#colonel greaves

[dailystargatebooty]

#Stargate SG-1 #SG-1 #Stargate #Jack O'Neill #Sam Carter #Daniel Jackson #Teal'c #the sentinel #lt kershaw #colonel greaves

[tsarisfanfiction]

Random prologue for a new muse that kicked me last night.  It was barely anything but then I mentioned it to @gumnut-logic and now oops I have a whole new fic in the works after she helped me make sense of this one mental image I had.  No idea how long it’ll take me to write or when I’ll post any more of it - this won’t be a daily update thing like Grounded was.  But it’s an idea, and it’s an idea I like.

Booted feet pounded in perfect synchronicity; around them rang the reverberations of military footwear against a harsh stone floor inlaid with metal.  No words were exchanged, discipline demanding silence as the platoon made its measured way to the cells deep down in the earth.  Deep, deep, down, where the only light came from flickering lights that hadn’t been serviced in years.  It didn’t matter; as long as they didn’t go out entirely, the lighting didn’t need to be state of the art.

That was the locks. Requiring three keys, a biometric scan and sixteen digit passcode known only to a single person, the large monstrosities gleamed a new, spotless silver in the flickering light.  No-one had ever successfully picked these locks, and each one was replaced between use.  The locks were neatly yet securely affixed to the dull metal of vertical bars, not yet rusty but well-used and powerful.

Between the bars spanned a wire mesh, alive with the quiet humming of electricity.  A current ran through the entire structure, strong enough to blow a fully grown man off of his feet if he touched it.  Their hands were gloved, insulated against the voltage. On the other side of the bars, there was no such protection.

No window, no air vent. Underground, there was no need for a window and all the required ventilation was outside of the bars.  A single grate in the floor, fused to stone, far away from the bars.  A metal frame, lumpy mattress and single threadbare blanket held the only occupant of the cell.

Blue uniform was smart, once.  A symbol of hope.  Determination.  Under the flickering light it looked almost grey, dark patches marring it randomly. Dirt, perhaps, except when the light hit it there was a distinct red tinct.  The man wearing it was hunched over, bare feet on the floor and ungloved hands loosely held in his lap.  Dark hair had lost all sense of style it might have once had.

It was the picture of a broken man.

“Food!”  The platoon came to a halt and a tray was shoved through a single flap.  A bowl of broth with a spoon and a cup of water.  It was ignored; but their job was done.  Booted feet trudged back the way they’d come, back to the surface and far, far away from the deeply buried GDF holding cells.

One pair stayed behind, their owner’s shoulders sagging at the sight in front of her.

Colonel Casey wasn’t the one with the sixteen digit passcode for the lock separating her from her godson. Even if she was, she couldn’t use it. Everything in her body was screaming at her that there was some mistake, but the proof said otherwise.  Until the situation was resolved, the young man was stuck in the cage like a criminal – not even a common one, but a dangerous one. One who couldn’t be permitted to even see the skies.

Fifty three people were confirmed dead.  A further eighteen had yet to be recovered but were presumed dead.  Of the twenty two survivors, nine had been unconscious and the remaining thirteen had all seen the same thing.

Scott Tracy had blown up a building – the same structurally compromised building International Rescue had been called to save the occupants of.  They’d saved twenty two people and then he’d found the trigger for the remaining explosives in the basement and set it off.

He’d come quietly when the GDF wrestled him into submission.  No fighting, no protesting.  No denial. To all observers, a guilty man.

Colonel Casey wondered if he’d have fought more if one of the fifty three confirmed dead wasn’t his own brother.  She’d seen that look on his face before, once before, after the Zero-X exploded in their faces and Colonel Tracy was never seen again.

Guilt.  Self-blame.

Colonel Casey didn’t believe Scott was responsible for what had happened.  If it was a mistake, it was one Scott would never have made.  If it was on purpose, it was still a decision Scott would never have made.  Not with his own brother inside.

The problem was, Scott considered himself guilty.  He hadn’t fought when they’d stripped him of his gear, leaving him with a deactivated flight suit, stained with blood and dirt.  The flight suit looked wrong without the baldric cutting across it, but that had been the first thing to go.  Bracers, greaves.  Gloves, boots.  All gone.

He’d always been difficult to read.  On the surface, he was stubborn and reckless and the most protective eldest sibling she’d ever met, but those were also his masks, hiding what was really running through his head.  She thought she knew him, but the man in front of her could have been a stranger.

“Scott.”  He didn’t respond, but she didn’t expect him to. He hadn’t said a word to any of them since he’d been brought in.  She wondered if he’d talk to a brother if he had the chance, but that chance was one he wouldn’t get.  No visitors allowed.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” she swore, and almost jumped when blue eyes met hers, the first reaction she’d seen since arriving at the danger zone to see hell on earth. They were dull, lifeless.  None of the defiant spark or ever-present love and determination lurking semi-concealed in their depths.  Dead eyes.

“What’s there to get to the bottom of?” he rasped, voice hoarse and throaty.  It sounded as though he’d screamed or cried himself raw, but he hadn’t. He’d been under constant surveillance since his arrest; this was the most independent movement he’d exhibited in the past twenty-four hours.  “I killed Virgil.”

If she’d thought his voice would break at his brother’s name, she was wrong.  It was stated plainly, like a fact.  There was no emotion leaking through, and she wondered just how broken he was.

That thought was brushed aside by his next words, a confession that threw everything into a new light and spawned many, many new questions alongside the ones they already had.

“And I don’t even remember doing it.”

tbc...

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #colonel casey #scott tracy #thunderangst

[ukdamo]

Towneleys of Towneley Hall

Yodamo

There is a place where poplars grow To the tune of nature’s thrall; Whose acres English Kings bestow Upon a bloodline’s noble flow, & so, my friends, we’ll come to know The Towneleys of Towneley Hall.

The grand, old mansion of Towneley Stands tall & ever holy; As in its tranquil sacristy, Come trace its noble history, Thro’ Lwlphus Cutwolfe’s ancestry To Spartinglas of Whalley.

The Towneleys are a noble breed, Knelt with monarchy, servile; Serving the Crown in debt & deed, From Agincourt to Berwick’s Tweed, At length they felt their fame did need A suitable stately pile.

The South Wing took a while to rise, Built from the bricks of Bowland; From turrets scraping sacred skies & glassy windows for proud eyes, Twas perfect place to praise & prize The all-surrounding moorland.

The country flows in valleys deep, Mid Pennine country raising; Where gorse & brier hug the steep, & reedy meadows feed the sheep, Where roses from the greaves slow creep To Turf Moor’s common grazing.

Sir Richard Towneley’s son was sent To the Collegiate at Rome; Twas there young Charles heard parliament Had struck the king with sore intent, Being loyal, of royal bent, Dropping books he hurries home.

Prince Rupert led his mighty force To Marston Moor in the rain, Charles Towneley charg’d his sable horse Bezerking like the war-craz’d Norse, Alas his luck has run its course, All mud-stuck he slid down slain.

That night his Mary reach’d the moor To find her husband’s body; Ploughing thro’ warfare’s awful gore, She found a figure sprawl’d on  floor, some sword-slash thro’ his broad chest tore & all his clothes were bloody.

She took her lov’d one to Towneley, & found their lands were forfeit; Being the price of loyalty, As Parliament seize property, Reducing noble ancestry As however they saw fit!

Despite the loss of many lands From Hapton up to Barley, The Royal Stuart still commands The Towneley’s passion, as it stands For loyalty, & joins the clans Adoring bonnie Charlie.

At Manchester Francis Towneley Met that young, bewitching smile; Joining the march down to Derby & back again, the enemy Hard at their heels, him desp’rately Was order’d to hold Carlisle.

His was a forlorn garrison, For Carlisle, of course, did fall; Off Francis carted to London, The gloom of Newgate’s doom-prison; After the axe his skull was won For the tombs at Towneley Hall

As Jacobites all fled to Rome, With them went this Charles Towneley, Inspired there by Saint Peter’s dome, Thro’ church & workshop he did comb & dug & bought & brought back home Soft treasures of Italy!

Now Peregrin, of noble heart, Takes up the seat at Towneley; In its long progress play’d great part, On renovations made a start, Placed his rare grandfather’s art In a plush, red gallery.

Now Burnley’s spreading up the hills, Abloom with church & chimneys; Whose rows of rooves & window sills, Hous’d thousands for the mines & mills, Whose smoke the valley mostly fills & only clears on Sundays.

All Burnley’s ever honest folks For the Colonel up their thumb; Charles Towneley was the best of blokes, Who shar’d their troubles & their jokes Whose Butterfly had won the Oaks – Enter chestnut Kettledrum.

In him all Burnley held high hope As he chases great Dundee; Racing for Towneley & the Pope, Round Tattenham he took the slope, With coasting force no horse could cope, His blaze first past the Derby.

Back north the news did swiftly steer Upon the wire electric; Saint Peter’s Bells began the cheer, Such was the spangling atmosphere That when the Bull gave out free beer All the town got paralytic.

Lady O’Hagan last to greet The morning moors round Towneley, As local councils voting meet Dissenting voices feel defeat, Eighteen thousand paid for the seat, For evermore, for Burnley.

Lands lovely add to Burnley’s streets Down Tod’ Road from Foldy Cross; Where scratch & scratchy golf competes By football & cross-country meets; Come picnic by the Hall’s fine treats & its grandiose emboss.

Friends, if you ever sense Towneley Twinkling in heart & soul; Start thinking of your fam’ly tree & trace your genealogy, You never know, you just might be A Towneley of Towneley Hall.

#towneley #towneley hall #family #heritage #ballad #poetry #yodamo #burnley

[akaluan]

Erich/Kisuke/Alexis: Soulmate AU + Character in Peril Part 6

They loot the camp, motions practiced and priorities already known. Intelligence, food and medical supplies, ammunition… nothing is left behind that they can use or adapt to use.

Erich slings a pack full of stolen papers across his back, settles his rifle in place, and waits for his men to be done.

He ignores all the Reaper’s attempts at speaking.

(The Reaper can learn to be patient like everyone else.)

(Bastard.)

***

The march back is grueling, burdened by supplies and exhausted by nearly twenty-four hours awake.

He loses track of the Reaper at some point.

He’ll worry about it later.

***

They don’t stop to rest at their previous camp. It’s too close to the enemy, too open for discovery, and Degurechaff had suggested ordering the men they left behind to pack it up.

Everything is ready to go by the time they make it back.

There’s no time to rest.

They keep marching.

***

Erich’s running on autopilot by the time they make it back to their base camp; he’s awake enough to give the correct orders and drop off his own burden, but little else.

Degurechaff all but orders him away in her own way; it’s not an order because he’s her commander, but it’s enough of one that he takes the opening and bows out of the proceedings.

He collapses gratefully into his bedroll and lets unconsciousness claim him.

***

“…tay away from him or so help me, I will carve politeness into your skull!”

“So heartless! I’m just here to help him sleep!”

“Help him sleep? The last time you tried, he attacked you. Learn some boundaries.”

Erich groans and rolls over, burying his head in his blankets. He doesn’t want to listen to Degurechaff and the Reaper argue any more.

“Sir, my apologies for waking you,” Degurechaff speaks, voice low and oddly hypnotic. “The Reaper is insisting on… helping. What would you like me to do?”

“I have a name, you know!”

“I don’t care,” Degurechaff snaps back.

“Make him go away,” he mumbles without thought.

He just wants the arguing to end.

The Reaper squawks in protest and then—

Silence.

He drifts off again.

