#named after mr german not the country

[ami-ven]

Happy National German Chocolate Cake Day!

#national german chocolate cake day #german chocolate cake #fun fact #this was not invented in germany #but in america #by mr. german #and it's named after him #not the country #national days of stuff #holiday

[serenityinstone]

Feline Fiasco

Hetalia x Reader

This is written for a female reader but there isn't really anything specific that would suggest that besides a few references. If you want to read, I'm not going to stop you.

Also (Y/n) is completely uninterested in the countries for the majority of this, all she's interested in is the cats. This is way fluffier than anything else I've posted, which is two things, and this part is relatively America-centric because (Y/n) works for him. This is also way less quality work than those two posts but idk deal with it?

There is more to this but it's unfinished and I'll probably never post it. My friend also helped with the cat names so if you don't like them... uh assume that they chose them. One last note, I thought it would be funny to write the accents so you also have to deal with that.

As one of the many secretaries working in the White House, it was actually quite a surprise to you that you ended up as the main secretary to the human personification of the U.S.A.

Because of this, you had become quite close to Mr. F. Jones and more importantly: his cat.

You couldn't help but coo at the adorable and floofy feline. Sure, you should probably finish filing those papers, but national security can wait a few more minutes. Besides you couldn't resist the allure of the purr. It would be an understatement to say, when you learned that the other personifications also had furry friends of their own, you were excited.

America didn't want you interacting with the other countries, especially not Russia. But you honestly didn't care and you weren't the recording secretary for those meetings, so it's not like you were in attendance anyways. That somehow didn't stop you from having to tag along and meeting more nation cats; of which you weren't sure why they had brought them along in the first place. It's not like you were complaining.

Ball of fur after ball of fur. No cat went un-petted. Except for Germany's cat; he had evaded you time and time again. But no longer! For today was the last day and you were going to pet that cat if it was the last thing you did.

There it was. It's sleek black fur, the ribbon in Germany's signature colors around its neck, and that always alert look on its face. He would evade you no more. You crouched down in your very inflexible pencil skirt and prepared to pounce.

"Vhat are jou doing?" A voice thick with a German accent called out, startling you and the cat who decided to bound back towards him and into his arms.

"Uhhhh." You blanked.

"You're America's secretary right? Vat vere jou trying to do to my cat?" He questioned, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

You gulped and tried to explain your actions in a way that didn't sound absolutely ridiculous.

"I-uh. I wanted to pet your cat and… he kept evading me and I thought if I snuck up on him that I could pet him." You looked away and pitifully whispered, "Sorry."

"If jou vanted to pet him, all you had to do was ask."

"Really!?" Your eyes lit up and you looked up at the German with pure and unbridled excitement. He coughed and looked away with a slight blush resting on his cheeks.

"Of course." He held the cat out. You, with no hesitation whatsoever, immediately started to adore and love the cat, even shifting it from Germany's arms to your own.

As you continued to pet the cat, who despite his earlier refusal, seemed quite happy, you asked Germany a question. "My name's (Y/n). What's yours if you're willing to share? No pressure though."

His eyes widened a bit before he shook it off and gave you an answer. "Ludwig Beilschmidt." He responded, studying his cat. "Germouser seems to like jou."

You could barely stifle a laugh at the name he had given to the black cat. He sensed your amusement and gave an explanation.

"Feli- Italy named him. I vas going to name him Johann or something similar. Italy was zoroughly horrified by my suggestions and vould not rest until I vent vith his."

You smiled at the Italian's antics and shook your head with amusement. "Germouser is a fine name for an absolutely wonderful cat."

Germany seemed to get flustered again as he watched you coo at his cat, completely ignoring his presence. He would have just left him with you, but the meeting was starting soon and he didn't want to be late. Luckily for him, America decided to pop around the corner, demanding your attention. So you were forced to give up the precious kitty cat and return with Mr. Jones.

Alfred was annoyed. Not at you but at everyone else. Why did they have any right to be around you? You were an American citizen. His citizen. Sure, all you were really interested in was their cats. But what if you thought that they and their cats were so cool that you left him and went to live in a different country instead? He couldn't let that happen.

"So, (Y/n), dude, broette." He said on the way to the meeting room. "Here's the deal."

You gave him a look and raised an eyebrow.

"I need someone to watch Hero for me and my sitter flaked so you're gonna be watching him." He fingered-gunned at you and stars seemed to shine in the air around him. This, of course, was nothing new to you. It wasn’t like you would have rather been attending the meeting anyways.

So you stayed in a different unoccupied meeting room with a lovely, furry friend. It wasn't until he started hissing at a corner that you were in trouble.

"Hero, what's wrong?" You asked, concerned at the agitated cat. His tail bristled up and his ears flattened down as he took a defensive position. Out of nowhere another fluffy cat waltzed in from the very corner that Hero had been hissing at. It was Boris, a cat that belonged to Russia.

You hadn't actually gotten to pet him yet because to be honest, you were also scared of Russia. But… He wasn't around… and his cat was. And his cat was purring.

That was about all the reasoning that you needed to brush past Hero and scoop Boris up into your arms. The former started yowling for your attention and followed you as you went to sit down with the Russian cat.

You laid down on the plush carpeted floor and lifted the cat that you were holding up above you. Boris’ fluffy body was placed onto your chest and he immediately started purring louder once he got comfortable. He nuzzled his face into your neck, much to the annoyance of the American cat. Hero yowled at you and pawed at Boris, desperately trying to get him off.

Boris only gave him a smug look in return and kneaded into you, further solidifying his spot. Hero decided that it wasn’t worth the fight and that he was going to get his owner to remove the Russian cat and put him back into his mother’s lap: aka you.

The surprisingly smart and agile cat leapt around the room and pushed down the door handle, slipping out through the crack. You didn’t notice this as you were currently immersed in the bliss of a cat sitting on you and letting you pet it.

Eventually the purring lulled you into a peaceful and warm slumber, the two of you deciding to take a cat nap.

It would be Russia who found you first. Ivan realized that his cat had gone missing and he honestly didn’t care enough about the meeting to stay. It's not like anyone would try to stop him.

So as Hero bounded down the halls towards the meeting room, Mr. Ivan Braginsky came from the other direction; his sense of where his cat was at any one moment was completely uncanny.

The Russian gradually opened the wooden door and it quietly opened without any resistance. He turned his head towards where he heard purring and was met with a surprising sight. It was America’s secretary, with his cat, lying, with his cat.

You were breathing softly and the movements of your chest moving up and down also moved Boris. Ivan couldn’t help but faintly smile at the sight. Said cat opened a singular eye to acknowledge the new presence in the room. He flicked his tail and settled back into his spot. Not wanting to bother you or the cat, Ivan pulled out a chair and sat down. 

He pulled out some paperwork, seemingly from nowhere, and began to work on it. The sounds of your quiet breathing, combined with the light purr from Boris, made for a calming work environment. 

As the three of you remained in peaceful bliss, another kitty cat was running around the corner on the never ending search for food. Itabby trotted up and down the corridors looking for an open door that might lead to some food that didn’t come from England. Her golden fur glimmered as the sun shined through the many windows in the building. She looked over at a door that had opened slightly and was too blinded by the thought of food to notice the scarily familiar scent coming from the room.

Itabby scampered over to the door but screeched and meowed as she was sent flying by an American blonde and his equally irritated cat. She tentatively peered around the door at the scene forming.

“HEY!” Alfred yelled, startling both you and the cat. You shot up straight, Boris falling into your lap. “What are you doing with her?!” He yelled again, getting his face up into Ivan’s. The other man gave him an unamused look and stood up, towering over him. Alfred, despite this, did not back down and continued to stare angrily at him.

“Go away.” The white-haired male said, his accent heavy as he crossed his arms. “You have startled them with your unnecessary noise. You are just like the rest of your country.”

The air tensed and became heavier as the seconds went on. They began to size each other up as Hero, ironically, “heroically” walked proudly over to you and with his front paws, pushed Boris off of your lap. He quickly took his place and started purring. Boris’ fur began to puff up as he hunched down and prepared to pounce. His back legs flexed and he made the jump, sending both him and Hero flying towards their fighting owners, who were remarkably somehow not in a physical fight. Yet.

You very quickly realized that you did not want to be in the middle of  two superpowers fighting and quietly took your leave. (E/c) eyes met feline amber ones and you swept up the cat and made your escape, leaving behind the feuding men and cats.

Itabby snuggled into your arms as you finally slowed down to catch your breath. Her round tail whooshed back and forth as you tiredly walked through the long hallway. The two of you eventually ended up in the rose gardens of the meeting building. The area was well taken care of and beautiful if you did say so yourself. The meeting was taking place in England and Mr. Jones had told you about how the Brit enjoyed gardening, so it made sense as to why it was here.

Speaking of the British, you spotted a fluffy feline shape from the corner of your eye. It was deeper into the gardens and among the trees. Itabby finally decided that it was time to go and return to her owner. She gracefully leaped out of your arms and landed on all fours and trotted off to beg Italy for some pasta. You instead continued your approach to the cat, which at this point, you could tell was a Scottish Fold.

The left side of his face was brown and so was his tail. Alike to his owner, he seemed to have what you assumed were some kind of eyebrows and when he opened his eyes to look at you, his olive eyes stared into yours. He flicked his tail and layed back down onto the wall that he was laying on. His collar jingled as he moved and you quietly moved up to him. On the gold circle attached to the same olive color collar, was a name.

‘Scone’ You thought. ‘Oh my god. This is the most English cat name I have ever seen.’

You almost started laughing but the smoldering glare the cat gave you made you think otherwise. The stone wall was surprisingly cold for the summer sun and as you sat down, you took a look at Scone. He seemed to still be quite grumpy, but he knew you from earlier in the week, so he was not alarmed. You lifted up and moved your left arm forward to start petting him.

Scone was soft and clearly well-taken care of. His fur was clean and had no knots or dirt insight, despite laying around a garden for half a day. You continued your actions and the both of you started to fall back into slumber. Your hand hovered on the back of the feline and your head slumped alongside your body.

It was peaceful. With birds chirping and the wind lightly blowing. There was a river babbling somewhere in the background and it made for a serene scene. The only reason he had let you pet him was because you had fed him earlier in the week. He didn’t have his collar at that point so this was the first time you had gotten his name. Your eyes closed as you recalled the event from a couple of days prior.

The day after the plane landed you were on the hunt for felines. Armed with some cat food, a retractable mouse-on-a-stick and hope, you made your way around the building England had set aside for housing the rampant countries, and byproduct, their cats. France’s cat, Monsieur, was an absolute attention wh-. He really liked attention, and would rub himself against your leg anytime the two of you crossed paths. It’s not like France, or Francis, was much better.

It’s not like you minded petting him. He was adorable after all. The cat, not Francis. But you had wanted to meet as many other cats as you could and so you had to stop by Francis’ room multiple times to drop off Monsieur.

“Je suis désolé.” He said, taking Monsieur out of your arms. “He keeps getting out. But I guess he knows when there’s a lovely lady around.”

You ignored his attempts at flirting and instead scratched Monsieur’s chin one last time before leaving. He purred at you and while you felt bad about leaving him, you were on a mission! Besides, you had a certain Japanese cat to track down. Monsieur meowed at you as you walked down the hallway and if you didn’t know better you’d say so did Francis.

Either way, nothing was going to stop you from petting Tama, Japan’s cat. He was an adorable little black and white feline with the cutest little bob for a tail. You had actually spotted him earlier and was about to go up to him before Monsieur literally jumped into your arms, demanding attention. Of course you weren’t going to say no so Tama quickly left your sight as you went to return Monsieur. 

Wait, isn't Monsieur just sir in French? Oh well there was no time to think about questionable cat names, this building was full of them.

Monsieur wasn’t the only attention whore of a cat. Prussia’s cat, Purrussia, wasn’t much better. He would follow you down hallways and meow with his scratchy meow at you while Austria’s cat, Allegro, whined behind him. He literally tried to jump up at you a few times.

Of course both of them were interrupted when Hero ran straight at you and tackled you like a professional linebacker. You had thought that it was mostly fluff, but no, apparently Hero could pack a punch. He knocked the wind out of you as you fell backwards onto the tiled floor. The cat sat proudly on you and looked around like he was waiting for something or someone. Whoever he was waiting for, however, wouldn’t show up fast enough to see Purrussia return the favor and tackle Hero off of you, much to Allegro’s horror. 

The white cat had a German ribbon as well but it looked like it was fraying at the edges. The reason you were bringing this up was because Hero was currently using one of the edges to try to choke Purrussia and Allegro was using the other to try to pull Purrussia away from Hero. Neither was really working and all it was really doing was making Purrussia more and more agitated.

“PURRUSSIA!!!” A shrill voice yelled out from down the hallway.

The cats stopped their roughhousing to see two of the countries barrelling down towards them. Well Prussia was. Austria was slowly walking over, looking more inconvenienced than anything else.

“Purrussia! Purrussia!” Prussia reiterated, pulling his cat up by its arms. “Did jou vin?!”

Everyone but the two Prussians stared in disbelief at his statement. The albino feline furiously nodded his head and if he could have talked you would have imagined that he would have been saying, ‘I’m awesome!’

Hero angrily meowed down below, as if to oppose Purrussia’s non-verbal statement. Allegro just haughtily licked his paw and stuck his nose up as if to pretend that he was disgusted with their fighting as if he hadn’t just been a part of it. Austria picked up his in-denial cat and you picked up Hero who calmed down as soon as you did. 

“Sorry about him.” You said, brushing his unruly fur down with your hand. “He gets a little competitive.”

“Ja. It’s fine.” Austria said, petting his own cat. “Purrussia is not much better.”

“HEY!” Prussia yelled. “My awesome Purrussia is doing his best! And besides, at least he actually does something!”

