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scotts-takes · 5 months

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"Black Out See Saw" is the Climax Alkaloid Deserved

Top Songs from Enstars 2023 Number 1

I was blown away when the album art for Alkaloid was released a few months ago...

This art is such a sharp contrast from their first album art, that shows how they have grown. The basic military style unit outfits have been replaced with regal commander-style ones. The basic emotions that are shown in the original are now much more refined- in particular, Aira has evolved from someone simply happy to be on a stage to someone who is confident in his place on it, Mayoi is putting himself more in center, and Hiiro's confident smirk has become more stoic, as he now has the experience to go with his skills.

All of this went away, however, when we actually got the Alkaloid Climax song...

Sigh...it was the seasonal Halloween event for the year. Yes, the idea of incorporating hospital/illness and Tatsumi's relationship with it is an interesting story to tell...but Alkaloid deserved so much more, especially as the "Protagonists" for the !! era of Enstars. I was frustrated that the end of this era of Enstars for Alkaloid was wasted on a seasonal event, but was at least able to take solice in that Alkaloid gets 200 chapters of the main story dedicated to them, and we still had solo songs for each character to come from the album. December rolls around, and the album releases. After jumping through hoops to buy it, I throw my headphones on to give the album a listen. The first track, "DiZZineSS" is a weird 30 second preamble with no singing, not something I was expecting. However, it rolls directly into the first new song on the album

Bam

Black Out Sea Saw is a violent wall of sound, unlike anything else that has been done for Enstars before, and I can understand fans not liking it. The reason it sounds so different is because it was produced by TK of Ling Tosite Sigure, a 20+ year going Prog Rock group. I listened to the song 3 times before moving on, and waited for the MV release to come, as is usual with the "B" side track from Albums. And what we got was one of the most well constructed videos for Alkaloid fans, and the climax that I was looking for that wasn't provided by the Halloween song.

The video opens...strangly, especially if you haven't heard the song before. The opening is intentionally choppy and rough, almost like it was an unfinished song that still needed production. There is a weird reverb effect happening- which you can especially hear when Mayoi hits the high note, that led to a friend saying "it sounds like they recorded this in a bathroom or something". The other thing that really jumps out is how robotic and synchronized the movements of all 4 members are. This is a BIG deal. In just about every Alkaloid video, you can find little inconsistencies at various points- Aira is sometimes a bit slow to do something, Hiiro is sometimes a bit too fast, Tatsumi's movements are less athletic, etc. The robotic movements are all in perfect unison, especially at points where characters do things together, like make hand bridges. It's a sign of Alkaloid's growth as a unit- they started as a collection of rejects, and now they haver come together and become a great unit together.

As we go to the first chorus, the intensity of the song ramps up- it becomes FAST, yet every member is in perfect harmony. The dancing becomes more intense- and everyone stays perfect. And then we get to the final line "It's Error-Error", and things start to change- we start to see more finger movement, the motions become more flowing and less robotic (the robots are malfunctioning! error! error!), and more personality is shown by each member.

We then get a wonderful effect of feathers raining from the sky, before, and then we get to see everyone smile, including Hiiro with this soft and expressive look. (that I wish I was able to time slightly better when I took my screenshot!)

Why is this important? Lets take a look at the first Introduction of Hiiro, in his first close-up in Kiss of Life

It's a look of focus, of determination, and NOT one of joy. Hiiro NEVER smiles at any point in Kiss of Life except during the SPP- he maintains a focused look the entire time. Additionally, you can look at just about any Alkaloid video, and Hiiro rarely smiles- if anything, he just physically assaults the camera in every one of them! The final chapter of the main story is titled "Smile", which is a discussion between Hiiro and Rinne on what it means to be an idol, and Rinne telling Hiiro "Whenever I see you smile, it makes me smile too", with Hiiro responding that he will do whatever it takes to make people smile

Hiiro wasn't able to smile in Kiss of Life, as his focus was on putting smiles on the faces of others. It's weird, because when he isn't preforming, a smile is basically plastered on his face permanently. He has a very loud and infectious laugh, and he's just happy to be doing anything at any time. On stage, for him, its different. And Black Out Sea Saw is the first time that Hiiro is able to not just smile, but show kindness in it, as opposed to simple joy or excitement. It's a MASSIVE step forward for him- the kind of thing that, you know, you might build a Climax story around?

And then, we come to the end, where the intensity of the song does not let up, before it all crashes to an end as the lights go dark and Alkaloid go still

To me, this is the Alkaloid Climax, the song that I will remember. They have gone from a group thrown together to a cohesive unit with a sound unlike anyone else in the franchise, and all of whom have had character growth. It's the one that they deserve going into the new era that is upcoming, and even has a level of finality to it, seeing as how it was released right at the end of the year.

Alkaloid deserved better than Undying Holy Love, and boy, did they get it...

#ensemble stars #alkaloid #hiiro amagi #tatsumi kazehaya #aira shiratori #mayoi ayase #black out sea saw #mv analysis #Enstars Climax #Best of 2023

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mariacallous · 4 months

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Alexei Navalny returned to Russia in January 2021. Right before he boarded the plane, he posted a film titled “Putin’s Palace: The Story of the World’s Largest Bribe” on YouTube. The video, nearly two hours long, was an extraordinary feat of investigative reporting. Using secret plans, drone footage, 3-D visualizations, and the testimony of construction workers, Navalny’s video told the story of a hideous $1.3 billion Black Sea villa containing every luxury that a dictator could imagine: a hookah bar, a hockey rink, a helipad, a vineyard, an oyster farm, a church. The video also described the eye-watering costs and the financial trickery that had gone into the construction of the palace on behalf of its true owner, Vladimir Putin.

But the power of the film was not just in the pictures, or even in the descriptions of money spent. The power was in the style, the humor, and the Hollywood-level professionalism of the film, much of which was imparted by Navalny himself. This was his extraordinary gift: He could take the dry facts of kleptocracy—the numbers and statistics that usually bog down even the best financial journalists—and make them entertaining. On-screen, he was just an ordinary Russian, sometimes shocked by the scale of the graft, sometimes mocking the bad taste. He seemed real to other ordinary Russians, and he told stories that had relevance to their lives. You have bad roads and poor health care, he told Russians, because they have hockey rinks and hookah bars.

And Russians listened. A poll conducted in Russia a month after the video appeared revealed that one in four Russians had seen it. Another 40 percent had heard about it. It’s safe to guess that in the three years that have elapsed since then, those numbers have risen. To date, that video has been viewed 129 million times.

Navalny is now presumed dead. The Russian prison system has said he collapsed after months of ill health. Perhaps he was murdered more directly, but the details don’t matter: The Russian state killed him. Putin killed him—because of his political success, because of his ability to reach people with the truth, and because of his talent for breaking through the fog of propaganda that now blinds his countrymen, and some of ours as well.

He is also dead because he returned to Russia from exile in 2021, having already been poisoned twice, knowing he would be arrested. By doing so he turned himself from an ordinary Russian into something else: a model of what civic courage can look like, in a country that has very little of it. Not only did he tell the truth, but he wanted to do so inside Russia, where Russians could hear him. This is what I wrote at the time: “If Navalny is showing his countrymen how to be courageous, Putin wants to show them that courage is useless.”

That Putin still feared Navalny was clear in December, when the regime moved him to a distant arctic prison to stop him from communicating with his friends and his family. He had been in touch with many people; I have seen some of his prison messages, sent secretly via lawyers, policemen, and guards, just as Gulag prisoners once sent messages in Stalin’s Soviet Union. He remained the spirit behind the Anti-Corruption Foundation, a team of Russian exiles who continue to investigate Russian corruption and tell the truth to Russians, even from abroad. (I have served on the foundation’s advisory board.) Earlier this week, before his alleged collapse, he sent a Valentine’s Day message to his wife, Yulia, on Telegram: “I feel that you are there every second, and I love you more and more.”

Navalny’s decision to return to Russia and go to jail inspired respect even among people who didn’t like him, didn’t agree with him, or found fault with him. He was also a model for other dissidents in other violent autocracies around the world. Only minutes after his death was announced, I spoke with Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya, the Belarusian opposition leader. “We are worried for our people too,” she told me. If Putin can kill Navalny with impunity, then dictators elsewhere might feel empowered to kill other brave people.

The enormous contrast between Navalny’s civic courage and the corruption of Putin’s regime will remain. Putin is fighting a bloody, lawless, unnecessary war, in which hundreds of thousands of ordinary Russians have been killed or wounded, for no reason other than to serve his own egotistical vision. He is running a cowardly, micromanaged reelection campaign, one in which all real opponents are eliminated and the only candidate who gets airtime is himself. Instead of facing real questions or challenges, he meets tame propagandists such as Tucker Carlson, to whom he offers nothing more than lengthy, circular, and completely false versions of history.