***

The next time he wakes, there’s enough light in the tent to indicate morning and the sound of men moving around outside means he’s slept in.

Not that it feels like it.

He sits up with a sigh and scrubs at his face, trying desperately to wake up. He feels hungover, feels like he got no sleep at all, and—

His hands are trembling.

Erich stares blankly at his hands, watching his fingers shake with an odd, detached interest.

(He struck his soulmate.)

(He struck his Reaper soulmate.)

(He’s… still alive…?)

A mug is unceremoniously shoved at him and his hands reflexively close around it, accepting it from Degurechaff — Degurechaff? When did she show up…? — before she decides to retract the offer. It’s warm, grounding, and he takes a minute to appreciate the almost-normality of holding a cup of coffee in his hands. It might not be his preferred drink, but he’s grown accustomed to drinking it over the years.

“Thank you,” he murmurs before taking a sip, then pauses as the taste hits his tongue. He blinks down at it. Takes another sip, then another, savoring the taste of almost-correct coffee. If he ignores the faint edge to it, he can almost pretend it’s not ersatz coffee he’s drinking but real coffee.

“I have no idea how Visha does it, so don’t ask me,” Degurechaff says with a touch of amusement, her own cup held in one small hand. She settles on her bedroll and watches him for a moment, occasionally take a sip of her coffee. “It’s one of her hidden talents.”

“Like her talent at cards?” Erich asks dryly, remembering more than one occasion where he came across men on the losing side of Serebryakov’s card skills. He’s almost convinced that she’s a card sharp, but he’s also never spotted her cheating, which is good enough for him.

He’s benefited more than once from her stash of winnings, after all. He’s not about to cut off one of their best means of gaining luxuries if he can help it.

“That’s not exactly a hidden talent,” Degurechaff disagrees. “Everyone who hears about it just thinks she gets lucky and that they’ll certainly not lose to her.”

Erich snorts, conceding the point. His own men had that opinion too, until Serebryakov took them for everything they were worth.

(He could have intervened, but… really.)

(He would have thought his unit more intelligent than that.)

“We’re going to need to stay here for a few days,” Degurechaff says before the silence can stretch too long. She takes another sip of her coffee and glances up to Erich as she says, “The men need rest and our wounded need care.”

(You need rest, he hears.)

“So long as we’re safe, it should be fine,” Erich concedes without a fight. He’s tired and worn and empty in a way he’s rarely been, shaken by the previous two days and uncertain how to find his balance.

A few days without having to be on the move will be a blessing.

(Now if only he can figure out what to do about the Reaper…)

He sighs and takes another sip of coffee.

He’ll deal with it later.

(Why does it feel like he’s forgetting something…?)

***

Erich sets aside another stack of stolen papers and sits back to massage his hand. The mage battalion had more strategic information than he expected, including the latest encryption schema, which is a distinct relief. They’re not operating quite so blind for the moment, able to listen in on enemy transmissions, and so far everything is going well.

“Sir.”

He looks up and frowns at the sight of Degurechaff stalking towards his makeshift desk; she’s… not quite angry, but something’s put her on edge. “Colonel Degurechaff…?”

“Was there something you forgot to mention, sir?” she snaps as she halts in front of his desk and fixes him with a flat stare.

He pauses, feeling his frown deepening as he tries to think of what she’s referring to, and—

“Fuck.”

Amusement sparks in Degurechaff’s gaze. “I take it you remembered,” she says dryly.

Erich sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “My apologies, Colonel Degurechaff. I had intended to inform you yesterday when I became certain of it, but…”

“I understand, sir. Other things got in the way.” Her lips quirk up in a tiny, wry smile, and she taps her right hand against her thigh in indication. Before he can do more than nod, though, she continues on, “Regardless, there’s currently a woman at the edge of the camp who says she’s Alexis von Rerugen and that it’s her right as your soulmate to see you.”

“We probably shouldn’t keep her waiting, then,” Erich says as he pushes himself to his feet. There’s a coil of anticipation in his stomach, a touch of relief like he’s finally able to breathe after too long holding his breath. He hasn’t seen Alexis in months, ever since the Empire started to truly crumble and he… he’s happy.

The situation is a mess, she’s in more danger here than almost anywhere else, but the mere thought of her presence is a relief.

(He finally doesn’t have to do everything alone.)

(She’s here, she’s here, she’s here—)

Degurechaff falls into step with him as they duck out of his tent, subtly guiding him towards where Alexis is. Not that he entirely needs it, not this close, not with her soulmark burning strength-determination-love all up his left side and across his back.

The sight of her is like a lantern in the darkness.

She’s wearing modified Quincy war-gear, mottled greys and stone blues instead of white and dark blue, the cloth covered by the simplest style of their armor; it’s just a chest plate, greaves, and arm-guards, but it’s more than plenty against most Hollows.

That she’s decided to don it says plenty about the current state of things beyond his reach.

She has her favored reflex bow tied to her pack and his spare rifle slung across her shoulder, with a pistol hanging from her belt. He can spot at least one supply of ammunition on her in easy reach, and he has no doubt she has more secreted away and extra in her pack. She looks as dangerous as he knows she is and—

It’s such a relief.

“Erich!” she says as soon as she spots him, her eyes lighting up and her smile growing. “It’s good to see you.”

Erich gives his wife the dry look that deserves, but steps closer and waves his men aside. “She’s who she claims to be,” he tells them as he reaches out. Catches her hand and—

Yelps as he’s yanked in, colliding with her armored chest as she wraps him in an almost too tight bear-hug.

“Alexis!”

The men snicker as they disperse, and he can already hear the rumors starting. Hopefully it won’t be too harmful to his reputation.

Hopefully.

(Ugh.)

Degurechaff coughs, a pointed indication that she’s waiting for him, and he pries himself free of Alexis’ hug with reluctance. She’s facing away from him when he turns around, hands clasped behind her back and head tilted a bit up, as if she’s praying for patience.

(He supposes it wouldn’t be the first time.)

(How she’s put up with him lately is a mystery, if he’s being honest…)

“Apologies, Colonel. If I may introduce you, this is my soulmate and wife, Alexis von Rerugen. Alexis, this is my current second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Tanya von Degurechaff,” he says, hoping that Degurechaff won’t take offense at Alexis like she’s taken offense to the Reaper.

(At least Alexis is polite.)

(Usually.)

“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Degurechaff says with a nod, turning back around to face them. She pointedly sweeps her gaze over Alexis’ gear. “If I may ask…”

“I know how to use everything I’m carrying. Our family has long been a believer in training everyone to protect themselves,” Alexis says with amusement. She steps up to Erich’s side and takes his left hand in her right, pressing their wrists together. There’s layers of fabric and armor between them, but he can still feel the hum of their matched soulmarks so close together.

(He wishes she wasn’t wearing armor, even if he understands her reasoning…)

(He just… wants to feel her touch against his skin.)

“Yeah, I bet,” Degurechaff mutters, voice barely loud enough for Erich to catch.

Alexis snorts and flashes Degurechaff a sharp grin. “Got read in, I take it?”

Degurechaff stares up at her for a long, thoughtful moment, then nods sharply and turns on her heel. “Might I suggest we take this back to your tent, sir?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Erich says, squeezing Alexis’ hand and pulling strength from her presence. “Lead on, Colonel.”

(Alexis’ presence doesn’t solve anything, but…)

(He already feels better with her at his side.)

(Maybe they can do this.)

(Together.)

#soulmate au #alexis von rerugen #erich von rerugen #tanya von degurechaff

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 8650

Engenderd— think the west,  that sting,—and I and  Time will cries; the fair,  or if he wish, and  balcony, by gentleness  will have dined, a  very crime remains: ye  rugged tree, be it  is words but a fine younger  men of his bold see  the king; they proportion  was what might yet  used for a meal— the 

people of the  stuffs, the captain waits  meet in the plain roofs  as patient slumbers dwindle  at thy voice by heart, I lose my  life that glance hath no great Socr ates a brazen greaves borne  Muscovite flotilla getting  up the hollys  shadowing like pretty dears, and  innocence as somethinks  we may remains: and  do not; I would do the  most sweetly on thy  lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi  marchd with a wonder  heel where he spent a  sweet suburban girl, shes youth as  if “t were swarm at  ever instead of slaughter  of the water was  drest hath be  used us thrones, ‘Our 

landing two? -White, greatest  he that sin by solemn light!’  Margaret! Called  on delights from the  Prince, beak and speak. By mowing  less kind: but I in me  has twa sparkling  chariots of winning smile,  if fate some odd angle myself  to pass me by inch,  for that: which to  the could be,  yet, in life, from please address  is my faire w hen he had the  time, O passionate cry, full of  pleasure, nor in the  rugged tree, all things? (It  said my soul regains its place  is opning roguish penitence  should give a nose for  a white crowd, then in  after party is crying  roguish een.” Yet a colt—  thundring them free.”) Show me take,  breathes a bear my soul, and  glory prick us on  the house feels it, “sdeath! 

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #203 texts

[crqstalite]

sidereal. [andronikos && mierrio]

(adjective: glittering with gold and silver)

i did another kotfe chapter. because i finally accidentally saw the andronikos reunion and wanted to cry. a man who hijacks ships to find you again, is the best man in the whole damn galaxy.

oh, and mierrio got a redesign! here’s her pinterest board <<

written: 9.11.19. words: 4,453

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ character song: in the end, 2wei ft. edda hayes

character file: mierrio revel, darth nox.

-

"what was that?" mierrio's ears perk up once the conversation becomes quieter, and a certain word stands out to her, and raises from where she was sitting. "you've found what?"

"we captured one of the raiding pirates recently. i believe hylo's with him. i intend to go and question him in but a moment." pretta answers, lazily flickering an eye over to her as she glares at kal and theron, who are both looking quizzically at a datapad.

mierrio doesn't particularily like the imperial chiss, but since she'd been recruited to the alliance after the war that separated her from her crew, she's learned to listen and accept orders. well, that's a small white lie, mierrio doesn't follow anyone's rules but her own. that's an even bigger lie, only she and pretta butt heads as much as she and kal do. typically over the smallest things, but mierrio still finds her rather annoying with how she preaches imperial tactics to them. the sith in question couldn't care less about the state of the war at this point, and makes it known with her offhanded comments. mierrio has overheard the barsen'thor and colonel speaking at length about her controversial decisions. she figures there may be a mutiny soon if kal doesn't take over again.

and everyone tends to forget she is sith, after she shaved her hair with an undercut in a fit of anger before she went awol and left the rest atop her head. she doesn't wear the robes of the sith anymore either, a spacer jacket and greaves finished off with a pilfered belt and combat boots, she's figuring no one from her old life would recognize her. at least, not until she shocks the life out of some poor zakuulan and they all spontaneously recall that yes, she can still murder you with a double bladed lightsaber and magenta lightning in pilot's armor.

the wrath does, however. she'd been brought back to her (pitiful) existence after marr's ship combusted. thankfully (thankfully?), they don't fight nearly as much as they once did. separated from her imperial fanatic of a husband (by the stars, the man's ideals would fit in nicely with lana's, but his personality would drive them all up the wall), her own morals have come into question. she rarely if ever fights with the double bladed swords at her hips and has chosen to take up duel wielding pistols. (she still uses the force, maybe more than she used to, and is better for cover fire than actually aiming at things. she's a horrid shot.) she raises an eyebrow before continuing to levitate a few crates for the brunette mercenary and heading away. "a pirate?"

"that's what i said, yes." pretta reaffirms as her grip on her own datapad visibly strengthens as theron steps ever closer to the other azure agent. "i can't figure why he's important though. he won't talk."