“Jour cat picked a fight vith a vall (wall) Gilbert.” Austria sassed.

“Vell jour cat’s piano playing is trash!”

Austria gave a gasp of horror before inching closer to the Prussian.

“Jou take zat back, RIGHT NOW!”

Prussia just laughed, still letting Purrussia’s back paws dangle as he held him like one would a toddler. He got in close to the Austrian’s face, smiling deviously at him.

“Nein.”

He suddenly, while still holding Purrussia, took off, running away from Austria. He wasn’t far behind though and you could hear the man yelling in German all the way down the far corridor.

“Well Hero.” You said, looking down at the cat who had made himself very comfortable. “That was weird.”

He just snuggled closer to you and you sighed. You scratched him once more before heading down the opposite hallway. The destination was clear, before you could continue your cat quest, you’d have to get this one safely back to its owner.

You suddenly snapped back to reality, still sitting on the wall. The sun was now high in the sky and the spot underneath you was no longer cold. You were especially warm as you now had a Scottish Fold sitting comfortably upon your lap. Quietly cooing at the cat, you looked to see if there was any way to escape your furry prison. The most important rule of cats: once a cat sits on you, you’re not moving until they do.

You sighed, legs uncomfortably stiff. Scone was far more content and his bushy tail occasionally brushed against your leg. It was incredibly cute but it didn’t make your back stop hurting from being hunched over for the last half hour.

Voices came from farther within the garden. There were two people currently engaged in a soft conversation. You caught bits and pieces of it; there was a man with a British accent and a man with what you thought was American until you heard him say ‘aboot.’ You couldn’t help but snicker at your own observation, disturbing Scone in the process.

He scornfully meowed at you and you offered pets in an apology. Around the corner turned Scone’s owner and a man who looked incredibly similar to America. They both turned to look at you when the Scottish Fold you were fondling stretched out to impossible lengths and complained like a cat while he did it. England looked down at your lap to see his cat very happily cushioned on your thighs. The man next to him was also holding a cat who again looked very similar to America’s.

They were clearly different though. This man’s hair was more auburn and his eyes were a shade of impossible purple. There was also more of a wave to it whereas America’s hair was as straight as hair comes. Familiarity lit up in your eyes, not for the man however.

“Maple!” You exclaimed, wanting to go to the cat but also not willing to disturb the one on you. “How have you been?”

The men stared at you, wondering if you were talking to them or the cat. Of course Maple himself answered this as he jumped out of his owner’s arms and darted over to you. He gracefully climbed up the small wall and placed himself down by you. Scone was on your lap and he was nicer than Hero so as to not push him off. You moved one of your arms to pet Maple and kept the other on Scone. They were so cute you felt like you were going to explode.

“Oh.” A quiet voice spoke out. It came from the man behind England. “You’re Alfred’s secretary right?”

You smiled and nodded at the man. “And I assume that means you’re Canada, right?”

He looked a tad taken aback before nodding himself. “Yeah…” He trailed off and England instead picked up the conversation.

“I thought you were supposed to be watching his furrball cat, Hero.” He walked over and leaned against the wall.

“I was. But then he and Boris got into a catfight… and then America and Russia got into a catfight.”

Canada laughed in the background but quickly covered it up. England stared at Scone, looking to see if there was anyway to get him off of you without being scratched himself. He had enough injuries, that should have scarred had he not been a country, from the cat. He shivered a bit, though also began to pet the feline, scratching his under the chin.

“That sounds like those two.”

You hummed in agreement, continuing your affections. Canada also came over to pet his own cat who ironically did smell like maple syrup. 

“Can I make you the villain of this story?” You asked England, gesturing to Scone. “I do actually have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh I suppose I can assume that role.” He mused, carefully picking up his cat. He was not happy to be moved but England just shushed him.

Canada also picked up his cat who was slightly nicer about the whole thing. He fidgeted with Maple’s ear as he held him.

“I’m Matthew.” He said, carefully shifting Maple so he could put one arm out to shake your hand.

You finished the formal greeting. “I’m (Y/n).”

The other blonde butted in from the background. “I’m Arthur, love.”

“It’s very nice to formally meet both of you. Seeing you from across a meeting room doesn’t really count.” You smiled and gave a small pat to each of the feline’s heads. “Well I wasn’t kidding about needing to get somewhere. I really didn’t mean to get stopped as long as I did.” 

You playfully glared at the Scottish Fold sitting comfortably in his owner's arms. He promptly ignored you, instead turning around cutely. England apologized but you told him it was fine. You were at least 50% sure that Mr. Jones was probably still fighting with Russia. Those two really were like angry cats. You waved the two men off and went on your way to find out the answer to that question.

Instead of coming across two feuding superpowers, you came across two of the Asian nations’ cats. You had already met them both but this was the first time you were seeing them together. Tama was sitting up high on a shelf while China’s cat, Meowzedong, was angrily meowing at him from down below. Everytime he tried to climb up, Tama would use a paw and swipe a book or other object down at him.

You flinched as a very breakable, very expensive-looking, vase crashed down. It was this movement that alerted the two cats to your presence and Meowzedong wasted no time at all to come over to you and complain. Now you couldn’t exactly speak cat but you got the jist.

Bending down, you carefully picked up the cat. Meowzedong always had a weird clump of fur that looked almost like a ponytail that, no matter how much China cut it, always grew back. He yowled at you and pointed a furry paw in Tama’s direction. The other cat had already loafed on top of the high shelf and you looked at him, back at Meowzedong, back at Tama, and then back at Meowzedong again.

“I don’t know how tall you think I am but I’m not that tall.”

Meowzedong just narrowed his eyes and meowed at you again. You sighed, looking back at Tama. If he had a long enough tail to flick it at you he would’ve. Sensing the futility of his quest, Meowzedong instead spread himself out in your arms and if you didn’t know better you would have said that he was mocking Tama. And if you really didn’t know better you’d say that it was working and that the bobtail was getting more irritated by the second. The personifications might have had to act cordial but their cats had no such qualms.

Finally, Tama de-loafed himself and gracefully hopped down a few other layers before reaching the bottom. He gracefully walked over to you and sat on your foot… Well shoot. What were you supposed to do now?

So here you were, from one cat prison to the next. Standing in the middle of some random, out-of-the-way hallway because the nations’ cats were all attention-hogging, though very adorable, brats.

You didn’t know how much time had actually passed. There was no clock in the hallway, you didn’t wear a watch, and both of your hands were occupied so you couldn’t check your phone. As cute as they were, your legs felt like they were about to collapse in on themselves. You couldn’t even shift how you were standing because Tama had taken it upon himself to lay across both of your shoes. Your arms also felt like they were going to fall off at any second. Meowzedong wasn’t a particularly heavy cat but try holding anything over five pounds for longer than five minutes.

You were desperately hoping that either they would finally get bored and leave or someone would come to save you. Wow you guessed you really did need a “Hero” right about now… Dammit you thought that referencing needing a hero in your head would magically summon America or his equally hotheaded cat.

“Tama. Meowzedong.” You murmured. “Can you please get off?” You hoped to whatever god or gods were out there that they didn’t hear the desperation in your voice. Never show weakness to a cat.

The two cats made eye contact with each other for a moment and seemed to come to an agreement. Meowzedong stretched his body out before jumping onto the ground. Tama did the same but instead greeted Meowzedong when he landed.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration if you said that you collapsed onto the wooden floor below. You quickly got up however as you didn’t want them to see it as another chance to sit on you. At least not right now. You pulled out your phone to see all of the messages and calls you missed. You had put it on silent while watching Hero and forgot to turn it back to vibrate.

‘Oh my god Mr. Jones called me twenty-three times.’ You thought, frantic. ‘I’m gonna be in so much trouble!’

You raced down the hallway, startling a group of micronations as you went. There was no time to apologize! You had to keep your job! If not for you then for the cats!

Not even thinking to knock you burst open the door where America was staying, side note why wasn’t it locked? And were greeted with the sight of!... Mr. Jones… crying? His cat looked pretty dejected too and was currently hanging himself off the side of the bed like a rug.

“Sir?” His head shot up to look at you.

He quickly snapped his head back away, mushing at his face in an attempt to try to make it seem like he wasn’t crying.

“(Y-Y/n)” He stuttered for a second, before immediately going back to the hero persona. “Where’ve you been!?”

“Are you okay?” You ignore him, instead asking your own question.

You titiled your body to look at what he was looking at… Was that a framed picture of you?!

It didn’t matter because he was very quickly all in your face again. You could see what seemed to be a rapidly healing black eye and a tooth that hadn’t fully regrown in yet as he smiled at you. Just how long was he fighting with Russia for?

You sat him down on his bed, considering if you should even bother getting a medkit for him. Either way you ended up spending the rest of the day with him, watching movies and sitting what you considered a good ways away from each other on the plush couch. He apparently had a nicer room in all of England’s properties from when he used to live there during parts of the year.

Hero filled the gap in-between you of which America was mildly annoyed about. He kept trying to get you to use ‘Alfred’ but you insisted that it was unprofessional. He’d close the gap one day.

#hetalia x reader #hetalia #hws france x reader #hws america x reader #hws england x reader #hws canada x reader #hws russia x reader #hws china x reader #hws italy x reader #hws germany x reader #hws japan x reader #hws austria x reader #america x reader #canada x reader #england x reader #france x reader #russia x reader #china x reader #italy x reader #germany x reader #japan x reader #austria x reader #hws prussia x reader #prussia x reader #nekotalia

[sgiandubh]

Keepers of the Quaich

This time, we're going to look at things a bit differently and this could very well be my most speculative post ever. So be it: it is a risk I am taking and warning you about from the get go.

The only thing Mordor understood about the next October 4 event organized by the US Chapter of The Keepers of the Quaich is something that probably gave them collective relief: S is not going to be with C on her birthday. Not together. Not on the same continent. Shut up, shippers, you are stupid.

As usually, Mordor takes things at a very primitive face value, without bothering for context. But they always focused on the lewd side of the story, not on its deep ramifications, of which there are many. Anything that denies S's halfwit manwhore image upsets them greatly.

The Scottish society of The Keepers of the Quaich is not one of those old, steeped in tradition clubs, but it is damn selective. It only dates back to 1988, which is almost five minutes ago, for Europe (and especially the UK) and is deeply rooted in Highlands' lore, celebrating excellence in whisky trade and promotion worldwide. General facts about it have already been discussed elsewhere, but with a bias and little to no context. Also, really LOL at Mordor's idiocy to think that was a fan promotion event and go ballistic for the members-only and by invitation access to it.

Membership is by co-opting and with a five-year proven performance history only (ten years, if you step up to Master level). You need not one, but two recommendations, which makes it harder to join than a Masonic lodge or the Rotary Club (and I know what I am saying, heh). That S could actively seek to be inducted, rather sooner than later, is pretty much clear, as he could use the network it readily provides, along with the prestige:

(Sourced at: https://www.diffordsguide.com/encyclopedia/341/people/keepers-of-the-quaich)

I first had a look at the list of its International Chapters and it is interesting to notice Muslim countries as Turkey or the Emirates each having their own chapter, which clearly tells me it's all about luxury and more specifically, luxury hospitality business, in that case. If inducted after the customary five years' wait, S could also make good use of the German chapter's (a market that proved to be very problematic for him) network, along with the Nordics and Netherlands, if he would think about cleverly expanding his trade in the EU. Last but not least, I would keep an eye on Brazil and India (along with the more predictable South Africa and Australia), because he already has a solid fanbase in the first one and well, Asia is always interesting, when it comes to alcohol business.

I did not really bother with the list of the Patrons, which spells a good and prestigious sliver of Debrett's Peerage's Scottish section. But I also looked at the list of the Management Committee, who does all the hands-on dealings and is directly responsible for the induction ceremony of new members. Aside from representatives of Diageo and Pernod Ricard (giants of the alcohol business world), a familiar name popped right at the bottom of the page:

Annabel Meikle, Director of The Keepers of the Quaich and as such, directly involved in the management of its activities (and probably also in all the underground shenanigans leading to the induction of new members, too). A great contact to have in your rolodex, judging by her public CV on LinkedIn:

Glenmorangie (also a member of the Keepers) - keep that reference under your sleeve, we are going to need it soon :).

Could she be related to...

I am leaving this without an answer, because I don't know and I will always refuse to go data mining for anything, but that sure as hell is not a common surname, as Smith or Martin!

At any rate, Mrs. Meikle is also (along with the Duke of Argyll, the current Keepers Grand Master) a member of The Scottish Committee of something very, very prestigious: The Worshipful Company of Distillers (https://www.distillers.org.uk/), based in London and founded in 1638, by Royal Charter (for “Body Politique and corporate” to govern the “Trade Arte and Mystery of Distillers of London” - how I love history, people!) granted by Charles I, a Stuart (of course). I am speculating and having visions of Livery status and Freedom of the City, followed by Knighthood for S (no bong needed, this particular narrative writes itself and believe it or not, it's not entirely without logic). And it is my strict constitutional right to be a poetic coo about it - that guy is smarter than we thought and I would curate that contact to death if I were him (but I am not, I am just a benevolent and intrigued observer, as you all know). Back to Earth from these optimistic conjectures, I will keep a tab on it, as I dutifully took note that one of their current interests is tequila:

Onwards to the US. We can have a fair idea of October 4th event just by looking at one of their few press releases on the occasion of the Chapter's launch gala, on September 25 2019, in New York (https://www.distilledspirits.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/KOTQUSA-Release-10.04.19.pdf - with quotes selected by me):

Moët Hennessy. Another reference to keep under our sleeve, for it will be soon very relevant. So yes, what has been speculated by Miss Marple is partially true: more business than aristocratic. But this is only if we do not consider as American aristocratic the venue of the next event. The Metropolitan Club is a very East Coast, WASP old money and (well, technically yes) Republican (but not MAGA Republican and this, to me, is very important for some reason) organization:

That was the state of play on Friday, folks, and I was already excited to share my optimistic findings with you. And then, C went to Paris and more dots started to speculatively connect. Bare with me for this long passegiata, I think it's worth it.