Even behind bars Navalny was a real threat to Putin, because he was living proof that courage is possible, that truth exists, that Russia could be a different kind of country. For a dictator who survives thanks to lies and violence, that kind of challenge was intolerable. Now Putin will be forced to fight against Navalny’s memory, and that is a battle he will never win.

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whencyclopedia · 1 month

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Ludwig van Beethoven

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827) was a German composer of Classical and Romantic music; he is widely regarded as one of the greatest musicians to have ever lived. Most famous for his nine symphonies, piano concertos, piano sonatas, and string quartets, Beethoven was a great innovator and very probably the most influential composer in the history of music.

Early Life

Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Bonn, Germany, on 16 December 1770. His grandfather was the director of music (Kapellmeister) to the Archbishop-Elector of Cologne at Bonn and his father, Johann van Beethoven (c. 1740-1792), worked at the same court as both an instrumentalist and tenor singer. Ludwig's mother was a head cook in the palace. Ludwig had only two other surviving siblings, his younger brothers Caspar Anton Carl (b. 1774) and Nikolaus Johann (b. 1776). Ludwig's father was keen for Ludwig to develop his obvious musical skills but went rather overboard so that his eldest son spent so much time practising on the piano he did not have a lot of time left for all the other things children need to learn to become rounded adults. Johann was violent and an alcoholic, so there was not much that could be done against his wishes.

Ludwig's musical education continued at the Cologne court from 1779 under the tutorship of the organist and composer Christian Neefe (1748-1798). Ludwig impressed, and he was made the assistant court organist in 1781, and the next year, he was appointed the court orchestra's harpsichordist. Already composing his own pieces, Ludwig's work was catalogued by his teacher and a set of keyboard variations was published in 1782. Three of Ludwig's piano sonatas were published in 1783. In a smart move, Ludwig dedicated his sonatas to the Elector, and although he died that year, the next Elector saw fit to keep him on in the court orchestra.

In 1787, Ludwig was all set to go to Vienna where it was arranged he would take lessons from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). Although he made it to Vienna, when Ludwig's mother became ill, he was obliged to return home after only two weeks. Unfortunately, Ludwig did not manage to return to Bonn before his mother died, likely of tuberculosis. In 1789, Johann van Beethoven had descended deeper into alcoholism and grief so that Ludwig was obliged to take over responsibility for his family's affairs, which included controlling half of his father's salary. A second opportunity to learn from a master came in 1792 when Ludwig was given leave to study under Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), who was also in Vienna. The music of both Mozart and Haydn influenced Beethoven in the first stage of his career as a composer, as did the guidance of another teacher, Johann Georg Albrechtsberger (1736-1809), particularly regarding counterpoint.

#History #ClassicalMusic #Composer #LudwigvanBeethoven #WHE #[#]

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otdiaftg · 6 months

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"What the hell was that?" Wymack rounds on Neil. "Coach?" "Don't you dare 'Coach?' me." "No, but really," Nicky says, looking wide-eyed at Neil. "What happened?" "Neil hit Riko," Matt says. "It was beautiful."

"What?" Nicky squawked. "Not fair! I missed it! Go do it again. Or not," he added quickly when Wymack leveled a death glare at him. "You can't blame a guy for dreaming, right, Coach?" "Shut up." Wymack returned his glower to Neil. "I'm waiting." Neil felt his wrist and winced at the lingering pain. Abby slipped past Dan to get to him and sat at Neil's side. Neil let her take his hand and looked past Wymack at the court. "Riko bought off the prosecution." The words came slowly; they were so awful he thought he'd be violently ill just hearing them aloud again. "That's why Drake risked coming all the way here to see Andrew. Riko would get the charges dismissed if Drake would—" He gritted his teeth and shook his head, unable to finish. He didn't have to say anything else. The music was still going, blasting through the speakers, but the silence between the Foxes was absolute. Aaron was the first to get his voice back. "You're lying."

Day: Saturday, December 16th Time: 7:55 PM EST

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mads-nixon · 8 months

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Epiphany Pt. 12: You're On Your Own, Kid

Lewis Nixon x Reader

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Title inspo - you're on your own, kid: taylor swift

A/N: this is my first post on my hbo war side-blog! yay! this chapter is the calm before the storm, y'all. this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: Ill-equipped and poorly supplied, (y/n) and the rest of Easy do their best to survive in the frozen Ardennes Forest of Bastogne.

Warnings: description of injury, very soft lew

December 20, 1944: Ardennes Forest, Belgium

The forest lay under a heavy blanket of snow, the silence only broken by the occasional gust of icy wind, quiet conversations, and the all-to-familiar whistling of incoming shells. (Y/n) sat on the edge of her foxhole, her breath visible in the cold air as she gazed out at the German line. Through the veil of swirling snow, she couldn’t make out their silhouettes, but she knew they were there. It was a landscape of paradoxes: serene yet charged, beautiful yet deadly.

With her gaze still fixed in the white haze, she felt a surge of frustration and anger rise in her. It was fueled by the knowledge that the Krauts had the supplies that they desperately needed. It was a cruel twist of fate that Easy was hungry, cold, and struggling, while the enemy, albeit just across the way, had the sustenance and warmth they lacked. They had a few missed supply drops to thank for that.

The air was frigid, cutting through layers of clothing and seeping into her very bones. (Y/n) hugged herself, arms wrapping tightly around her body in a futile attempt to capture a semblance of warmth. Her gloved fingers, numbed by the cold, clutched at the fabric of her uniform, seeking refuge in the familiar touch.

“(Y/n), remind me to never complain about the heat again,” Skip jested through chattering teeth, a weak smile attempting to mask his discomfort.

“Yeah, this makes those Georgia summers seem downright pleasant,” Don added with a forced chuckle, the words barely leaving his blue-tinted lips.

Skip waved a hand in front of (y/n)’s distant gaze, breaking her trance and pulling her back to reality. “Earth to (y/n). You with us?”

Shaking from her thoughts, she turned towards the group, forcing a chapped smile. “Yeah,” she muttered, pushing herself up from where she sat in the foxhole, trying to get blood circulating in her numbed limbs. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t get lost out there,” Malarkey called out, his voice tinged with concern as she swung her rifle onto her shoulder.

“A walk in a winter wonderland,” Skip chimed in, his grin mischievous as he wiggled his eyebrows. “Is that code for, ‘going to see your favorite captain’ by any chance?”

A playful scoff escaped her lips in a huff. “Shut up, Muck. I can’t feel my toes, so I’m going for a walk to fix that.”

Malarkey shrugged, feigning innocence. “Yeah, sure. Have fun on your walk.”

The woman shook her head fondly at her friends as she slowly walked away from the foxhole. Her limbs didn’t want to work correctly, so she found herself doing a pitiful half-limp around the forest as she attempted to get some blood flowing to her feet.

Despite her and Nix’s efforts to be discreet, the Toccoa men who had watched them from the beginning couldn’t be fooled. While nothing was openly acknowledged, there was a shared understanding that something was going on between the couple. Only Harry and Dick knew for certain, and only because they grilled Lew when he returned from Paris.

Maybe she would pay her favorite Captain a visit.

“Hey, Cripple!” someone called out. Groaning, (y/n) turned to face the voice, ready to retort when the very ground beneath her seemed to tremble and shudder violently. An explosion erupted from behind her, a deafening roar as the shockwave threw her off balance, sending her to the ground in a heap.

She curled into a protective ball, her hands instinctively shielding her head as the world was swallowed by chaos. The relentless barrage of mortars painted the sky, their descent announced by menacing whistles. The once serene forest became a frenzied battleground, trees splintering and snow erupting into wild flurries.

Amidst the disarray, a call pierced through the mayhem. “(Y/l/n)! Over here!”

Scrambling to her feet, her heart raced with adrenaline and drowned out the pounding explosions. She didn’t spare a moment to see who called, her focus solely on getting to cover. (Y/n) snatched up her rifle from the snow-covered ground and sprinted towards the direction of the voice, her heavy breaths misting in the frigid air.

As she ran, her foot caught a fallen tree branch and she was sent tumbling into the freezing embrace of the forest floor, awkwardly landing on her arm. Pain flared in her wrist as she fought to get to her feet, panicking at being exposed without cover. Then, like a savior, a hand extended towards her and hauled her into a nearby foxhole.

Joe Liebgott’s face appeared in front of her, and his eyes reflected the same fear and helplessness that she felt. She let go of her rifle, allowing it to rest in the snow as she clamped her hands over her ears, desperate to drown out the deafening noise that assaulted her senses. (Y/n) clenched her eyes closed, seeing refuge in the darkness as Joe pulled her tightly into his body, shielding her from the relentless barrage. The concussive blasts continued, each one sending shockwaves through the ground and dirt, snow, and ice raining down on them. She held on, feeling the frantic rise and fall of Joe’s chest against her, praying that it would all stop soon.

Seconds, minutes, hours, (y/n) didn’t know how much time had passed when the earth-shattering blasts ceased. A few gentle pats on her helmet were the only indication it was over. Slowly, she released her grip on her ears, the painful ringing subsiding to the backdrop of her ragged breaths as she looked up at him with wide eyes.

