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odderancyart · 5 years

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We Rise and We Fall and We Break

Warnings: lots of death, blood, one case of animal death, war

War has raged for years. Razz, a general in one of the two warring countries, has to make a decision.

AO3

The battlefield was in debris around Razz. Panting, his chest raising and sinking heavily, Razz regarded the chaos around him. He gripped the simple iron sword hard, stepping over the legs of his fallen horse. Her white fur was stained with blood, just like him. Dried bloodstains covered his face as well. A mix of his and his enemies’ blood. The sky was painted in red and yellow as the last sunbeams danced over the horizon, as though it too was covered in the blood of the people fallen. Bodies littered the ground, complete or severed. The few ones who weren’t dead moaned in pain and fear. Little fires lit up the field, the debris of the village that had once been here, but the ground was too wet for it to spread.

His lungs burned as he stepped forward again, keeping himself upright even though his body was screaming for rest. The soldiers still alive gathered around him, searching commands, searching order, a sense of control. His black and purple uniform was stained and torn. Razz smiled as he looked out over the field. The view filled him with terror. A terror that travelled through his veins until every piece of hope was gone. The enemy had received backup.

With the red sky in the background, the army seemed black. He could only make out the shape of them: the sea of soldiers, the banners raising above them, and in the front, their commander on his horse. When he narrowed his eyes, he could make out the officer’s banner. A black falcon against a red background. Red. He’d known it. Who else would General Gaster call in his moment of distress if not his brother, their most high-ranked spy?

Taking a look at his soldiers, Razz’s tired smile turned bitter. There was no backup coming, not for them. And even if there were, they’d never get here in time. He took a deep breath. Less than a hundred men, that was how many soldiers he had left. They’d follow him to the end of the earth. If he ordered an attack, they’d fight to their last breath. And so would he. Had it been only him, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d taken as many enemies as he could into death.

But his soldiers… Razz was ruthless, there was no doubt about that. But he hadn’t gotten this far without earning his soldiers’ undying loyalty. He turned his back toward the approaching army. “A white cloth,” he said. Their eyes widened as they realized what he was asking for. “Does anyone have anything white?”

“General-” one of them, a lieutenant, began, but they shut up when he turned toward them.

“Well?”

Silence fell over their group. The dying’s moans and the steps of the approaching army were the only noises. Then a young soldier pulled off his black coat, and then the white shirt he wore beneath. Miraculously, it wasn’t stained fully red. Razz nodded in thanks as he was handed it. Swallowing his pride, he tied it by the sleeves to a stick another soldier found him.

He closed his eyes as he hoisted it into the air. The message would be clear. We surrender. In all honesty, Razz wasn’t certain he was taking the right decision. If they fought, they’d die honourable deaths. What awaited them on the other side of the battlefield, however, he couldn’t know. Maybe they’d get sent home – and what Queen Toriel would say about his surrender, he feared – or maybe they’d be kept. Paraded through the city, undoubtedly: the war was won. Their army was decimated, and they’d captured one of Calava’s best generals. A triumphal succession was to be expected.

Razz could only pray to whatever god might exist that it would be better than death. At least for his soldiers.

He didn’t have time to wonder, however. Within minutes, the remains of the army they’d just fought reached them, General Gaster in their tip. Just like him, General Gaster was bloodstained and his red and black uniform in pieces. Exhaustion was written on his face, yet he kept himself straight and dignified on the horseback of his blue roan horse. There was no triumph on his face as he held his horse in in front of Razz, regarding him. Only relief.

“You capitulate?” he asked, voice rough from yelling.

Razz nodded. “Yes. On one condition: my men remain unharmed.”

“And you will cooperate, general?”

“I will.” The words were painful to say, but he didn’t have any other choice. Razz stared into the other general’s eyes as he uttered the words, and General Gaster nodded.

“I’m glad to hear it. Come with us.”

They were surrounded by enemy soldiers, and soon they joined the newly arrived army. Red met his gaze for a moment before Razz looked away, staring straight forward as Red rode up to his brother’s side. One of the soldiers demanded his weapons, and he gave them to him.

“Lord Gaster, meet General Serif.”

Unimpressed, Razz saluted the foreign noble and received a nod in return. General Gaster’s brother, he knew. The brother of his biggest enemy, one of the most prominent faces in Elaire’s army. Lord Gaster, however, he hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t notable, then. Not worth knowing about.

“General Serif, eh?” Lord Gaster said, smirking. “Not the one who lost to my brother outside of Geva, are you?”

Razz sniffed, resisting the urge to glare at him. He was a high-ranked statesman and soldier and wouldn’t lower himself to such behaviour. “Indeed. Not too much off a loss though. We soon drove out your armies from our country.”

The conflict was ancient. The same war had been going on for the past forty years, since before Razz himself war born. It started with a conflict about where the border went and became a full-scale war once Calava decided to secure the border with military power.

Lord Gaster shrugged. “True. Doesn’t mean we’re not taking back our land soon enough. You should just realize it, general. You’re losing this war.”

“Not while I’m still standing.”

He was taken to the officers’ tent, where General Gaster soon drafted a letter of surrender. Razz’s eyes only glazed over it before taking the red quill he was offered, dipping it into the void black ink. As he lifted it over the paper, a drop of the liquid slid of the quill, splashing just beneath the line. The metal of the quill tip scratched against the paper as he signed it. Razz Serif. He only had a second to take in the look of his name in cursive letters at the line before the general fished it away, folding it and sliding it into an envelope.

An officer held out a wax stick, and Razz watched how they warmed it up and the red wax dripped down, sealing it. Then General Gaster took turned his hand around, pressing the top of his signet ring against it. When he lifted it again, a delicate raven flied over the wax.

“Bring this to the King,” he said, handing it to a soldier, who saluted and immediately left. When he turned to Razz, his face was emotionless. “Come with me, general.”

Razz did, while his soldiers were left behind. It was official. They’d lost the war. Elaire had won, and they had won the land they were on right now. When they exited the tent, he could still see the smoke of the fires rising toward the fast darkening sky. Red trailed behind them. Far behind them.

Unwillingly, Razz giggled at the joke Lord Gaster had told. He slapped a hand over his mouth, glaring at him, but it fell as he saw the delighted surprise glittering in the noble’s eyes.

“Didn’t think ya had any humour,” Lord Gaster said, grinning.

The hallway they’d run into each other was empty, silent. Not even a guard was around, and Razz was honestly not certain why he’d even bothered to talk with the other when it wasn’t necessary. But he had. And now he had to hold in another grin.

“Of course I have,” he huffed. He crossed his arms. “Just didn’t know insignificant Elairean nobles could be funny.” Lord Gaster’s grin only widened. “What?”

“Careful who you call unimportant, general,” was all he said before he nodded, continuing down the hallway. Razz stared at him. What the hell did that mean?

To little surprise, General Gaster led him into the caravan of food and material transports. It was bustling with life. Horses, dogs, soldiers, nurses, prostitutes, merchants, and everyone else who would follow an army around. It was no little affair. Razz felt their gazes upon him, saw the triumph and joy on their faces as they regarded him.

He kept his back straight and his gaze trained at General Gaster’s red coat. There was no way he was going to give those barbarians what he wanted, that he would show them the discomfort creeping up his bones. Show them how he desperately clung to the hope that he’d done the right thing.

But what if he hadn’t? What if he should’ve let himself and his soldiers to fight until their last breaths? He took a deep breath.

There was no use to dwell on the past. Even if the past was less than an hour away.

Red’s footsteps behind him were too loud.

Without allowing himself to worry, he grabbed Lord Red’s collar, pulling him down and mashing their teeth against each other. The clack was loud in his ears. For a moment, Red stood stiff, eyes wide and shocked. Then he melted into the kiss, and Razz couldn’t help but smile victoriously. That had shut him up. Electric sparks travelled through his bones as he kissed him eagerly, tiptoeing and pressing him against the railing of the terrace.

They were both panting as they parted. Red’s eyelights were fuzzed and soft, and the world spun around them as Razz let go off his collar, straightening out his now stiff fingers. Waves lapped at the beach beneath the tiny terrace, and seagulls screamed above.

“So…” Red eventually said, still breathless. He didn’t take his eyes off Razz, and Razz didn’t take his eyes off him. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” Razz admitted. God, somehow, sometime, he’d fallen in love with this asshole. With the enemy. It was stupid, but it was also so good. His soul warmed, fluttering, as he gazed upon the other’s flushed face. So beautiful. Who gave him permission to be this pretty? The gold tooth gleamed in the sunlight from the over the sea. The sky was painted in red and pink, and the air smelled of salt and summer. “Maybe we should just do… this. Whatever this is. And see what happens.”

Nodding, Red took his face between his hands. Despite the sharpness of his claws, it was so gentle. Gentler than Razz had ever thought he could be. “Sounds good.”

When he leaned down and kissed Razz again, the same thought flashed through both their minds.

No one can know.

The words went unspoken.

In the middle of the caravan, there stood an open transport carriage. Everything that had been inside it was lying on the grass around it instead, and Razz didn’t even need to hear the order to know what it was for. Without protest, he climbed inside. It was near empty, with only a straw mattress and a small water barrel inside.

“The journey to the capital will take a week,” General Gaster said, “and we will depart at dawn.”

Razz nodded. “Understood.”

