--no one challenges you when you’re in a coma. Well, I’m a druid, and I’m technically part of the Circle since no one will let me leave. I’m past the age of majority. My name is Levaden Mountaincall, and I say you shouldn’t be followed.”

Their little grassy clearing went very still.

“She’s insane,” whispered a nightsaber.

That wasn’t how it worked, not really; leadership of the Circle was not something determined via trial by combat, for obvious reasons. But Levaden wasn’t challenging for the position of archdruid. Fuck no. She was challenging right to rule. A vote of no confidence, for lack of a better term. Malfurion didn’t have to accept the duel. He was hardly obligated to beat down any young firebrand who wanted to make a name for themselves, he would lose no actual authority by refusing, but...

Even among their kind, even among druids, failing to answer such an accusation would damage your credibility. Failing to answer it now, with Ysera dead, with Xavius still at large, with Tyrande’s command structure only just barely rescued from abject chaos...that could linger. That could cause doubt none of them could afford.

Levaden lowered her antlers, and waited.

With a pang of fear, she thought of Velshada--back at the Temple, trusting her to return. But this was--serious. This was important. This was about more than Levaden’s own anger.

She could only hope that Vel, the lover who might have become something more, would understand.

Malfurion gave a heavy sigh. “Young one,” he said. “What do you think this will accomplish? I see in your eyes you will never submit. I have no wish to kill you.” He tried to walk past her, and Levaden’s last thread of patience snapped.

She wheeled and leapt to the side, tearing thick clods from the earth as she landed and tossed her head, blocking his path, forcing him to step back again. Her brow tines sliced the air in front of his eyes.

“You’re killing us all!” She tossed her head. “You already nearly killed us all when you decided your grief was more important than anyone else’s. You think we’re here because we like you? We’re not even here because you’re too valuable to lose! You put a fucking knife to our throat to force us to rescue you no matter the risks or how many people died, because we’d probably have lost the entire fucking Circle anyway trying to take you down if you were corrupted. Which you almost were!”

“I’m here because I like him,” muttered a tauren near the back of the watching crowd. His neighbor shushed him.

Levaden took a half-step forward, slashing the air with her antlers again; this time, anger flashed in Malfurion’s eyes and he stood his ground. Good. She wanted this fight.

“Cenarius died and you decided the only thing that mattered was that you wanted vengeance. And we had to drop everything, while we’re fighting the Legion for the existence of life on Azeroth, to save you. Four archdruids told you not to go alone! Ysera told you not to go alone! We almost lost Tyrande trying to find you in the first place!”

He had the grace to wince gently at the name of the Aspect, and Levaden felt a twinge of brief guilt for throwing it out so casually. She’d always hated the Dream, and feared the Dreamer; but most druids saw Ysera as a kindred spirit, and to some kaldorei druids she was more their goddess than Elune...

“I...know of Ysera’s corruption,” he said, sighing. “It is my hope, with the other archdruids, that perhaps she can yet be saved.”

Awkward shuffling went around the circle. Finally, one kaldorei cleared her throat.

“Ysera’s dead,” she said quietly.

Malfurion’s eyes widened. “No.”

But he was the most powerful druid in the world, whether Levaden liked that or not. If she could sense the loss of the Dreamer...now that he knew what it meant, now that the Nightmare’s influence over their senses was fading, Malfurion Stormrage knew in his bones that they weren’t wrong.

“The High Priestess had no choice. She was too close already, and focused on the idea of the kaldorei. She was...” The woman cut herself off sharply, glancing at Levaden with a new understanding.

Levaden pawed the earth and growled, “Say it.”

The other druid raised an eyebrow. “I don’t take orders from you, scrapling.” Nevertheless, she turned to Malfurion and only hesitated a little. “The Dreamer was...trying to rescue you, shan’do.”

Malfurion closed his eyes.

Levaden shifted her weight, planting her rear hooves, lowering her shoulders. Maybe there was enough honor in him to give her an honest fight, however uneven it would be. If he chose magic, this would be an execution; but she would die bracing for the charge.

“You place your feelings above the lives of those under you,” she said, hard and sure. “If you’re willing to kill us all in order to have what you want, then you’re starting with me. You’re going to look me in the eye and do it yourself.”