“You alright?” Joe asked, his concerned gaze scanning her for injuries.

(Y/n) nodded, wincing as she flexed her wrist, attempting to brush off the debris clinging to her skin. “I’m okay.”

His eyes narrowed, shifting from her face to her arm and then back again. “You sure?”

“I just landed on it weird,” she replied, clenching her teeth against the searing pain that radiated up her arm with every movement.

“Let me get Doc, (y/n),” he offered, about to get up, but her good arm shot up and pulled him back down.

Sitting up, she carefully retrieved her rifle and climbed out of the foxhole, cradling her aching wrist to her chest. “I’m fine, Joe. Thank you, but I need to check on my foxhole.”

“Alright, be careful,” he called after her as she made her way back toward her foxhole, her chest tight with anxiety. As the shock and adrenaline from the bombardment began to fade, the reality of (y/n)’s situation settled in: her wrist was not just a minor discomfort. What had initially felt like a sharp jab upon impact turned into a persistent, gnawing pain radiating from her wrist and traveling up her arm like tendrils of fire.

Each movement she made, whether to clutch her rifle or steady herself against the uneven ground, sent surges of pain shooting through her hand and forearm. With each passing second, the pain seemed to intensify, becoming an unrelenting companion in the desolate frozen landscape. Her fingers, once nimble and deft in handling her rifle, now felt like lead, unresponsive and clumsy. The smallest tasks, like brushing off the clinging snow or gripping her canteen, became monumental efforts, each movement a harsh reminder of the shelling. A simple flex of her wrist, something that she took for granted in the past, was now an act that set off sharp jolts of pain. (Y/n) found herself trying to ignore the pain, focusing on the task at hand, but the throbbing in her arm seemed to pulse in sync with her heartbeat, making it impossible to overlook. She knew she should probably see Roe about it, but she heard he didn’t have much to work with. So, she made the choice not to burden their already diminished supplies on what was likely just a sprain.

After a while, she found herself approaching the spot she’d left Malarkey and Skip, scanning the area for signs of life. The once-snow-draped ground was now a maze of impact craters and debris. As she reached the foxhole, her heart swelled with relief seeing Skip and Don huddled inside, still in one piece.

“Hey,” she called out, her voice cutting through the eerie calm. Relief washed over her as they looked up, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

“(Y/n/n)!” Don exclaimed, a hand clutching his chest dramatically. “We were worried!”

Muck tossed his helmet towards her, a hint of concern on his face. The helmet collided with her wrist, causing her to stifle a cry. “Take a look at this crap, (y/n). They peppered my helmet!”

Gently cradling her wrist, she examined the shot-up helmet in her lap, a half smile playing on her lips. “Good thing you weren’t wearing it, Skip. Was everyone okay over here? I ended up in Lieb’s foxhole.”

“Wasted my dagum coffee,” Smokey lamented from the foxhole ahead of theirs. “It was a whole helmet-full, too.”

A chuckle bubbled from her lips as she watched him setting his contraption back up. “I’m sorry, Smoke. Next time, you should tell the krauts to wait until you’ve had your coffee to shell the crap out of us.”

“You know, I might just do that,” Smokey mused, staring out at the German line with a faraway look. “We need a break.”

“Oh, (y/n),” Don interjected, fishing for something in his pockets. “Do you have any morphine in your aid kit from Holland? Doc’s looking for some.”

“Mine got used up when I got hit,” she replied, her mind drifting back to that night outside Arnhem. “That feels like so long ago now.”

Skip, ever the calculating one, counted on his fingers thoughtfully. “It’s only been what, three months?”

“Yeah,” she murmured, staring into the forest as she contemplated the whirlwind of events since that time. Between getting shot, going to the hospital, then Paris with Lew, and now Bastogne, a lot happened in those three months.

Their conversation carried on, but (y/n) was lost in her thoughts. Her life had changed drastically in this span of time, the most significant development being her newfound relationship with Lewis. A mere week and a half had passed since Paris, yet it felt like a lifetime. Memories of the quaint cafes and charming streets danced in her mind, a reminder of what they were fighting for…a return to a life untouched by the horrors of war.

A crunch of snow behind her snapped her back to the present. She grabbed her rifle, swiftly turning, a surge of pain shooting up her arm. A grimace contorted her face as she eased the strain, her aim dropping as she recognized Lip.

“(Y/n), Winters wants to see you,” he relayed, crouching beside her.

“We’ll catch up later, alright?” Don patted her shoulder gently, a worried look in his gaze as he looked down at her wrist.

“Duty calls, boys. See ya later.”

She pushed herself off the snow with her good hand and started following Lip toward Captain Winter’s tent. As they walked, she saw the destruction the various shellings had left in their wake. Trees were downed everywhere, feet-long splinters littered the snow, and there was the occasional red stain of blood on the white ground.

“Can you believe it’s just a few days till Christmas?” Lip’s voice broke the silence, filled with nostalgia and yearning.

She nodded, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I remember my last Christmas home so vividly…and now, here we are two years later.”

He glanced at her, a fond smile on his face, despite the flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “My wife, JoAnne, makes the best gingerbread cookies on the planet, and I can just see her in the kitchen, working her tail off to make them for our family Christmas party.”

(Y/n)’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “What I wouldn’t give for some gingerbread cookies,” she sighed. “It’s just…well, being away from family at this time, it’s tough. But at least we have each other, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding ahead of him. “Here we are.”

“Thanks for walking with me, Lip,” (y/n) grinned, approaching the foxhole.

“You’re welcome,” Carwood grinned. “And (y/n), get that wrist checked out.”

Her mouth slightly agape, she looked at him in disbelief. “What?”

“I’m not as clueless as the others. Get it looked at.” His eyes held a genuine concern.

Nodding at him, she walked up to the hole where Dick was crouched, writing a letter. “Captain Winters, sir?”

He looked up from his letter, and an uncharacteristic smirk formed on his face when he recognized her. “(Y/n). Nix wanted to speak with you.”

A flush colored her cheeks as she stood there. “Oh, alright. Where is he?”

Winters nodded to the hole ahead of him. “I’m right here, so please don't try any-”

A blanket was thrown off the adjacent foxhole and Nixon popped out, his dark hair a mess atop his head. “Gosh, Dick, we’re not gonna do anything,” he hissed, rolling his eyes.

Embarrassment coursed through (y/n) at the implication, and she brought a hand to her face, wishing she could disappear. “Yes sir,” she stammered, her voice slightly uneasy as she walked over to Lewis.

“Are you crazy?” she asked, casting anxious glances around the forest.

Nix shrugged and pointed to Winters. “We’re fine. Dick’s gonna keep a lookout…right Dick?”

“I’m going to be writing my letter,” Winters replied, not looking up. “And I’m not seeing this.”

“Thanks, pal,” Lew called, extending a hand to help (y/n) into the hole.

“Alright,” she muttered, unable to keep a nervous smile from playing on her lips a the thought of some time with him. She started to take his hand with her hurt one, but quickly switched hands, letting the other painfully dangle at her side. He gave her a questioning look as she took his hand, but (y/n) just shook her head, dismissing his concern. To her surprise, he seemed to let it go.

Nix’s foxhole was a decent size, and (y/n) carefully tried to settle against his side without showing her injury. He pulled the blanket over the top of the hole, insulating the space and giving them a sliver of privacy. Looking around, she spotted an empty pack of Lucky Strikes and his silver flask in the dirt beside her.

“I really like what you did with the place,” she grinned, kicking the empty box with her foot.

Lew chuckled, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her close, placing a soft kiss in her hair. “Yeah. Interior decorating was always Blanche’s thing.”

His warmth seeped through her frozen uniform, and she sighed contentedly, resting her head on her shoulder as she closed her eyes. The throbbing pain in her hand seemed to slightly fade in his comforting presence.

“How are things on the line? We still get artillery back here, but it’s not as bad as up there,” he asked quietly, leaning his head atop hers.

“It’s not good, Lew,” she mumbled into his neck. “We’re running low on everything, and the krauts seem to have an endless stream of artillery. It’s like they’re not even affected by the cold or anything. We’re just holding our ground and doing what we can.”

He tightened his grip around her, attempting to offer some comfort. “But you’re holding up okay?”

A half-hearted smile tugged at her lips, tinged with sadness. “We’re surviving, but it’s getting harder every day. The men are tired, Lew. We’re all tired. We’re all hungry. We’re all cold.”

“I know, doll,” he sighed. “Sink and General McAuliffe stopped by earlier, and they didn’t have any good news. Last night, I took a walk on the line at about 0300 and I couldn’t find the 501st on our right flank. I had to pull in 2nd platoon to fill the gap, but the General seemed like he couldn't care less.”

(Y/n) groaned. “His relentless optimism kills me. At least Sink is realistic.”