As Red reached his brother, taking his place by his side, Razz didn’t even look at him. If General Gaster knew anything, he didn’t show it.

“And my soldiers?”

“Once we have ensured their obedience, they will travel by foot, just like most of the people here.” There was a hint of approval in General Gaster’s eyes now. They respected each other, always had. It would’ve been a quick death not to. Any commander with an ounce of intelligence respected their equals among the enemy. Those who didn’t, didn’t survive. “They will be taken care of as long as they cooperate.”

“Good.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, but when no one spoke, General Gaster nodded sharply, closing the doors. He could hear the lock clicking into place. Alone.

Closing his eyes, Razz stumbled back against the wall, sinking down on the wooden floor. When he opened them again, it was with a gasp. “Please tell me I took the right decision,” he whispered to no one.

“I hope you did too,” Red replied, brushing his knuckles over Razz’s cheek. Razz nodded, swallowing hard as he glanced toward the guards passing by beneath them. This time they were in one towers of the castle. The castle of a neutral third country, the perfect place to see if a peace could be reached. It couldn’t.

“We’re going home tomorrow,” Razz told him, only just managing to keep his voice from trembling.

“I know.” Red’s voice was quiet. “We too.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Write, sweetheart. Send me ravens.”

Razz nodded, tiptoeing so he could give the other a gentle kiss.

Somehow, he fell into a restless sleep.

…

Red turned his face away from the now closer carriage, straightening as he sees his brother regard him in the corner of his eye. Closing his eyes for a moment, he breathes, before turning back to Edge. “What’ll we do with him when we come home?”

Edge’s gaze is piercing, as though he can see straight into his soul as he looks at him, completely emotionless. “That’s up to His Majesty. But I imagine he will be executed.”

Red nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”

Without another word, he turns away, heading toward his own tent. Stars above. He had a letter he needed to write.

The journey was long, and the first time Razz was let out of that carriage to get some fresh air and move around, Red couldn’t be around him. Memories flashed in his head whenever he as much as glanced toward it, making his soul ache.

Yet another letter had arrived. They were carefully written, all of them, neglecting to as much as mention the war that was such a huge part of both their lives. Red didn’t know what he thought of the two of them exchanging letters, writing so regularly although in secret, and yet they always had to be careful. Careful not to reveal any strategy to the other – they both knew their love wasn’t stronger than their loyalties to their homes, careful not to say anything that might rile the other up. Anything that may create resentment when they never saw each other. The thin paper creaked in his hands as he curled up in his favourite armchair, black with silver flowers embroidered on it, reading the letter yet another time.

His mouth curled into a smile as he looked at it, at the now so familiar cursive of Razz’s handwriting, Elegant, curved letters, as easy to read as they were pretty. A long shot from his own messy handwriting – of course he knew how to write elegantly, as any noble and spy would, but he didn’t bother with it in his own private correspondence.

I miss you, the letter read at the end. Love, Razz.

Sighing gently, he stroked his finger over the purple wax at the bottom of the paper, stamped with Razz’s personal crest: a fox. A black fox, more exactly. Since he already had written a reply and sent it with falcon, he simply began from the beginning. His soul ached with longing, and with something else he couldn’t quite name.

Yeah, he missed him too.

Seeing Razz surrounded by guards was painful, but eventually, Red forced himself to look. He didn’t talk to him – he doubted Razz would want to. Doubted that Razz had forgiven him. Fingering at his chest pocket, he shook his head. Once, he’d carried one of Razz’s letters there. Not anymore. There were letters in it, but they weren’t Razz’s.

But Razz met his gaze, steady and challenging. For a few seconds, Red didn’t move, but eventually, he rose rom the patch of grass where he’d been sitting, enjoying the rest for once. Spending day after day on the back of a horse was exhausting, and they’d ridden as fast as they could from the capital when they got to know his brother was about to meet Razz’s army. That it would undoubtedly be the final battle, if one could use such a dramatic term for the real world.

His limbs protested as he stood, and he rolled his shoulders as he made his way over to the group of soldiers. Razz was tied up, of course – a chain around his wrist connected him to the carriage, keeping him from wandering too far away. The soldiers saluted as Red stepped in among them. Even those who hadn’t met him before would undoubtedly know who he was. Not only because his uniform revealed his high rank, but also for the simple reason that there weren’t many skeletons around.

“Let me speak to the prisoner,” he commanded. “Alone.”

None of the guards protested as they pulled back, and he could hear some of them groan in relief as they could finally put down their weapons and rest.

Razz was the first one to speak.

“I forgive you.”

It was their first time seeing each other in more than a year. For two years, they’d been sending each other letters now. It was almost two years ago since those words had been uttered for the first time. I love you. Red couldn’t help but smile as he saw him, even as anxiety and regret coiled in his chest. Razz’s face lit up, and after quickly checking they were alone, he was around Red’s neck, his arms squeezing so hard Red almost couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t help but smile as he hugged back, embracing the other’s waist.

But when Razz turned his head up, tiptoeing to press his teeth to Red’s, he turned his face away. Razz stopped mid-motion, confusion shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Red said, letting him go and stepping back. “I can’t do this anymore, Razz. It doesn’t work. Ignoring the majority of our lives, being careful we won’t betray our countries or upset each other whenever we speak- It doesn’t work.”

He could see Razz process. His face turned cold as he stepped back as well, crossing his arms. “I see. I did think your letters seemed weird lately. There’s someone else too, isn’t there?” His voice was emotionless.

Red closed his eyes before nodding. “A childhood friend.”

Someone who wasn’t treason to see. Someone he actually could share all his life with. Someone who might not slip state secrets Red would have to report and who would hate him for reporting them.

Someone with whom the war wouldn’t be a constant divide between him and Red.

“Very well.” Razz’s voice was stiff. He turned his back to him. “I wish you all happiness.”

Then he was gone.

There wasn’t anything that should need forgiveness. Red shouldn’t need it for choosing a partner he could be truly happy with. Nonetheless, something eased inside of him. “Thank you.” The words were simple and soft, softer than Red usually would allow himself to be.

“What’s going to happen to my soldiers?”

For the first time in over a year, he met Razz’s gaze with purpose. “They’ll be safe. You capitulated, and they’re so few. We’re probably sending them home.”

He could see the moment the relief hit Razz. “Thank you. And me?”

Two words stuck in his throat, growing so big he could hardly force them out. “Likely death.”

Razz only nodded.

After that, there was nothing left to say. Red left.

The day the capital came into view, and the castle towered over them with its towers and spires, a cheer spread through the army. Soon nearly every man was singing, and the ones who had been with Edge were louder than any others. They had been away from home for so long, seen the horrors of wars for a year and a half, and now they were coming home. Even Edge grinned as they made their way through the crowded streets. The denizens of the capital gathered around the streets, throwing flowers, singing, cheering.

Just behind Edge and Red’s horses, tied up in chains, the captured soldiers walked with Razz at their front. Despite the scorn thrown at them, the people who spat, Red knew that Razz didn’t even flinch. He couldn’t look at him, had to keep his eyes forward or looking at the people, but he knew it.

The feelings in his chest were mixed, strange. There was a heaviness, a deep sorrow, but also relief and happiness. The war was over. The war that had begun before he or his brother were born, that had reaped so many lives.

It was over.

Peace might be within their grasp. Peace and safety. And Razz’s death. He shook his head, putting a grin on his face. Fuck no, he didn’t want to deal with his confusing emotions. Taking a deep breath, he allowed the joy of the people to wash over him, to drown out everything else.

When they reached the courtyard, soldiers, servants, and nobles all lined the walls, watching them come in, their eyes trained on the long marching army. Of course, not everyone could step into the army. They were thousands of people. But the officers came in, leading forward their captives, and they dismounted.

The moment his boots hit the stone ground with a thump, a shape freed itself from the crowd, rushing forward. A meter before them, the uniformed skeleton stopped abruptly, saluting them both, before he threw himself into Red’s arms, and Red caught him, holding him tightly and nuzzling into the top of his skull. His soul slowed down, the other’s presence laying over him like a comforting blanket. Warmth spread in his chest.

“What a welcome, eh?” he asked, kissing the top of Blue’s head.

Blue smiled, but it soon fell as he tip-toed. “I got your letter,” he whispered into his ear. “I’m sorry.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Razz and his soldiers being led toward the midst of the courtyard. He swallowed, holding Blue tighter. Blue knew everything – he’d told him, told him how he’d fallen in and out of love with the enemy general. And he didn’t mind. Angel, he had done everything right. Blue stroked the back of his hand over Red’s cheek, and he nuzzled into it.

“Don’t be, starlight. It ain’t your fault.”

Trumpets sounded, and the crowd parted. King Asgore himself had made his entrance. The king looked impressive in his red and black robes and gigantic black beards, and he grinned as he made his way over to the three of them. Blue stepped in behind Red and Edge, as was appropriate, since he was a colonel and they both were of higher rank. The three of them sank to their knees before their king.

“Good job, General.” King Asgore’s voice was dark, rough. Amused. “Rise.” They did as ordered, and he waved for the captives to be led forward. His grin widened. “General Serif. What an honour.”

Razz glared at him, hatred shining in his eyes. For a moment, Red thought he might leap, and his hand was halfway into the air to try to stop him before Razz relaxed, staring straight into the king’s eyes, like few dared. “Your Majesty.”