It was particularly important that C would be seen in a very friendly-casual pose with Delphine Arnault, out of all the other people attending that event. Not because Arnault is currently the big boss of Dior and Loewe (as I already explained here: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/729801825900953600/city-of-lights?source=share). And not only because C suddenly seems very interested to renew and expand her fashion days' old network. But also, because, as I already said, Delphine Arnault is also the daughter of her father and in France, business and family are always closely entwined. Always.

The French luxury market is roughly split between two behemoth players: Bernard Arnault (LVMH Moët Hennessy • Louis Vuitton S.A) and Antoine Pinault (Kering, ex- Pinault-Printemps- Redoute). These people and their businesses are number 1 and 2, respectively, on the global market. And out of these two, the only one very interested in the alcohol business is Arnault (Pinault does not deal in this sector).

So I took a look at his very diverse alcohol and spirits brand portfolio (25 references - https://www.lvmh.com/houses/wines-spirits/): rhum, brandy, champagne, tequila, wines (Argentina and even China). Two Scottish whisky brands: first Ardberg (the graceful peat from Islay). And - oh, hello, Mrs. Meikle - Glenmorangie, acquired by Arnault in 2004, after a bitter battle with Pernod Ricard (https://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/21/business/world-business-briefing-europe-france-scotch-maker-acquired.html):

Back at Mrs. Meikle's CV - hers was a pivotal role in the post-acquisition reshuffle, as part of LVMH:

Coincidence? I think not.

And then also a bourbon reference. Woodinville (based in the state of Washington, USA) with a pitch that made me grin again like the Cheshire Cat:

Sounds familiar? Rings a bell? See a pattern? You should: no, it's not S in disguise, but it could be SS in a couple of years, if S decided to sell it for a hefty profit.

But I was also interested in what is missing from this catalogue.

NO GIN.

Who knows? Maybe these French people could be enticed? In that case (and remember: I am SPECULATING), it would have to be a brand with a proven track record. You see, Arnault is famous for always buying only brands with a proven history and proven recognition (Tasting Alliance, anyone? LOL). Up until now and as is, FMN is just a pet project and a virtual endeavor. Nothing more and we shall see. But that little wild Scottish gin which could win hearts and already an award in Frisco is something completely different.

Now, then. You connect the dots. You draw your own conclusions. I see something very intriguing here and, as I already told you, the business underground situation is completely different from the bland façade.

You see, this is not about papers or checking a pulse or awkwardly grabbing a fist on some stairs. This is show me the money time. This is all about finding unexpected connections, at a very high level and on a very narrow niche.

So you think S and C can't stand each other anymore?

Humbug. They have each other's back from Day 1. And more. Ship on, ladies. Whatever clownery these days might bring, I know what I know. And by now, you should start asking yourselves the real questions, not if Waldo is with Carmen Sandiego (we KNOW), nor if they were online at the same time or not. I mean, that's cute: but to be honest, I think we're past that... uh... waypoint?

Next on my list is that Lallybroch trademark thing. This is the most complex one and I will take my time. I may speculate, but never without a logical base. And I always take these things very seriously.

Keepers of the Quaich, indeed. :)

#BoozeWars

[goldammerchen]

hetalia btt/bft trio + bavaria + saxony

Nonlinear – Summary of the War of Austrian Succession

also:

Main Storyline – Chibitalia

Comic Diary – Comic Diary Summary Part 7 (some comics about the Anschluss! Swastika drawing)

Nonlinear – Liechtenstein’s Doting Older Brother Journal

Collezione (link)

tumblr post about the tweet

Bonuses

Hesse:

From Bamboo Thicket (I don't completely agree, due to hearing about strong regional identification in GER, not so few still must be around in Heta logic)

Cleaning Mr. Prussia – Germany Intro

Germany - Stop There

German nations' military uniforms - Bamboo Thicket

Even more

Who are these here?

long text by Hima that doesn't really name drop any other state but talks about the unification

edit: they are back chapter 516! finally canon sax and bavaria!

(hesse isn't there tho...)

#lets-fuck-over-rod club #lutz' bros #hws saxony #hws bavaria #hetalia manga #sr. tnddr #edit: whyyyyy the links modify the personalized url

[sleepdeprivedsimp234]

Really long headcanon post for the stuff that I’ve posted on Wattpad :3

Massachusetts:

-Mans is my height, 5'6, and he hates being bullied about being the shortest of his brothers lmao

-Is twins with New Jersey, though Jersey makes fun of him cuz he's five minutes younger

-he has reddish brown shoulder-length wavy hair and hazel eyes

-mf is built like the Dwayne Johnson though he's just missing the height

-TRANSMASC MASS SUPREMACY 🛐🛐

-this man acts all tough until the cramps come along. Then he's dead.

-doctor of the statehouse, along with Texas. He deals with sickness/illness whilst Texas deals with injuries. Though he can do both cuz we love that.

-tried learning how to make flower crowns cuz NY would always make them for everyone when they were younger. He tried his best, and he's actually kinda okay at it, so him and any will just hang out and make flower crowns.

-^he has put a spell on every single flower crown that he's ever given or received so that they never shrivel up and die

-OCD, autism, and ADHD

-loves rock, metal, and punk music. Especially FFDP (THEY HAVE NO BUSINESS BEING THAT FRICKIN' GOOD LIKE WHAT-)

-friends with the OG13 (no dip Sherlock-), Maine, Texas, and Louisiana.

-REFUSES TO ADMIT HE HAS A SOFT SPOT FOR NEW YORK. EVEN IF HE'S ACTIVELY HUGGING HIM. HE WILL DENY IT TILL THE DAY HE DIES. HE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR THIS DAMN KID.

-^the moment he met New York, he was filled with the urge to take him away from England immediately. He does pick favorite brothers btw. And it's New York.

-sharp lil canines like he's a friggin vampire smh

Sippi:

-he is a squishy boy and we love that <3 it just makes him better for cuddling

-he's not short, not tall, he's only 5'8.

-he's a pathetic loser tbh but we still love him

-sippi loves stuffed animals, but his favorite is a teddy bear that was given to him by New York (fun fact, teddy bears were invented in Brooklyn, and were named after the president that refused to shoot a bear!).

-he named it Mr. Cuddles, and it is the most beat up stuffed animal that he owns (as in, its ear had to be sewn back on, one of its eyes has been replaced by a button, and it has random stitches and patches all over) but he still loves it and cherishes it to this day.

-friends with (omg he has friends????) Texas, Louisiana, Florida, New York, South Carolina and Georgia

-yes yes he is but a cuddly marshmallow. Until you hurt someone he loves. Then you're dead.

-he SCREAMS whenever there's a bug. Strangely though, he likes ants, moths, and butterflies.

-mans is colorblind

-he doesn't like his squishy-ness and has tried to starve himself on numerous occasions :(

-I think that the fact that he's been owned by 3 different countries is grounds to give him abandonment issues right? Okay.

-if it weren't for his friends just simply existing, he would've been long gone by now. (same tho- I mean what?)

-I'm not gonna say he's hurt himself before, but I'm not gonna say he hasn't either 👁️👁️

-bro thinks that anybody he gets close to is gonna leave him :[

-if he gets hurt, he's not gonna bother telling anyone cuz he doesn't wanna feel like a failure for not being able to defend himself

Texas:

-this man is T A L L- he's 6'5 (not as tall as Alaska though so HA-)

-I imagine him to be very slim and fit, but he has a tiny bit of pudge around his lower stomach and hips and thighs.

-he LOVES animals so, so much. More than humans tbh.

-he has a horse (Ranger), 5 dogs (Rosco, Daisy, Cassy, Billie, and Maria. Rosco and Cassy are German Shepherds, Daisy and Billie are heelers, and Maria is a demonic chihuahua), 3 cats (Mittens, Sassy, and Milo), and 2 snakes (Spot and Harvey).

-^thats just at the statehouse. Back home, he has an animal sanctuary where he takes care of animals, takes them in, nurses them back to health, ect... It's very adorable and I love it.

-speaking of animals, he cannot, I repeat, CANNOT keep it together if an animal dies or gets hurt in a movie. Homeward Bound? Mans was not okay. Hachi? He wasn't ballin', he was bawling 😔.

-I BELIEVE IN TRANSMASC TEXAS SUPREMACY 🛐

-he still wears a binder cuz he doesn't trust the doctors to perform top surgery on him.

-ADHD for DAYS- don't give him an energy drink unless you want a 6'5 chihuahua on cocaine to be following you around.

-ADHD, autism, ocd, depression, anxiety, and ptsd. Idk if daddy issues counts, but he has those for sure.

-this bitch has fallen off of so many things that he no longer takes fall damage

-Mexico was such an asshole to poor Texas...... I wanna skin him alive :)

-Texas CANNOT handle someone raising their hand or voice at him. He can't. He will flinch and/or cry. Which he hates. Cuz he's supposed to have this reputation as the big strong Lone Star State.

-he has SH scars on his wrists, sides, and thighs. They vary from blade marks, to cigarette burns, to even scratches.

-he hates all of his scars so, so much and sees them as nothing but a sign of his weakness and inability to defend himself.

-Texas is also kinda insecure about the little bit of pudge on his lower belly, hips, and thighs. What makes it worse is that he can't really help it. Especially the stomach pudge cuz that's just where his uterus is. Does he know this? Yes. Is he still insecure? Yes.

-he often binds too long or forgets that he has his binder on until it's too late and there is severe bruising and even minor bleeding underneath the band. Along with breathing difficulties.

-^to make the breathing difficulties thing worse, he has asthma :)

——————

#welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #ben brainard #wttt #wttsh #wttt massachusetts #wttsh massachusetts #wttt mississippi #wttsh mississippi #wttt texas #wttsh texas

[tomorrowusa]

What Russia can't win on the battlefield it will try to accomplish with disinformation, propaganda, and plain old bribery.

A Russian cabal operated a propaganda site masquerading as a news site called the Voice of Europe. In addition to publishing items designed to undermine confidence in various European governments, it outright made payoffs to various EU politicians.

Investigators claimed it used the popular Voice of Europe website as a vehicle to pay politicians. The Czech Republic and Poland said the network aimed to influence European politics. Voice of Europe did not respond to the BBC's request for comment. Czech media, citing intelligence sources, reported that politicians from Germany, France, Poland, Belgium, the Netherlands and Hungary were paid by Voice of Europe in order to influence upcoming elections for the European Parliament. The German newspaper Der Spiegel said the money was either handed over in cash in covert meetings in Prague or through cryptocurrency exchanges. Pro-Russian Ukrainian oligarch Viktor Medvedchuk is alleged by the Czech Republic to be behind the network. Mr Medvedchuk was arrested in Ukraine soon after the Russian invasion, but later transferred to Russia with about 50 prisoners of war in exchange for 215 Ukrainians. ' Czech authorities also named Artyom Marchevsky, alleging he managed the day-to-day business of the website. Both men were sanctioned by Czech authorities. Poland's intelligence agency said it had conducted searches in the Warsaw and Tychy regions and seized €48,500 (£41,500) and $36,000 (£28,500).

"Money from Moscow has been used to pay some political actors who spread Russian propaganda," BIS said in a statement. It added that the sums amounted to "millions" of Czech crowns (tens of thousands of pounds).

I went looking for the Voice of Europe site but it is now missing (Hmm. We’re having trouble finding that site). So I held my nose and visited their Twitter account and nothing new has been posted since the scandal broke.

We need to be careful when looking at news online. Recently a series of fake sites pretending to be legit US news sources was uncovered.

Russia-Backed ‘Fake News Organizations’ Revealed Across the U.S. in Bombshell New York Times Report

The fake news sites have names that sound like they are legit but aren't. Examples: D.C. Weekly, the New York News Daily, the Chicago Chronicle, and the Miami Chronicle. There is a legit New York Daily News – note the different word order from the fake. There once was a newspaper called the Chicago Chronicle but it folded during the Theodore Roosevelt administration.

Google News searches spew a lot of crap. In a lot of cases the "news" sources on Google are just the proverbial guy in his underwear in his mom's basement posting bullshit. They may not be Russian but they are often dubious.

It's best to create a bookmark folder of known legit news sources. There are still numerous good sources not behind paywalls. And many countries have public broadcasters who post news in English. Just a few: NPR, BBC, DW, CBC, ABC (Australia), RFI, YLE, Radio Sweden | Sveriges Radio, NHK-World, and even EER in Estonia.

When running across a news story which sounds peculiar, check to see if it's being reported in known legit media before posting or sharing it.

There are national elections this year in a number of countries including India, the US, and (probably) the UK. Don't inadvertently assist Putin's effort to spread disinformation and sow chaos.

#russian disinformation #russia #propaganda #fake news organizations #voice of europe #bezpečnostní informační služba #agencja bezpieczeństwa wewnętrznego #polska #česko #viktor medvedchuk #artyom marchevsky #дезинформация #артем марчевский #виктор медведчук #россия #владимир путин #путин ��уйло #україна переможе #stand with ukraine

[justforbooks]

The actor Ian Lavender, who has died aged 77, played the awkward, impulsive Private Frank Pike in the long-running BBC comedy Dad’s Army, and was the last surviving member of the cast who portrayed Captain Mainwaring’s Home Guard platoon.

Most of the part-time soldiers depicted in the series, which ran from 1968 to 1977, were exempted from call-up to the army during the second world war because of advanced age. Pike, their junior in most cases by several decades, had been excused because of his weak chest, and always wore the scarf insisted upon by his widowed mum, Mavis.