“‘Hold the line and close the gaps’, was all he said. And that 1st battalion just pulled out of Foy with krauts on their tail…so there’s a bunch of crap coming our way.”

“Of course there is,” she grumbled, bringing her knees up to her chest.

Lew’s thoughts became consumed by worry for (y/n) and what was going to be thrown her way. He gently traced circles on her back, trying to find the right words. “I can’t help but be worried about you, (y/n/n). Knowing you’re out there every time I hear a shelling, it’s…it’s tough.”

She sat up and turned to face him, her eyes reflecting the same fear. “I know, Lew. I’m scared, too. But I’m doing what I can to take care of myself and the guys. We watch out for each other.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in his voice. “It’s just hard being here, not able to do much, not even being able to be with you when you’re out there facing the worst of it.”

“You’re doing more than you think,” she said, gently touching his arm. “This helps me so much.”

Lew brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face, his cold fingers gentle on her warm cheek. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t take any extra risks…please.”

(Y/n) looked into his eyes, finding a sea of emotion. “I promise,” she replied, her voice equally soft.

Nix leaned in, slowly closing the distance between them, his eyes flickering to her lips before meeting her gaze once more. Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss as Lew cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow down as they kissed, a sense of calm washing over them. As they pulled away, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the chilly air.

“Have you been able to keep warm at all?” Lew asked softly, his fingers tracing over her gloved hand gently.

(Y/n) nodded, trying to keep her discomfort at bay. “As warm as one can be out here.”

Lew noticed her wincing slightly and, concerned, his hand unintentionally brushed against her injured wrist. She gasped, tears brimming her eyes as pain shot through her arm.

His eyes widened, fear coursing through him as he quickly retracted his hand “(Y/n)? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

(Y/n) leaned her head back against the hard wall of dirt behind her with a thud. “I tripped during the shelling earlier and landed on it wrong,” she whispered, voice trembling as she cradled her wrist.

“(Y/n),” Lew sighed, his heart aching at her pain. “Have you seen Doc?”

She shook her head, tears welling up. “No, not yet.”

He reached for her hand slowly. “Let me see it, sweetheart. I’ll be careful.”

She hesitantly extended her gloved hand to him, a single tear leaking down her rosy cheek. “You’re okay,” he cooed, holding her forearm with one hand while the other carefully slid the glove off.

“Shit,” Lew muttered, his brows furrowing at the sight of her wrist. “This is bad, (y/n).”

His concern deepened as he saw the extent of the injury. He had expected it to be sore, maybe a minor sprain, but what he saw made his heart clench with worry and anger. Her once delicate wrist was now swollen to nearly twice its usual size, the skin on her palm and wrist discolored in ominous hues of deep purple and angry black.

“(Y/n/n),” he said gently, his voice soothing to her distress. “We need to get you to Doc. This could be broken.”

The tears finally fell from her eyes in a mixture of pain and frustration. “I know,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “But the medics are already low on supplies, and they need that for others that are worse off.”

Lew cupped her cheek tenderly, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Just because someone may be worse, doesn’t mean you can’t be looked after, too. Let me take care of you, please.”

(Y/n)’s expression softened, touched by his sincerity. “Okay,” she nodded. “Thank you.”

He held her wrist gently, a tenderness in his eyes that melted her worries, even if just for a moment. He brushed a feather-light kiss on her injured wrist, a silent promise that he’d take care of her. Nix helped her slide the glove back on, ensuring it offered some support for her wrist. He then threw off the blanket and helped her to her feet, his arm securely around her for support. She wasn’t going to let her injury hold her back, but she knew she needed to get it checked before it got any worse.

Winter’s eyes widened at the pair’s dramatic exit from the foxhole. “You alright, (y/l/n)?” he asked, eyes furrowed in confusion.

“She hurt her wrist,” Lew replied, glancing at Dick who nodded in response. “We’re finding Roe.”

They found Gene in his foxhole, staring off into the forest, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Hey Gene,” Nix called, catching the man off guard. He jumped slightly, turning around like a deer in headlights.

He sighed seeing who it was. “Captain Nixon, what can I do for ya, sir?”

“(Y/n) here took a tumble during the shelling. Her wrist is pretty banged up.”

Roe nodded, motioning for her to sit down on the edge of the foxhole. “Let’s have a look, chérie.

She did as told, taking a deep breath to brace herself for any pain. The cajun carefully peeled off the glove from her injured hand, revealing the purple and black bruises. The medic furrowed his brows at the sight, his experienced eyes evaluating the damage. He lightly prodded along the wrist, feeling for any unusual shifts in the bones beneath.

“I’m worried there might be a hairline fracture here,” he explained, his voice carrying a tinge of concern. “But I can’t confirm it without a proper x-ray, and we don’t have any equipment like that back in Bastogne.”

(Y/n) nodded, bracing herself for what she knew was coming. “So, what can we do?”

Roe began to secure her wrist carefully with a makeshift splint, wrapping it snugly to provide some stability and reduce the risk of further damage. “Right now, we’ll immobilize it as best as we can. I’ll wrap it up, and you need to keep it still as much as possible. Ice will help with the swelling.”

Smirking at the situation, (y/n) couldn’t resist a touch of humor. “Well, at least we’ve got an abundance of ice around,” she quipped, waving her good hand at the frozen forest surrounding them. “Nature’s icebox, right?”

Lew chuckled at her attempt to lighten the mood. “The best ice supply in Bastogne,” he replied, playing along.

As Gene finished the wrapping, she flexed her fingers slightly, testing the newfound stability. The pain had dulled a bit, and it was a relief, albeit a temporary one. They thanked Roe and went on their way.

“I’ve got to go back to the boys,” she said, peering up at him as they walked.

Lew nodded. “Take it easy, alright? Your arm can’t heal if you keep using it.”

“Yes, sir, Doctor Nixon,” she grinned, fake saluting him with a playful twinkle in her eyes.

They made their way to her foxhole, and Lew resisted the urge to give her a kiss, aware of the many eyes watching. Instead, he gently patted her helmet, a gesture that he’d decided was his new favorite because it sent the front of it down past her eyes.

“Malarkey,” Nix called out, waving his over. “Don’t let this one overdo it. Roe said she needs to take it easy.”

Though he was confused, Don nodded. “Yes, sir.”

With a subtle wink, Lew turned and left for his own foxhole.

“What happened to you?” Skip asked, eyeing her wrapped wrist as he appeared next to Don. “Did the Captain take care of you?”

(Y/n) laughed under her breath, watching Lew’s figure disappear into the white haze of the forest. “I’m alright.”

Malarkey’s eyes widened as he turned to Muck. “She’s not denying it, Skip!”

“I knew it!” Skip exclaimed triumphantly, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin. She began to walk away when Don gasped suddenly.

“We have to tell you about Hinkle!”

Tag List: @softguarnere @mrsgeorgeluz @flowers-and-fichte @inglourious-imagines @peggyvan @rebeccapearson @hxad-ovxr-hxart @merriell-allesandro-shelton @shakespear-picaso-lovechild @titiglt @stvrkdream @multifandomfanfic @starlordsatellite @blvestxr @iceman-kazansky @bucky32557038ww2

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copperbadge · 6 months

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Radio Free Monday

Good morning everyone, and welcome to Radio Free Monday!

Ways to Give:

Lisa is chronically ill and dealing with medical debt, and needs to raise $1.6K-$3.2K by December 14th to get her car back after it was repossessed; if she can't it will be auctioned, and it is her only current means of support for the gig work she's able to do. If she pays off the full amount she will get it back; if she can pay half, they will at least put a stay on auctioning it off. You can read more and give at GoFundMe here or give via Zelle at [email protected], Cashapp at $LMedical, Venmo at salt-medical, or here at Paypal.

News to Know:

shrewkate linked to the Farm Dog of the Year contest at the Farmers Bureau. They're requesting votes for Casper the Great Pyrenees, who fought off a pack of coyotes to defend his farm. You can check out the good doggos and vote for one here!

Recurring Needs:

thelastpyler is raising funds for food for themself and their sister, and meds for their sister; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

gwydion's very elderly car broke down in late October; the repair, to a cooling hose, has cheap parts but expensive labor, and ate most of zir budget for the month. Ze can't do without a car, being disabled, but can't afford to replace it either; ze still needs to raise $100 to help cover bills and the repair. You can give via PayPal here.

chingaderita's partner's family house recently caught fire and completely burned, killing his grandmother and causing extensive property loss; he has also recently lost his job due to the fire. They're raising funds to help rebuild and keep food on the table, and get their partner mental health aid. You can read more, reblog, and support the fundraiser here.

rilee16 is raising funds to cover utilities, to afford medication and possibly an upcoming move. They've also had expenses related to a recent incident where their roommate, who has been a problem for some time, got violent and the police got involved; and for their own safety they've had to stay elsewhere at times. You can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

And this has been Radio Free Monday! Thank you for your time. You can post items for my attention at the Radio Free Monday submissions form. If you're new to fundraising, you may want to check out my guide to fundraising here.