King Asgore’s grin grew. “You’ve caused quite a lot of trouble for me and my soldiers, general. But you did capitulate in the end, realizing your defeat. It was wise of you. As a reward, you will die painlessly.”

This time, Razz didn’t speak. When he didn’t, the king turned back to them – to Edge. “General, come with me. We have a lot to talk about. And Red, see me later. I will send for you.”

“Your Majesty,” Red replied as he left with his brother. Behind his back, Blue took his hand again, and he was grateful for its warmth.

Oh stars.

…

Blue stood straight as he watched the foreign general being marched through the crowd, up on the Gallows’ Hill. By his side, Red stood, squeezing his hand so hard it was going numb, but he didn’t say anything. Whatever he needed now, watching his former lover meeting death. Using his thumb, he spun the golden ring on his finger. An engagement ring, given to him just before Red got called to assist his brother. It was warm against his bones and its presence comforting in the heated crowd.

He never liked public executions. While most people regarded them as quality entertainment – even Red, he knew Red had gleefully watched his fair share – he had never enjoyed the cruelty of them. If killing someone like an animal was necessary, it felt as though it should be done in privacy. That one should grant the sentenced that small mercy, of their death not being a spectacle for a crowd hungry for excitement.

Despite the murmur of the enormous crowd, the majority of the capital’s population all gathered in one place, desperate to get a look on the enemy, he could almost hear Red’s thundering soul. He certainly felt it, with how their wrists were pressed against each other.

General Serif didn’t as much as flinch as he was led through the jeering, boiling crowd, and Blue could only admire him for it. Despite what he’d like to think, he was certain he couldn’t have done that. Couldn’t have looked so unbothered while marching to his death, while people was spilling all their hatred and sorrow on him. Because that was what they were doing. The people were blaming the general for the sorrow they’d felt during the years upon years of war, of their families dying. Not because it was his fault, but because he was within their reach.

His fingers truly had gone numb now, but he smiled gently as he looked at Red’s pale face. His fiancé’s eyes were trained on General Serif. “Breathe,” he murmured, and Red exhaled sharply, glancing at him and nodding.

The general was now on top of the wooden platform, and a man in a judge’s robes stepped forward. “For his crimes against the Kingdom of Elaire, General Razz Serif of Calava has been sentenced to death through decapitation. The sentence reads: he shall be beheaded with a single cut, so that his head is completely parted from his body.”

Stepping aside, he gestured for the executioner to come forward. The burly man had a grand beard and was carrying a two-hand sword. General Serif stared out over the crowd, his expression haughty and back straight despite the iron chains around his wrists and how he was still wearing his blood-covered uniform.

Blue swallowed. The executioner spread his feet, so he stood steady, and raised the sword. A flash of pain travelled up his arm as Red squeezed even harder.

A swoosh. The iron glimmered in the sunshine.

Thud.

The head fell to the ground.

And another, louder, thud came as the body followed.

Red whimpered.

Tears gathered in Blue’s eyes, both from the pain and from the sight.

Red blood dripped down the platform, and people gathered like animals beneath, trying to collect some of it for those horrible health concoctions. They were screaming, cheering. When he looked to the side, crimson tears shimmered in Red’s eyes, and he flexed his fingers as gently as he could, making the other finally let go. He couldn’t help but let out a sigh in relief. Placing his other hand on Red’s face, he wiped away the tears before anyone could see them, tiptoeing to kiss his cheek.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured.

Red only nodded, still staring at the body.

With a gentle sigh, Blue started pulling him toward their horses. Red had still loved the general, he knew that and he didn’t care. He’d chosen him. Now, however, he wished with all his soul Red didn’t – the look on his face was making his chest constrict in pain.

He smiled softly at the other, lifting his hand to kiss it. Red smiled weakly before it fell once again, fresh tears springing into his eyes. He’d heal, eventually.

That was the good thing about time and the volatility of human nature.

#blackcherry #cherryberry #underfell #swapfell #underswap #sf sans #uf sans #uf papyrus #us sans #war #death #blood #executions #my writing

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

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Class of 2032: Uneasy Alliance

Windblown rain and surf were pouring into the jagged hole in the hull of the Aido Hwedo. The water ran over the floor and splashed against the bulkhead.

Captain Foli could see that Tom Allman was completely draconized. There was almost no humanity left save the skin between the scales and the fact that he could speak. The magnificent bone wings were fully integrated into what had been regular human arms. His musculature was like iron.

Foli had offered to take Tom with him and go to Africa with Chu Ru’Yi but Tom gave a single amused snort. Dragons tended to work alone but he did not kill him, much to his surprise. Instead, he siphoned off some of that living smoke that held Foli bound and directed it with a wave of his wings to the lifepod. The smoke entered the seams and seals of the metal coffin as though drawn in by a vacuum.

A loud screech echoed from outside the ship and a winged black beast started clawing its way inside. Tom pounced on it and grabbed it by the neck in one hand. It opened its beak to hiss in fury but Tom seized it and broke its neck, pushing it back into the water.

Tom reached up and grabbed the thick metal and started to peel it back over the hole as easily as folding a paperclip. “You’re wasting my time playing like this. This is out of your hands.” Tom said. “You shouldn’t have drugged her.”

There was a loud hissing sound and sparks were coming from the control panel of the lifepod as the living smoke started to destroy it from within..

“Your ship is going to sink. What is your game plan?” Tom asked him. “How are you planning to escape with her?”

Captain Foli kept his silence.

The locks on the life pod snapped open and Tom lifted the lid. “Ru’Yi…” He whispered.

She was like Snow White who had eaten the poison apple and fallen into a deep slumber. The lifepod was padded inside and her dark brown ringlets formed a halo around her head. Foli watched warily. It was clear this beast had some relationship with this girl. That soft, sad look on its face was almost human.

“I won’t hurt her. She’s important to me.” Foli said quietly.

Fury made Tom’s eyes glow as bright as a torch in the low light and he bared his fangs at him like a ghoul. “She’s important to me!”

The living smoke bound him tighter, constricting him like a serpent and Foli felt his breath cut off.

“You will not have her.” The living smoke gathered around Ru’Yi and lifted her from the life pod and she floated like a strange ghost.

Darkness crowded Foli’s vision. Every time he exhaled that living smoke squeezed him tighter! His mouth opened in a silent scream until he finally went limp and fell to the floor.

Tom eyed him a moment to make sure he wouldn’t rise again. He paused, feeling strange. He had been living on the island for so long that he almost forgot that hybrids should want to kill him as a beast. On the island, he was just one beast among many. Ru’Yi’s mother Carli had never treated him any differently. He ate around a table and played on a beach and performed chores like laundry. Little by little, he lost the self loathing he felt at looking in the mirror at himself. He learned how to fly and that became his primary mode of transportation.

Talking to this man, the man talked back. He didn’t scream and didn’t yell. He did try to kill him, but there was no fear there. Had this happened when Tom was at Cassell College, he wouldn’t have felt very strange and been confused. But after living on the island, this realization didn’t hit him until now.

He was a monster, but this Captain Foli hadn’t really cared.

Come to think of it, neither did Ru’Yi who was always sympathetic to him even to her own detriment. Was it something to do with her West African Heritage? Tom suddenly regretted knocking the man out, not because he regretted violence -- the man deserved it for drugging Ru’Yi -- but now he couldn’t ask any more questions.

Foli lay on the floor. The water was lapping on his face so Tom used his Yanling - Brother to summon smoke to place him into the Lifepod where Ru’Yi had been so he wouldn’t drown while he was unconscious. He would come back and ask questions later. But the entire area was filled with water. The damage to the hull by the monsters was progressive. They were like termites on a piece of wood. Gradually, hundreds of mouths took dozens of bites per minute and they were shredding the ship from below. They didn’t need to open a great hole. Little by little, the water would fill the ship and sink it. Aido Hwedo wasn’t the only ship suffering. Already the ships of the secret party were foundering low in the water.

An SOS flare shot out into the rain and the storms. One of the ships was almost listing completely on its side and the crew was in need of rescue. They were valiantly fighting deadslaves on the deck. They weren’t from Cassell, but came from one of the many dragon slaying factions from around the world that had gotten wind of the operation. They’d chartered a private vessel in the hopes of regaining some of the glory of dragon slaying one last time.

But the dragonslaying families were not inclined to help. A bright beacon beneath the water rushed towards the ship and a great white plume, quivering with fire, exploded that ship from below. It cracked like an egg in two halves and all aboard, both human and dead slave sank below the waves.

The King of Sky and Wind had not even made an appearance and already the Hybrids of the world were beginning to turn on each other.

Tom carried Ru’Yi on his back planning on returning her to the ship to be with Mr. Lu before returning to the fight. He waded through knee high water. These skeletal black dead slaves were already swarming the lower decks but when they looked at Tom he snarled at them and they cowered. He stood like a tiger in the middle of packs of dogs. He was carrying valuable prey -- A healthy beautiful young woman that they found very tasty. But they hesitated to approach Tom as he made his way to the metal staircase, ringing him and snapping their beaks in frustration.

Tom faced them fearlessly, promising immediate death if they came within range, but still, one made the mistake of approaching from behind and attacking. His long sickle-like wing bone, thrust like a spear and impaled it through the torso. Tom lowered his arm and plunged the beast into the water. The creature struggled, it’s claws waving and scraping against the scales on his bone wings.