"that's a bit odd. doubt it's from my days." hyrenne says, musing as she leans against pretta, snaking her arms around her waist. pretta visibly shivers and steps out of the togruta female's grasp. the bronze female frowns, but regulating herself to stand next to the commander instead. hyrenne was rather touchy with the commander, and clearly made her uncomfortable.

and had yet to be told off directly. or stop. "i didn't spend much time with pirates."

"yes, i'm aware." pretta deadpans, as she continues on.

"most surrounded myself with sith, fallen jedi, sometimes the occasional spacer-"

"-and your husbands, yes we know this story already, hyrenne." the passing colonel says, rolling her eyes as she pulls off her helmet (the woman has as much hair as a wampa, and just a thick from the looks of it). as much as mierrio would like to say something snippy, she doesn't because the soldier has a point. everyone on base knows this story, how she'd romanced a sith, and then a fallen jedi, and then they'd fallen for each other. it's a rather boring and clipped story, and she's praying hyrenne didn't either force herself on two gay men, or her husbands are very fictional.

well, hoping is a strong word. lana and tri'ama technically owe her twenty credits each if they don't hear from the men in the next two years.

"hmph. well, i didn't tie myself down before i nearly died, so it's fine." she grins, as pretta looks away very quickly. it's been like this for a long while, and hyrenne hasn't yet gotten the hint pretta is not lesbian or interested.

"is there anything special about this pirate that made you take him in?" mierrio speaks up over whatever the ignorant togruta was about to say. pretta looks nearly relieved by the distraction as mierrio's heart begins to quicken as she reminds herself to slow down and reason. it couldn't be him, not after all this time away.

"he's been a thorn in our side for much too long. we believe this is the ringleader we've been attempting to catch for maybe a year now. i might as well go now if you're so curious." she says, quickly stepping out of the two foot radius that hyrenne has nearly locked her in. she nearly looks grateful as hyrenne ambles away. "let me gather my things, yes?"

there was no time left for discussion as pretta nearly bolted out the door and down the hall, presumably to her own quarters. mierrio figured she was ready for travel, lightsaber clipped to her belt (rather hidden with her blaster), and zipped her jacket up the front. maybe she should put on her gloves, to keep her hands from chafing on the blasted thing.

but as much as she tries to distract herself from the thought, she wonders if she's coming full circle. biting down on her lip, she tries to think about space, about everything that needs to be done, about trade contracts. about what she's going to eat for dinner today, anything but the pirate she's coming face to face with. anything but the hope that it's him.

anything but. how she needs a small shave along the undercut, how she needs to brush out the smaller hairs so that it doesn't look as if she has wind burn. how she should start doing her makeup again because she has the time and she's not fighting an empire anymore. how maybe she can start doing gold accents in her armor again.

how maybe she doesn't need that knife anymore.

how she doesn't need to think about how her face felt against his rough jawline.

how she doesn't need to think about how it felt to be back to back with him, firing lightning out of her fingertips as easily as he could shoot point blank and take down a row of fighters. how her pale face could be covered in blood from stars knew where and he'd still kiss her roughly before carting her off to bed. how it didn't matter what had happened the day before, but he'd still tell her he loved her.

her feet are still carrying her towards the landing pad, but she's a million light years away.

"what're you planning, andronikos?" she asks, a questioning look in her eyes. she's curious, as he shuts the door behind her and the stars twinkle back at her through the viewport. "you've been rather spontaneous lately."

"i've been spontaneous, yeah?" he asks, his gruff voice sending shivers up her spine as she turns to face the pirate. "just you wait."

mierrio's rarely if ever scared when he plans odd things like this. he claims the spot as the only man in the galaxy she trusts fully. pacing closer to him, she's stopped as he presses a button near the door.

and she's weightless.

gravity has ceased to function in the cockpit as she nearly shrieks in fear, crying out as her feet leave the ground. she rolls forward by accident as she foolishly tries to get a hand on the ground. andronikos has the nerve to chuckle through her confusion. "and how long have you known the fury had this function?" she says breathlessly, trying to reaffirm she's just fine and won't float out of arm length of her husband.

"while i was poking around the engine compartment." he says, reaching out for her as propels himself forward, lacing hands with her as he passes by. "by accident, at first. this time, completely on purpose."

she rolls her eyes, but sinks into him. if anything, it calms her rather quickly, finally having an anchor in the madness. "and what exactly are you trying to prove, other than that i don't know my own ship?"

"beats me. just a little fun i wanted to poke at you." he answers as she raises her gaze to his eyes. his joking face fades just a bit, but his features still soften. "happy anniversary, sith."

she grins. he had remembered, and she'd spent the day wondering whether he'd forgotten. (given, she had until two days ago) "happy anniversary to you too, you lunk-headed pirate." she says sarcastically as she laughs herself, moving her arms from where they'd been grasping his forearms to around his neck.

"what, don't like your gift?"  he asks teasingly, his hands wandering further up from where they were resting around her waist. he knows she adores anything he retrieves for her (she never explicitly stated that included making her float like a children's balloon, but she digresses.), and doesn't need the reassurance as much anymore. however, the self deprecation pokes through every so slightly sometimes.

"i love the gift, and i love you, andronikos." she says, giggling as they float in front of the viewport. it just barely mirrors them against the durasteel, her hair floating wildly about as her robes pool around her. this, is the only place in the galaxy she'd want to be. in the arms of her husband as he pulls some new stunt that just makes her love him more than she already did. "just warn me next time."

"good to know." he murmurs, before kissing her softly. "i love you, mierrio."

it's not the first time he's said it, but from the way he used to talk about being tied down to one location, one job, one occupation, one person. it made her nervous in the beginning as she tried to withdraw from the first relationship she'd ever had once she realized he was only using her. or so she thought.

she'd give anything to have their anniversary nights back. anything to have the feeling of safety, of warmth against her chest, around her again. to have his hands in her hair, to have his hands wandering her pale skin in search of her scars and bruises. to be able to wake up to his brown eyes instead of some cathar yelling marching orders in the morning (kal still won't provide her with her own quarters. she can't be held responsible if someone in their barracks -a certain captain jorgan- won't lose their head in a fit of force-fueled anger)

she shakes her head, trying to clear her mind and seem relaxed as pretta arrives, hair done back in a severe bun (mierrio's convinced she has gel on hand, or that chiss make it naturally) that shines in the sunlight. she's wearing her imperial uniform again (odd, considering she's no longer aligned with the empire; or so she says), and her red eyes are pinned on her as she walks in what seems like a military marching order. "are you ready to depart, my lord?"

"as i've said, you do not have to refer to me as such, commander." she says, checking her pockets in case she's left something important in the crew quarters. with nothing to be found but her fingerless gun gloves, she inhales and then exhales before falling in step with her, slipping them on. "let us go and question this radical."

"as you wish." she answers, quickly marching up the outstretched plank. both heading to the cockpit, pretta flicks on all the required flight switches as mierrio takes the pilot's seat. all the lessons received by him, did do her some good.

she wishes it were him in the co-pilot seat as she hears the engines roar to life. adjusting her hands on the controls, she's steels her emotions for the trip ahead.

mierrio prays that it's andronikos.

she tries to prepare herself for the fact that it may not be.

-

it's rather cold when they arrive, as she tightens her jacket around herself and re-adjusting her gloves. blowing a strand of hair out of her face, she tries slicking the dark hair back so that it doesn't get in her face while they are here..

nervous tics, here and there. pretta punches in the code to the ship, and they pass through the airlock, soldiers on either side of the door as pretta nods to them. they stand rigidly back in place, heads facing forward.

mierrio finds it odd, how she once had them at her mercy all those years ago. then they were the ones who took her in.

to say the least, the armored guards make her quite a bit jumpy as she hurries to catch up the alliance commander. "you said you may know this man?" pretta turns to her, vermillion red eyes locking onto her own amber orbs.

"i'm not sure." mierrio answers, blaster clanging against her lightsaber's hilt. "possibly."

"hmph." pretta gives a disapproving glance in her direction before choosing against saying something. "let me enter first, in case this turns violent."

"that may be a bit backwards, commander. shouldn't i go in first then?" she hurriedly asks as she can hear muffled conversation beyond the corner they were about to round. one of the lights flicker as she walks under it, and she rubs her hands against the thigh of her pant leg, trying to put out the literal nervous energy she's evoking.  "in case it is dangerous?"

"i'll fight my own battles, my lord." she retorts, holding her head high and cutting the conversation quick. mierrio tries to shrug it off before she says something that'll get her arrested, kicked from the alliance or both. or worse. mierrio's been threatened that way before, and as much as she despises this commander, she stays because she has nowhere else to go.

she hasn't even seen kavelle in the years past. her third and final apprentice before the eternal fleet attacked, she wonders where the girl ended up. possibly she met up with ashara, khem val or xalek after she'd heard of her so-called death. possibly she struck out on her own and carved a path through republic space.

or died in a fiery ball of a combustion.

the possibilities were endless.

"wait here." pretta stops her just before the last door, and presses a code in that mierrio just barely catches. the door slides open, awaiting her entrance. "let me speak to hylo and this pirate first."

but why? her subconciousness cries out before pretta disappears. her voice catches in her throat before she can stick her booted foot in the door, and it snaps shut in a comfirming snick. frowning, the door closes just as she catches a glance of the golden electrical fence, and two people standing inside. there's nothing much else to do other than wait for the commander's return, but childishly, she discreetly leans against the durasteel wall, hoping to catch their conversation.

she doesn't. it seems that though they were rather loud earlier, whoever is inside has quieted down.

"i'd never go down without a fight, especially if it meant getting you out alive sith."

her heart pangs in defeat. had andronikos gotten himself captured by accident? what if it had been wrongly, trying to protect someone he cared about?

the what ifs were going to drive her mad.

nipping at the exposed skin on her fingers, her nails graze the bruises on her nose and the freshly scarred cut along the cupid's bow of her lip. hissing in pain as she pulls the offending hand away, she paces around the checkpoint. she counts the steps it takes to get to the corner and back, she walks in time like how she'd seen the commander do so. she quizzes herself on the trade routes lana was bound to ask her about again, she tries to name everyone by their full name (she still doesn't remember the gruff golden twi'lek's name, nor does she remember she remember the mercenary's either). anything to get her mind off what was happening on the other side of those blast doors.

"and who's to say i won't miss you when you come back?" she remembers asking, holding him up as he limps back to the fury. "who's to say i won't hunt down who's killed you?"

"can't say i'll stop you." he chuckled, nearly doubling over coughing up his lungs, "whoever kills me should get a medal, then the death sentence."

maybe this is all because she needs to sleep more often. mierrio has been missing out on crucial sleeping hours, trying to get accustomed to the eternal empire's time, which is not imperial standard time, nor is republic standard time either. maybe it's the insomnia that plagues her. maybe it's the ghost of a chance she may get caught again by the imperials for her crimes.

maybe it's because on the off-chance that she can see her husband again, he may not recognize her after all that's happened.

after everything. after the nights alone, finding the fury nearly intact. but empty. devoid of laughter, devoid of love. devoid of emotion.

devoid of her family.

of ashara and xalek, who she feels that though only years separate them, that they've grown up as her children. slowly training them to be sith, to be as powerful as they possible can.

of khem val, who though their partnership started off rocky, trusted with her life. who she felt as if she could turn to at any point in her life, and one of the few people who could translate his dashade language.

of talos, who while odd, was always interested in holding conversation. obscure or otherwise, his personality brightened the fury when the others we gone.

of andronikos.

the door slides open again, and mierrio's stands up a bit straighter, pulling herself away from the wall so it didn't look nearly as suspicious as it once did. pretta looks rather agitated, and rubs her temples as the door remains open. "has something gone wrong, commander?"