“I cannot concede your challenge when I am most needed,” he said, his voice for once sounding old and sad. “ You know this. You do not need to die to make a point.”

Levaden didn’t move.

Quietly, she said, “Someone has to be willing to lock antlers with you.”

There was a long sigh. Watching for the telltale flare of energy in his hands, or the moment of shapeshifting, Levaden didn’t notice the vines creeping up her legs until it was far too late.

She tried to rear and was held fast; dropping the form loosened the bonds but not enough to escape, and she leaped into stormcrow only a moment too late; a stray feeler vine lashed out and whipped around her chest, dragging her back. In a panic she writhed between elf, a nightsaber trying and failing to slash the vines free, and even for a moment a dolphin as she fought to free her limbs and found a form with fewer of them.

But finally it was the stag again, her truest form if she was going to die in it; the constricting pressure of the vines crushed in at every angle, driving the breath from her lungs in vicious curses, gripping her antlers to hold her still as her muzzle was bound shut and thorns grew around her throat.

Malfurion hadn’t even moved.

“Shan’do.” That was one of the Darkspear, unexpectedly; a pale blue tigress taking a step forward. “There are worse crimes than being a young fool, and most who commit them are allowed to live.”

He half-raised a hand. “Peace. I believe no one will deny my opponent has been defeated.”

Levaden, belatedly, realized that the pressure had stopped increasing. She could breathe, if not well. She just couldn’t move except to furiously twitch her ears.

“Therefore,” Malfurion concluded. “It is my prerogative to spare her life.”

The vines around Levaden’s muzzle unwound, the crushing around her chest loosening just enough to let her gasp a ragged breath through the knot of thorns. She worked her jaw immediately, tongue flicking out to lick her nose.

Malfurion Stormrage, most powerful archdruid in the world, the great scion of her people, met her eyes and gave a small nod.

“The point,” he said, deep and serious, “has been made.”

Levaden considered him, and decided.

“Fuck off, bird-arms.”

The Darkspear druid who had spoken in her defense snorted, and some of the tension in the circle broke as they dispersed, following Malfurion into the trees. Most of it involved rolling eyes and mutterings about idiots and a waste of time, but a few gave Levaden relieved or pitying looks. From one or two, there were even tiny nods of acknowledgement.

The vines did not release, which would be something of a problem.

The robin’s-egg tigress padded up and sat beside her head, radiating catlike amusement.

“You okay there, mon?”

“I’ve been better.”

The tigress gave a low, rough laugh and leaned down, gently licking Levaden’s shoulder. Healing energy spread through her muscles from the contact, soothing the lingering aches and pains.

“You’re an old-style druid,” said the troll, and for once, there was something like respect in the statement. “Real congruence. The stag’s not traditional for a brawler, but I can see it now. All balls and no brains; but no one can call you a coward, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks,” said Levaden. “I think. Can you get these things off me?”

“Can I cancel Malfurion Stormrage’s magic? Funny.” Her ears flicked forward in a friendly way. “You’ll have a story to tell when you get out. Challenged the Archdruid and lived. He kicked your ass up between your teeth without moving, but...”

“Sometimes the point of a fight is to have it.” Levaden swallowed, suddenly seized by fear that no one would understand this. “Just because you know you’ll lose doesn’t...if you only fight for something when you think you’ll win, then it doesn’t really mean anything to you.”

Carefully, the tigress pressed their foreheads together, and Levaden relaxed a bit.

“...Well,” she realized. “Maybe the Circle will leave me alone now. I was a shit druid anyway, they probably won’t want me back. So who really won?”

The tigress raised an eyebrow and groomed her paw. “Oh, I don’t know. We got rid of you, didn’t we?”

“Touche.” Levaden couldn’t help but grin. “Uh...you don’t think any of them are gonna bear a grudge, right? I can’t fight off actual druids.”

The Darkspear shook her head with a strange feline smile. “Stormrage set the tone, and the Circle will follow him. If you want to break ties nice and clean, they’ll be happy to let you.”

She stretched, smirking as Levaden started to look hopeful.

“Whisperwind, on the other hand...”

#ficlet

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