The other dead slaves watched their companion become an example. It’s legs and arms worked the water into a froth as it desperately tried to free itself and breathe. For a minute, two minutes, it struggled. But then it sank.

Tom yanked the wing finger from the beast's chest and it stayed under. He eyed all the monsters wordlessly. They got the message and backed away, lowering their heads.

A dull slow clap sounded from the top of the stairs. A burly looking man stood. He wore oddly period clothing, thick rotted fur and leather. He wore a leather helmet, but his eyes burned like fire. He looked at Tom with a smile but his jaw muscles looked like stringy beef jerky. He was a deadslave but a different one from these doglike monsters.

Tom didn’t consider himself a scholar but he recognized the clothing as Asian. Then his eyes widened. “Yuan!”

He had studied the battle of the Japanese in the Mongols as a child and he loved the near mythical nature of it. The Mongols arrived and used tactics akin to the Roman army. A phalanx of shields and spears advanced the front, while fire bombs drove the horses into a stampede and startled and deafened the foot soldiers.

They seemed unstoppable and cleared the beach soon after landing in their ships. But then they turned back for a strange reason and decided to camp in their ships.

No one is entirely sure what happened next. Only that the winds on the sea wrecked a few ships and those on them were captured and executed. There is some dispute as to what actually happened because the wreckage of the ships were never found. And yet now these warriors were back and aligned with the dragon King of the Wind!

The dog like deadslaves were cowering not just from Tom, but from this newcomer!

Unlike those beasts, Tom felt more of a threat from this creature. This one was quietly applauding in appreciation. So it had some humanity left. “Can you speak?” Tom asked. He asked, not because he wanted to negotiate, but he wanted to know if this was a monster like himself. He looked dead, but Kasio broke his bones like a dead man and Cadance barely had a soul. He couldn’t determine the humanity of this beast so easily.

They stood facing each other between human and animal, using both human and animal communication. Two predators will often size each other up, standing in silence and absolutely still. It was only Tom who spoke.

The former Mongol Warrior took this speech as a weakness! He leaped from the top of the stairs, and pulled from his belt twin sickles that flashed like lightning. The electric current ran through the water Tom was standing in and he was suddenly paralyzed and shaking uncontrollably! The other beasts in the water howled and seized, some fell immediately into the water others stood stiff like statues unable to move!

Tom understood he was being electrocuted to death. His vision danced in colors. It was all he could do to maintain his soul skill and maintain Ru’Yi above the water! His lungs spasmed but he couldn’t breathe.

The Mongol Deadslave warrior grinned maliciously, holding that sparking sickle in the air from the safety of the stairs. The electricity arced from it, in a combination between Speech Spirit and weapon.

But then he suddenly was sent staggering back by a hail of gunfire!

The circuit broke and Tom collapsed to his hands, gasping. He turned his head and looked behind him.

Captain Foli had regained his senses and held out the submachine gun, quickly reloading.

Tom stared in amazement. “Why are you helping me…” He rasped.

“My offer still stands.” The black man aimed his gun up the stop of the stairs.

#Dragon Raja #Class of 2032

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manystarredface · 6 years

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A Promise

ao3 link - a gen fic with lite angst and shipping (T’Challa/Nakia). immediately follows the events of the movie.

He hears the squelch as N’Jadaka pulls the blade out of his chest.

There is still work to be done. T’Challa, as the sun sets, carries his cousin back to the labs, up the tower, and into a coffin meant not for bodies. Shuri finds him after their cousin’s body is sealed up and calls him up to the ground. The Border Tribe looks shamed, the Dora Milaje smaller than before, and the Jabariland army cautious.

And Nakia - Nakia who takes him aside and informs him what has happened during his fight with N’Jadaka - looks tired. She leans more on her right leg, is covered in grass stains, and when he raises his hand to steady her before she leans too far over she does not realize it.

He sees N’Jadaka grip the blade protruding from his chest.

There is still work to be done. He thanks M’Baku and the Jabariland warriors for their assistance, offers to house them in the palace for the night and to treat their wounded. M’Baku takes his offered hand and accepts.

He does not proclaim any decision about the Border Tribe. His only speech to them is that they should return home if they are not grievously injured, the rest will be treated in the labs. W’Kabi does not meet his eyes and T’Challa is not sure what he expected out of his friend. It hurts him - another slash from N’Jadaka across his chest.

He looks to Okoye. And when he sees the tears in her eyes, they creep up upon his eyes as well. There is no need to speak beyond a thank you in the shape of the salute. A few tears fall as the group disbands. Okoye sends the most injured Dora to the infirmary along with the Border Tribe and Jabariland warriors. A few lightly injured Dora escort them.

He hears N’Jadaka fall to the ground beside him.

There is still work to be done. Guards are sent to deal with the wreckage of those who would have brought weapons beyond Wakanda’s borders. Someone asks about what the War Dogs should be told and while he says something, officially retracts their orders, he could not repeat verbatim what exactly he told them. M’Baku tells him his mother will meet them on the morrow. Someone asks about the box T’Challa had fiddled with. Shuri heads to the infirmary. Nakia stands at his side, hand seeking his, and leads him to a place to sit. She reaches up to hold the side of her face in her hand.

“You need to rest, T’Challa.” Her eyes rove his face and he leans further into the palm of her hand. She has always had him there.

“I need to bury him.”

“Who?”

“N’Jadaka. Erik.” There is no change in her except the slightest tension appearing in her shoulders and the straightening of her neck. No one would be able to tell. Except he can. He’s always seen the smallest of changes in her.

“You can do that tomorrow. We can put him in the morgue for now.” Her palm still cups his cheek and her thumb brushes just below his eye.

He hears N’Jadaka give his last wish.

‘Bury me at sea.’ “I do not think-” He places his hand over hers and draws it away. He does not let her go. “- I can wait with this, Nakia. I made a promise.”

“T’Challa, no one would expect you to dig a place for him right now.” Her thumb rubs his knuckles since it can no longer reach his cheek.

“There is no need.” Her thumb stills. “He wanted to be buried at sea. I can at least give him that.” His eyes are on their hands. A hope he won’t look at for another couple hours settles at the base of his throat.

They lift up in a hovercraft a few minutes later. Himself, Nakia, and the crate where his cousin lies, cooling.

He sees tears fall down N’Jadaka’s face. He thinks that one at least is just his mind playing tricks on him.

#black panther fanfiction #t'challa/nakia #black panther drabble #black panther #msf writes

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inafarraige · 4 years

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Strange Catch: TSRF Week Two

“I think we caught a fucking rock,” Birdy huffs, hauling at her end of the trawler net.

“Seal,” you suggest as the net heaves and buckles beneath the waves. Whatever you’ve caught is heavy, but too lively to be stone.

“Fat seal,” she says, and you both pull the net over the rail.

Cod and hake and pollack spill across the dark wood deck of your húicéir, but the beast in the net can’t free itself. It screams, high and painful as hooves thrash against wood, scraping bits of pine and pitch loose.

“Jesus Mary!” Birdy swears.

The capall uisce screams again, and another, larger water horse surfaces from the sea, screaming even louder.

The one in your boat is a little thing, all coltish legs and red blood streaking down a hide that flashes sliver as a salmon.

The big capall still in the sea gives the little caught one a terrible glare and huff before sinking down into the dark. The húicéir rocks slightly as the capall bumps it from below.

“Easy, easy, you silly fish,” you tell the capall tangled in your net. It bleeds from a gaping wound on its hind. “You’ll hurt yourself worse, ya big eejit.”

“We should push it back,” Birdy says.

“And let it get eaten?”

“It’s a capall, Doran, not a dog,” she snaps.

The capall has stopped screaming. It looks at you with one big, liquid dark eye, the white ring stark around it. It’s cut itself on the rope from pulling against the net, and more blood trickles down its legs.

“Dogs’ll bite when they’re scared too,” you say. You slide up close to the capall. It exhales, a loud, harsh sound, but stays still. Its sides tremble with effort.

“There we are, mo chara. Be still and I’ll get you out.” Your fingers slide through the damp strings of mane, down its neck, and your eyes are locked on its. Its hide quivers beneath your fingers. “Ceartaigh,” you tell it soft, as if it were an unruly milking cow, and your little fishing knife goes snicker-snack through the rope.

The capall squeals as though you cut the net, displeased at the touch of iron, but it doesn’t strike you with hooves or teeth.

“I know, you silly thing,” you tell it as you cut the net away.

By the time you have cut the salmon-silver capall free, it has stopped quivering at your touch, and it rips hunks from a hake fish in your hands with surprising gentleness.

“We are not taking that home,” Birdy says, sorting the fish the capall hasn’t crushed.

“Good luck pushing her out,” you say sweetly. The capall’s lips are soft as velvet on your palm.

You decide to name it Fish.

“O’Malley. What the hell is that,” McGreir says when you and Birdy tie off your húicéir at the docks, your deck full of fish and one capall uisce. He owns the biggest and newest of the big diesel trawlers that you hate with all of your heart. (When you were young the harbor was nothing but red sailed húicéirí, and now yours is one of the last left. The bombs didn’t come to Thisby, but maybe the war did anyway, and left diesel engines in its wake.)

“Fish,” you say.

“Caught it in the net,” Birdy says. “He wouldn’t throw it back.”