"i am not fully sure who this man is, or why he is here. if you'd like to speak to him before i shoot him out the airlock, you may." pretta responds, visibly gritting her teeth as she tries putting herself back together. angry isn't typically the vibe she gives off, but whoever it was must've struck a nerve or annoyed her to no end. pretta doesn't have a threshold for stupidity or a capacity to be annoyed, so this person may not be andronikos.

her mood drops immediatly, facing that reality. that it may not be him, and she may have gotten her hopes up for nothing.

she's thirty four years old, not four, she shouldn't be trapped in this cycle of wanting and facing reality. "then i should be in and out."

"good. i've got things to do back on base." pretta says distractedly. "if you need hylo to leave, just ask her. torture him or whatnot, i don't intend to keep him."

a bit concerned for her commander's state of mental health, she walks through the door. it shuts behind her and that small noise propels her forward. no longer in a leisurely jog, she walks just a bit too fast for it to be normal. she can hear talking rather clearly now, and her heart picks up the pace as well.

annie.

"i ain't tellin' you nothin." she hears, and she rushes forward faster.

nikky.

she stops just before the door, hylo arguing back with him as the guardians nod at her, the electric door opening. hylo turns away from him for just a moment, frowning. "so then the commander sent you in to deal with him, yeah?"

mierrio intends to answer her first, but the shocked expression on andronikos' face is enough to make the words freeze on her lips. he shakes his head, like as if he's going mad. "i've seen enough ghosts for a lifetime..." he trails off.

"guessing you two know each other?" hylo questions again. mierrio barely wants to take her eyes off him long enough to nod. she's afraid if she stops acknowledging his existence, he'll be gone like it was a dream. the mirialan gives her an odd look before leaving, and then there they are.

alone together.

"i thought you were dead." is all he can manage to say, looking her up and down. "i thought i'd lost you."

mierrio reaches out for one of his hands, looking at the outstretched limb before really looking at him. her heart is beating out of her chest as she nearly cries. six years. six long years, and yet here he is. stubble is peaking out here and then, and new scars decorate his face. a new armor set that has dings here and there. "it's you. you came back for me." she whispers, lacing her fingers into his.

she's shaking as she makes this realization, other hand buzzing at her side with unrelenting energy. she's willing the lightning not to short out the lights in here as well. "i thought i'd never see you again."

he chuckles darkly, "i could say the same." he ruffles her hair affectionately, "didn't know you shaved it all off."

"things happen." mierrio responds, "i hadn't known you'd taken up piracy again."

"i didn't know you were with the eternal empire." he counters.

"alliance." she corrects him, "we're the alliance now."

"yeah." he's quiet for a moment, "you fit the bill, i guess."

"what's that supposed to mean?" she asks quizzically, knowing full well what he's talking about. a rebellious group warranted a change in his book apparently. well, in hers as well.

she doesn't want him to stop talking. what if she blinks, and he's gone?

"new hair, new style, new friends, new ship. it's a good look for you." she smiles, smoothing out her hair and running her sweaty fingertips through it. it does seem as if everything is new since the last time they'd seen each other. "hoping that means you don't have a new me somewhere out there too."

"never." she responds, tripping over the word to reassure him. replacing him is the furthest thing from her mind. nothing could fill the void that andronikos left in her life, in her heart. to think he'd suggest such an absurd thing, fills her with panic as she stutters through her thoughts. "i'd never replace you, andronikos." she pauses, putting her other hand in his. "we're in each other's orbits until the stars grow cold."

he seems surprised she still remembers that, eyes widening until they crinkle at the edges. that's new, possibly with age. it just makes her love him more, as a smile emerges among his features. "we're in each other's orbits until the stars grow cold." he repeats back to her. "i love you, mierrio."

"i love you too, andronikos." she says, before standing on her toes and embarassingly failing to reach his lips. she doesn't wear heeled boots like she once did, so the staggering height difference is increased. he chuckles, letting her suffer for a moment before bending just a bit to allow their lips to touch. mierrio hasn't been kissed in years, and they'd both be lying if they said they weren't quite a bit more aggressive than they needed to be. however, neither seems to care as their lips crash against one another again and again. she just can't get enough of her husband after being away from each other for so long. her body cries out to feel his touch again, shivers running up and down her spine. once they have to pull away to breathe, she speaks again "you'll never leave my side again, understood?"

"your wish is my command, my lord." he responds jokingly as she untangles herself from him. "when you cut your hair? it was so long before."

"little while before i got arrested." she says, attempting to avoid the conversation that's about to ensue. her little stint in piracy could be ignored for the moment. "we should get going."

"arrested? you?" he asks incredulously as he follows her out, hylo and pretta most likely on the other side of the blast doors. "my sith wife got arrested. on what charges?"

"we'll discuss this matter later, andronikos." she says, face heating.

"fine then." he shrugs, before planting another kiss on her lips before she opens the doors. "i'll never leave you again."

"that's good to hear." mierrio responds, sheepishly smiling at pretta when they azure agent turns to her from hylo. clearing her throat, she calms her racing heart for just a moment as andronikos waits just behind her. "we're taking him with us."

"what?" pretta cocks a suspicious eyebrow in confusion. "he's a prisoner of the eternal alliance."

"he's my husband." mierrio deadpans, stalking past them both as she takes andronikos' hand and heads back the way they'd come earlier towards the airlock. "refuse this, and you refuse me from the alliance."

hylo, nor pretta say anything on the return trip, allowing both her and andronikos to take the controls of the ship. they talk a lot on the round trip back, smiling and laughing as they explain the years in between their last talk. the scars they've gained, the laughs they've had, the times they've cried. the friends they've made and lost.

even once they reach base again, they're still talking long after hylo and pretta leave to go about business as usual. it's dark once they run out of things to say, andronikos' hands combing through what hair she has left, and her head laying against his chest as she sits atop him in the captain's chair. to hear his heart beat beneath her ears, it feels good. it feels like the last few years have just been a collective fever dream, and that any time she'll wake up on the fury.

but, she'll make the most of what's happening now. she has her husband back, and life continues on. whatever happens, the revels will be here for it.

i love you, more than anything.

#swtor #star wars the old republic #swtor oc #star wars #oc #original character #fanfiction #swtor fanfiction #swtor fanfic #andronikos revel #female sith inquisitor #female sith inquisitor/andronikos revel #kotfe #knights of the fallen empire

[brightbeautifulthings]

The Boy on the Bridge by M.R. Carey

"She thinks: all journeys are the same journey, whether you know it or not, whether you're moving or not. And the things that look like endings are all just stations on the way."

Year Read: 2018

Rating: 3/5

Context: The Girl With All The Gifts is so near a perfect book, I want to teach it in a classroom about how great novels are put together. It's tied with Alden Bell's The Reapers Are The Angels for my favorite zombie novel ever. I wasn't expecting a sequel, but I guess it's inevitable that Carey would want to do more to explore his fascinating post-apocalyptic world. I hate to spend most of a review measuring one book against another, but it's possible that anything after TGWATG was only going to suffer by comparison. Trigger warning: ableism.

About: In a prequel to The Girl With All The Gifts, a group of soldiers and scientists from Beacon, one of the last human strongholds left standing in Britain against the hungries (a fungal-infected class of zombies that have overrun most of the world), set out to collect samples in a desperate attempt to find something that can stand against the infection. They have Rosie, an armored tank/trailer equipped with its own lab and flamethrowers, but they're about to encounter an adversary even more deadly than the hungries.

Thoughts: There are few things wrong with this book that more time on the editing floor couldn't have fixed. The Girl With All The Gifts had the benefit of an amazing, original main character (among other things), and the first major problem with The Boy on the Bridge is that it doesn't--but not because there isn't one. Stephen Greaves, a fifteen-year-old genius who falls somewhere on the autism spectrum, has the potential to be every bit as interesting a main character as Melanie. His chapters are easily the most compelling: he's incredibly smart, he notices everything, and for all that he shuns human contact, he's better at interpreting Rosie's crew than they are themselves. Like Melanie, he could also serve as a focal point for the rest of the characters; they are, in part, defined by how they react to him or how they change their perceptions of him over time, but this is never explored in any depth. I can't understand why the entire novel isn't told from his perspective.

Instead, we're subject to all the petty soap opera dramas of half a dozen characters. I can't express how much I don't care who Dr. Samrina Khan's baby daddy is or why Lieutenant McQueen hates Colonel Carlisle. Can we please get back to Greaves's discovery of the hungry children? Because that's obviously where the story is. For one thing, there are too many characters aboard Rosie to even bother keeping track of; they're mostly there so the body count is higher later on. For another, few of them are adequately developed. Initially, McQueen reminded me of Sergeant Parks from TGWATG, in the way that he's an asshole with a few redeeming qualities, but when it comes time to develop his character--is he going to take the opportunity to kill Carlisle or not?--the narrative shifts inexplicably away from him. We have no idea why he does or doesn't do anything in the second half of the novel. Instead, Lieutenant Foss's character takes over, and while she's a badass who turns out to be one of my favorite characters, I don't understand where she was in the first half of the novel. Structurally, it's kind of a mess with few signals telling us who to pay attention to. The book tries to take on too many perspectives and ultimately does justice to few of them. We’re also subjected to a lot of ableism in other characters calling Greaves “The Robot” and frequently making him out to be less than human, which is never adequately criticized on the page.

The world-building in TGWATG is exquisite, and that carries over here. There are very few hungry scenes, but the hungry children serve just fine as a frightening adversary. They have all the benefits of a zombie with the terrifying addition of being able to calculate their moves, and their scenes are all the more tense for the fact that they might have gone well. I like the way the novel better explores the culture of the hungry children and takes up Dr. Caldwell's mantle in searching for a cure--or why there can never be one. I don't know that it's adding anything vital to the world-building, since the ending of TGWATG is utterly satisfying in itself, but it's interesting for zombie fans.

The end scene is grim and entertaining but doesn't quite make the rest of the slog worth it. The real payoff of this novel is the epilogue, where characters from TGWATG reappear to interact with the survivors. (Cue fangirl screeching.) While The Boy on the Bridge fails on a number of levels, I won't mind at all if Carey decides to pick things up from there and write a third novel. Second books in trilogies are notoriously bad, after all.

#book review #the boy on the bridge #m.r. carey #the girl with all the gifts #3/5 #rating: 3/5 #2018 #horror fiction #zombie fiction #horror #zombies #tw: ableism

[harlockauxillia30k-blog]

Old Junk part 2

OOC, kind of. This story could actually still be completely canon. Since it has Palanquin, its set somewhere near the end of the pre-heresy crusade. When I penned this the idea of the centauri and harlock himself were both completely raw and unrefined.

2nd centauri star rifles

-grenadier (life guards?)

-better armed/equipped/trained than standard

 ///

‘Still alive, Harlock?’

A portly general waddled over to the captain, bedecked in all the regalia of his station.

Harlock immediately and crisply saluted, then bowed.

“It is an honour you recall this captain’s name, lord.”

“Humpf. Come, the ball is waiting.”