In spite of their foibles and foolishness, Mainwaring’s pomposity and the frequent slapstick sequences, the heroes of Dad’s Army were courageous men prepared to give their lives to protect their country, and it was this innate nobility that lifted the series, written by David Croft and Jimmy Perry, to greatness. At its peak it had more than 18 million weekly viewers, and is still regularly rerun.

There were many catchphrases – Lance Corporal Jones’s “Don’t panic!”, Private Frazer’s “We’re doomed!” and Sergeant Wilson’s languid “Do you think that’s wise, sir?” – and the best-remembered belongs to the gangster movie-fixated Pike, though he did not utter it himself: Mainwaring’s weary “You stupid boy!”

Pike was also involved in Dad’s Army’s most frequently quoted joke. “What is your name?” snarls the German U-boat commander who has been captured by the platoon. “Don’t tell him, Pike,” shouts Mainwaring. There was often great subtlety in the inter-platoon relationships, best exemplified by that of Pike and Wilson (John Le Mesurier). Wilson, whom Pike calls Uncle Arthur, is Mrs Pike’s lodger, and is forever fussing around the boy, making sure his scarf is on tight and gently steering him away from danger. It was not until the end of the final series that Lavender asked Croft if “Uncle Arthur” was actually Pike’s father. “Of course,” replied Croft.

Born in Birmingham, Ian was the son of Edward, a policeman, and Kathleen (nee Johnson), a housewife; his mother often took him to see pantomimes, variety shows and Saturday morning cinema, which gave him his first ambitions to become an actor. After performing in many school drama productions at Bournville boys’ technical school he was accepted, with the help of a grant from the city of Birmingham, by the Bristol Old Vic acting school. Clearly far from being a stupid boy, he passed 12 O-levels and four A-levels. “The only reason I don’t have a degree is because I went to drama school,” he said years later.

He made his first television appearance soon after he graduated from Bristol in 1968, playing an aspiring writer whose family want him to get a proper job, in Ted Allan’s play for the Half Hour Story series, Flowers at My Feet, with Angela Baddeley and Jane Hylton.

In the same year, he was cast as Pike, joining the seasoned veterans of comedy and the classics Le Mesurier, Arthur Lowe (Mainwaring), Clive Dunn (Jones), John Laurie (Frazer), James Beck (Private Walker), Arnold Ridley (Private Godfrey) and Bill Pertwee as Air Raid Warden Hodges. Janet Davies played Mrs Pike.

While Dad’s Army catapulted Lavender to national fame at the age of 22, the role of Pike haunted him for the rest of his long career. Not that he had any complaints.

Asked in 2014 if he got fed up with a lifetime of having “stupid boy” called out to him in the street, he replied: “I’m very proud of Dad’s Army. If you asked me ‘Would you like to be in a sitcom that was watched by 18 million people, was on screen for 10 years, and will create lots of work for you and provide not just for you but for your children for the next 40-odd years?’ – which is what happened – I’d be a fool to say ‘Bugger off.’ I’d be a fool to have regrets.”

After Dad’s Army, Lavender made further television appearances, including Mr Big (1977), with Peter Jones and Prunella Scales, and in 1983 he revived Pike for the BBC radio sitcom It Sticks Out Half a Mile, a sequel to Dad’s Army, but it was not a success and lasted only one series. In contrast, the original series, with most of the regular cast, had been rerecorded for radio from 1974 to 1976 and proved very popular.

He was also in the BBC TV series Come Back Mrs Noah (1977-78), co-written by Croft; and played Ron in a new version of The Glums (1979) for London Weekend Television, adapted from Frank Muir and Denis Norden’s original radio scripts of the 1950s. There were more smallish television parts in the 80s, such as two episodes of Yes, Minister, and bits in Keeping Up Appearances, Goodnight Sweetheart, Rising Damp and Casualty. He starred in the unsuccessful BBC series The Hello Goodbye Man in 1984 and provided the lead voice in the children’s cartoon series PC Pinkerton in 1988.

He was also in various quiz shows, including Cluedo (1990). On Celebrity Mastermind, broadcast on BBC1 on New Year’s Day 2009, when the presenter John Humphrys asked him to state his name, a fellow contestant, Rick Wakeman, shouted: “Don’t tell him, Pike!”

In addition to co-starring in the first film version of Dad’s Army (1971), he appeared in various low-level British sex farces of the 1970s, including Confessions of a Pop Performer (1975), Carry on Behind (1975), Adventures of a Taxi Driver (1976) and Adventures of a Private Eye (1976). He also starred in the thriller 31 North 62 East (2009). “I was close to getting two very big movies in the 70s,” he said without rancour in 2014, “but in the end they said: ‘We can’t get past Private Pike.’”

Lavender’s second best-known role was his delicate and sympathetic portrayal of Derek Harkinson, Pauline Fowler’s gay friend, in the BBC soap EastEnders from 2001 to 2005, and again in 2016-17.

In addition to various live Dad’s Army productions, his stage work included the Royal Shakespeare Company’s The Merchant of Venice, directed by Peter Hall and with Dustin Hoffman as Shylock in 1989, touring as the Narrator in The Rocky Horror Show in 2005, Monsignor Howard in the London Palladium production of the musical Sister Act in 2009, The Shawshank Redemption at the Edinburgh fringe in 2013, and his own one-man show of reminiscences, Don’t Tell Him, Pike.

Lavender had a great admiration for Buster Keaton, and was an expert on the silent comedian’s career. In 2011 he introduced Keaton’s Sherlock Jr (1924) at the Slapstick silent comedy festival in Bristol, and commented that finding Keaton’s grave in the Fountain Lawns cemetery in Hollywood had been one of his life’s special moments.

In 2016 a new cinema version of Dad’s Army was released, with Toby Jones as Mainwaring and Bill Nighy as Wilson. Private Pike was played by Blake Harrison, and Lavender was promoted to play Brigadier Pritchard. In a touching in-joke, his younger face was also seen on an advertisement poster in a street scene.

Lavender is survived by his second wife, Miki Hardy, whom he married in 1993; by his sons, Sam and Daniel, from his first marriage, to the actor Suzanne Kershiss, which ended in divorce; and by two granddaughters.

🔔 Arthur Ian Lavender, actor, born 16 February 1946; died 2 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Ian Lavender #in memoriam

[homomenhommes]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 23

1851 – Paul Adolf Näcke, born in Saint Petersburg, Russia,(d.1913) was a German psychiatrist and criminologist . Näcke is known for his numerous scientific writings on homosexuality. He introduced the concept of narcissism as a neologism in a psychiatric discussion of the turn of the century.

Dr Paul Näcke wrote that while he believed homosexuality was a sign of arrested development, homosexuals show no more signs of abnormality or degeneracy than heterosexuals. Influenced by the research of Magnus Hirschfeld, he developed the idea that homosexuality should not be considered an acquired mental illness, but is an innate natural property. He suggested the popular thesis of bi-sexuality of all people, but that in some the "self-sex" is stunted in the course of puberty.

1893 – Professional "sissy" actor Franklin Pangborn was born in Newark, New Jersey (d.1958). If you don't know the name you've seen his work in old late late show movies. The character actor appeared in dozens of comedies always playing prissy, fluttery clerks, bank tellers, assistant hotel managers, and department store floorwalkers. He appeared in many Preston Sturges movies as well as the W.C. Fields films "International House," "The Bank Dick," and "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break." Pangborn was an effective foil for many major comedians, including Fields, Harold Lloyd, Olsen and Johnson, and The Ritz Brothers. He appeared regularly in comedies and musicals of the 1940s.

When movie roles became scarce, he worked in television. For a time Pangborn was the announcer on Jack Paar's Tonight Show.

In his book "Screened Out: Playing Gay in Hollywood from Edison to Stonewall", the film scholar Richard Barrios wrote that some people "will praise the artistry of Pangborn as they bemoan its misuse, while others will prefer to revel in both the subversiveness of it all and the actor's skill. Still others will just shut the whole matter out and deny that there were any Gay characters in film prior to the late 1960s."

In his essay, "Laughing Hysterically: Sex, Repression, and American Film Comedy," the scholar Ed Sikov argues that:

Pangborn probably appeared "in more screwball comedies than any other actor — "My Man Godfrey", "Easy Living", "Bluebeard's Eighth Wife", "A Girl, a Guy and a Gob", "The Palm Beach Story", "Vivacious Lady", "Mr. Deeds Goes to Town", "Design for Living", "Joy of Living", "Topper Takes a Trip", and "Fifth Avenue Girl" — probably because his character (the fussy, flustered, silly, and temperamental proto-Gay male) fits perfectly into screwball's world of urban extremism.

A deft comedian, Pangborn elevated effeminacy into an art form. He makes himself an object of mockery in film after film, but he never gives up his dignity."

Pangborn died on July 20, 1958 after undergoing surgery. For his contributions to motion pictures, Pangborn has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 1500 Vine Street.

1898 – American motion picture actor Randolph Scott was born. (d.1987) He was known for his roles in films as diverse as Follow the Fleet; The Last of the Mohicans; High, Wide, and Handsome and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.

In his earlier Westerns ... the Scott persona is debonair, easy-going, graceful, though with the necessary hint of steel. As he matures into his fifties his roles change. Increasingly Scott becomes the man who has seen it all, who has suffered pain, loss, and hardship, and who has now achieved a stoic calm.

Following the making of Ride the High Country (1962), Scott retired from film making at the age of 64. Having made shrewd investments throughout his life, he eventually accumulated a fortune worth a reputed US$100 million.

Scott married twice. The first time, in 1936, he became the second husband of heiress Marion Du Pont. Reputedly the couple spent little time together and the marriage ended in divorce three years later.

In 1944, Scott married Patricia Stillman, with whom he adopted two children. The marriage lasted 43 years until Scott's death in 1987.

Although Scott achieved fame as a motion picture actor, he managed to keep a fairly low profile with his private life. And therein lies the food for the rumors. Off screen he became good friends with Fred Astaire and Cary Grant. He met Grant on the set of Hot Saturday and shortly afterwards they began rooming together in a beach house in Malibu that became known as "Bachelor Hall." They would live together, on and off, for about ten years, presumably because they liked each other's company and wanted to save on living expenses. As Scott shared "Bachelor Hall" with Cary Grant for twelve years, it was rumored that the two actors were romantically involved, and that the name "Bachelor Hall" and the reported parade of women there were invented by the studio who wanted to keep their valuable actors away from any public scandal.

Randolph Scott & Cary Grant

In his book, "Cary Grant: Grant's Secret Sixth Marriage," author Marc Eliot claims Grant had a sexual relationship with Scott after they met on the set of Hot Saturday (1932). In his book, Hollywood Gay, Boze Hadleigh, author of numerous books purporting to reveal the sexual orientation of celebrities, makes various claims for Scott's homosexuality. He cites Gay director George Cukor who said about the homosexual relationship between the two: "Oh, Cary won't talk about it. At most, he'll say they did some wonderful pictures together. But Randolph will admit it - to a friend."

According to William J. Mann's book, "Behind the Screen: How Gays and Lesbians Shaped Hollywood, 1910-1969," photographer Jerome Zerbe spent "three Gay months" in the movie colony taking many photographs of Grant and Scott, "attesting to their involvement in the Gay scene." In 1995, Richard Blackwell published his autobiography "From Rags to Bitches," where he declared he was lovers to both Cary Grant and Scott.

1959 – Scott Thorson, born in La Crosse, Wisconsin, is an American best known for his relationship with and lawsuit against the entertainer Liberace.

A teenaged Thorson met Liberace in 1976 through his romantic friendship with dancer Bob Street (a friend of Hollywood producer Ray Arnett) who was staging Liberace's shows in Vegas. When Thorson was 18, Liberace hired him to act as his personal friend and companion, a position that allegedly included a five-year romantic relationship with lavish gifts, travel, and Liberace's promises that he would adopt and care for Thorson. Liberace claimed that he had "more mink coats and diamonds than Elizabeth Taylor". Liberace also incorporated Thorson into his Las Vegas stage performances – for example, Thorson drove Liberace's Rolls-Royce onstage, and was a dancer.

According to Thorson, their committed relationship ended because of Liberace's promiscuous behavior and Thorson's drug addiction. Thorson also claimed that it was Liberace that originally started him on the drugs, but then when his habit got out of control, Liberace cut him off from all of his credit cards. Thorson stated that following his plastic surgery, the surgeon provided for him a cocktail of highly addictive drugs that included cocaine, Quaaludes, biphetamines, and Demerol. Thorson stated that since he was so young at the time of meeting Liberace, he would do anything that he could to please him, including getting plastic surgery so that he could resemble him, but he felt that their relationship was one-sided. He called Liberace both generous and possessive.

In 2000, Thorson was among several people featured in the British television documentary Liberace: Too Much of a Good Thing Is Wonderful. In 2002, Thorson was interviewed by Larry King on Larry King Live, during which Thorson confirmed that, in the midst of his relationship with Liberace, he chose to have plastic surgery to look more like Liberace at the pianist's suggestion. Also during the interview with King, Thorson revealed his chin implant had been removed earlier in 2002.

In 1982, after he was let go by Liberace, Thorson filed a $113 million lawsuit against Liberace, part of which was a palimony suit. This was the first same-sex palimony case filed in U.S. history. Thorson decided to sue because he claimed that Liberace threw him out on the streets with nothing. Liberace continued to deny that he was homosexual, and during court depositions in 1984, he insisted that Thorson was never his lover. Throughout their lawsuit, Thorson stated that Liberace referred to him in the media as a disgruntled employee, a liar, a gold digger, and claimed that there was never a sexual relationship between them.