#radio free monday #charity #philanthropy #fannish community

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feelingpoorly · 5 months

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irl food poisoning

so my partner just tried two forkfulls of bubble and squeak that we had left over from xmas dinner

i thought it might have gone off by now as we didn't have it when planned (we went over to his parents on boxing day) but he said it probably still fine so he tried some

*immediately* after eating it he asked me if i had had any recently, and i said no not for a couple days. he said he asked because he instantly felt sick. and im talking like, not even a whole minute after he'd swallowed it. it was the first thing he said after he'd swallowed it.

he said he'd felt absolutely fine before, and now after those two forkfulls felt violently and suddenly sick. we suddenly had a realisation- i was ill yesterday, and ive been picking at that bubble and sqeak all week on and off, whenever ive been in the fridge i've just had a forkfull of it

i started feeling ill halfway through the day two days ago, and then I felt absolutely awful all day yesterday. i didnt puke but i felt violently sick all day, i have emetophobia so i took one of my anti emetic pills (im also chronically ill so thankfully have a small pharamcy to hand at all times lol) but who knows if i would've thrown up if i hadn't taken the meds. i had really bad stomach cramps all day, that felt like they were spread across the whole of my stomach and I *never* get stomach issues like that. i assumed it was just my body's reaction to eating more and also eating more unhealthily over xmas as i've been on a very strict diet up until like the 22nd december.

we suddenly put two and two together. i *was* actually sick, and it was because of the bubble and squeak. if it was bad when *i* ate it, several days ago, who knew had bad it was now. i smelt it, and it smelt terrible. it smelt off, and had a distinct vinegar-y tang. my partner has adhd and so obviously, didn't think to smell it first. i am autistic and emetophobic so i smell food obsessively before eating.

the fact that he already felt violently sick so soon after eating it meant if it stayed in him, he was going to feel *way* worse than I had as it had taken me around half a day to start feeling ill after eating it.

he debated whether or not to go and make himself throw up, but it turns out his body was going to make the decision for him anyway...

ill continue in a part two :)

#sickfic #emeto #real life emeto #irl vomit #vomiting #food poisoning #emeto storytime #emetophilia #irl sickfic #emeto kink #sick

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my-castles-crumbling · 5 months

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Merry Christmas! Chapter 12- Clandestine

Merry Christmas, to all those who celebrate! What better on this lovely holiday than lots of toxicity and angst? WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS PRETTY HEAVY SO PLEASE READ WARNINGS! CW: deadnaming, transphobia, lots of dysphoria, mentions of physical abuse, abuse by parents through magic, just like...really shitty people, a hint of people sexualizing minors (but not in a way that results in anything), use of the imperius curse, but not in a sexual way, just...Walburga and Orion being horrible.

The euphoria of having two supportive roommates was short-lived, as an owl arrived for Regulus as December started that made his skin crawl:

Regina, This serves as a reminder that we expect both you and your brother here and on your best behavior during the holidays. We have many important extended family members coming to our hour for Christmas, and it is important that you are here to represent the Black family. We will pick you up at King’s Cross at eleven. Mother

When classes ended for the holidays, Regulus found himself laying in his dorm room, Pandora laying on Barty’s bed while Barty lay with Evan, all of them staring up at the ceiling.

“Is anyone actually excited about going home?” Barty asked vaguely, kicking gently at Evan’s knee.

The room was quiet.

“Don’t suppose Cas can fit all four of us at her house?” Evan joked humorlessly, kicking back at Barty.

“She could barely fit me,” Regulus murmured, stomach turning at the thought of going home.

More silence.

“Well. We could all stay here?” Pandora spoke now.

“My parents would rather birth a dragon before allow me to stay here again,” Regulus snorted, thinking of the letter he’d received last week.

Barty sat up and laughed a bit. “I’d pay money to see that.”

“Same.”

Sometimes, Regulus wondered if anyone really enjoyed the holidays. He tried to remember a time when they didn’t mean some sort of discomfort. Some amount of dread.

Even as a child, the holidays weren’t magical, like in the stories. Because it wasn’t magical to be stuffed into horrid outfits and paraded about to others. It wasn’t fun to sit in hard-backed chairs and pressured to behave perfectly so company didn’t ‘judge the entire family.’ It wasn’t joyous. It wasn’t a celebration.

He wondered if some families got together simply to see each other and enjoy being with one another. Because really, days with his extended family weren’t enjoyable. It felt more like a competition- Walburga reminding both him and Sirius to be the most well-behaved. To not embarrass her. The adults bragging about their children to each other while said children were expected to sit and eat what they were given. Like living dolls.

This year was obviously expected to be no different.

“You’re getting older, Regina,” his mother said one night at dinner, shortly after they’d arrived back from Hogwarts.

He winced, trying not to stab too violently at his steak. “Regulus,” he murmured.

“That’s exactly it,” his mother continued, looking over her nose at him. “Your father and I have been talking and we’ve given you enough chances. We’ve tried mind healers. We’ve tried giving you time. We’ve tried punishment. You’re far too old for this nonsense, and I’ll be having it no longer. From either of you,” she said pointedly, looking to Sirius.

Sirius just rolled his eyes and ate quietly.

“You’re to drop it. All of it. Or your father and I will have to find a stricter consequence,” Walburga said in a threatening voice.

Regulus’s stomach turned at that, and he felt a bit ill. He grabbed at the rock in his pocket, squeezing it tightly. Stricter than partial starvation, isolation, and pain?

He looked at Sirius, who looked back at him with an equally-nervous expression. “Yes, mother,” he murmured, deciding he could try his best to keep his mouth shut for the next two weeks.

“Just leave it, Sirius,” he told his brother late that night, even as his stomach churned at the thought. “Don’t- don’t correct them anymore. Don’t say anything anymore. I don’t want…I don’t want anything bad to happen.”

He reflected on all the things their parents had done to both of them without batting an eye. The bigoted ideals they spewed so blatantly as if they made all the sense in the world. The way they supported hurting and even killing people they disliked, people who were different from them.

It was scary to think about, but Walburga and Orion could be dangerous. And apparently, they didn’t possess a soft bone in their bodies. Even for their kids.

Sirius stared at him for a moment, the moon reflecting in his eyes, making them sparkle like stars. “Reg….someday we’ll find a place where we won’t have to worry about it.”

“We have that place. Hogwarts,” Regulus shrugged. And Hogwarts was that place. Especially now, with Barty and Evan knowing about him and accepting him. He truly felt like himself there. Like he wasn’t fighting against anyone or anything just to exist.

But Sirius looked at him with pain in his eyes. “No, like...a home.”

Regulus thought about that. Had he ever really had a home? “Sounds nice,” he murmured.

Sounds impossible.

Keeping his mouth shut worked for a while. He responded to his parents, even when they said “Regina” or “she” or “her,” even though it made his skin crawl. He wore baggy shirts to hide his binder. He and Sirius both stopped correcting their parents.

He tried instead to stay away from everyone. He hid in his room during the day- reading, completing his homework, turning his rock over and over again in his hand and daydreaming about being back at Hogwarts. Being Regulus again.

If he was honest, he hated it, but he knew at this point that fighting against Walburga and Orion was risky. The entire Black family favored more traditional forms of magic, and Regulus wouldn’t put it past them to do something particularly cruel or painful. Or even to keep them both from Hogwarts completely.

So, he sucked it up for a bit, sneaking into Sirius’s room like he used to, sharing his bed with him and whispering to him about the goosebumps he felt on the back of his neck when Mother called him ‘Regina’ and the way he wanted to cry when Father called him his daughter. And together they counted down the days until they would go back to Hogwarts.

“It’s not forever, Reggie,” Sirius whispered to him as they shared a blanket, Sirius’s warmth the only comforting thing Regulus could find.

“Absolutely not,” Regulus muttered to himself when he woke up on Christmas Day, the nausea making his knees wobble.

It sat there, innocent and unmoving, shiny and pristine: a dress.

But it wasn’t just a dress. It was the most dressy dress he’d ever seen.

Baby pink with matching satin bows, tulle in layers to make an obnoxious three-tiered skirt, poufy sleeves and a corset-type bodice with a v-neck that would make even his small chest look pronounced.

And a clear message: He was to wear it.

He was not going to. Fuck Walburga’s threats.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his mother walked to his door and murmured dangerously, “I had this custom-made for you, Regina.”

He glared at her feet and didn’t say a word. Absolutely not.

“You’ll wear it. You’ll thank me.”

He still didn’t say a word, still resolutely clamping his mouth shut and looking away.

In the corner of his eye, his mother waved her wand. And then-

His brain cleared. It was the oddest feeling. Suddenly, he didn’t feel. Everything felt empty. It was almost nice, except he didn’t have a choice at all when he felt himself saying, “Thank you, mother.”

And then the feeling was gone. He almost missed it.