 Harlock walked in and felt immediately, somehow, far too old for this venture. His newly woven fine captains uniform stood in stark contrast to the centuries etched into his gradually thinning features, appearing positively gangly now from so long in space and one too many campaigns without proper logistics. The permenant bags under his eyes chafed somewhat at the application of powders to help conceal them, and he could feel the distant throb of arthritis in the joints of his legs as he watched young officers waltz and weave through the immense ship-board ballroom.

“I order you to enjoy yourself Harlock. Your units performance on Tector IV made it even to the eyes of our Astartes legionaires.”

Harlock casually glanced over at the representative of the lords in question, an Imperial Fist captain by the name of Allonzo Ruiz; his tanned complexion standing out among a throng of spacers.

Harlock nodded at the general. “Many thanks, General Adolfus. I will do that” and in so doing, walked down the spiral staircase. Naturally, at the sight of a medal, or upon seeing him discuss with the general, a fair maiden struck like a knife towards him, glimmering in a gold dress which featured miraculously expensive ‘spirit-weave’ that appeared perpentually caught up in an astral wind as sashes and the like twirled about her slowly.

“My lady…” Harlock said, tipping an invisible hat out of reflex, but altering his course to avoid the troublesome woman.

“Good sir, a word please. I couldn’t help but notice your discussion with the general. I do say sir you appear a fine catch for one such as I. Might I offer you a dance? I have heard upon terra it is becoming popular for the women to propose…”

“I’m sure the terran ladies do have experience with such things.” Harlock grumbled, his sharp mind growing dull at the thought of dedicating more time to this harlot.

“Quite. The dance, then?”

The woman took the temporarily distracted captains hand and led him to the ballroom floor. Harlock’s mind fell into a lapse as muscle memory performed a rather adequate waltz, drilled into him by years of training at a young age.

“My name is Vermillion Rose. But you may call me Rosie, if you prefer such low-gothic vernacular.”

“Fascinating.” Harlock twirled her around, and mentally stripped and re-assembled a las-gun.

“…And what is your name, sir?”

Just then, as the song ended, a true hero of the imperium arrived. “Captain Harlock! Good to see you here! The colonel would have a word. And who might this be? What a fine dress my lady! Is it a Saturn design-“

And like that, Major Augustus Greave relieved Harlock of the first of many of tonight’s living mines that so many insisted be called ‘the fairer sex.’

Harlock muttered a not unfeeling ‘thanks for the reinforcement’ toward the charismatic major and sorted himself through the maze of figures dignitaries and officers until he came upon the Astartes captain, and Colonel Tark Palanqin. Harlock immediately saluted, his hawkish features looking every part the model inbred noble hero of the imperium.

“Harlock. Good on you for holding the rearguard. Your name came up in conversation. The Astarte here would have a brief word.” The colonel said, somewhat dismissively. Palanqin was one of several unfortunate political enemies Harlock maintained. Harlock bore no real hatred for the man- giving his company the high risk assignments out of a mission list was one thing, and intentionally trying to kill his own men was quite another thing altogether. It was almost routine at this point, that Harlock’s company would be saddled with the hard assignments. Accepted.

The Astarte nodded, and Harlock immediately saluted.

“Sir.” Harlock said, with arguably as much if not more veneration for the super-soldier than he had mustered for the general, a change noticed even in the timbre of his voice. This man was a marine. Respect was demanded.

“I watched your defense. For common men, it was sturdy.” Captain Ruiz said, sizing up the comparatively toothpick-sized figure before him.

“This humble Auxilliary would know if his battle plan could be improved upon.” Harlock said, with genuine reverence. The Fists knew more about holding ground than anyone else- living or dead. Harlock was a man ever willing to prostrate himself in order to secure knowledge.

“Your right flank lacked sufficient fortification, your soldiers aim and use of suppressive fire was undisciplined, and the formation as a whole was critically understaffed. It was why I was impressed you held. Against such weaknesses, it required good command to hold the lines.”

Ruiz shifted his eyes to the colonel. “Which was why I was curious about the manpower part of the equation.”

The colonel, surprised to be included here, blinked. “Most of it had been evacuated lord.”

Ruiz shook his head. “That particular position demanded two companies of auxillia, or about three squads of Marines to hold competently against possible threats. Had that fort fallen during your retreat into orbit, our enemies could have broken the cordon and assaulted our logistics bases and supply depots- of both the legion and your auxillia. I’ve already written the report on what I witnessed. I merely need a name to pin the possible disaster upon.

Harlock cursed within his mind.

“That would be my fault, sir. I should have requested another company assist in the defense” Harlock said quickly, hoping to diffuse the situation. Such self flaggelation was common practice. It would not due for a nobleman to pass his blame, and moreover, the marine was correct; he should have filed the request. However, doing so would have invariably been countered by Palanqin- so there had been no need to busy himself in such a fashion.

Ruiz raised an eyebrow. “It is strange not to see the both of you attempt to curb responsibility. An honourable trait.”

Ruiz nodded, and apparently satisfied with his answer, turned to leave; his part in this pageantry apparently concluded.

Palanqin stepped forward. “Whatever happens, be it demotion or transfer, I am impressed you held that position, Harlock. You have my thanks for retaining your force strength, I look forward to replacing you.”

The old flame, hate, licked at Harlock’s heart. But he suppressed it with a caustic biting ice of acceptance.

“I suppose so. I shall ready my things and await the Legion’s judgement.”

The next day, an orderly delivered Harlock’s punishment; inclusion in the first wave of the planetary assault of Kell’s Reach. Harlock was quietly puzzled by the honour.

***

 “Five minutes till landfall sir.”

“thank you tech sergeant. The latest?”

“The dropsite is presently secured sir. Astartes drop pods are destabilizing the line. With your arrivial we will be one of the first companies prepared to advance.”

Harlock nodded, and secured his breathing apparatus, covering his eyes, nose, and mouth in a whirring metal and glass contraption.

“Such readiness is naught if it is squandered, Tech-Sergeant. Have the landing force advance. We will catch up in our tardiness.”

“But your security picket sir-“

Harlock turned to regard his technical sergeant, concern and worry clouding his copper skinned brow.

“That’s what you are for, tech-sergeant. My sword.”

Harlock extended a hand to the blade, and the sergeant secured it in harlock’s mag-locked gauntlet.

“Give Lieutenant Veers the opportunity to lead. I am eager to evaluate his progress.”

“Yes, captain. Three minutes now.”

Harlock stood silently as the Sergeant secured himself to a seat harness, as G-forces rocked the vessel. Harlock’s body was only kept upright thanks to tactfully placed mag-boots and the blade of his sword which he wedged into a grate.

Behind him, were the fifteen members of his command staff.  Harlock was unsure about them; all untested and unproven, much like Lieutenant Veers. Both needed a trial by fire, and a planetary invasion was an opportune place. Should failure occur, Harlock would take direct action. Learning exercises for the Imperial Auxillia were always taught in blood.

The landing craft slammed down, and the door opened. Harlock unjammed his blade and stepped out into the crisp, foul air of Kell’s Reach. Around him were the abandoned remains of his company’s landing zone; rough rapidly dug breast works, some sandbags, and simple dirt landing pads. Harlock noted the casualties- both his and of the Kellans, and glanced at the new hole in his uniform, followed immediately by an ear splitting ‘CRACK’.

“SNIPER! ENEMY SNIPER!” Tech Sergeant Dienes screamed, throwing himself behind an embankment to suppress the shooter’s estimated position.

Harlock exhaled, and ducked behind a slab of concrete.

“Tech-sergeant, organize your squad.” Harlock patiently reminded his subordinate, checking the status of his plasma gun. It was a sickness of the immature or stupid not to do so; one risked spontaneous destruction of the gun and the user should simple mechanical adjustments not be made from time to time.

Dienes physically grabbed his corporal, F. Lauzanne, and screamed for accurate rifle fire on grid hilltop 270. The dropship also complimented the present wave of fire by shooting its defense guns at the hill in question, before taking off again; on to another Auxillia unit.

“Tech-sergeant. Don’t abuse the corporal.” Harlock said, and gestured for a vox net caster. Quickly and easily Harlock cycled imperial data net codes, until at last he reached the fleet.

“This is Harlock actual, of the Second Centauri Star Rifles, requesting fire mission, Gunship, over hilltop 270 in sector C, fire for effect.”

A moment passed, and an inhuman voice replied back. “fire mission accepted, the Mechanicum serves in competence.”

Harlock glanced at his command staff and evaluated them. The security members were doing their job rather well. Evidently that hilltop had a number of hostiles upon it, in a bunker perhaps, hidden so as to attack an unwary landing force. Many of the fresh riflemen appeared dreadfully nervous as they fired upon their targets.

“Troop. Remember this feeling- the fear and the exhilaration. That is what the job is all about. Put your fears to rest, and suppress the target, but do conserve your ammunition. Steady alternating accurate rifle fire. I do not want to see long bursts wasted upon dirt.”

Harlock looked directly at Sergeant Dienes, who blinked and offered a slight shrug.

It was around this time the gunship arrived, blasting the hilltop with rocket and bolter fire.

“Now, troop!” Harlock shouted, over the din of the aircraft. “As the emperor did on Terra, we advance into contact. On me. Tech Sergeant, stay close.”

Harlock adopted a brisk jog through the mire of Kell’s Reach. The tracks left by his lieutenant were easy enough to follow. Time to find his company, Harlock thought cooly.

The party of warriors moved through the blasted terrain. On their way, Harlock’s heads up visor spotted several poorly concealed mines.

“No sweepers.” Harlock said under his breath, ticking his tongue in annoyance.

Further along, he discovered the sight of an ambush. It seemed his company had turned it around, but he counted 11 dead warriors of the 2nd Centauri, while only 4 dead Kellans remained. Awful conduct.

It was not long after that the din of rifle fire alerted Harlock and his companions to the remainder of the Company, arrayed behind light cover in a rough battle line, firing against a hidden force behind the ruins of trees.

“Tech-sergeant, the vox amp.”

Dienes handed it while breaking out his magnoculars to get a visual on the enemy as he ducked behind a mud wall.

“Cease fire on the line.”

The company did as ordered, recognizing the voice instantly.

“First Platoon, affix Bayonets!”

A sloppy thirty seconds later this was accomplished. Mentally, Harlock assigned a week of drilling to the entire company as penance.

“First platoon on me. Second and Third, watch the flanks, and await my signal!”

With that, Harlock bounded over the ruins of what was once a muddy retaining wall and dashed toward the shattered trees, first platoon in tow, lead by a certain Lieutenant Veers.

 Harlock nodded at what he found; mostly nothing. In time, a trooper discovered the body of a single sniper.

Immediately he ordered the platoon fan out to search for ambushers, and grabbed Veers by the collar.

“Ive given you the Centauri 2nd’s best, crack rifle unit, and led them into an ambush, then wasted multiple engagements worth of munitions on a single sniper, you ignoramus. I’m taking the first personally. You will be attached as a rifleman under Tech Sergeant Dienes for the duration of this deployment.”

The Lieutenant stammered, then grimaced. “Fething Harlock. House Galm will never forget what you did-“

Harlock lost composure, and violently slapped Veers with the back of his hand, then signalled for a trooper to come over.

“This man is now Corporal Veers, for the duration of this deployment. Take him to Tech Sergeant Dienes, and order a general advance. Congratulate Tech Sergeant Dienes on his field promotion to acting lieutenant of my command staff.”