The case was settled out of court in 1986, with Thorson receiving a $75,000 cash settlement, plus three cars and three pet dogs worth another $20,000. Thorson visited and reconciled with Liberace shortly before the entertainer's death in February 1987. Thorson said, after Liberace had died, that he settled because he knew that Liberace was dying, and that Thorson had intended to sue based on conversion of property rather than palimony.

A year after Liberace's death, Thorson published a book about their relationship, Behind the Candelabra: My Life with Liberace. Thorson's book was later adapted by Richard LaGravenese and Steven Soderbergh into the 2013 film Behind the Candelabra, in which Thorson was played by Matt Damon opposite Michael Douglas as Liberace.

In 1989, Thorson emerged as a pivotal witness in the prosecution of gangster Eddie Nash, in the 1981 quadruple murders of the Wonderland Gang. For his testimony, he was placed in the federal witness protection program. In 1990, he was shot five times when drug dealers broke into his hotel room in Jacksonville, Florida.

In 2008, Thorson pleaded guilty to felony drug and burglary charges and was sentenced to four years in prison.

Previously diagnosed with hepatitis C, in the autumn of 2012, Thorson was diagnosed with stage II cancer. Since his diagnosis, Thorson has made public pleas for money to continue his medical treatments. Thorson had planned in 2012 to re-release the book Behind the Candelabra to coincide with the film's release.

In February 2013, police investigating a lost wallet tracked the use of the victim's credit cards to a hotel in Reno, Nevada. Thorson was found to be using the credit cards and was arrested. Thorson (who also uses the alias Jess Marlow, an alias he says that he acquired when he entered the protection program in the Nash case) was booked on a variety of charges, including burglary and using a credit card without consent. He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to five years' probation in July 2013.

Thorson did not do well on probation. In September 2013, he tested positive for methamphetamine, but was given another chance. He subsequently failed drug tests again – twice in October, and again on November 1, 2013. He was arrested on November 19, 2013, after violating a court order to enter an inpatient treatment facility in Reno two weeks earlier. On January 23, 2014, his probation was revoked and he was sentenced to 8 to 20 years in Nevada prison. Thorson is currently incarcerated in Northern Nevada Correctional Center in Carson City.

1976 – Police raid the Club Baths of Montreal on the eve of the Montreal Olympics. Thirteen people are arrested and charged as found-ins in a common bawdyhouse, a charge usually reserved for prostitution in Canada.

1998 – On this date the Italian writer Alfredo Ormando died (b. 1958). On 13 January 1998 he set himself on fire in Saint Peter's Square in Rome to protest the attitudes and policies of the Roman Catholic Church regarding homosexual Christians. After two policemen put out the flames, he was brought to Sant'Eugenio Hospital in critical condition. He died there 11 days later.

2008 – Azerbaijan, Iran Hamzeh Chavi, 18, and Loghman Hamzehpour, 19, are arrested for homosexuality. They confessed that they were in love which prompted the court to charge them with "waging a war against God" and sodomy. An online petition garnered over 20,000 signatures calling for their release. It is likely they were executed. Lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people in Iran face legal challenges not experienced by non-LGBT residents. While people can legally change their assigned gender, sexual activity between members of the same sex is illegal.

2009 – If you think persecution of gays in the United States was "way back then" consider this item:

The Washington Post reported that the Maryland state police considered the LGBT activism group Equality Maryland to be terrorists. Equality Maryland, the state's largest Gay rights group, was among the peaceful protest groups to be classified as terrorists in a Maryland State Police database. The group was designated a "security threat" by the Homeland Security and Intelligence Division, which also kept dossiers on dozens of activists and at least a dozen groups. Police kept files on Equality Maryland's plans to hold rallies outside the State House in Annapolis to press for legislation reversing the state's ban on same-sex marriage. Police planned to purge the files before word of their existence became public.

However, the files were revealed at a news conference, where a dozen Democratic lawmakers announced plans to introduce legislation to prevent future surveillance of nonviolent groups. Police would need "reasonable articulated suspicion of actual criminal activity" before they could conduct surveillance, the legislation's sponsors said. Gov. Martin O'Malley also planned to call for a similar bill. The measure also would prevent police from keeping files on citizens, unless the information is part of "a legitimate criminal investigation."

2018 – Gay meterorologist Joel Taylor (b.1980) who starred on the Discovery series "Storm Chasers" died on this day while on an Altantis cruise from a drug overdose. Atlantis Events is the world’s largest producer of all-gay cruises and resort vacations.

[inposterumcumgaudio]

tell me about Reg Cutty

People are missing so much of the story with him.

And I kinda get it because the way the dialogue is in "The Slaughterer's Apprentice" implies a narrower story than there is, but the clues are there to be seen.

As is, people interpret Reg's story thus: when the Germans invaded, he started dating Marta, a German woman, and had a son with her. Additionally, he was especially cooperative with the Germans, which the locals found distasteful. When the Germans left, Marta and their son left with them, but Reg stayed behind out of cowardice. Afterward, he attempted to join the Home Army, but due to his past collaborationist behavior, they are unwilling to accept him.

But there's pieces that don't fit in there story, loose elements that look like editing errors or dead-end mysteries... unless you're looking at the whole picture.

We Happy Few, in addition to its overwhelming amount of text and dialogue, also relies very heavily on environmental storytelling. You miss a lot if you're not looking.

Cutty & Son

Cutty Family Butcher

Cutty's & Sons founded 1912

Reg is older than Arthur, old enough to be dating and having children in the 40's. 1912 is a little long for two generations, but a little short for three. So I think it's a fair assumption that Reg's father started this butcher shop and if it's Cutty's and Sons then Reg must also have a brother.

A brother who is - very pointedly - no longer part of the business.

But before we get to him, let's talk about Cutty Sr.

In the note "Thank you for your contribution", the recipient is actually someone named Bill, not Reg.

Dear Mr. Cutty:

Thank you for your contribution to the Next War Effort. The troops greatly appreciated your sausages. We all think your patriotic efforts are smashing.

Do keep up the good work, and we will seriously consider your application to join the Home Army.

Yours very truly, Lt. John Fortescue

(written longhand) You don't need to buttonhole me every time I come into the shop, Bill. It's not a matter of what you did or didn't do during the "late, great unpleasantness." We all know that citizens were under a lot of pressure to cooperate with the G, and even if, at times, you seemed a little extra enthuseastic, we take at face value your protestations that that is just your manner. However, you are on the old side for a soldier, old chap. It will take a little while -- and perhaps a few more sausages -- before the boys are quite ready to "put you through your paces" as you put it. ''

I think this dialogue during the quest misdirects the player to conclude that it's an editing error.

Arthur: I found your letter.

Reg: You were a child then. You wouldn't understand.

Arthur: Oh, yes, it was a happy, carefree time for us kids.

Reg: I loved her. We were just two young people caught up in something bigger than ourselves.

Arthur: That doesn't sound like what the Home Army's onto you about.

Reg: You don't understand. I thought they would stay forever. I had to sell meat. We had to get on.

That Reg takes individual responsibility for gettin' cozy with the Germans makes sense if his father isn't here to own up too. Reg is the only one in the situation who's standing accused anymore. But the letter was sent to Bill, and I think that means it isn't Reg who was trying to join the Home Army, but his father.

And why should he want to do that after the fact, well after the war was over and the Germans had gone home?

To redeem the family name, which was tarnished by Bill's collaboration (and Reg's fraternization) with the Germans.

Ollie has a cut line when standing on the set of the Uncle Jack show where he specifically calls Reg out for being a collaborator:

"Did you know that you can get extra rations if you betray your country? That’s right, all the schnitzel you can possibly eat. Just ask Reg Cutty for the Deutschland Über Alles special."

Ollie remembers because he's never been a Joy user. That this little piece of trivia escaped his dose of Oblivion is not surprising either since he has a lot of opinions about people who cooperated with the Germans.

The rest of Wellington Wells has mostly forgotten about the Cutty family taste for schnitzel by '64, but Lt. Fortescue and the Home Army certainly hadn't forgotten about it when that letter was written.

Reg writes in his letter to Marta that he cannot send that "I wish I had not been a coward, and I had joined you on the last train. It seems I am one coward after another." And maybe it was cowardice, but I rather think he stayed out of a sense of obligation as well.

There seems to be a bit tension around the "& Sons" part of the Cutty legacy, you see.

Reg must have a brother, but he is not working at the butchershop. Reg would not need Edmund to help him if his brother was working there. And that Reg has crossed out & Sons on the poster at the lunch counter, but left the "& Son" on the lettering under the awning...

You can see here that the sign used to say Cutty & Sons, plural, but the S on the end has been scrubbed off. The lettering with the S would have been perfectly centered over the window otherwise. It's a little short on the right side without it.

I think Reg didn't remove the "& Son" entirely because to him, the Cutty in red isn't him, it's his father. In his absence, without a Cutty Jr. to run the shop, his father's legacy disappears.

Reg makes a lot of being someone who can "look at the blood, and the flesh, and the bone." He has all these metaphors about how people like their meat wrapped up nicely in brown paper so they don't have to think about how it got there. He delineates himself from others this way. I will bet you all the money that his brother was squeamish and that's why he's not working at the family shop and preserving their father's memory.

But more than that, I also think Reg's brother left the fold back before everyone forgot who the Cuttys were.

There's a corpse in Reg's basement. Spawns in every time, but not with a random name like most corpses. This one is always named Michael Cutting. There's also a programmer on the staff with that name and that's probably not an accident, but it is left as one of those apparent WHF go-nowhere "mysteries".

But, taking all of the above into account, maybe Michael Cutting is Reg's brother who was not only too squeamish to work in the family business, but also cut ties and changed his last name just enough to distance himself from his collaborationist father and brother so he could get along with the rest of the town.

There's no way to know how long Michael's been in dead in Reg's basement. It's entirely possible that Reg killed him ages ago. But I think it's a better story if Michael only braved returning to the butcher shop because Edmund's been saying strange things about Reg's new machines at the pub and Reg had to kill him once he realized Michael wasn't impressed but horrified, even if his machines keep all the gross stuff inside the package. It would tie up nicely with this piece of dialogue:

Arthur: Why don't you tell the Executive Committee? I'm sure they'd give you a medal.

Reg: That's just it! I don't think they would.

#reg cutty #michael cutting #bill cutty #we happy few

[faustiandevil]

Again not a translator by trade I just do what I can with the knowledge of the language only the Devil and Hungarians speak. I would love to get some notes, or help, because this one is full of misinformation in my humble opinion. So… uh… have the Youngkin book ready I guess…

Peter Lorre – the hero of horror movies is – Hungarian!

Talking with the famous actor’s father in Budapest

Slowly climbing our way up the snow covered street in Buda. We stop before a modest looking villa that stretches into a garden. Under the doorbell stands a small nametag:

LAJOS LÓRÁNT (Translator’s notes: Okay, so this article came out in 1947, after Hungary’s involvement in WWII… on the worst side possible and after the “liberation” by the Soviet army. Now it wasn’t uncommon for Jewish people to change their name to something more Hungarian for assimilation purposes. And during that time people who had a German sounding name could be deported back to Germany… even if they lived in Hungary for generations and had no political involvement in the war. The worse option was of course a brutal death. So that’s my guess as to why it says Lóránt instead of Löwenstein.)

Inside the warm room, among the heavy furniture we shake hands with a kind old man. With Lajos Lóránt, the father of Peter Lorre, the world famous actor, the big star of the so-called >>horror movies<<. We are talking about his son, who appeared in nearly almost every big European city, but his success reached its zenith in Hollywood. Old photos, yellowed articles emerge from the depths of the huge drawer. The past is mixed with the present here, the drawer shows us the ascending career path of a great actor.

– Peter was born in Rózsahegy (Translator’s note: If you are not Hungarian I guarantee you are pronouncing it wrong.), but he was still a child, when we moved to Vienna. He studied there, – the old man’s eyes start to shine – he graduated with honors from the Wiener Handelsakademien. For a short while he worked at a bank, but his dream, to become an actor, didn’t let him rest behind the boring desk of the foreign exchange department. With his young friends he organized an experimental stage, where they performed commedia dell arte plays. – they failed with it. He first performed in a serious play in Breslau, and from here his journey lead to Zürich. (Translator’s notes: If anyone could add more to these please do so. I don’t remember anything about either places.) Then he performed in Vienna with astounding success, then he went to Berlin. There he was spotted by Fritz Lang, who contracted him for the main role in >>M<<. The peculiar movie became a world hit, and with certainty established Péter’s career as an actor.

A faded newspaper, with yellowed edges comes out from the drawer now, the first Hollywood article, which was written of Peter Lorre.

>>…Peter Lorre – states the article – doesn’t hold onto the hundreds of critiques, he only put away one. That copy of the Times, where Chaplin has said that he has seen >>M<< three times and that he considers Peter Lorre the best European actor.<<

After the nazis seized power Peter Lorre has also immigrated, first to Paris, and then to London… The great actor was received with a warm welcome by the free people of the free countries. In London with one of his roles he won the English producer’s first prize, which is equivalent to an American Oscar. (Translator’s note: What?) Mr. Lóránt is now telling us about an episode in London:

- There was a group that got together in London, the immigrants, we went there together with Péter. (Translator’s notes: The story makes it sound as if papa Löwenstein was also there with him in London, but he wasn’t… as to my knowledge… anyway let’s continue…) One day a producer has joined us, he also came from Germany. He told us of an interesting and a typical incident. When the nazis took over the UFA studio, one day Goebbels visited the ateliers in Neubabelsberg. Everyone was there to see the >>tall<< visitor. Then Goebbles had asked: - Tell me, you had once a great actor… a sort of short little man… Why is he not here? - Minister, there’s a bit of a problem with him… - Problem?! What sort of problem?! I can smooth it over! - I’m afraid, Minister, that this problem cannot be fixed. - ??? - Minister, with Peter Lorre the problem is with his… religion! Goebbels straightened himself out, and his expression turned dark: - I no longer know this man! (Translator’s notes: Not a loss if you ask me. Burn in Hell nazi scum~)

Newer photos emerge, these are from America. Success, after success.