Except, of course, now he was furious. And he felt completely violated. Like he needed to scrub his brain out with a wire sponge.

“Good,” his mother said calmly, walking away.

And then he ran to throw up in the bathroom, clutching at his own head.

“I have no choice, Sirius,” he muttered to his brother an hour later, as they both stared at the dress.

Neither had said much to each other about the curse his mother had used. It felt like an elephant in the room. Neither wanted to be the one to bring it up; how horrible and terrifying it was. That they could just be controlled like that. What, exactly, had she done? What else could she make them do?

Sirius nodded, looking pale. “Alright. Alright, so you wear it.”

Regulus gagged a bit at the thought, but nodded as well.

“She’s not going to keep doing that. She- we just have to get through the holiday,” Sirius murmured unconvincingly.

“Right. And then the summer?” Regulus asked, eyes twinging only a little.

“We- we cross that bridge when we come to it,” Sirius said firmly.

Regulus nodded again, slowly peeling off his clothing. He didn’t even care that Sirius was there to see. It wasn’t like it mattered much, anyway.

After the first ten minutes of dinner, Regulus decided he hated Christmas.

He’d gotten so many reactions on his outfit.

Bella and Narcissa both complemented the pink and bows, giggling and smirking.

Aunt Druella had simply drooled over it, commenting on how Regulus had ‘finally turned into a proper lady!’

Uncle Cygnus had looked at him in a way that made his skin crawl, the old man’s eyes raking over his chest appraisingly.

He’d been to the bathroom twice already, having to take such a long time to calm his sobs, squeezing his rock in his hand and gagging over the toilet, that Kreacher had been sent to check on him the second time and make sure he was quite well.

He was not.

He saw Sirius sneaking worried looks at him, but tried not to react, or even meet his eye.

He felt like a sideshow. An animal on display. And the tortured, furious, worried look in Sirius’s eyes just made it worse.

“Go downstairs, Sirius,” Regulus moaned through shivers as he tried, for the third time, to collect himself in the bathroom.

A friend of his fathers had complimented him on just how “shapely” his body looked in his dress.

“This is ridiculous, Reggie!” Sirius hissed through the door. “I- we have to do something! She’s basically torturing you!”

“I can get through one day!” Regulus spat back, sniffing and avoiding looking down at his body as he wiped his eyes in the mirror.

“I can’t just stand by and let them treat you like this!” Sirius retorted.

Regulus opened the door to look his brother in the eye and tell him that, yes, he absolutely could.

But he was gone.

They were called to dinner at that moment and Regulus reluctantly went down the stairs, hoping Sirius would follow suit.

Everyone sat, placing napkins on their laps and folding their hands politely, complimenting Walburga’s ‘spectacular table setting’ or whatever, when someone exclaimed, “Oh! Where has Sirius gone?”

Walburga looked to Sirius’s assigned seat (next to Regulus) and turned a bit pink, clearly horrified that Sirius would dare embarrass her by being absent from dinner and bringing negative attention to her by association.

But then they heard Sirius’s voice down the hall, “No need to worry, dear family! I’m here!”

Regulus turned to see Sirius, and his mouth dropped open.

Because Sirius was dressed in the most obnoxiously frilly dress he’d ever seen.

If he’d been anywhere else, he’d probably have burst out laughing. It was a comedic scene, after all. Sirius’s dress was even worse than Regulus’s. It was pink as well, but mostly a floral pattern, with multiple layers of ruffles and curly pink bows at his waist. Though it was short in the front, the back was long enough to have a train, even though he wore platform bubblegum-pink high heels. Magenta roses lay at each hip and a pink ribbon was tied corset-style up his stomach, and he’d even stuffed apples in the top to give himself a chest. He had another rose tied around his neck and two horrifically giant floral bows tied in his dark hair, which was in pigtails.

The entire table stared, mouths agape.

“I figured, since we’re forcing boys to wear dresses now, I would wear one as well,” Sirius said, and while his eyes held a challenging glint, he spoke so simply it was as if he was stating the evening’s menu.

And Regulus had to snort at that. He was terrified of his parents’ reaction, but he felt the biggest sense of relief wash over him, the sick feeling he’d been fighting against all day suddenly fading away. He was no longer alone, being stared at by his family.

Instead, he and Sirius were together, two boys in ridiculous dresses.

He felt powerful.

Until Orion stood, breaking the silence, his wand in hand.

“Bedrooms. Both of you.”

Regulus looked to Sirius, who looked a bit nervous.

The calm feeling washed over him.

“Now.”

He walked away from the table, quite without his own permission. Sirius followed mutely alongside him.

Bitches be like, "this is my comfort character" and then put said comfort character through all of The Horrors. Sorry, guys. I warned you. But...you should click below to read the full WIP and leave comments and kudos!

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batsbolts-andfangs · 12 days

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Heya! Although I do have an intro post, I want to write this one as a more of a "get to know me" type post.

Hello! My name's Laura. I am a nonbinary, aromantic romance-oscillating autosexual lesbian, and my pronouns are mainly it/bat/vamp/doll/fang. Romance-oscillating means that my views of romance change (i.e. repulsed, neutral and favorable).

I am nonhuman and my most "main" kintypes are my bat kintypes, Draculaura (but don't call me that, Ula or Laura is fine) and Frankie Stein! I identify physically as a werebat, I cover this more in my FaQ, which is in the #🩷 ︴Info tag!

My self-identifier nonhuman terms are; therian, nonhuman, holothere, fictionkin, circukin, ambitherian, and au kin. These are not my kintypes! You can find my kin list on my intro. I have been awakened as nonhuman since December 2022.

I tend to have kinshifts a lot and the most prominent is Ula. I'd dare say she is permashifted but I'm not quite sure? We (bear with me, sometimes I use plural pronouns for Ula and I, although I am fully aware we are the same being and Ula is just an extension of myself) are so blended together that it's hard to tell when I'm kinshifted to her, or more accurately mentally shifted. She is my "highest kin", besides my bat kintypes.

I have autism and adhd, but I also suspect BPD (borderline personality disorder) and am currently working towards a diagnosis. I accept I may be wrong. I also suffer from a few mental illnesses which I won't disclose, as well as IBS (irritable bowel syndrome). I also suspect chronic fatigue as I am tired almost 24/7 with no explanation.

My special interests include; bats, stuffed animals, and Draculaura. I collect stuffed bats and Draculaura dolls, although as of recent, due to financial problems, I've had to slow.

My stances to things that affect me, if there is no stance for something then it means that it doesn't effect me therefore I won't add input:

// pt: My stances to things that affect me, if there is no stance for something then it means that it doesn't effect me therefore I won't add input: //

I am misanthropy neutral, misanthropists are valid but I would prefer to block those who post violent (emphasis on the word violent) remarks about it. I am neutral on KFF (kin for fun / casual kinning).

I am also pro-Palestine, although I don't tend to post about it much because of my mental health currently, and cannot donate to those in gaza or in need because of my own financial situation.

I don't care what labels others use to identify themselves. However I am anti-radqueer, do not support pro/comshipping, and would prefer that if you do, that you block me.

Little miscellaneous facts; I have lazy eye and astigmatism, I have a 12 year old cat named Oscar, my favorite colors are black and pink, and I don't like flowers. I also make grammar errors and typos a lot, and would appreciate if you don't point them out unless they're really bad.

Banner art creds. Not free to use! This is of Ula and not the canon Draculaura.

#🩷 ︴Info #about me! not intro

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focsle · 1 year

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Mutinies Aboard Whaleships

Hello! Here’s a long thing I spent my morning on about mutiny.

An 1840s illustration of an overturned whaleboat, with a skull and a crossed harpoon and lance over it.

With the often terrible conditions on board whaleships, one might expect mutinies to have been a common occurrence, but ones that led to bloodshed and taking command of a ship were actually very rare. Whalers who were unhappy tended to just desert at the next port. Others made their demands sometimes in the form of damaging the ship, or more commonly through work stoppages (which I wrote about more at length here). When it came to work stoppages, the Captain often acquiesced, as the unique pay structure of whaling meant that everyone was equally beholden to the success of the voyage. It was easier and more productive to hear out and try to address the demands of the crew than to resist and have a poor voyage.

There were however, a few notable violent mutinies that found themselves plastered over the newspapers. The Globe of Nantucket, January 1824, and the Junior of New Bedford, December 1857.

Alexander Starbuck, in his 1870s record of the history of the industry made a note alongside the Globe’s doomed 1822 voyage: ‘On this voyage and on this ship occurred the most horrible mutiny that is recounted in the annals of the whale fishery from any port or nation.’

Content warnings for Violence & Death under the readmore.

The Globe mutiny was unique and particularly haunting in that it wasn’t a result of boiling tension or displeasure on a difficult voyage. The instigator, a 22 year old boatsteerer named Samuel Comstock, specifically signed on the ill-fated whaler with premeditated slaughter in mind. His aim was to eventually kill all the officers, take the ship by force, sail it to an island in the South Pacific, and create his own Kingdom on said island over which he would rule (the last bit, as one might expect, did not work out for him).