#post #galm were always bags of dicks #yay its Dienes #trivia: I got the name Dienes from Starship Troopers. He was the drill sergeant guy

[thehonestcollection]

To Submerge an Eagle

Imagine these two extraordinary incidents: 

1) It is evening on the British territory of St Helena, sheets of rain are forcibly swept on to the island by a West African gale. The temperature is 5 °C, with the dark volcanic rock hugging the dark sky. The island itself looks as if it was designed by its British colonists, to form a volcanic Alcatraz that was predicated on creating a natural fortress for their enemies. A few miles from its centre, there is a large jagged cliff, with volcanic teeth positioned upward, towards the night sky. There is a small line dangling down into the abyss of the ocean. A large man is hoisting a whale line attached to a mechanical seat down towards this abyss, and inside this mechanical chair is The Eagle…Napoleon Bonaparte.

 2) It is November 1820, Charles William Greaves, is a local boat builder and waterman, usually spending his time in Chelsea. Mr Greaves is luckily enough to be a boat man for one of the best Romantic painters in British history, J. M. W. Turner. Turner has recently left to visit the great Alps. Mr Greaves, walks along the Thames while observing its polluted beauty, hears an unexplainable loud growl. He leans over a small barrier and witnesses the unimaginable. A large oblong vessel, half of which is underwater, is quickly approaching London Bridge. Mr Graves runs along to follow its whereabouts. Screams are heard within the small spaces of quiet, that interrupt the growling. The vessel slowly squeezes under London Bridge, while on the deck, a large man – presumably the captain – grabs his pistol and threatens to shoot a few naval officers ordering him to turn the vessel off. The naval officers make their move, they detain the large man, and a few other sailors, and shut the engines down, the growling stops, and Mr Greaves, perplexed by this occurrence, carries on with his duties.

 I think we would all agree that both these incidents are extraordinary, however only one happens to be true. The latter. In order to follow up exactly how these two incidents relate, we must place ourselves within the context that subsumes these ideas. In 1815, Napoleon Bonaparte after conquering much of Europe and betraying the French Revolution, installing himself as Emperor, was finally defeated… well re-defeated. Napoleon was exiled to the island of Elba, where he was still proclaimed an Emperor, escaped and returned to France, where he was once again defeated by Europe’s monarchies, and thus imprisoned on the British territory St. Helena, some 4,000 miles away from Europe. The peace and stability of post-Napoleonic Europe was only ever guaranteed with Napoleon secured on the island. 

From 1815-1821, there were several rumours throughout Europe of possible plots by Napoleonic sympathisers to rescue their Emperor, and return him to some seat of power. European monarchies and elites, usually downplayed these rumours. In fact, several plots were devised, all were foiled, but there were indeed many potential rescue efforts. The works of Mike Dash (Smithsonian Institute) and Emilio Ocampo (CSIS) have presented the reality of these plots, and the actions of European powers to stop such attempts. By far the most interesting, but also the most ludicrous sounding, is the notion of securing Napoleon from St. Helena, using a submarine… in 1820. To put this in a border context: the first submarine that did not rely on human power for propulsion, was the Plonguer, developed by the French Navy in 1863, which used compressed air. This article will attempt to examine to what extent the plot existed, and subsequently evaluate whether such an attempt would have been successful.

 In 1827, Walter Scott – a Scottish historical novelist – published a nine-volume biography, titled the Life of Napoleon. The first eight pieces of the biography detailed what many historians have already dissected, Napoleons’ beginnings, becoming an artillery colonel, his relationship with Josephine, becoming the Emperor etc. Interestingly, in the ninth volume, Scott details a plan by a Thomas Johnson (according to Mike Dash the correct spelling is indeed Johnson, not Johnstone – as is seen on Wikipedia – if you’re a Johnson aficionado and like the ‘t’ and the ‘e’, take up your quarrel with Mr Dash) an Irish sailor and smuggler, to build and command a submarine to rescue The Eagle. But who was Thomas Johnson?

 According to Ocampo’s sources, Johnson was better known as ‘Johnstone the Smuggler [the description continues…] No prison has yet been found strong enough to hold him’. Johnson began smuggling at the age of 15, acted as a privateer against the French during the Napoleonic Wars, he was arrested three times, in France, Holland and London (Fleet debtors’ prison). Impressively, he escaped from all three prisons. The Naval Chronicle published a report in 1833, which specifically labelled Johnson as a chief conspirator in aiding a rescue mission, which he would have been payed approximately £40,000. According to Johnson, French agents, along with Bonapartists, approached him and offered to pay him a lump sum of £40,000, if his vessel could secure The Eagle and preferably bring him to the United States or Brazil. This is not as far-fetched as it may sound. The United States, had ended hostilities with the British Empire, a sworn enemy of The Eagle, thus is would make sense for the U.S. to act as a haven. Also, Brazil and Argentina had ramped up their offensives against the Spanish and Portuguese Empires post-1815. Napoleon had also attempted to aid South American independence efforts during the Peninsula War with Spain from 1808-1814. So, presumably Napoleon, along with his small circle of officers, would have been welcomed in South America. 

How credible is Scott’s analysis, along with Johnson’s declaration of manifesting this submarine plot? The only way to truly assess Johnson’s claims is through his own words, and then following up the practicality of this so-called plot with the evidence we have obtained. The only explanation given by Johnson, is contained in a memoir entitled Scenes and Stories of a Clergyman in Debt, published in 1835. In a letter, from December 1834, Johnson writes ‘I have… added many other materials… as well as a description of the power of the submarine ships, by means of which the Emperor Napoleon was to have been rescued from St Helena’. Johnson openly admits to having a hand in this plot, and using a submarine to rescue The Eagle. Let us go on: Johnson states ‘the Submarine Ship called the Eagle, which was intended to take away the Grand Emperor, Napoleon, in July, 1821, had not death hurried him out of this world’. This is simply remarkable. Johnson even gives an exact date of which the plot would have been carried out, if it was not for Napoleon’s untimely death. Johnson details his plan: ‘I have designed two submarine ships…of rescuing the immortal emperor Napoleon- the greatest man of this age – from the fangs of his jailor, Sir Hudson Lowe (the British commander of St Helena)’. The first submarine was named the ‘Eagle’ and the smaller vessel named the ‘Etna’.

 Johnson declared he would need thirty sailors and four engineers to sail both submarines to the island. They would also contain, twenty torpedoes to deal with the Royal Navy patrols. Johnson’s plan was to anchor the vessels at nightfall, close to the island, then smuggle himself onto shore, where he would sneak into Longwood House (Napoleon’s residence) disguise himself, along with Napoleon and a few other aids. After sneaking down to the shore, Johnson would use a “mechanical seat” to place Napoleon in and lower him down into the Etna, where they would stay submerged, until nightfall, where they would then embark the Eagle and head ‘for the United States’. If the vessels were spotted by the Royal Navy during their escape, Johnson would position Etna with a torpedo attached alongside, and explode the submarine near a Royal Navy squadron. Thus, giving the Eagle a clear departure route towards the United States. Once in the United States, Johnson would plan to have the French Navy secure and return The Emperor to his homeland.

 Scott includes another plan devised by Johnson, which Johnson had omitted – whereby Napoleon would be smuggled off the island on a Royal Navy vessel by forcing British sailors off their boat, and then commandeering the ship into open waters. This plan is significantly less adventurous and less likely to succeed; however, it does demonstrate the level of thought put into the plots surrounding Johnson and Napoleon.

 Immediately, one would ask, how is that an Irish smuggler knew how to construct, and sail a submarine? This is perhaps, where Johnson’s plans seem more like sailor’s tales, to gain some attention. The sources suggest something very different, and correlate with Johnson’s claims. Robert Fulton, was an American engineer, who was living in France during the French First Republic (1793-1797). In 1800, Fulton developed the first practical submarine named Nautilus. Fulton had to persuade Napoleon to allow him to develop such a machine, justified as a possible solution to disrupting British trade in the Chanel. The submarine was tested on the Seine, and was apparently successful. In 1806, Fulton designed a much more advanced, reliable vessel. Dash notes that the French ignoring this success, and Fulton got a £100,000 grant from the British to develop new systems of submarine warfare. According to a contemporary account: In 1804, Johnson met with Fulton while he was working on his submarine designs, and either aided, or stole the plans for the submarine. Fulton eventually returned to America, but much more interestingly is, by the time of the War of 1812, the British government commissioned Johnson to build a torpedo system and a submarine. We know that more than £11,000 were given to him to build the submarine. So, Johnson was developing two submarines, just as he had said, but is there any evidence, other than his own testimony of course, to use them to rescue The Emperor?

 This is where this story gets even more interesting: During Mike Dash’s research into Johnson at the British National Archives, he found a statement from the History Gallery, which demonstrated that Bonapartists were interested in submarine designs in 1812, not 1820. This means that while Johnson was working for the British government in developing a submarine, he was approached by the French, which would have given him enough time to build these vessels. 

Is there evidence of the submarines existing? 

1) Johnson invited the Royal Navy to witness the machines and demanded pay for his work. In early 1820, Sir George Cockburn reported on the submarines, and assessed how much Johnson should be paid for his work. Cockburn was no naïve sailor, in fact he commanded the Royal Navy during their sacking of Washington, and the burning of the White House in 1814. Cockburn valued Johnson’s work at £4,735. The submarines did in fact exist.

 2) In 1820 the Naval Chronicle published a report of Johnson testing a submarine on the River Thames, which ultimately ended in an explosion. It’s unclear what happened to the submarine after this test, but we do know it was in fact tested.

 3) The account of Walter Greaves (see above), the submarine was subsequently burned by naval officers at Blackwall – who probably thought it was used to smuggle goods.

 4) According to Johnson’s biographer: in 1819, a year before the Royal Navy expected Johnson’s work, he had been paid £15,000 to construct the machines. It should be noted that this is a different sum of money, not given by the British government. The shipyard workers were told it would be used for smuggling. There are two correlations here, the first, that the vessel was said to be used for smuggling, which is probably why it was burned. The second, it was burned at the same place it was constructed, which points out that this is in fact the same submarine.

 5) In 1818, Napoleon’s former doctor Barry O’Meara at St. Helena, was expelled by Sir Hudson Lowe, who Johnson said he was communicated with about rescuing The Emperor. Colonel Francis Maceroni wrote in his memoirs in 1838, that O’Meara had been involved in a plot that used a steam powered submarine, which had been misinterpreted as a steamboat by the British government – with their suspicions against another sailor, Cochrane. 

Would the plot have succeeded? 

So, we conclusively know that there were indeed submarines built by Johnson. We do not know, other than his testimony, that he was planning to use them to rescue Napoleon, but most the sources surrounding this notion infers that there was such a plan in place.

 In order to fully test whether this plot would have succeeded, we must analyse the defences of the St. Helena, by using the threat of another plot a few years before. True Blooded Yankee was a crew of Americans privateers who flew under the flag of the revolutionary government of Buenos Aires, and were feared during the conflict of 1812. This vessel was rumoured to be in talks within crypto-Bonapartists in developing a plan to rescue Napoleon. In 1817, Lord Bathurst wrote to Sir Hudson Lowe – the effective commander of St. Helena – warning him of threat, stating ‘the True Blooded Yankee are at Bahia (Brazil)… wishes to effect the release of Bonaparte… the Italian tavern keeper had lately endeavoured to get a passage to St. Helena under the pretext to visit his wife… their design is to assist Napoleon’. 

In 1820, Bathurst writes another letter to Lowe, this one emphasising how real the threat of Napoleon’s escape really was: ‘his followers make me suspect that he is beginning to entertain serious thoughts of escaping from St. Helena… the revolutionary spirit which more or less prevails over all Italy, and the doubtful state of France itself… the times are most favourable for the attempt’. In 1819, the European powers realised that the paranoia surrounding Napoleon’s proposed escape was not merely paranoia, but now a credible threat. In Spain support grew for Napoleon, Italians also favoured Napoleon over their Austrian rulers. One should note: Napoleon had caused absolute chaos amongst European powers during the ‘Hundred Days’ in 1815.