The capall nudges your hand for more fish, and you push her muzzle gently away. She’s very young, you think, perhaps only a yearling. It’s not the fact of catching a capall that they’re stuck over, but how you caught her.

As a rule, capall do not tangle themselves in fishing nets. They’re too clever, to graceful, too savage.

But your silly, strange catch doesn’t know that.

She limps heavy, the bite on her near hind so bad she doesn’t want to put weight on it. She throws her head with every step, skittering off the ship after you.

There’s work still to be done, but Birdy says, standing on deck like it’s her húicéir, not yours, hands on her hips and shirt sleeves rolled up, the wind pulling her dark hair from her braid, “Get that monster out of here.”

Probably she means “put her back in the ocean” or maybe “sell her to a fellah who knows what he’s doing,” but you do neither of these things. You take Fish home.

You live a ways from the docks at Skarmouth, in a little field that’s long gone to seed, in a little thatch-roofed cottage with a little thatch-roofed barn that keeps only chickens these days. Once, before your da drowned in the November sea himself, you had a milk cow and a calf every spring, and a flock of sheep, and you and your siblings helped hay the field twice every summer.

It seems like someone else’s childhood, sometimes.

Your mam comes out of the house and frowns as you approach, hands on her hips. Perhaps Birdy learnt the gesture from her.

“Saints keep you, Doran, what have you done?” she asks.

“I caught a fish,” you say.

You are beginning to realize no one finds this joke as funny as you do.

“I won’t let her eat the chickens,” you say. She isn’t worried about the chickens.

She has already realized she can’t stop you anymore.

The halter you made from the cut net isn’t very good, but Fish lets you tie her in the barn without much fuss, limping and skittering around the stall as you press iodine into all her wounds. Dried out she’s less fish scale silver and more stately gray, with a dark mane and dapples under her net of cuts. “Ceartaigh, ceartaigh,” you tell her again. She quiets at your voice, but never for long, like an anxious child posing for a photograph.

You braid her stringy little mane back to keep it from getting into her cuts, and only then does she really still, looking back at you with her one big dark eye. The wild white ring is long gone.

“Nach tú?” you ask her. “Nach tú féin?” She shakes her head and sighs. You laugh and pat her shoulder before leading her into one of the stalls. You’ll need straw—capall uisce need straw bedding like land horses, you think. You’ll need meat to feed her. Or bigger catches, at least.

You offer her a second hake, a long brown fish you really can’t afford not to send to market, but that you brought home and kept her from stealing, and now she takes it into her stall to eat.

You return to the house before you go back to the docks, to help Birdy with the catch, and find Mam at the table.

“We can’t afford her, Doran,” Mam says, going through the bills on the table. Rent is due soon. You always have enough, but just barely. Your pension from the army and Rory’s both aren’t enough, and your catch barely covers the rest. Most months, Mam has to dip into the little bit of savings Da left.

“Just until she’s healed,” you say. Mam looks up and smiles at you, sadly.

“Ah, I’ve heard that one before. With the crow with the broken wing, when you were just a buachallín? Didn’t you nurse her, and didn’t she never leave?”

“I tried,” you protest.

Mam sighs. “Come here to me,” she says, and you go, and she wraps her hand around the back of your neck and pulls your forehead to hers.

“I’m glad the war didn’t take you away from me,” she says, after a long moment. “I wish you’d found a dog.”

You laugh. “Maybe next time.”

#tsrf2020 #the scorpio races festival 2020

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racingtoaredlight · 7 years

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On This Day...

On this day in 1918, the Battle of Belleau Wood reached its climax in northern France. Belleau Wood was a section of forest held by French troops who were supported and reinforced by elements of the U.S. Army’s 2nd Division, which included a brigades of U.S. Marines. The actions of the Marines in repelling a major German attack, counter-attacking, and retaking the forest through brutal hand-to-hand fighting has become a part of the lore of the Marine Corps. German soldiers who faced the Marines in the battle allegedly called them “Teufel Hunden,” or “Devil Dogs;” a nickname which Marines affectionately still self-apply today.

By the spring of 1918, the Russian government was effectively controlled by Vladimir Lenin and his Bolsheviks (i.e. Communists). Lenin gained popularity for himself and his political movement by promising to the Russian people an end to its part in the war which had devastated the Russian economy and killed millions of Russian men. In March 1918, Russia and the German Empire concluded the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. This treaty not only granted vast swathes of Russian territory--encompassing much of modern-day Ukraine and Poland--to Germany, but also led to Russia’s withdrawal from the conflict. Notwithstanding its huge losses in the war, the Russian army remained the largest military in Europe. In one stroke, Germany eliminated an enemy who, regardless of internal struggle and feckless leadership, still absorbed German attention and manpower. Upon the ratification of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, the Germany Army was able to transfer 50 divisions of soldiers from the now-quiet Eastern Front to the Western Front, where they could be used to allow the German forces there to launch a wide-scale offensive for the first time since 1914.

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The timing of Brest-Litovsk was crucial. Less than a year earlier, in April 1917, the United States entered the war on the side of the Allies. Thus, while Germany had vanquished one large foe, it seemed to replacing it with another. The estimated United States population in 1918 was 103.2 million. The last Russian census, conducted in 1897, showed a population of 125,640,021. But unlike Russia, which lacked the industrial base and transportation network necessary to properly supply its military as the war ground on, the United States had a formidable industrial capacity and a large merchant marine, with a strong U.S. Navy able to transport soldiers across the Atlantic. But therein lies two further distinctions; Russia had a large-standing army at the start of the war and no ocean to transport it across. The United States may have had the fundamentals to transport a large military, but the size of the U.S. Army in 1917 was comically small, and the ocean it had to cross to get to the battlefront was teeming with German U-boats.

Eventually, the American Expeditionary Force (AEF), would number 2 million soldiers, but in the spring of 1917, only a handful of widely scattered Regular Army formations were available. These units of professional soldiers, many with experience in Mexico and throughout Central America and the Caribbean, were combined on May 24, 1917 into the U.S. Army’s 1st Division. The 1st Division represented the largest single U.S. Army unit that had existed since the conclusion of the Civil War, over five decades earlier. Though the leading elements of the division arrived in Le Havre, France in July 1917, it would take many months of conscription and training of American civilians to turn the small U.S. Army into anything like the size of the European forces which pummeled each other for three years.

In 1917, the U.S. Marine Corps was, as it has always been, smaller than the U.S. Army. But similar to the Army, its ranks were filled with highly-experienced and motivated men. Between the end of the Civil War and the beginning of World War I, the Marine Corps had fought in no less than twenty-eight (28) campaigns around the world, though especially in Central America and the Caribbean. These actions were all small-scale, local actions, usually launched in order to protect American commercial or political interests in a territory. Nonetheless, many of these actions were brutal affairs, and many veterans of these campaigns would be among the first Marines to cross the Atlantic for France.

The German Army’s General Staff realized that there would be a gap between Russia’s exit from the war and the time in which American troops would start to arrive in France in significant numbers. To take advantage of this, the General Staff, using its new surplus of soldiers from the Eastern Front, planned a series of large-scale offensives for spring 2018; the Kaiserschlacht (Kaiser's Battle). This series of mass-attacks on British and French positions on the Western Front was designed to overwhelm the Allied armies and force a peaceful settlement favorable to Germany before the Americans could arrive in force. Perhaps, German planners thought, the offensive could even land such a crushing blow that outright victory could still be snatched from the stalemate which had persisted across the Western Front for three years.

On May 27, one of the planned German offensives developed into the Third Battle of the Aisne. This sector of the front was a previously quiet one. The British Army units which held this area were exhausted, and had been dispatched there specifically because of how quiet it was. The surprise and weight of the German attack broke the British lines. This gap was hurriedly sealed by French reinforcements, but they too were insufficient to hold off the German advance. Two recently arrived American units, the 2nd and 3rd Divisions, were lent by the AEF commander, General John Pershing, to the French. Attached to the 2nd Division was the 4th Marine Brigade, which consisted of the 5th and 6th Marine Regiments. Along with the Army regiments of the 2nd Division, the Marines moved to the edge of Belleau Wood, a heavily forested area, to fill the remaining gap in the French line. It was during this advance to the front line that a company of Marines came across a French unit which had been ordered to withdrawal. The French commander advised his American counterpart to follow suit, to which Marine Captain (later Major) Lloyd Williams replied “Retreat? Hell, we just got here.”

Between June 4 and 5, the Marines along with the rest of the 2nd Division and neighboring French units successfully held-up the German advance on the edge of Belleau Wood. During the night of June 4 and 5, a small party of intelligence officers conducted a clandestine reconnaissance of the German position in the woods. While an imminent attack did not appear to be in the works, the build-up of German infantry and artillery in the area was unmistakable. The French commander expressed his concern that a renewed German attack might break the line again and open a breach which could threaten Paris. Accordingly a counter-attack was planned.

In the early morning hours of June 6, 1918, a joint French-American attack was launched with the French advancing along the edge of the woods, while the Marines attacked a German position named Hill 142 (in war, hills are often named by how many feet or meters they are above sea level) in order to protect the French flank. By the afternoon, the Marines had captured the hill, but at a cost of 9 officers and 325 men. During a subsequent German counter-attack, Gunnery Sergeant Ernest Janson single-handedly killed 12 Germans with his bayonet. For his action, Janson was awarded the Medal of Honor.