- Does your son write often? - Oh, of course. Always with such love and would love for me to move out to him. There’s a possibility it’ll happen around the summer. And he always writes in Hungarian, always, and he always states he is Hungarian. (Translator’s notes: Again what??? Man didn’t speak the language, but he could write??? That’s new info for me… but in a previous one we were also told by papa Löwenstein that he hates writing letters and would rather call home instead… I do feel validated tho, because yes Hungarians ride horses and women, man did not deny his roots. If anyone calls him a different nationality from here on I will be collecting kneecaps just saying.)

Our time is up, the photos and articles go back into the drawer. Mr. Lóránt puts away even the smallest paper piece with such great care, as if it were expensive porcelain.

Original article by György Gaál.

Text under images:

In the first movie, in the main role of Fritz Lang’s drama >>M<<

With his father, in 1930, at Siófok (Translator’s notes: Uhhh… in the previous one I translated this image was said to be taken in 1921 Budapest… Did papa Löwenstein remember it wrong, it has been 10 years and I’m unsure how old he was at this point… He could’ve just misremembered, or the journalist made an error. Either way I feel gaslighted. If anyone knows if he took any vacays near Lake Balaton lemme know.)

With his wife in Palm Springs. The white horse was a gift from Robert Taylor

#Peter Lorre #Faustian Fables #Faustian Translations #Long Post #If I made any typos uhhh those live there now

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Earlier this month, while the rest of the country was celebrating the achievements of civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., parents and children in the “Dissident Homeschool” network opened a lesson plan and were greeted with the words: “As Adolf Hitler wrote…”

The contents of the MLK lesson plan would be shocking for almost anyone, but for members of the 2,400-member “Dissident Homeschool” Telegram channel, this was a regular Monday at school.

“It is up to us to ensure our children know him for the deceitful, dishonest, riot-inciting negro he actually was,” the administrator of the network’s Telegram channel wrote, alongside a downloadable lesson plan for elementary school children. “He is the face of a movement which ethnically cleansed whites out of urban areas and precipitated the anti-white regime that we are now fighting to free ourselves from.”

Since the group began in October 2021 it has openly embraced Nazi ideology and promoted white supremacy, while proudly discouraging parents from letting their white children play with or have any contact with people of any other race. Admins and members use racist, homophobic, and antisemitic slurs without shame, and quote Hitler and other Nazi leaders daily in a channel open to the public.

VICE News joined the group simply by clicking on a link, though the list of members was not publicly visible.

What’s even more disturbing, however, is that the couple who run the channel are not only teaching parents how to indoctrinate their children into this fascist ideology, they’re also encouraging them to meet up in real life and join even more radical groups, which could further reinforce their beliefs and potentially push them toward violent action.

‘MR. AND MRS. SAXON’

The “Dissident Homeschool” network is run by a husband and wife team who use the aliases “Mr. and Mrs. Saxon.” This week the antifascist research group Anonymous Comrades Collective published a detailed report that unmasked the Saxons as Logan and Katja Lawrence, who live in Upper Sandusky, Ohio, with their four young children.

The researchers were able to identify the Lawrences through biographical details they shared in the Telegram channel’s group chat and on podcast appearances. One of the key clues to identifying them came when they revealed that they owned a German Shepherd called Blondi—the same name as Hitler’s dog.

The researchers found photos that Katja posted on Facebook with her German Shepherd, and were also able to confirm Katja Lawrence’s ownership of this dog through the Wyandot County dog licensing website dog search feature.

The Lawrences did not respond to multiple emails, text messages, social media messages, and phone calls from VICE News to discuss the contents of the report and their neo-Nazi homeschooling group.

Katja Lawrence, who is in her mid-30s, launched the channel in October 2021, because she “was having a rough time finding Nazi-approved school material for [her] homeschool children,” as she told the neo-Nazi podcast “Achtung! Amerikaner” last year.

Later in the same podcast episode, Lawrence expanded on her view on why she wanted to educate her children at home. “We have our children’s best interest at heart and nobody can do a better job than we can because it’s our child. We are so deeply invested into making sure that that child becomes a wonderful Nazi,” she said.

When VICE News asked for comment on the Lawrences and their channel, the host of the podcast, Gordon Hahl, replied: “I think you should kill yourself instead.”

Katja Lawrence, born Katja van den Berg, is originally from the Netherlands and moved to the U.S. after meeting her husband at the Oktoberfest festival in Berlin, according to an old LiveJournal blog uncovered by the researchers. She became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 2017.

Logan Lawrence works as an agent for a local, family-run insurance agency. When reached by phone, an employee at the company told VICE News that they would not be commenting on the story.

Logan is also a member of a local Masonic lodge and features in a number of pictures on its website, where he is listed as an officer of the lodge. The secretary of the lodge did not respond to VICE News’ request for comment.

Both Katja and Lawrence have a limited presence on mainstream social media platforms, and the one Facebook account that was operated by Katja was deleted this week after the Anonymous Comrades Collective report was published.

Katja Lawrence is the main poster on the “Dissident Homeschool” channel, posting classroom schedules, book lists, lesson plans, and other educational resources for like-minded parents.

RACIST LESSON PLANS

Lawrence uses every lesson plan as an opportunity to push racist ideology. In one “math assignment,” children were asked to interpret “crime statistics,” the goal of which was to “realize the demographics to be cautious around.” Another lesson called “IQ Unit Study” discusses IQ scores. “The blacks—on average—have a much lower IQ than whites,” Lawrence wrote.

Last week the group chat channel belonging to the “Dissident Homeschool” network was shut down, but VICE News has reviewed an archive of the chats dating back to October 2021, showing that initially the channel was populated by a small number of core members who contributed most of the comments and content.

However, by the time the chat archive ended on Jan. 4, there were hundreds more people contributing to the conversations, and discussions had expanded from children’s education to the dangers of diversity and how “Indiana Jones” movies are nothing more than “Jewish revenge porn.”

One parent posting in the group last year thanked the Lawrences for their work and explained why they agreed that public school education was not for them.

“This is why I want to make the switch. I don’t even want my kids exposed to the gay loving, anti-family, Jew factory that is public school, I can’t stand it.”

Other parents offered their own educational resources, with one member writing: “Here is an overview of 10 Reason why Hitler was one of the Good Guys:”

When one parent named Nancy recommended three preachers that the group might find interesting, another member responded: “A ni**er, a race mixer, and a guy who literally says that Israel should rule the world. You're 0 for 3.”

Katja Lawrence then added: “Nancy, did you know you are in a chat of dissidents who fully support white nationalism? We do not support Israel and do not listen to black preachers.”

The members of the channel have also expanded beyond the U.S. to include members from other countries, though only those from European countries with acceptable ethnicity, such as Norway, Germany, and the U.K., are welcomed.

At one point in the chat, Katja Lawrence told a UK-based member of the group that she would help put him in touch with the head of one of the biggest white nationalist groups in the U.K., suggesting the Lawrences have made connections with antisemites and white supremacists outside of their own homeschooling community.

BAKING A ‘FÜHRER CAKE’

When the Telegram channel reached its 1,000th subscriber, just months after it launched, Katja Lawrence posted a picture of German schoolchildren performing a Nazi salute in a classroom, writing: “It fills my heart with joy to know there is such a strong base of homeschoolers and homeschool-interested national socialists. Hail Victory.”

The Lawrences also described how their family celebrated Hitler’s birthday by baking a “Führer cake.”

“We had a lovely dinner followed by Führerkuchen,” Katja Lawrence wrote. “Our children celebrated Adolf’s birthday today by learning about Germany and eating favorite German foods.” She later added that she had baked “quite a few swastika items, my latest a swastika apple pie.”

In one chilling, now-deleted post on Telegram, Katla Lawrence posted an audio message of her children shouting “sieg heil.”

While Katja and Logan Lawrence claim in Telegram comments that they warn their children not to discuss their Nazi views with those outside the family, they also don’t limit their activities to the online world and help others to connect with fellow white nationalists in the real world.

SECRET ‘POOL PARTIES’

“There is a huge network of people like us,” Katja wrote on the Telegram channel. “If you are asking what you can do: get vetted and join a local pool party. I would say that’s the best decision Mr. Saxon and I made last year. We joined a pool party and our children now play with other white children where they can speak and play freely.”

A “pool party” is the name for a secretive meetup organized by white supremacist group The Right Stuff and its political wing the National Justice Party. Katja Lawrence even goes so far as to share the direct email for a contact at The Right Stuff who deals with vetting, while an account named the “National Justice Party” posts updates that include calls for “Dissident Homeschool” members to join its supporter group and updates on its Christmas charity drive.

“It has been huge for us to get into that real life network. Contribute by joining. It makes all the difference,” Katja Lawrence wrote.

It is hard to gauge the influence of the “Dissident Homeschool Network,” but in leaked emails from people attempting to join the white nationalist group Patriot Front, applicants list the “Dissident Homeschool” as being “Influential figures, media outlets or platforms.”

The Right Stuff and the National Justice League were described by the Anti-Defamation League as “virulently antisemitic”, while 31 members of Patriot Front were arrested last year inside a U-haul truck on their way to an LGBTQ Pride event in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, carrying shields and smoke grenades.

Yet Katja attempts to describe these group’s activities as entirely wholesome.

“To dispel some misconceptions: these groups do not encourage or solicit people to commit illegal activities,” Katja wrote. "It is a nice group of wholesome white people getting together for cookouts and such.”

#us politics #news #vice news #2023 #telegram #neo nazis #fuck nazis #nazis #fascism #fascists #Dissident Homeschool #adolf hitler #white supremacy #white supremacists #tw racial slurs #racists #racism #Anonymous Comrades Collective #Achtung! Amerikaner #Gordon Hahl #Katja van den Berg #Logan Lawrence #united kingdom #europe #norway #germany #the right stuff #national justice party #patriot front #alt right

[ifindus]

are we not going to talk about the fact that the president of the united states during ww2 held a speech for Norway?? the speech is called "Look to Norway". I don't know if other countries got a speech like this from him but we sure did💌🇳🇴

Vaguely remembered this, so had to look it up - very beautiful speech really 💖 It was held in relation to name one of the US's ships after the Norwegian King, and is about how the Norwegian story during WWII should inspire other Nations to fight, stand strong, and never give up ✨

The entire speech (not very long) for anyone curious:

Your Royal Highness, Mr. Ambassador:

If there is anyone who still wonders why this war is being fought, let him look to Norway. If there is anyone who has any delusions that this war could have been averted, let him look to Norway. And if there is anyone who doubts the democratic will to win, again I say, let him look to Norway.

He will find in Norway, at once conquered and unconquerable, the answer to his questioning.

We all know how this most peaceful and innocent of countries was ruthlessly violated. The combination of treachery and brute force which conquered Norway will live in history as the blackest deed of a black era. Norway fought valiantly with what few weapons there were at hand—and fell.

And with Norway fell the concept that either remoteness from political controversy or usefulness to mankind could give any Nation immunity from attack in a world where aggression spread unchecked.

But the story of Norway since the conquest shows that while a free democracy may be slow to realize its danger, it can be heroic when aroused. At home, the Norwegian people have silently resisted the invader's will with grim endurance. Abroad, Norwegian ships and Norwegian men have rallied to the cause of the United Nations. And their assistance to that cause has been out of all proportion to their small numbers. The Norwegian merchant marine has lost some 200 ships and 1,300 seamen in carrying the supplies vital to our own and Allied forces overseas. Nor has the Norwegian Navy been less active. Norse fighting ships battled valiantly but vainly against the invader—destroying one-third of the German invasion fleet before they were overwhelmed by superior forces. Right now the blue cross of Norway flies on the fourth largest Navy of the United Nations—a Navy whose operations extend from the North Sea to the Indian Ocean.

It is today the privilege of the people of the United States, through the mechanism of the Lend-Lease Law, to assist this gallant Navy in carrying out its present heavy duties.

Your Royal Highness, as a token of the admiration and friendship of the American people toward your country and her Navy, I ask you to receive this ship. We Americans, together with the millions of loyal Norwegians, are glad that this ship is being given today the name of the King of Norway—a leader well versed in the ways of the seas, a true leader who, with his people, has always stood for the freedom of the seas for all Nations. May this ship long keep the seas in the battle for liberty. May the day come when she will carry the Norwegian flag into a home port in a free Norway!

#hetalia #historical hetalia #aph norway #hws norway #thanks for the ask 💖 love receiving historical tidbits like this ✨ #was in the mood for a bit more serious drawing and the speech was really inspiring #I recommend reading it - really get a feel of Norway during wwii

[lillywillow]

It Takes A Village

Summary: When Bucky moves to a new place, he falls in love with the community there

 Written for: @buckybarnesbingo

 Words: 1961

 Square Filled: K2- Found Family

 Pairing: Bucky Barnes x SingleMother!Reader  

 Warnings: Fluff, mild swearing

 Bucky decided it was time to move out on his own. It was scary and he wasn’t sure if he was really ready to do it but it was something that he needed to do. For the first week, Bucky kept to himself. There was still a part of him that was afraid he’d lose his battle with the Winter Soldier and hurt people. That all started to change when he met you.

…

 The first time he saw you, he was heading out the door as you were coming home. You had a young boy holding your hand, excitedly telling you about his day while a girl a little bit older followed behind. You smiled at him as you crossed paths.