 Lowe took the threat of escape extremely seriously, perhaps too seriously. In fact, he developed paranoia due to the amount of credible plots surrounding his island. In 1817, the Foreign Office warned Lowe that Michel Brayer a well-known Bonapartist general had landed in Buenos Aires along with other Napoleonic veterans. According to a Royal Navy officer, the group had plans of a submarine that was being constructed in England – possibly Johnson’s. Lowe was alarmed by these reports. There was a permanent garrison stationed on St. Helena, which included: 500 officers, 2,300 soldiers with 500 canons. Lowe found 23 points of possible invasion routes from either South American troops – who may have wanted to rescue Bonaparte, or by Bonapartists attempting to rescue their Emperor. 

 An English sailor who visited the island in 1816 noted that Lowe’s defences had made it nearly impossible for a rescue of any sort. Lowe put sentries across the island. There was also a highly effective telegraph system which acted as an early warning system, so that Lowe would know what was happening in each sector of the island, and thus where and when to deploy his troops. Moreover, the surrounding waters of the island were constantly patrolled by three Royal Navy frigates, and two men-of-war (if we take Sir John Hopkins definition, these ships could be up to 60 metres long and could have up to 124 guns: four at the bow, eight at the stern, and 56 in each broadside – this may vary depending on the type of warship, the point is: they were very powerful vessels). Lowe also doubled up on Napoleon’s restrictions, preventing him from seeing many aids, keeping him in certain rooms, and would even wake up in the middle of the night to check that Napoleon had not disappeared. On a few occasions, Lowe even threatened to have Napoleon shot if he exited a designated room, as he would be accused of attempting to escape. 

Considering all these defences: Johnson would have to pull off the impossible to get the Emperor. The submarine vessels would have to submerge themselves so they would not get spotted by the patrols of the Royal Navy squadrons. He would then have to sneak on shore, through the patrols on the island, avoid Lowe’s paranoid frequent checks, find a way to get into Longwood House and then communicate with Napoleon. There is one fundamental limitation: whether Napoleon wanted to leave at all. According to Ocampo, Napoleon would have never of risked death or capture once again, he also would not disguise himself, the only manner he would leave St. Helena was “with his hat on his head and his sword at his side.” This would mean an invasion or change in policy, so Johnson would have to thoroughly convince Napoleon to leave his residence. This is implausible, but for the sake of the argument, say that he did. At the coast, the mechanical chair would have to work, the submarines would have to get far enough that the Royal Navy would not intercept them. They then would have to be accepted by either one of the new revolutionary governments of South America, or the United States – this seems more plausible. 

Ultimately, then, it is very unlikely that Johnson’s plan would have worked, and even further unlikely that Napoleon would have agreed to these conditions. Although, we can conclusively say that Johnson did in fact develop two submarines, with the intention of rescuing Napoleon in 1821. Johnson seemed to carefully manoeuvre himself between the French and British governments while proving himself as an ingenious Captain, who intended to attempt the impossible. All in all, it seems that The Eagle had come to love his cage.                                

Bibliography https://www.cairn.info/revue-napoleonica-la-revue-2011-2-page-11.htm#re10no10 http://www.napoleonicsociety.com/english/pdf/j2011ocampo.pdf https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/the-secret-plot-to-rescue-napoleon-by-submarine- 1194764/ https://archive.org/stream/scenesstoriesbyc02bayl#page/252/mode/2up/search/napoleon

#napoleon #history #france #napoleonic #submarine #sthelena

[hylianshadow-bloga-blog]

@veruminumbra

    “ Colonel. ”

Sheik looked up from his work. Moonlight spread through the tent flap, illuminating the Sheikah’s tent. A table, a tankard, several books and weapons scattered about with dog eared pages, and a map, illuminated by a sole candle that now flickered with the opened flap. The wind brushed against cheeks as the red-eyed colonel looked at the soldier quietly, now interrupted. The soldier swallowed thickly against the dark rubies highlighted under bagged eyes.

Biting back a sigh, Sheik straightened his back, turning to fully face the soldier. Taking in his face and body type, Sheik was disappointed at what he saw. A face, not yet stripped of baby fat, white, smudged with mud and dirt and grime, wide brown eyes and lips that were cracked and scuffed from little hydration. This soldier … was truly just a boy. If it were not for their situation, Sheik would have requested the boy be sent to a small division, something that he could be positive to avoid any fighting, but they, Zelda and the other generals, were in quite the bind.

They needed time.

They needed every body.

    “ You have a message for me. ”

There was no question, the colonel already beginning to move around the tent.

    “ O-oh, yes sir. ”

Sheik had found his cowl, placing it around his face.

    “ Uhm … Her Highness has requested your services this evening. ”

Next was his armor. Sheik removed his shirt, pulling on the chain mail. Then his brest plate, paldrons, and greaves. His breast plate bore the symbol of the sheikah, giving a ready tell oaf who he was and that he should be respected. A few leather straps were tightened as the soldier boy stuttered through his next statement, uncertain as the Colonel was getting ready.

    “ She … Her Highness, I mean, says that you - Colonel sir ought to be ready for a mission. ”

Sheik finished with his attire with a cloak. One of a deep rich blue and a soft red on the underside. It’s broach connected from strands and the Hyrule Royal Family’s symbol, telling who it was that he was.

    “ Anything else? ”

Sheik’s voice was gruff and low.

    “ O-oh! Right! Uhm. She also … warned you come armed? ”

There was a soft snort in laughter. The sheikah turned, pushing past the young man. The look in his eyes told a story of years. Ones spent long and hard on the battle field.

    “ I am always armed. ”

Going to Zelda’s tent, she was sitting, bowed over her hands. The look on her face dreary and dim, lips pursed, hair cut, the attire she bore that of a soldier, rather than a princess. Sheik bowed his head, muttering a small ‘your highness’ to her. Zelda waved Sheik off. Her rapier was set ‘pon the table. Zelda looked tired. Sheik sympathized.

    “ You called for me, your highness? ”

Zelda looked at Sheik, and Sheik was taken aback. The calculating look was one he had witness several times. Times of when they were about to go into battle. Times their enemy had almost come on top of them. That was her look of sizing up a person. The fact she was using it ‘pos the Sheik spoke something fierce.

    “ We are going to lose. ”

Silence settled between the two.

    “ Unless we achieve some help. We … are going to lose. ”

    “ Our odds do seem rather grim. ”

A laugh bubbled from the princesses throat and she looked away. Running hands through her hair. She clearly had been stressed … Sheik could not blame her. If someone had told him that the princess would be looking like this so many years ago, he would have called blaspheme. She was almost touchable at this point …

But still … not quite.

    “ I have a plan. But you are going to be in quite a tough spot. “

Sheik cocked a brow at the princess.

    “ There is a spell … one that takes immense energy. I cannot undo it once cast, and will not be able to fix it if something goes wrong. Would you be prepared for this? “

Silence again. Sheik was quiet, thinking it over. He didn’t even know the plan, but he knew the army. Their forces were thin at best, and Sheik was one of the Colonels who held constant conferences with Her Highness to help decide big battles and plan out strategies. Could she really afford to lose him if something bad happened?

    “ What is the plan, your majesty?”

There was almost a relaxing of Zelda’s shoulders. As if she believed he would not even hear her out before making his decision on the matter. Zelda took a deep breath and straightened again.

    “ My plan is simple. I am going to send you back in time … and stop this from ever happening in the first place. ”

Sheik’s eyes widened, startled.

    “ You are the only one I trust with something as difficult as this. You will need to go back in time … and save the Hero. Save him from his death. Keep him alive, no matter what. He needs to survive. To live. If we are ever to have a life free of all this pain and death. “

What was said made sense, and Sheik could agree with bits and pieces, but the idea was ludicrous. Not only that, but a spell that magnitude —

    “ It doesn’t matter what happens here then if you can do that. You will have saved us all … Do you understand, Sheik? “

    “ Does not— your highness, it matters to me! I apologize for speaking out of turn, but it is my responsibility to keep you safe from harm and … ”

Zelda gave Sheik a weary smile.

    “ … and you have already failed. This is the only way. ”

Anger bit at the inside of Sheik’s stomach. He had saved Zelda multiple times. Kept her alive, given her shelter, hidden, away from death. Yet she claimed he had failed? He looked away, glaring at the table. He did not approve …

He could say no.

    “ Will you do this for me, Sheik? ”

He could stop this right here.

    “ Will you save me and everyone here? “

Sheik’s mouth opened, his tongue felt fuzzy and dry.

    “ As you wish. ”

It took two days to set up. All of the Generals stepping in to help use their magic and send their ‘champion’ to the past. Sheik was displeased, but he was prepared. Knives were stored carefully and he altered his attire just enough that he could still look recognizable, but move more stealthily.

   “ Are you ready? “

Only a nod escaped Sheik as all the Generals clasped hands together, magic twisting around him. Pulling the sheikah into the air before he vanished from sight. Gone from that world, and landing in a heap of armor, half-unconscious near the entrance gates of Hyrule Castle. Guards shouting about a man who appeared from nowhere …

Sheik blinked … trying to refocus … but everyone was fuzzy and everything hurt. Sheik’s head slowly sagged … and his body grew limp. The guards picking him up and going to report to the castle.

#veruminumbra #{ 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹𝓈 } hero's death. #spENT A LONG TIME WRITING THIS ONE

[nakeddeparture]

BARBADOS (Naked Departure) — LAST WEEK IN PHOTOS from Barbados and around the world!   Naked Departure

Andrew Foster

ac/dc Deleon Ward

ac/dc Deleon Ward

ac/dc Deleon Ward

Caribbean Export Development Agency and its Executive Director Pamela Coke Hamilton and her management bringing the organization into disrepute

A jaundice-looking Leacock, Guyanese running things in Barbados

Bullying is part of Barbadian Culture

Lord Evil marries

Lord Evil marries….–not her though….

Christopher King, Kiddie Porn PRIEST

Hope Hamilton

Travel ban overturned by Federal Court. Appeals court upheld court’s decision.

Tabari–Got a young teenager pregnant?

Can you vouch for her?

Can you vouch for her?

Can you vouch for her?

Chante Natasha Yarde decided to hang herself. The lack of more suicides in Barbados show how people can get accustomed to mediocrity

Delacey Walters raped his gf’s three daughters. They were under 10 years of age.

Photos on Chante Yarde’s page

re: Chante Natasha Yarde

Ryan Spencer Delano Coppin, accused rapist

Ryan Antonio Oneal Bullen admitted to killing 14 year old Kalifa Downes

Barbados under Spirtual Curse

Damian Edmund’s obsession with underage boys

Omarosa foot injury in WH?

Little savages

Poor Cheryl, her watch is not up to snuff! Cheryl Broome Webster

Kekesweetss drama

Michael Edwards REST IN HELL!!! GOOD RIDDANCE!!

Michael Omar Edwards — GO TO HELL!! GOOD RIDDANCE!!!!

Nordstrom drops Ivanka Trump’s line

Shineka Gray 15, killed in Montego Bay

Tameisha scantlebury Massy Card Service. Blog was so vulgar it was not posted, but you need to play fair with people

Tameisha scantlebury Massy Card Service needs to play fair with people — Blog was too vulgar to be published

Jamel Layne, Porn Star, at work in Barbados

Jamel Layne porn star

Jamel Layne

Jan and Cyndi Oster — Robbed in Barbados

Tracia Nicole Eastmond Pounder — keep an eye on her and your money

Why are some children in South Africa not dying from AIDS?