After Hill 142 was secured, elements of the 5th and 6th Marine Regiments advanced directly into Belleau Wood itself, directly into the teeth of German machine gun fire. Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daley, who had already received the Medal of Honor twice before World War I, allegedly yelled out to his fellows Marines in the face of this fire “Come on, you sons of bitches, do you want to live forever?”

By the end of the day, the Marines had gained a foothold in the forest, but at a cost of 31 officers and 1,056 men; the deadliest day in the history of the Marine Corps to that point. Over the next three weeks, a series of attacks and counter-attacks by both sides led to additional bloodshed. Artillery barrages and counter-barrages reduced the once verdant forest into a mass of timber and kindling. On June 26, the Marines finally cleared the woods. The final cost of the battle was 9,777 casualties, including 1,811 killed.

The battle was relatively small-scale, but was vital to the larger campaign to push back the German gains from the Spring Offensive. In honor of the sacrifice of the American sacrifice, local French authorities renamed Belleau Wood, "Bois de la Brigade de Marine" ("Wood of the Marine Brigade").

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#On This Day #RTARLAD #history #war #military #World War I #Belleau Wood #U.S. Marine Corps #Russia #Germany #France #Britain #Medal of Honor #mobilization #conscription #U.S. Army #U.S. Navy #esprit de corps

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newsnigeria · 5 years

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Check out New Post published on Ọmọ Oòduà

New Post has been published on http://ooduarere.com/news-from-nigeria/world-news/iran-prevails-over-the-usa/

Iran prevails over the USA, twice, but this is far from over

[this analysis was written for the Unz Review]

An Iranian official has announced that the UK-flagged tanker Stena Impero was free to leave. Remember the Stena Impero? This is the tanker the IRGC arrested after the Empire committed an act of piracy on the high seas and seized the Iranian tanker Grace 1. Col Cassad posted a good summary of this info-battle, blow by blow (corrected machine translation):

Britain, at the instigation of the US, seizes the Iranian tanker Grace 1 and demands from Iran guarantees that it in any case does not go to Syria.

Iran, in response, captures the British tanker Stena Impero and says it will not retreat until the British releases Grace 1. British ships that guarded merchant ships in the Strait of Hormuz were warned that they would be destroyed if they interfered with the IRGC’s actions.

After 2 months, Britain officially releases Grace 1, which is renamed Adrian Darya 1. It raised the Iranian flag and changed the crew.

The British government says the tanker is released under Iran’s obligations not to unload the tanker at the Syrian port of Banias or anywhere else in Syria. Iran denies this.

The US officially requires Britain and Gibraltar to arrest Adrian Darya 1 and not let him into Syria, as it violates the sanctions regime. Britain and Gibraltar refuse the US.

Adrian Darya 1 reaches the coast of Syria and after a few days on the beam of Banias, unloads its cargo in Syria. The Iranian government says it has not made any commitments to anyone.

After Adrian Darya 1 left Syria, Iran announced that it was ready to release the British tanker. The goal has been achieved.

This is truly an amazing series of steps, really!

The USA is the undisputed maritime hyper-power, not only because of its huge fleet, but because of its network of bases all over the planet (700-1000 depending on how you count) and, possibly even more importantly, a network of so-called “allies”, “friends”, “partners” and “willing coalition members” (aka de facto US colonies) worldwide. In comparison, Iran is a tiny dwarf, at least in maritime terms. But, as the US expression goes, “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog” which decides the outcome.

And then there is the (provisional) outcome of the Houthi strike on the Saudi oil installations. The Saudis appeared to be pushing for war against Iran, as did Pompeo, but Trump apparently decided otherwise:

youtube

Some have focused on the fact that Trump said that it was “easy” to attack Iran. Others have ridiculed Trump for his silly bragging about how US military gear would operate in spite of the dismal failure of both US cruise missile attacks (on Syria) and the Patriot SAMs (in the KSA). But all that bragging is simply obligatory verbal flag-waving; this is what the current political culture in the USA demands from all politicians. But I think that the key part of his comments is when he says that to simply attack would be “easy” (at least for him it would) but that this would not show strength. I also notice that Trump referred to those who predicted that he would start a war and said that they were wrong about him. Trump also acknowledged that a lot of people are happy that he does not strike (while others deplored that, of course, beginning with the entire US pseudo-liberal & pseudo-Left media and politicians). The one exception has been, again, Tulsi Gabbard who posted this after Trump declared that the US was “locked and loaded”:

youtube

Whatever may be the case, this time again, Trump seemed to have taken a last minute decision to scrap the attack the Neocons have been dreaming about for decades.

I think that I made my opinion about Trump pretty clear, yet I also have to repeat that all these “climbdowns” by Trump are, just by themselves, a good enough reason to justify a vote for Trump. Simply put; since Trump came to power we saw a lot of hubris, nonsense, ignorance and stupidity. But we did NOT see a war, especially not a major one. I will never be able to prove that, but I strongly believe that if Hillary had won, the Middle-East would have already exploded (most likely after a US attempt at imposing a no-fly zone over Syria).

We are also very lucky that, at least in this case, the rapid every four year Presidential election in the USA contributes to keep Trump (and his Neocon masters) in check: Trump probably figured out that a blockade of Venezuela or, even more so, a strike on Iran would severely compromise his chances of being re-elected, especially since neither theater offers the US any exit strategy.

Still, following these immensely embarrassing defeats, Trump and his advisors had to come up with something “manly” (which they confuse with “macho”) and make some loud statements about sending more forces to the Persian Gulf and beefing up the Saudi air defenses. This will change nothing. Iran is already the most over-sanctioned country on the planet and we have seen what US air defense can, and cannot do. Truth be told, this is all about face-saving and I don’t mind any face-saving inanities as long as they make it possible to avoid a real shooting war.

Still, the closer we get to the next US election, the more Trump should not only carefully filter what he says, he would be well advised to give some clear and strict instructions to his entire Administration about what they can say and what they cannot say. Of course, in the case of a rabid megalomaniac like Pompeo, no such “talking points” will be enough: Trump needs to fire this psychopath ASAP and appoint a real diplomat as Secretary of State. After all, Pompeo belongs in the same padded room as Bolton.

Now if we look at the situation from the Iranian point of view, it is most interesting. First, for context, I recommend the recent articles posted by Iranian analysts on the blog, especially the following ones:

“War Gaming the Persian Gulf Conflict” by Black Archer Williams

“Karbala, The Path of Most Resistance” by Mansoureh Tadjik

“Resistance report: Syrian Army takes the initiative in Idlib while Washington blames its failures on Iran again” by Aram Mirzaei

I also recommend my recent interview with Professor Marandi.

I recommend all these Iranian voices because they are so totally absent from the political discussions on the Middle-East, at least in western media. Williams, Tadjik, Mirzaei and Marandi are very different people, they also have different point of views and focuses of interest, but when you read them you realize how confident and determined Iranians are. I am in contact with Iranians abroad and in Iran and all of them, with no exception, share that calm determination. It seems that, just like Russians, Iranians most certainly don’t want war, but they are ready for it.

The Iranian preferred strategy is also clear: just the way Hezbollah keeps Israel in check so will the Houthis with the KSA. The Houthis, who are now in a very strong negotiation position, have offered to stop striking the KSA if the Saudis do likewise. Now, the Saudis, just like the Israelis, are too weak to accept any such offer, that is paradoxical but true: if the Saudis officially took the deal, that would “seal” their defeat in the eyes of their own public opinion. Having said that, I can’t believe that the Saudis believe their own propaganda about war against Iran. No matter how delusional and arrogant the Saudi leaders are, surely they must realize what a war against Iran would mean for the House of Saud (although when I read this I wonder)! It is one thing to murder defenseless Shias in the KSA, Bahrain or Yemen and quite another to take on “the country which trained Hezbollah”.

Speaking of delusional behavior, the Europeans finally did fall in line behind their AngloZionist overlords and agreed to blame Iran for the attack under what I call the “Skripal rules of evidence” aka “highly likely“. The more things change, the more they remain the same I suppose…

It is pretty clear that all the members of the Axis of Kindness (USA, KSA, Israel) are in deep trouble on the internal front: Trump is busy with the “Zelensky vs Biden” scandal, especially now since the Dems are opening impeachment procedures, the latest elections failed to deliver the result Bibi wanted, as for the Saudis, after pushing for war they now have to settle for more sanctions and radars, hardly a winning combination.

The Saudis are too weak, clueless and obese (physically and mentally) to get anything done by themselves. But the USA and Israel are now in a dire need to show some kind of “victory” over, well, somebody. Anybody will do. Thus the US have just denied visas 10 members of the Russian delegation to the United Nations (thereby violating yet another US obligation under international law, but nobody in the US cares about such minor trivialities as international law); and just to show how amazingly powerful the Empire is, the Iranian delegation to the UN received the same “punished bad boys” treatment: truly, a triumph worthy of a superpower! Last minute update: the US is now revoking Iranian student visas and denying entry to Venezuelan diplomats.

This “war of visas” is the US equivalent of the “war on statues” the Ukrainians, Balts and the Poles have been waging to try to distract their population from the comprador policies of their governments.

As for the Israelis, I now expect the Israelis to strike some empty building in Syria (or even in Gaza!).