 After that, he bumped into you a few times since then, usually making small talk. One afternoon, Bucky was getting his mail as you were coming downstairs in a hurry. In your haste, you missed a step, sending you tumbling down.

 “My ankle!” you cried out.

 Bucky rushed over to help you, gently assessing the damage. You hissed in pain as he held your ankle. Already it was starting to swell and a purple bruise started to blossom.

 “You need a doctor to look at this…”

 “No! I’m too busy to get hurt! I’ve got to take Ida her lunch, and make the sandwiches for the men’s workshop and take my kids to their classes and bake for the-the…”

 “I can help you. Let me take you to the doctor and we’ll go from there…”

 There was something in his eyes that made you trust him.

 “Alright…”

…

 After a visit to the doctor, Bucky took you home to rest. Fortunately, your ankle wasn’t broken but it was badly sprained. Bucky helped you get comfortable with your foot elevated before going to take care of the first job on your list. He knocked on the door of the apartment a floor below yours. A small elderly woman answered the door.

 “Who is it? What do you want?” she asked in a Germanic accent.

 “Hello, Mrs Rosenburg. My name is Bucky and I’m helping Y/N take care of a few things since she hurt herself. I have your lunch for you…”

 “Ah! I know Y/N. Nice girl. She often brings my lunch,” the woman smiled, ushering Bucky inside.

 You had warned Bucky in advance that Ida liked to have a chat over lunch and she liked to chat a lot. You thought that she may be lonely.

 “You seem like a nice young man. I have a grandson just about your age,” she mused as she arranged what she needed for lunch.

 ‘I highly doubt that,’ Bucky thought.

 “Can I help you with anything Mrs Rosenburg?” Bucky offered.

 “Please, call me Ida. Mrs Rosenburg makes me feel so old,” she chuckled.

 Bucky walked over and helped Ida get comfortable at the table and made her a cup of tea. Ida insisted that he make one for himself too.

 “You remind me a lot of my husband… He was so handsome, charming and brave,” she smiled, pointing over to the cupboard full of photographs.

 Bucky walked over and picked up a sepia photo of a young man in a German uniform.

 “No easy times in those days. He had to hide his faith from those Nazi bastards. Saved a lot of lives…”

 Ida went on to tell Bucky the story of her husband. He was a German-Jewish who was drafted into the army when World War II broke out. Karl used his position as a soldier to help smuggle innocent people out of the country. In turn, Ida would help forge documents to help them on their travels. After the war, Karl and Ida immigrated to America. Their story was kept a secret until recently. Sadly, Karl passed away a year ago. Ida had been mostly on her own ever since. She told Bucky her children and grandchildren had offered to stay with her but she assured them she would be alright.

 “Goodness, look at the time. I must have talked your ear off by now. You’re welcome to come back any time,” she smiled, taking Bucky’s hand and patting it.

 He smiled and took his leave, making sure Ida was okay before heading out.

…

 Bucky checked to see you were still resting comfortably before he took the sandwiches you had made to the men’s workshop. As he looked around the place, Bucky felt a welcoming atmosphere. A large, burly man with long grey hair tied back in a braid with a beard to match.

 “Can I help you, lad? Are you looking to join?” he asked.

 “I’m here with the sandwiches Y/N made. She hurt her ankle and I’m helping her out while she gets better,”    Bucky explained.

 “We know Y/N! She’s a fine lass. Grub’s up fellas!” the man bellowed to the others working.

 The men all stopped what they were doing, switched off any machines they were using and headed over to where Bucky was standing with the food. They all swarmed, grabbing a sandwich and taking it to sit down and eat.

 “What’s your name?” the burly man asked.

 “Bucky…”

 “Nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Aaron. I’m the one who keeps an eye on this sorry lot,” he grinned, making the others laugh.

 “Hey, is that arm made of vibranium?” a slim built young man asked from his left.

 “Yes…” Bucky started to feel a little self- conscious.

 “That’s so cool! I’d love to get a hold of some of that to make some upgrades,” he grinned, pulling up his pants leg to show off a prosthetic leg.

 “I’m Soos, by the way. If ever you need any work done, I’d be happy to help you out some time,” he smiled.

 “Thanks, Soos,” Bucky smiled back. “I should be getting back to Y/N.”

 “Alright. If you want to come back and join us, you’re welcome to come back and do so,” Aaron beamed, giving Bucky a friendly pat on the back.

 Bucky thanked him and headed home.

…

 Bucky helped you do some baking while he waited with you for the kids to come home from school. Under your guidance, he actually produced some pretty good-looking cupcakes and cookies. While you worked, you told him all about your deadbeat ex who ran out on you and the kids. You had been working from home so you could still see your children while making sure you could afford a good life for them. You were also very active in the community. When your kids arrived home from school, they got changed so they could go to their classes. Your daughter put on her karate uniform and your son in ballet tights. Bucky was a little surprised but said nothing. If that’s the way the kids wanted it, then who was he to judge? You made a quick call to their teaches to let them know in advance of the change in drop off and pickup and informed Bucky of their password system which was an extra form of precaution.

 “Now, listen to Mister Bucky and don’t wander away from him, okay?”

 “Okay, mama,” the kids agreed.

 You kissed their heads and let them go on their way.

…

 The whole way to the community centre, your son Dylan asked Bucky many questions while your daughter Sasha quietly followed next to him. Bucky tried to answer all the questions while also including Sasha.

 The classes would be held within an hour of each other so Bucky had plenty of time to wait. He got to know some of the parents while he was waiting, using the password system if they asked and explaining the situation. Bucky was in awe of your children when he watched them in action. Dylan was quite good at ballet and worked well with the little girls in his class. Sasha was the complete opposite in personality to her brother. She was a tough girl who didn’t give her competitors a chance. Bucky was completely amazed.

 After the lessons were over, Bucky started walking the children home when he saw a group of boys picking on a skinny kid.

 “Hey! Leave him alone!”

 All it took was one glance of seeing Bucky heading in their direction to send the bullies scattering. He walked over and helped the boy to his feet.

 “Are you okay?” Bucky asked, making sure he could stand on his feet.

 The kid puffed his inhaler and adjusted his glasses.

 “I’m okay. Those jerks were giving some ballerinas a hard time so I stepped in… Are those Y/N’s kids?” he asked.

 Bucky smiled a little. This kid reminded him a lot of Steve.

 “They are. She hurt herself this morning and I’m helping out until her ankle gets better. I’m her neighbour, Bucky.”

 “That’s Kim. He lives in our building too,” Dylan supplied.

 “Can I walk you home, Kim? It’s starting to get dark…”

 Kim thought for a few moments before nodding. Bucky walked the young man home, meeting his mothers Jade and her wife Marsha. They invited Bucky for dinner to say thank you for what he had done for their son but he politely declined, explaining he had to get back to you. They smiled, admiring his kindness, saying he could join them at any time. Bucky thanked them and walked the kids back to your place.

…

 That was just the start of Bucky’s week. Everyday he stopped by your place, helped make breakfast and get the kids to school. Bucky got any chores done you needed doing and took Ida her lunch. He took care of your every need. You also encouraged him to go out a little, assuring him you would be fine on your own for a little while. Bucky took the time to get to know the people he met a little better, joining the men’s workshop, meeting up with Jade and Marsha and having tea with Ida. In the weeks it took for you to recover, this community had become his family and he would do anything for them. Bucky’s neighbours weren’t the only ones he had fallen for; he had also fallen in love with you. He admired the way you were raising two kids on your own and the way you cared for the people around you.

 One afternoon, Bucky stopped by and knocked on your door.

 “Hi, Bucky. What brings you here?” you smiled.

 “I… these are for you,” he said, handing you a bouquet of beautiful flowers.

 “Oh, thank you!” you beamed, taking the flowers and breathing in their sweet fragrance.

 “I got them from Marsha’s flower stall. She made the arrangement herself…”

 Bucky was starting to become a little flustered.

 “That was very nice of her…”

 “She’s great. I was actually wondering if… I could ask you out on a date…”

 “A date?”

 Bucky’s face started to turn pink.

 “Yeah… I like you a lot, Y/N. You’re an amazing woman with amazing kids and I’d really like to go on a date with you…”

 Smiling, you hugged him tight and teared up a little.

 “You helped me when you didn’t have to. You helped to take care of my kids too. I would love to go on a date, Bucky.”

 Bucky smiled and worked out a time that would work best. He couldn’t wait. It was thanks to you that he was finally able to face the world again and found a place that he could once again call home.

#bbb2022 #buckybarnesbingo2022 #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel one shot #it takes a village #neighborhood #community values #found family

[incorrectrawhidequotes]

Kangaroo Westerns!

Admittedly, this one is less Australian western and more American western set in Australia. But I watched this so many times growing up and it’s a good movie so I’m adding it. 

“Quigley Down Under” (1990)

Matthew Quigley (Tom Selleck) is an American sharpshooter, hired by landowner Elliot Marston (Alan Rickman) to come to Western Australia. 

Just after arriving, he gets into a fight defending an emotionally disturbed American woman named Cora (Laura San Giacomo) who attaches herself to him and believes he’s her husband, Roy. 

When they reach Marston’s land, Quigley finds out what Marston wants to hire him for is actually to kill the local Indigenous people. Quigley‘S refusal includes throwing Marston through a window.  Marston’s retaliation starts off Quigley on a one-man war.

(spoilers under the cut)

Tom Selleck is great as Matthew Quigley. He’s a very classic western hero. Kind and respectful to good people, unmerciful to villains. His growing relationship with Cora is funny, sweet and as they get closer very romantic. 

Alan Rickman is again brilliant as the villain. Marston is truly despicable, a power-hungry maniac who wishes he was an old-west gunfighter. 

It’s a very gritty and violent movie and some parts are very disturbing to watch. 

After Matthew refuses to kill for Marston, he and Cora are beaten and left for dead in the desert, where they are saved by an Indigenous group (they unfortunately aren’t referred to by name, which is annoying, but the area they’re supposed to be in is Noongar land so I’m working with that)

The Noongar family brings them to a rock shelter to recover. During this time, they become close to the family and each other. Cora opens up to Matthew that in Texas, she accidentally killed her baby during a Comanche raid (anyone who’s seen the last episode of M*A*S*H, it’s along those lines) and her husband abandoned her and sent her to Australia. 

Some of Marston’s men find and attack the family, with Matthew able to shoot most of the attackers but one gets away.  Not long after, they witness more of Marston’s men massacre another Indigenous group by chasing them off a cliff. They are unable to stop them in time but Cora finds a baby alive among the victims. 

Matthew leaves Cora and the baby at a cave shelter so he can get to the nearest town quicker with their one horse and bring back supplies and another horse.  While he’s away, Cora and the baby are attacked by a pack of dingoes. Cora mentally relives the night her own baby died and fights back, firing at the dingoes until she drives them away. This proves cathartic for her and she starts to regain her mental clarity. 

In town, Matthew befriends a German immigrant family, the Grimmelman’s, who side with the Indigenous people against Marston and help Matthew with supplies and ammunition. Matthew also finds out that word of his actions are spreading through the Noongar community, who now hold him in regard.   Matthew’s horse is spotted and Marston’s men attack, killing Mrs Grimmelman in the firefight.  Matthew leaves one of the men alive, to tell Marston he’s coming after him. 

Matthew brings Cora and the baby back to town and when a Noongar family arrives at Grimmelman’s, Cora returns the baby to them. 

The next day Matthew leaves to confront Marston, sniping off his men before defeating Marston in a quick draw gunfight. 

Soldiers arrive to arrest Matthew for murder but see that the homestead is surrounded by Noongar people ready to defend him, which causes the solders to retreat. 

Matthew returns to the harbour to leave the country. Cora finds him and calls him by his actual name. They kiss for the first time and leave for California together. 

Overall it’s a really good movie. The music is beautiful and the main cast is great with really good chemistry.   Something that makes me laugh though, is where they’re supposed to be in southern Western Australia, about 50km south of Fremantle Harbor, is still in the Darling Ranges and looks like this.

The red dirt desert in the movie is north and central Australia. 

#Kangaroo westerns #Quigley down under #1990 #Australian westerns #Tom Selleck #Alan Rickman #Westerns #Australia #Western Australia

[expectodragons]

Bitter Water || Chapter 4

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 7,700 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, mild violence, references to creature cruelty, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The Great Hall is warm and bright compared to the thundering storm clouds currently drenching the valley. Mr. Moon had every available enchanted mop working double duty on the entrances as they were currently covered in a thin inch of water and mud. Gratefully, it was a Sunday, and the rain had only begun in the faint morning hours.

Catherine slowly tucks into her potato soup, dabbing bits of soft bread in the thick broth as Ranira, seated next to her, loudly reads the Daily Prophet to her – though she certainly had never asked for it to be.

“Mr. Augustus Rickens claims the need for further security trolls to be a confounded idea brought about by the media frenzy that the last World Cup created. Though he was forced to admit that, should the German team wish to play in their home country, then England, by nature, would be reluctant to recant their initial invitation to host. This of course led to several outcries from dignitaries across the Isles. Including a Senior Minister, Mr. Alphard Malfoy who said –“

While Ranira pauses for a breath, her fingers clutching the pages so violently that they begin to shake, a lone hoot echoes across the hall when, down from the rafters, soars a large ruddy-brown owl.

It passes the tables of students and instead finds its way to the young professor. The Rufous owl perches on the edge of the staff table, nearly dropping the thick envelope it had been carrying directly into Catherine’s soup – though she manages to catch it before the letter totally submerges.

“What a handsome bird,” The alchemy professor comments.

The owl immediately turns its head towards her, squawking in reply. With a wry smile, Catherine pets the bird’s neck plumage before turning her attention to the envelope in her hand. After wiping the left corner clear of soup, she rips the parcel open and unfolds the letter.

Written in elegant handwriting, she’s able to decipher the short message.