In January 1824 near Fanning Island, Samuel’s 15 year old brother George was at the wheel, and made move to shake a rattle to relieve himself of his watch. He was harshly stopped by Samuel, who was plotting to carry out his plans that night and didn’t want anyone awakened:

“I had scarcely begun to shake it when Comstock came to me and said if I made the least damned bit of noise he’d send me to hell. This was very sudden and alarming to me his suspecting nothing I began to rattle but was thus suddenly checked by a brother in flesh but not in heart for if he had been he would have put away this wicked design thinking it would ruin me forever for little did he think I would ever get home to tell the fatal news.”

Samuel was accompanied by a handful of other mutineers, but it was he alone who did the killing, murdering the captain and officers by axe, by boarding knife (a three foot double-edged blade used for cutting blubber), by pistol, by drowning. In the midst of this bloodshed he returned to his brother George.

“After killing the mate Comstock came up to light a lamp at the binnacle. I then spoke to him and asked him if he was going to hurt Smith, the other boatsteerer he said yes he should kill him and asked me where he was I told him I had not seen him (although he had been aft talking with me) for fear if I told the truth he would kill him or go in pursuit of him. he perceiving me shed tears asked me what I was crying about I informed him that I was afraid they were going to hurt me he told me he would if I talked that way this rather silenced me from fear of myself.”

Rather than killing the boatsteerer Smith, Samuel, after his particularly brutal display of violence towards the commanding officers, effectively intimidated the rest of the crew into serving under him. Boarding knife in hand, he proclaimed ‘I am the bloody man and I have the bloody hand’.

A 19th c. whaler’s boarding knife.

George was ordered to be steward, and the rest of the crew was first commanded to clean the gore from the cabins. They operated under a set of laws Comstock put forth, as they set course for the Marshall Islands to complete his designs:

“That if any one saw a sail and did not report it immediately, he should be put to death! If any one refused to fight a ship he should be put to death; and the manner of their death, this—They shall be bound hand and foot and boiled in the try pots, of boiling oil!” Every man was made to seal and sign this instrument, the seals of the mutineers being black, and the remainder, blue and white.”

Tensions grew on the ship. One mutineer was hanged on board when Comstock suspected him of wanting to take command of the ship. And the other initial men who joined up with him (as well as, of course, the others who had played no part) also suspected that when they arrived to Comstock’s destination of Mili Atoll, he was going to destroy the ship and kill everyone who came with him. They landed on the atoll on February 14th, and three days later the other mutineers shot and killed Comstock. They sent a party of six of the crew (George among them, and led by the boatsteerer Smith) to secure the Globe lying at anchor, not anticipating those six might strand the mutineers on the island. Hastily, as soon as they got aboard the group of men cut the anchor chain and sailed away for help, eventually reaching Chile.

The surviving mutineers and two young lads, Cyrus Hussey and William Lay, were all who remained on the island. Tension also existed between the mutineers and the islanders on Mili Atoll, who were suddenly met with a group of castaways trying to aggressively impose their control over them. Ultimately, the mutineers were killed by the islanders after they tried to intimidate them. Cyrus Hussey and William Lay were spared. They were mostly kept separate from each other in two different communities on the island, where they lived mostly-peaceably with the islanders until they were eventually retrieved on November 25th by a naval schooner, the USS Dolphin, that was sent to rescue them.

“The Death of Samuel Comstock”. An 1840s illustration of Samuel Comstock falling back in the sand on an island, a cutlass in hand and a gunshot wound it his chest. From ‘The Life of Samuel Comstock, the Terrible Whaleman”

—

The other notable mutiny was that of the Junior, out of New Bedford at the close of 1857. This mutiny was more a result of ill treatment on board reaching a breaking point. The voyage was plagued with the usual bad luck, an inexperienced first-time captain, rotten food, and abusive officers. One man, a 24 year old boatsteerer named Cyrus Plumer, had a reputation of being rash and hot-headed. Prior to his signing on the Junior, he had been on another whaling vessel three years before where at one point he approached a fellow boatsteerer trying to get his support in staging mutiny to overthrow the captain and take the ship but, not finding it, deserted.

On the Junior, he found more support. On December 25th, 1857 Plumer encouraged the men (many of whom had had a bit too much to drink in light of the holiday) to take the ship that evening. The mutineers killed the captain and third mate, similarly as above, with a whaling gun, hatchet, a boarding knife, a blubber spade. The first and second mate were injured, with one taken prisoner by the mutineers and the other managing to stow himself in the lower hold for 5 days with a pistol with three shots, little water, and no food. A confession composed by the main mutineers in the ship’s log after the deed speaks to what happened after:

“This is to certify that we, Cyrus Plumer, John Hall, Richard Cartha, Cornelius Burns, and William Herbert, did, on the the night of the 25th December last, take the ship Junior, and that all others in the ship are quite innocent of the deed. The captain and third mate were killed, and the second mate was wounded and taken prisoner at the time. The mate was wounded in the shoulder with balls from a whaling gun, and at the time we fired we set his bed on fire, and he was obliged, for fear of suffocation, to take to the lower hold, where he remained until Wednesday afternoon. We could not find him before, but we undertook a strict search and found him there. We promised him his life, and the ship, if he would come out and surrender without any trouble, and so he came out. Since he has been in the ship he has been a good officer, and has kept his place. We agreed to leave him the greater part of the crew, and we have put him under oath not to attempt to follow us, but to go straight away and not molest us. We shall watch around here for some (time), and if he attempts to follow us or stay around here, we shall come on board and sink the ship. If we had not found Mr. Nelson the ship would have been lost. We have taken two boats and ten men, and everything that We wanted. We did not put Mr. Nelson in irons on account of his being wounded, but we kept a strict watch over him all the time. We particularly wish to say that all others in the ship but we five aforesaid men are quite innocent of any part in the affair.

Ultimately the mate did not keep his oath, making course for Sydney, Australia once the mutineers were out of sight in their boat. He alerted the shipowners of the situation, and word went round the globe. The mutineers were captured in Melbourne, February 1858, and brought to trial back in New Bedford. They were transported aboard the Junior itself, fitted out with prison cells to hold them. The case went all the way up to the Supreme Court. In April 1859 Plumer was found guilty of murder, and Cartha, Herbert, and Charles Stanley of manslaughter. The others were pardoned.

Plumer objected to his death sentence in a statement to the courts, saying first that he was not the man who killed the captain. That he indeed fired a shot at him but missed, and another crew member, Charles Fifield later killed the Captain with a hatchet.

“[he] stated to another person that I ‘missed the captain but that he did not miss him’ and boastingly showed the blood on his guernsey frock saying ‘it was the captain’s blood, and that he was the butcher’.

Plumer said that in the trial this man ‘wickedly sworn his own crime on my head’. He also stated that he didn’t take life but preserve it, in sparing the other two wounded officers. Officers who he ultimately held guilty for the mutiny in the first place through their complicity:

“The real culprit—the most guilty person in my judgement—the one who’s contriving brain and intiguing heart were the instigating cause of the conspiracy and mutiny on board the Junior”

He found no sympathy and was sentenced to hang, but his sentence was commuted to life in prison by president Buchanan, and then he was later fully pardoned 15 years later by president Grant.

A daguerrotype of four of the mutineers after their capture in 1858: Plumer, Rike, Cartha, and Stanley, sitting in a line against the wall with serious expressions, the first three dressed in dark suits, the last in just a shirt.

—

These two mutinies garnered particular interest because they were so rare. Again because if people were unhappy they tended to just…ditch, rather than shed blood. And also partly because some captains also reacted with their own violence at the prospect of mutiny, and found themselves pardoned by their peers for it. An example of this can be found in an article in the New Bedford Mercury, Dec 18, 1849. I’m curious about captain Issac Hussey’s relation to Cyrus Hussey, if there be one, and if that experience informed his zero tolerance.

“In June last, while cruising in the vicinity of the King’s Mill Group of Islands, the crew of the Planter, led on by a few desperate fellows, refused duty, alleging as a cause that the ship had cruised long enough, and should go into port. Capt. Hussey refused to comply with the demands of the crew, whereupon they armed themselves with knives, handspikes, boarding knives &c. and threatened the lives of the captain and officers unless their demands were immediately complied with. Capt. H. endeavored to reason with them, and upon going forward to do so was met at the try-works and forced back. After several ineffectual attempts to induce the crew to return to their duty, and finding that they had determined to force the captain to return to port or take possession of the ship, Capt. H. ordered the ship’s muskets to be brought upon deck and loaded with ball cartridges. He then addressed his crew, stating his determination to maintain his authority on board if need be at the cost of life, and gave them a half hour to consider the matter and make up their minds whether they would return to duty. At the expiration of the time, he again addressed them, and finding that they still persisted in their mutinous intentions, he very coolly and resolutely informed them that he had determined upon the course for him to pursue—that he was a good shot, and that the first man who, on being commanded by him, refused to obey, would be shot dead upon the spot. He then took up a tried musket and calling one of the ringleaders by name, ordered him to come aft; the only answer to which was defiance. Capt. H. then levelled his gun and fired. The ball entered the temple of the mutineer and passed out the opposite side of the head, and he fell dead upon the deck. The same course was then pursued with another of the ringleaders, who with the remainder of the crew preferred returning to their duty to being shot at—and the ship continued on her cruise. The peril to which the vessel and crew were exposed by the conduct of the mutineers will doubtless furnish to the minds of all a sufficient justification for the extreme measures to which he was compelled to resort, and afford to him ample vindication by the laws of his country.”