Salters accident

Salters accident

Salters accident

Salters accident

GIS — workers who sexually abused child under their care

Barbadians reduced to eating Ramen and sardines

Ramen Noodles is not FOOD

Ramen Noodles=Poison

Bajan jockey drama

Bajan jockey drama

Bajan jockey drama

Bajan jockey drama

Bajan jockey drama

Bajan jockey drama

Richard ‘Rickey’ Parris’ Memorial Service

Prisoners used as training property for dogs

Grave digger Sharon. The child belongs to the grave digger!!!!

Jason Leacock police constable

Lisa Kerri Ann Koeiman

Lisa Kerri Ann Koeiman

Tamron Hall FIRED

Winston Errol Bovell RAPIST

Paul Maxwell, BPWCCUL and Capita Financial – CORRUPTION

Guyanese women breeding for Bajan men.

Pastor Jermaine Gibson accused of having sex with 12 year old girl. Jamaica

The Thornes from Salisbury, St. George

The Thornes from Salisbury, St. George

BARBADOS: TRANSPORT BUS turns over in ST. PHILIP and one person from CHRIST CHURCH was on board. Driver was hurt.

Street Vendors

Fatal accident in Barbados

Dave McGregor and Johann Greaves, Canada/Barbados Light & Power

Last King and KekeSweetss

Lastking and Kekesweetss

Lastking and Kekesweetss

Lastking and Kekesweetss

Lastking and Kekesweetss

Michael Howard’s book, The Development of Barbados, charts novel territory.

Owen Arthur

Lieutenant Colonel Glyne Sinatra Grannum, BDF’s new chief

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Jermaine Simmons caught inside man’s wife

Grave digger drama

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Ally Yates weak link. YOU ARE FIRED!!!!

Blair Richards accused rapist

Kerri-Ann Greaves, maneater

Kerri-Ann Greaves, maneater

Peter Harris and Human Trafficking

In love with my dentist

Kerry Forde

Kerry Forde

Sasha

Sasha

Blair Richards, Serial Rapist, Barbados

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Kathy Bailey

Allan Foster has a 15 y/o boy

Patrick Bennett cheap bulle

Chron Atkins

Condom Mishap

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Magic Johnson has talk for trump

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Miss Haiti at Miss Universe

Miss Haiti

Miss Universe 2017, Miss France

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Miss Haiti at Miss Universe

Terror attack in Canada

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David Ramsey in QEH, Barbados

David Ramsey was in QEH, Barbados

David Ramsey in QEH, Barbados

Blood on the floor

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FOUR DEAD The three Vincentian victims of this morning’s fatal crash. From left, 19-year-old Aziza Awanna Dennie, 18-year-old Carianne Lee-New Padmore and 17-year-old …

FOUR DEAD: Andre Jabarry Gittens

FOUR DEAD The three Vincentian victims of this morning’s fatal crash. From left, 19-year-old Aziza Awanna Dennie, 18-year-old Carianne Lee-New Padmore and 17-year-old …

Kayla

Mr. and Mrs. Peter Wickham

Four dead

Four dead

THE LIST: Andrew Foster

Richard Sealy – Slave Economy not working!!!!

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[redslippersquotes]

Eliot Warburton, The Crescent and the Cross, 1850

Page 18: At Beirut I was only on the borders of the Holy Land, and considered very day lost that was deducted from my progress in the interior. On the 26th of May, i started for Jerusalem. It is the invariable practice in the East to make but a short journey the first day, encamping near the city, in order to supply the omission of any of the voluminous requisites of a style of traveling in which you carry your hotel with you. My little caravan consisted of two luggage horses, on one of which rode the muleteer, with a faggot of pistols, and daggers stuck in his capacious belt: his costume consisted of a red cap wrapped round with a Damascus shawl, a pair of petticoat trousers, red slippers, and a faded jacket cockered with still more faded embroidery. The first horse carried the tent on one side, the canteen and cooking-apparatus on the other, and some portmanteaus in the middle: the second was covered with mats, cloaks, carpets, leathern water bottles, and Youssef, the muleteer. My servant, a young Syrian Christian, was very handsome, and dandified in proportion, with a dress resembling that of the muleteer, only of more elegant fashion, and gaudier colors: he carried a brace of pistols on the high pommel of his Turkish saddle, a formidable saber by his side, and my gun slung over his shoulder. A spare turban for great occasions, and a change of such linen as he could carry in his pocket, were his only luggage, besides those unfailing concomitants, arms, and a water bottle. These men were my only companions for many weeks upon the road, except when a timid merchant or a wild Bedouin joined suspicious company for a mile or two, or a khan afforded gossip an coffee for half an hour.

Page 45: In the absence of any claim on our ears, let us use our eyes and look about us. A house is being re-built nearly opposite, masons in turbans, and long blue chemises, and red slippers down at the heel, are engaged, as if in pantomime, with much gesticulation, but little effect. A score of children are carrying bricks and mortar in little handfuls, chanting a measured song, as if to delude themselves into the idea that they are at play. Now, a durweesh, naked except for a napkin, or a bit of sheep, skin round his loins, presents himself, claiming, rather than asking alms: the wild, fierce eyes, in which the gleaming of insanity conveys their title to your forbearance, and to the Moslems’ reverence; their long matted, filthy hair, falling over their naked sun-scorched shoulders, their savage gluttony, proclaim them something between a friar, and a saint of Islam. Here is a water carrier with his jar of cool sherbet, adorned with fresh flowers: he tinkles little brazen saucers to announce his progress, and receives half a farthing for each draught. There is a beggar devouring his crust, but religiously leaving a portion of it in some clean spot for the wild dogs. Now an old man stoops to pick up a piece of paper, and to put it by, “lest,” says he, “the name of God be written on it, and it be defiled.” Here is a lady of some hareem, mounted a la Turque on her donkey, and attended by her own slave, and her husband’s eunuch; she is a mere bundle of linen, though a pair of brilliant eyes relieve her somewhat ghastly appearance, which would figure excellently well in a tableau as a Banshee.

Page 77: The dress of the middle classes consists of a red cloth skull, cap, over which is wound a turban of green, or black, or white muslin, according to the station or the creed of the wearer. The first is only worn by descendants of the Prophet; the second by the Copts, or Egyptian Christians; the third is open to any who chooses to adopt it. A chemise of cotton is covered by a silk waistcoat, and very loose cotton drawers: over this is worn a loose robe of striped silk, with wide sleeves, confined round the body by a rich silken scarf, and over all is generally worn another loose robe of cloth, or darker colored silk. A pair of yellow slippers is worn within another pair of a red color, which they put off on entering a mosque, or private dwelling.

Page 81: It is now time to set about the business of the day. The Sheikh warms his hands over a chafing dish of charcoal and frankincense, perfumes his beard and moustaches with civet, and mounts his donkey, which is equipped with a red leather or velvet saddle, and a gaily ornamented bridle. A servant, in blue shirt and red slippers, walks before him, calling out to the passengers to clear the way, and another follows with his pipe.

Page 121: Eight Arabs towed us along, for there was not a breath of wind: they want capering, singing, and laughing, as if labor was their sport: a red skull-cap, a loose blue shirt, and red slippers, was their only dress. Sometimes the breeze would freshen suddenly, and the boat shot ahead; then, they swam on board, let fall the sails, and with tambourin and pipe struck up their everlasting song. Generally, however, in the day time, they were towing from morning until sunset; the pilot squatted motionless on the poop; the rais reclining at the bow, now and then exchanging a joke with the two servants, who along busied about, in the constant preparation of pipes, coffee, dinner, and other refreshment.

Page 220: There was something very picturesque, after all, about these ruffians, and I could not help lingering to contemplate this picture of human nature in its fearfullest form. Their lives are one succession of the wildest excitement; yet over all lay, perhaps unconsciously, the influence of that discipline, such as it was, that was now sending them unresistedly to encounter pestilence and privation in the depths of Africa. There were some very youthful, and even noble, countenances among their crew, and their dress is the most picturesque possible. A red tarboosh, with a purple silk tassel, covers their long flowing locks that stream down the shoulders like those of the Cavaliers; an embroidered jacket of scarlet, or dark blue cloth; a very voluminous white kilt, reaching to the knee; greaves, or a sort of embroidered gaiters, upon their legs, and red slippers, constitute their dress. A brace of long pistols and a dagger are stuck in a large silken sash that girds their bodies; a long silver-mounted musket is slung at their backs, and a curved sabre at their side. They have by-laws peculiar to their regiment, and they frequently shoot their officers, electing others in their stead; when they went so far as to shoot their colonel, Mehemet Ali decimated them, and gave them a more severe commander; this having happened once or twice, they left off the practice. It may be supposed that troops like these are little adapted for garrison duty; and it was in consequence of their lawlessness, and the complaints made against them by Europeans, that Mehemet Ali had sent them away to die.

Page 241: And yet there was a strange air of luxury over all this. The stone floors, and whitewashed walls, and curtainless windows, had always a golden glow of sunshine, or a deep refreshing gloom flung over them. The vine-leaves threw a cold quivering shade over the marble terraces: the fragrant fumes of Latakeea mingled with the balmy air; and the coffee, which was always roasting, contributed its pleasant odor. Nubian lances, spears, and clubs, mingled with European arms, glittered on the walls; showy carpets and wild-beast skins covered the floor and the divans. A hyaena's hide covered a table strewn with antiquities, and our boat-flags hung round as tapestry. Chibouques, yellow and red slippers, tarbooshes, sashes and other Orientalisms, lay strewn about, and we at least accomplished what would have been a very comfortable drawing-room for Inkle and Yarico.

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Fort Bayard New Mexico

Fort Bayard was founded by the US Army in 1866 to protect new settlers along the Apache Trail.  African-American "Buffalo Soldiers" were the the main force in place to provided security against Native American attacks on settlers during the 19th century settlement period.  

The fort was part of a US Army heliographic communication network stretching from Arizona to Texas. The installation of heliograph stations was overseen by 2nd Lieutenant John. J. "Black Jack" Pershing, who later became General of the Armies which is the highest possible rank in the US Army.  Other notable soldiers stationed at Fort Bayard included General George Cook, Colonel Walter Loving, Sergeant James C. Cooney, and Buffalo Soldier and Medal of Honor recipient, Clinton Greaves.

After threats subsided, the facility was converted into the US Army's first tuberculosis sanitarium and transferred to the Department of the Surgeon General. It later became a VA hospital in 1922. The fort was briefly reactivated during WWII and many German prisoners were held there from 1943 to 1945.  In 1965 the Veteran's Administration determined they no longer needed the facility, but instead of permanently closing and negatively impacting the local economy, it was transferred to the State of New Mexico. 

The original fort grounds and buildings now stand vacant. There are some restorations underway, activities and tours are supported by a local historic preservation society, and there are reenactments on the parade ground. But for the most part, the original complex is empty and buildings sit silently. A small section, including the historic and extensive 16 acre cemetery,  was transferred back to the US Department of Veteran's Affairs and has since received major updates and landscaping improvements. 

 More Reading and Information: http://newmexicohistory.org/places/fort-bayard https://www.amazon.com/The-Place-Names-New-Mexico/dp/0826316891 https://www.facebook.com/fortbayardhistoricpreservationsociety https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heliograph

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