Conclusion: facts don’t really matter anymore, and neither does logic

Ten years ago Chris Hedges wrote a book called “Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle ” and, a full decade later, this title is still an extremely accurate diagnostic. What Hedges politely called the “end of literacy” can be observed in all its facets, listening to US political and military leaders. While most of them are, indeed, morally bankrupt and even psychopaths, it is their level of ignorance and incompetence which is the most amazing. First, the Russians spoke of “non-agreement-capable” “partners” but eventually Putin quipped that it was hard to work with “people who confuse Austria and Australia“. This all, by the way, applies as much to the Obama Administration as it does to the Trump Administration: their common motto could have been “illusions über alles” or something similar. Once a political culture fully enters into the realm of illusions and delusions the end is near because no real-world problem ever gets tackled: it only gets obfuscated, denied and drowned into an ocean of triumphalist back-slapping and other forms of self-worship.

Post scriptum: the US goes crazy but Trump just might survive after all

So the Dems decided to try to impeach Trump. While I always expected the Neocons to treat Trump as the “disposable President” which they would try to use to do all the stuff they don’t want to be blamed for directly, and then toss him away once they squeezed him for everything he could give them, I am still appalled by the nerve, the arrogance and the total dishonesty of the Dems (see my rant here).

My gut feeling is that Trump just might beat this one for the very same reason he won the first time around: because the other side is even worse (except Tulsi Gabbard, of course).

Of course, an attack on Iran would be a welcome distraction à la “wag the dog” and Trump might be tempted. Hopefully, the Dems will self-destruct fast enough for Trump not to have to consider this.

The Saker

#U.S.A

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twirlinginthefade · 6 years

Text

Home Is Where The Heart Is 7/?

In which: Tears. It's just fucking tears.

Haven was surprisingly pretty for being an army base. The snow that covered the ground was barely blackened by the ash, courtesy of the occasional scout or soldier with a shovel. The cabins were well-kept, cots made and belongings organized into general areas. The white tent off to the side was full of injured and people wearing robes tending them.

Rowan could feel bursts of something when she passed near enough and looked in when she felt one gather. Sure enough, a robed man was standing over a young man in a scouts uniform. His hands glowed a steady blue-green, and the back of Rowan’s mind whispers about sea breeze and fresh plants.

She leaves soon after that.

She was reading a slip of paper about a dog when a familiar voice rang out.

“There she is, fixer of the Breach, great Herald of Andraste” Varric walked towards her, a small smile on his face. Rowan pushed down the urge to protest the Herald thing and smiled back “How are you holding up? Most people stretch out things like this.”

“Things like what?”

“Going from the most hated person in Thedas to leading an army of the faithful. Doesn't normally happen within a fortnight” He sat down on a small stool and motioned to the one across from him. “So, again, how are you doing?”

Rowan swallowed. The thing about soulmates is that they know how to get under your skin. It would be so easy to tell Varric how she really felt, how she wanted to scream and run away the moment people started bowing to her. How her heart ached because her soulmates couldn't even say her name. How close she was to crying.

“I'm fine. Just kinda confused.” She forced a smile on her face, crinkling her eyes so it looked more real. “Honestly, I'm ready for nap”

Varric snorted. “I’d imagine.” The smile slid from his face, and he sighed. “Look, I need to talk to you about the whole soul-mark thing”

A piece of ice lodged itself in Rowan chest.

“It's not that you aren't a pretty young woman, or that you are a mage. It's just...I have someone already and I would prefer...” Varric paused. Even for all his words, how do you tell someone made for you that you don't want them like their mark dictates?

“You would prefer to stay friends?” Rowan prompted, keeping her voice even.

Varric nodded. “Yes. I'm sure that were it not for her, we could get along. But as it is...” He trailed off at the smile on Rowan's face.

“It's okay Varric. I understand completely.” Rowan forced down the urge to protest. He was not hers to dictate. He could love anyone he liked and she would not protest.

At least he was alright with them being friends.

They chatted for awhile more, until Rowan’s cheeks started to hurt from her smile. She said a quick goodbye to Varric, who moved on to writing something in a book after she left.

Soon, she simply passed through the large wooden doors leading outwards. The field ahead is covered in men and women in variations of armor and there is another group of robed figures on a hill to her left. She decides to turn right, away from the people training, away from where there are tents and the strange sharp smell that lingers around those with a sword on their breast plate.

She is only a few steps away from the sparring field when something cute and pink runs across her path.

Unfortunately, it startles her into squealing and she falls over, startling the little pink thing, who also falls over.

The critter is small, about the size of her old Bull Terrier Arrow. Its big, slightly pointed ears are reminiscent of a rabbit and its eyes show a spark in their black depths. The critter hops towards her slightly when she holds out her hand and she is delighted to feel its snub nose touch her and the squeak that comes out of it melts the tension out of her shoulders.

She gets up slowly, not wanting to get chilled from sitting in the snow, but also not wanting to scare her little friend.

“Looks like that nug likes you milady” A voice comments from just behind her. Rowan turns, careful of her footing and the thing near her feet.

“Nug? Is that what it's called?” Rowan smiles down at the ‘nug’ and resists cooing at it sniffing her boots. “Its adorable”. That gets her a snort from her visitor.

“Most people would call then rodents at best, pests at worst. Things breed like crazy and get everywhere.” He looked up from where the nug was sniffing her boots and gives her a smile. “Marcus Trevelyan, former Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle. And you are?”

“Rowan Kent, former...” She thinks of a way to explain her job to someone not from Earth. “I suppose kennel worker? I used to train dogs for a living”

Marcus’s eyebrows raise. “How very Ferelden of you. Wardogs? Mabari? Or Lady’s pets?”

Rowan hides a grin, glad her former occupation exists here. Maybe if the whole world saving thing doesn't work out, she can take a job in this Ferelden. “All of the above, I guess. Occasionally the shelter I worked at did obedience training for puppies, canine units and purse dogs, but we mostly trained service dogs and therapy dogs.”

Marcus smiled. “Sounds prestigious. What are you doing all the way out here if I may ask?” He motioned forwards and she fell in step next to him, following the slight path towards the outskirts.

“Oh you know. Falling out of a hole in the sky, nearly getting killed by demons, closing rifts. That sort of thing” She looked up from the nug following them with a smile, only to see Marcus’s smile drop and a look of horror to cross his face.

“Your worship! I'm so sorry, Andraste forgive me, I don't not realize!” He dropped to his knees in the snow, bowing at the waist and the ache in Rowan’s chest intensified.

“Please don’t. I am not anyone’s worship.” She practically whispered, only to have Marcus protest.

“You closed the Rifts! You stopped the Breach from spreading. You are Andraste's Herald, the Chosen of the Maker’s Bride!” Marcus looked up to her face, silhouetted by the Breach in a verdant halo. “I would be remiss in my duties if I did not treat you as the holy Lady you are. Please forgive me your wor-”

“I am not holy!” Rowan snapped, tired and near crying. “I am a woman, a woman who got thrown into this fucking mess by Deity knows what! A woman who can't even get her damned soulmates to look at her for more than a second as the person she is, instead of as their savior.” She gave a quiet sob, to her frustration. “I am a no one. Just someone people use to reach their own ends” She ignored the protest building on Marcus’s tongue and turned away from him, uncaring of the squeaking near her shoes.

She left the Enchanter kneeling in the snow, watching her walk blindly away, silent tears blurring the path in front of her.

She wandered aimlessly, until she reached a tiny logging site, hidden in a copse of trees. Her nug friend sat next to her as she curled up near a pile of the fallen trees. Her tears fell easily now that the dam had broken, her sobs no longer quiet in the silence of the trees.

A tiny body curled up on her feet, lending her warmth and several more crowded her body, gently squeaking, before she looked up from her arms.

Nugs surrounded her, their small pink bodies curled around each other and her outstretched false leg. One, the one from before if it's little markings were unique, sat up from its loaf position on her leg and looked at her for a moment before carefully hopping closer to her. It raised itself up, tiny paw-hands gripping her shirt until it was sniffing her cheek. A soft nudge and tiny squeak was all it took to make her smile.

“Thank you little friend” She ran a finger across its little snout and giggled lightly at the twitch it elicited from the nugs nose and the rat-like cleaning motion it made. “Maybe I should name you. Calling you ‘the nug’ seems wrong.” A squeak of agreement.

“Hows about Maggie?”

Low squeak.

“No? Harold?”

Low.

“Bob?”

Low.

She narrows her eyes at the nug. Then smiled, wondering. “How’s about Vanyel? You're certainly loyal enough”

The nug bobbed its head side to side before giving a high squeak.

“Vanyel it is. Now to make you a tiny set of Whites and we are in the clear” Rowan laughed, the sound echoing through the trees, nugs perking up at the sound.

“Herald!” A familiar voice rang out and Rowan’s smiled dropped at the address. Cassandra erupted through the trees, causing nugs to scatter in every direction like pink soot sprites.

The Seeker looked out of breath, pink dusting her high cheekbones from the exertion. Rowan stood carefully, scooping up Vanyel from where he had sat on her lap. “Can I help you Seeker?” Her tone was careful, measured as not to reveal her earlier activities.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed at the tone but dismissed it. “You have been gone for hours Herald. Athras only remembered you in Adan’s cabin and when we went looking for you, we found a very panicked mage. Any reason why?”