It was a bloody world all around—oft times whales, sometimes men.

#awhalin

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darklordazalin · 4 months

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Azalin Reviews: Darklord Ivan Dilisnya

Domain: Dorvinia then Borca Domain Formation: 715 BC Power Level: 💀💀💀⚫⚫ Sources: Secrets of the Dread Realms (3e), Domains of Dread (2e), Realm of Terror (2e), Domains and Denizens (2e), Ravenloft 3e, Ravenloft Gazetteer IV (3e)

Ivan Dilisnya is the Darklord of the former Domain of Dorvinia and now the co-Darklord of Borca with his cousin and aptly named “Dark Twin”, Ivana Boritsi.

Dorvinia was a small region of mountains, evergreen forests, and valleys without any form of formal rule. How it managed to survive for 25 years based largely on the decisions made at the whims of a small, petty man with a love for overacting and toxins is beyond me.

Dorvinia functioned much like how a child would rule a courtroom – bribe the child with the right “toy” and you would find whatever justice they felt like dealing out. Of course, said justice changed from day to day much like a child who enjoys broccoli one day then decides its the absolute worst thing you could put before them the next.

The Dilisnyas’ history in Ravenloft is as old as the first Darklord (but decidedly NOT the first vampire), Strahd. The family was present at the von Zarovich wedding where Strahd thought it was a wonderful idea to murder his brother, then attempt to woo his would-be sister-in-law. We all know how that worked out, but perhaps some of the Dilsinyas had a bit of foresight into these matters, for some claimed illness and left before Strahd’s transformation and murdering of the majority of the wedding guests.

Ivan was born on the same moonless night in December as Ivana. This day is known as the Night of Dead Man’s Get in Borca and every year these cousins celebrate their birthday by inviting everyone to their birthday celebration. Their separate birthday celebrations. It is a way for these jealous, bickering cousins to determine where their subjects loyalties lie. I wonder if anyone has attempted to attend both parties in one evening?

Ivan was cruel at a young age. He enjoyed torturing animals as early as 6 and committed his first murder by 10 by poisoning a young serving girl for the crime of taking a pastry from the kitchen. At 12, with no real motive, he committed matricide by poisoning his own mother in such a way to make it appear that she died of an unknown disease. I, personally, would have named this disease “Ivan”.

Ivan seemed to only show affection towards his elder sister, Kristina. This affection was more akin to obsession than actual love and drove Ivan to acts of violent jealousy. Kristina truly loved her brother and was blind to obvious evil little poisoners ways. Something she would come to regret once she married Edgar Leskovich.

Ivan was the sort that would destroy anyone or anything that stole attention and affection away from him, so Edgar was an obvious threat. The jealousy seethed inside him over the course of their courtship and marriage. Once they had a child, Ivan finally snapped, poisoned them both, adding sororicide to his ledger. The child was saved by their midwife before Ivan could get to them.

Ivan, unable to conceal his crimes from his family, fled into the Mists to avoid their wraith and Dorvinia was formed. A year later he married Lucretia Marzeya. Somehow he managed to go four years without committing uxoricide and Lucretia had three children with Ivan. All of which, he was told, were stillborn. Though, far more likely his wife spirited the children away before Ivan could add filicide to his murder bingo card.

Dorvinia was a short lived Domain, surviving a mere 25 years before it was absorbed by Borca during the Grand Conjunction. Ivan loves to wave his fingers and pout while throwing an overdone and far too dramatically acted temper tantrum and say this is my fault, but he was the one who decided to leave Dorvinia to visit his dear cousin because he was scared of a few tremors.

Ivan now co-rules Borca with Ivana. Ivan never learned how to share, so instead of working with his cousin, Ivan despises her and does all he can to gain favor from the many poisonous peacocks that make up the Borcan nobility.

Ivan surrounds himself with lavish plays, ballrooms, and feasting halls in the Degravo estate, which is well guarded. I suggest never asking Ivan about his “Playroom” unless you want a first hand demonstration of some of his favorite torturing devices.

As a Darklord Ivan is known for his subtle manipulation hidden behind his foppish demeanor, over the top temper tantrums, and, naturally, the ability to poison any object he touches. He is cursed to no longer have a sense of taste. Not to be confused with his love of “acting” and dressing in costumes, this sense of taste is quite literal. Food and drink hold no actual taste to him and turn to ash upon his tongue. This drives him to hold lavish parties where he enjoys serving both delicacies and rotten, maggot covered food. He takes great offense if someone appears to enjoy the food too much or not enough.

One may wonder how such a person manages to maintain loyalty. As Ivan has solved all things in life with poison, it should come as no surprise that he uses poison for this purpose as well. Most of his servants have been poisoned with “Borrowed Time”. These servants will die unless they are administered an elixir, Mercy, each day before sunset.

Ivan continues to age whereas Ivana does not. This leads our jealous, overgrown child to believe Ivana is hiding the secret of mortality and eternal youth from him. Perhaps she is. Who am I to give away such secrets?

Despite his child-like and foppish mannerisms, Ivan should not be underestimated. He holds a powerful position in Borca and can make or break anyone with the wave of his hand. His ability to poison any object has been the downfall to invading armies. Though it was Vlad’s army, so we can’t give him TOO much credit for defeating that failure mercenary. Though, if anyone ever gets a hold of the recipe for Mercy, I feel Ivan would quickly have a rather large uprising to deal with.

Domain: Dorvinia then Borca Domain Formation: 715 BC Power Level: 💀💀⚫⚫⚫ Sources: van Richten's Guide to Ravenloft (5e)

Ivan’s ties to Dorvinia are not mentioned within Dr. Ricky’s new guide, nor is he named Ivana’s Dark Twin, but is referred to as her elder cousin. I’m sure Ivan is very pleased by that development and isn’t throwing a temper tantrum right now as he reads this.

His beginnings are similar to previous accounts, though we a few less “cides” checked off on his frequent murderer club card during his childhood. Instead, it was the Dilisnya’s pets and servants that fell to his murderous ways as his parents covered them up.

Ivan had no desire to grow up. Honestly, I can’t really blame him there. Growing up is very overrated. I can’t remember the last time I felt that naïveté of youth that we so often take for granted. Anyway, I digress…Ivan surrounded himself in fantasy to escape responsibility. He indulged in child-like behaviors and crafted toys and games he forced his sister, Kristina, to play with him. His parents, ever the enablers, allowed this behavior to continue and even set up whimsical rooms and diversions for him throughout their estate.

Being a very stable individual, when he discovered that Kristina was being sent away to a boarding school, Ivan snapped and murdered his entire family in a single evening with his toy creations. Perhaps he wanted to fill up his murder club card before it expired.

As the co-Darklord of Borca, Ivan is a feeble, ancient man who uses a large spider pram to get around. The spider pram carries him throughout his estate, which now mostly resembles a demented child’s playroom full of murderous clockwork toys, animals that would be better off in Markovia, and toy-enacted operas. Well, at least he still retained his curse of having “no taste”.

Ivan is afraid to leave his home, so our Tormentors gifted him with the ability to deliver letters to anyone anywhere he pleases. Ghosting him doesn’t work, so try not to get the attention of this childish stalker or after sending you hundreds of letters he may set forth in his trusty spider pram and greet you in person.

He’s also very good at convincing other’s that he’s a helpless child. Well, they say that the best lies are closest to the truth…

Lastly, he can make any toy he desires. Mostly this amounts to servants and fake versions of the family he killed because he’s a sad and lonely man with only a spider pram to keep him company.

He still retains his hatred of Ivana, though it’s more because she now holds the position he was supposed to inherit. Ivan…you did inherit it. Perhaps spend a little less time writing fan letters to everyone and a little more time investigating this little tidbit.

A childish toy maker in a spider pram makes the creepiest of stalkers, but not an overly powerful one. Although Ivan’s toys are immune to Ivana’s poison, his overall presence and influence over the realm of Borca no longer holds the same force that Ivana holds. Despite the lovely spider pram, this new Ivan does not appear to be as powerful as his predecessor. 2/5 Skulls, mostly for the spider pram.

#ravenloft #azalin rex #darklordreviews #ivan dilisnya #ivana boritsi #borca #dorvinia

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