Rowan felt a click in her chest as she sealed her emotions away, not wanting to break down again at the term of address and mention of Marcus. “It is nothing Seeker. I needed time alone. I was unaware I had a babysitter”

“Bodyguard, not babysitter.” Leliana corrected, ducking to avoid a branch in the face. She frowned at the snow on Rowan's pant legs and the leftover tear tracks on her cheeks. “Did that man hurt you? You are crying Herald” She stepped forwards, only to have Rowan step back.

“I would prefer not to be touched at this moment Sister.” The Hands exchanged looks at the tone in her voice. “Have you need of me?”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Yes, we do. Your advisors and I have gathered to speak to you about our next step” The Seeker followed Rowan’s sudden formality and missed the twitch on the corner of Rowan’s mouth.

“As you wish” The Herald walked quickly, the nug still cradled in her arms. Both Hands followed closely on either side of her, watching her steps for any faltering.

They arrived at Haven’s gate quickly. Soldiers saluted the three women, one giving a curious look to the nug that their Herald carried like a small dog. It squeaked back at him and he looked away feeling chastised for some reason.

Going up the stairs, Rowan noticed Varric sitting by his fire. The dwarf raised his eyes as they passed and he gave a warm smile and waved at the trio. Rowan matched his smile with one of her own and waved her fingers back.

By the time they got to the Chantry doors, Rowan was at equilibrium. The titles still felt wrong, worse in the mouths of her soulmates but she felt less like she was going have a breakdown.

For now

#HIWTHI #Rowan Kent #story1 #modern girl in thedas

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neusustainabledevelopment-blog · 7 years

Text

Sustainable Development on the Local Scale

Lessons from a coastal town in California

People seem to have trouble describing my hometown. I call it a “socially acknowledged nature-loving town.” The New York Times takes a different perspective, calling it “the Howard Hughes of towns.” According to my college friends, it’s “the hippie commune Chels escaped from.” Some of them don’t believe it’s real.

It’s a pretty idyllic place. Bolinas is on the elevated, natural (and better) peninsula. We don’t mess around with manmade lagoons like the town in the lower right. That’s Stinson Beach, the Eagleton to our Pawnee.

This is the Jimi Hendrix Revival Drum Corps (they know that none of their instruments are drums) at our annual 4th of July parade. I will take this opportunity to clarify that the majority of my college friends don’t believe Bolinas is real.

Regardless, environmentalism and plain-old reclusiveness are perhaps the most important pillars of local Bolinas culture. In the 1960s, residents voted to dissolve a proposed plan to turn the lagoon into a marina and housing complex. On a night in 1971, locals constructed an oil boom to protect the lagoon and its ecosystem from an oil tanker spill off the coast of San Francisco. In 1975, they established a water moratorium to prevent further development, and overturned a proposed chemical treatment plant in favor of organic sewage treatment ponds. Forty years later, when I go home on break, I walk my dog at the “Sewer Ponds,” where there are bike paths, wild birds, a thriving ecosystem, and now an extension of a local organic farm located somewhat concerningly downhill of the ponds. Local environmental protection initiatives form the foundation of our culture. My peers and I learned about this aspect of our history in our local elementary school and we still take pride in it.

So when a lagoon restoration project was proposed in the late 1990s, it was a very contentious subject. Our lagoon illustrates perfectly the fragility of nature and the fragility of human development. The timber industry sped up sediment flow in the early 1800s, and residents used the lagoon as a dump for decades. Today, flooding and mudslides can block off the only road into town, effectively trapping us on the small peninsula. We didn’t have snow days in California, but sometimes the school bus couldn’t get to our town. You win some, you lose some.

The restoration project’s divisiveness wasn’t so much a question of allocating funding or local energy as it was of figuring out what restoration actually looked like for our lagoon. My parents grew up in Bolinas. According to them and other long-term residents, in the 1960s you could bring a boat into the inner lagoon and fish for larger marine life like salmon and halibut. In my lifetime though, fishermen have had to wait until high tide to dock their boats in the inner channel. Steering a boat into the inner lagoon without beaching it would be impossible today. In the late 1990s, it was clear that the lagoon was filling with silt, but the community disagreed as to whether it was right to interfere. Was the siltation a natural process or the result of centuries of development in the area?

The United States Army Corps of Engineers compiled a draft feasibility plan in 2002. It suggested dredging over 1.4 million cubic yards of wet sediment to help restore the tidal prism.

Dredging has clearly gone well before. This one, visible from my elementary school, has been stuck in the lagoon since 1962.

Dredging would restore the lagoon to a state more familiar to older residents, increasing its depth and tidal movement. However, dredging could also fatally disrupt the ecosystem, damaging native flora and fauna and providing a window for invasive species to take over. An unfounded conspiracy additionally confused matters: some residents were certain that dredging would really only benefit wealthy waterfront-property owners in Eagleton—I mean Stinson Beach—and their goddamned yachts. Because the proposed dredging plan would cost upwards of $100 million dollars and take seven years (year round dredging was quickly nixed due to seal pupping season), someone in the county office realized that it would probably be a good idea to determine the source of the silt.

A contracted hydrology firm revealed that the majority of the silt was not, in fact, from the human-damaged watershed. Interestingly, shoreline armoring had had little effect on the siltation. It was mainly coming in from the ocean as part of a natural process.

The Bolinas Lagoon actually straddles the North American and Pacific plates, with the San Andreas fault line running directly through it.

Here is an academic diagram of how our lagoon is affected by geology, courtesy of our local PBS affiliate.

Here is a less academic diagram.

If left to its natural cycle, the lagoon would slowly fill in with sediment over hundreds of years, then, when a major crippling earthquake struck, regenerate.

This was taken as evidence by most people that the lagoon should be left to its cycle. Restoration projects moving forward were contained to the removal of invasive species and the restoration of floodplains and deltas, which were malfunctioning due to human interference. There is still some community concern about future boat access, but it’s generally acknowledged that reduced access for the mostly dead Bolinas fishing industry is a result of a natural process.

At this point, the Army Corps of Engineers suggested removing the shipwrecked dredge I mentioned earlier to measure the speed of sedimentation in the remaining hole, a well-informed scientific way to assess the situation. Bravo, Army Corps of Engineers, bravo.

The shipwrecked dredge can still be seen from my old elementary school.

Despite this loose end, restoration has significantly moved forward. In 2008, representatives of the very, very many groups involved in protecting our lagoon finally came out with a list of recommendations. Since then, agencies and the community have divided the restoration effort into smaller projects for scalability and efficiency.

Community efforts have led to fewer numbers of invasive European green crabs, which threaten native animals and plants. Volunteers also removed non-native plants on the inner island. This not only helped to restore the natural habitat, but also aided in the natural release of captured sediment, increased water movement, and strengthened resilience in the event of an earthquake or large storm. The California Department of Transportation reworked the highway and culverts around the lagoon’s perimeter, specifically reducing the amount of sediment coming in from the nearby hills and streams. The rocks placed at the lagoon shoreline also reduced erosion of soil at the water’s edge.

Plans for restoring the North End of the lagoon were released in October 2016. The three options put forward focused on sea level adaptation, restoring the tributaries in that area, and addressing flooding of the road.

Alternative 1 would re-establish primary creek function and allocate funding for studies on fish populations, as well as eliminate a short connector road in the lagoon’s North End which forms one third of an area known as the Bolinas “wye” or “y.” The alternative would mitigate flooding, a major problem I mentioned earlier, by building culverts under the road into town and elevating the main highway before the turnoff into Bolinas. Alternative 2 would cost less and offer smaller scale restoration to the tributary creeks. It would elevate the highway onto a causeway as well, but only add a few culverts to the road into town. The third option would eliminate the road into town entirely, meaning that residents would have to drive farther north up the highway and enter town via a different and less well-maintained road. It would drastically shrink the road footprints in the North End of the lagoon, but at the cost of ease of entry into town. Members of the Bolinas Lagoon Advisory Council suggest that the third alternative is far less likely to be considered and simply indicates that the county has considered all options. There hasn’t been news of a consensus since the State of the Lagoon conference on February 9th.

The drawn-out Bolinas lagoon restoration project demonstrates a number of issues that most communities faces when deciding what to do with shared resources.

Community involvement in protecting Life Below Water (Goal 14) has been exemplary. In the case of the Bolinas lagoon, backlash from local environmental groups led to a better understanding of the estuary and its natural state, informed decision-making, and protected the lagoon’s incredible biodiversity. Involvement is also spurred by local concern about infrastructure (reflected by Sustainable Development Goal 9). Our roadways are incredibly affected by the state of the lagoon, and the plans for the North End will help to accomplish both Goal 14 and Goal 9.

This “wetland of international importance” has been a matter of local concern for more than twenty years now. There are many stakeholders involved at the state, county, and local level, and this leads to a slow process of approval and action. But the restoration effort has demonstrated successful implementation of Goal 16 (Peace, Justice, and Strong Institutions) on a local level. Though debates on lagoon restoration were heated, they were fruitful and promoted inclusion. Evidence must be thoroughly gathered before plans are pitched to the Bolinas and Stinson Beach communities, and the Bolinas Lagoon Advisory Council, which includes many community members, plays a valuable role in planning restoration. It is clear that concrete actions taken since restoration was first introduced have been extensively discussed and vetted, leading to a healthier lagoon and a more involved community.

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