Cathy,

It would appear that my dear husband is rather forgetful. As he thought we had twenty-eight pairs of boots between us both, but I’m afraid we have only eleven. And to think, a new pair would cost us upwards of £21!

That’s all to say that we miss you dearly and we hope you enjoyed your time in Bouchar. We, unfortunately, had never heard of the city before you told us of it but it sounds lovely.

Oh, the owl’s name is Archimedes and he’s fond of eating assorted serpentines.

Best wishes, Miri

Surely it must be serious if her friend decided to encode an entire letter.

It takes her a moment to digest the message, a moment possibly too long as she finds the older witch seated beside her to be pointedly interested in her letter with that unnerving silver stare of hers.

“Correspondence from some old traveling friends,” she says airly, quickly tucking the letter away into her pocket.

Swiping up two pieces of bread, she extends her arm out for the owl, offering a chunk for him to eat as she gets out of her chair and rounds the table.

“Poor fellow, you must be exhausted. Where did you come from, eh?”

The owl nudges his head against her arm.

“Yes, yes. I imagine it was quite the journey.”

Catherine exits the hall, trying her best not to run, as she beelined for her quarters.

28, 11. 21. Bouchar. Serepentines.

The 28th of November. 21:00 hours.

Miriam, you wonderful woman you.

She all but runs to her chambers, desperate to write down the information before she burned the letter to ash.

On the third weekend in November, Catherine finds herself out in the middle of the courtyard with a warming charm to keep her from shivering as more and more students gather around the fountain.

Her breath twists up into the air like the icy smoke of a dragon.

Sterling finally comes down the steps of the Bell Tower with a wide grin, accompanied by the last few stragglers. She rubs at her arms, her red-tinged fingers digging into the woolen cloak sleeves.

“Alright, if that’s the last of you lot, let’s head on.”

She falls into step alongside him as the students hurry ahead up the road.

While it had been commonplace during her fifth year for the students to have access to the local village whenever classes were not in session, a rather unfortunate incident near the end of her fifth year – regarding her kidnapping by Victor Rookwood – ceased that leniency by Hogwarts staff. Now Hogsmeade visits were a supervised affair, usually contained to Saturdays.

This was her second time acting as a chaperon. Her first visit with Mirabel had been a highly entertaining affair. With Roland, she’s sure the excitement will be just about the same.

The valley is in a soft hibernation. Plants have wilted to a dull brown, the cries of local birds have vanished from the area, and frost lingers along the tall wisps of grass. Winter was still a distance away, but the reminder of its power remained.

Tucking her hands into the confines of her woolen cloak, she looks over at the Defense professor. A proud and determined look graces his features as he strides forward, dressed in a royal blue cloak that billows slightly behind him as he walks.

“So, Hart,” he turns his attention down toward her. “How did your students manage this past term?”

“Surprisingly well. Even the more… difficult cases seemed to be capable of proper handling techniques, despite their essays being atrocious.”

Sterling gives a polite laugh.

“I envy those of you who teach outside of the core curriculum. If you had a group of first years to worry after, I fear your answer may be different.”

She nods, “I imagine so. Luckily, that’s not the case.”

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “Lucky you.”

The majority of the students have already spread out to the local businesses by the time they enter the village.

A group of boys peers into Spintwitches’ front window – gawking over a new broom model Mr. Weekes had put on display. Further down, the pleasant thumping of a band inside the Three Broomsticks brings about a wide patronage of older students who clammer around the door for a Butterbeer.

“Oh, what have we here?”

Catherine watches as a small group of students sneaks along the side street heading towards the seedier part of the town.

“Professor, Sterling! Professor Sterling!” comes the cry of two young girls.

With a sigh, the young witch tilts her head towards the side street and Roland nods – heading towards the concerned girls. Another shiver runs down her spine as the wind picks up.

Following after the students, she spies them up ahead, gazing into an oddity and collectible shop near the Hog’s Head. Its faded signage reveals no name, but the wares are clearly of a particular form of magic.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” she clears her throat.

Five pairs of heads turn around, looking rather sheepish.

“Do you need assistance finding the main road?”

“No, professor.”

She gives a nod, folding her arms across her chest as she watches them slowly skirt around her.

“Then off with you.”

With another shake of her head, she follows behind the wandering group. Once they’re back on High Street, Catherine watches them take off in the direction of Zonko’s.

The entire trip was rather uneventful after that.

She stops a fourth-year from throwing a Clobber Ball in the middle of the crowded street. Assists in directing a fifth-year prefect to aid a third-year back to the infirmary after consuming too many Pepper Imps. And finds herself comforting a distraught sixth-year with a cup of tea over her very abrupt break-up with her boyfriend of one month.

By the time she and Sterling wrap up the trip and count the heads, she’s more exhausted than when she stayed out on her first welcoming weekend with the rest of the faculty.

“Oh, Roland. Would you mind? I almost forgot. I need to have a quick chat with Ellie Peck over my new feed supply schedule.”

With a tired smile, he nods, “I think I can manage the unruly lot back to the castle.”

“Thank you, and safe travels.”

She watches as the wizard heads on ahead of her, wrangling up the last few students outside of Tomes & Scrolls. Casually as she can, Catherine walks down the main street before she ducks along the side road, keeping her head down as she winds around the path to the Hog’s Head.

Squeezing along the worn gravel trail between the buildings, she steps up onto the squeaky boards of the dock. Unloading boxes from a larger crate in the back, she spots him. A boy, no older than twenty, with bright auburn hair and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He hefts another box of ale into his arms and carries it through the backdoor of the pub.

Leaning against the open crate, she waits.

“Hello, Abe.”

The boy grunts, gesturing for her to move aside. Catherine peers into the crate as he digs down for another box. Sweat clings to his brow while she tugs her cloak closer. Down by the water, the air seemed absolutely frigid, but not for the boy apparently.

“I have nothing for you, Hart.”

She lays a hand over his arm, keeping him from moving. There’s a dangerous glint in her eye when he meets her gaze.

“I somehow doubt that, Aberforth.”

With a deep sigh, he drops the box and flicks his wand at the door, closing it. He glances around at the empty dock with a calculated look before he finally digs his hands into his pockets and leans against the crate.

“A man was here a week and three days back. Said somethin’ or another about a shipment from Morocco coming along.”

“What’d he look like?”

From his pocket, he retrieves a cigarette. Catherine wandlessly lights it for him and he takes a long drag.

“Tall fella, dark beard with a swirling sort of tattoo by his right eye.”

The smoke rings float into the sky before they dissipate. The thick stink of tobacco lingers around them both as the boy flicks his ashes into the dark water below.

“Don’t know much more than that.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“A pair came in after him, no one from around here. Gal who kept her hood on the whole time and a man with shoulder-length brown hair and a pig-like face. Ivan kept me to the back most of the evening, so I only caught that bit about Morocco when I came in with another bottle of ‘78 out.”

With a nod, Catherine digs into her coin purse and pulls out two galleons – depositing them into the boy’s outstretched palm.

“Let me know if you hear anymore, or if you see any of them back here again. Alright?”

The boy sniffs, taking a final drag of his habit before he flicks the stub into the river and sets off back to work. She watches him, only for a moment longer, before she heads back to the main road and begins the long journey back to the school.

Catherine smells the warm brew of coffee wafting through the air as she approaches the familiar classroom. While it was a Saturday, and the majority of the school was preparing for the next quidditch match set to take place in an hour’s time, she was none-too-surprised to see the resident Potion Master sequestered away in his office.

She leans against the open doorway, watching as his quill scratches against the piece of parchment before him.

“One usually knocks,” he mutters.

“Apologies,” she smiles lightly, as she crosses the threshold.

Sharp finishes off the last few lines before he places the quill in the small dark inkpot on his desk and gives her his attention.

Hefting the small cloth parcel in the air, she says, “Thought I’d drop this off before the match.”

Begging her forward with his hand, she deposits the bag, allowing him to untie the small knot at the top.

She sinks down into the chair opposite him, tugging her scarf from out of her pocket.

“Courtesy of my fifth-years.”

A lone brow raises as he stares at the neatly separated bundles of Kneazle hair. With a nod, he merely folds the parcel back up and leans back in his seat.

“Howin’s method of delivery was far less desirable than this. I had knotted furballs appearing around my office for months.”

She laughs, “That sounds about right. But, as a bit of a potioneer myself, I know what the ideal presentation of ingredients should look like. Try not to fault her too hard.”

Sharp grabs hold of the steaming mug of coffee and takes a thoughtful sip, “It still surprises me that you went after the career you did. Your marks in my class were always near the top.”

With a shrug, “The potion-making field is overcrowded as is. The lengths it takes some people to break into the market is just unfathomable. Whereas the need for beast tamers is surprisingly large.”

“Perhaps not that surprising.”

Another smile breaks across her face, “Okay. Yes, the job has its hazards. But you would honestly be surprised by the lack of training some of them in the field actually have. That probably explains the numbers.”

He gives a soft hum of contemplation as he finishes off his drink.

“Anyway, just wanted to pass that along before the match, which… I should probably be heading to if I want to find a decent seat.”

As she stands from the chair, so does the potions professor as he reaches over to the coat rack and grabs a heavier woolen coat.

“Oh, are you actually going this time? Not just waiting for the betting pool to finish up?”

Sharp shakes his head, a smile on his face as he slips his arms into the sleeves of his overcoat.

“If it failed to cross your mind, I last assured you that I attend the games when Slytherin is set to play.”

“Oh, of course. How careless of me to forget.”

Catherine scoots around the chair, waiting for the older man to round the desk. He peers down at her, extending his arm out toward the door. With a sheepish smile, she exits the office first, followed by her companion.

As they head down the spiral stairs of the tapestry corridor, she ties her scarf around her neck, tugging the blue tassels over her shoulders.

“Out of curiosity,” she starts. “Who do you honestly have your money on this time?”

Sharp glances down at her, a funny smirk on his face.

“What would I gain if I told you that?”

She laughs, “I for one, could care less about the betting pool you lot play around with. I’m asking from a strictly Quidditch enthusiast point of view.”

He huffs as they make it up the stairs to the Bell Tower.

Without a proper reply, Catherine continues, “See, I would have to say Hufflepuff for any other occasion. But I’ve seen the way Slytherin’s been training. They’re downright brutal out there – even when they’re playing against each other. I can’t imagine they’ll be anything but a force to be reckoned with when they’re out there today.”

Outside, the bright afternoon sky grants the cool Autumn day with a rare swatch of pure sunlight. The warm rays shine down upon the courtyard, bathing the withering grass in glittering golden hues.

Sharp grins, “I won’t sway you either way, Hart.”

“Spoilsport,” she mutters, much to his amusement.

The stadium is packed today, as the weather is far more agreeable than the previous match at the beginning of the month. The enthusiasm seems to be higher as well, as she spots students in the Gryffindor sections waving bright yellow flags and streamers. Of course, the age-old rivalry would keep them from ever supporting the snake house.

And while her own biases usually followed the same line of thinking, today she was prepared to dip into the forbidden water in favor of winning a few extra galleons.

They take their time on the stairs up to the faculty tower. She almost wants to laugh when they emerge, as there is an almost visible line directly down the benches – with half the staff supporting Hufflepuff and the other supporting Slytherin.

Mirabel quickly beckons her over, but she has to give a sad shake of her head as she joins Abraham and Roland. The face the herbology professor gives her is one of shock and disappointment and it takes all her strength not to laugh at the poor expression.

“Ah, Sharp! Was wondering when we’d see you up here again.”

“Oh, Roland. You know he only comes to see his House win,” Abraham teases, patting an empty spot next to him.

Aesop sits down on the bench behind her as she takes the only other available spot next to Sterling.

“See we’re cheering on the same team this time,” he comments.

She gives a sad little glance over to Mirabel, who was now cozying up with Matilda and Mudiwa.

“Let’s just hope your luck is a little more fortunate this time,” Catherine teases.

With a wry grin, Sterling passes around the betting marks. She tosses in five galleons for the team win, as well as an extra two for the score. 280 to 310, Hufflepuff catches the snitch but loses the match. The young professor shrugs when the Defense professor gawks at her.

“Seriously? Okay, we have a score bet! Who wants to try and top it?”

A couple other professors whip their heads around and toss their coin in as well. She hears the potions professor chuckle lowly behind her and she can’t help but turn around.

“Willing to risk it, Sharp?”

His dark eyes bore into her before the makings of a smirk befall his lips.

“Not a chance, Hart.”

Her eyes harden in challenge, “What? Think you won’t get close to my bet?”

There’s a moment, where his gaze becomes like a brewing storm, and then he grins.

“Ten galleons, Sterling. 250 to 285, in favor of Slytherin.”

The young professor marks that down on the scorecard and gladly pockets Sharp’s money away. Aesop leans back, looking surprisingly pleased with himself while Catherine chooses the moment to childishly stick her tongue out at him before turning back around.

Slowly, the crowd grows louder with chants for the teams. Like a Graphorn in battle, the Slytherin team comes charging out onto the pitch – blazing through the sky with pride as they lift their hands up to stir the students into a further frenzy. Hufflepuff’s team zigs and zags across the field, flying directly over the heads of the Slytherins as they circle back around to their side of the pitch.

She’s on the edge of her seat as Kogawa flies into the center of the field with the Quaffle.

There’s an instant scuffle for the ball when she blows the whistle. It’s a flash of green and yellow robes. A blaze of yellow careens toward the end goals, only for a Slytherin chaser to knock into their broom – sending the Quaffle off into the stands. Boos and cheers alike echo out from the students.

Catherine blows warm breath into her hands as the ball is captured and tossed back into play.

The first goal goes to Slytherin, as well as the second and third. They get fouled immediately after as a Hufflepuff chaser spirals to the ground after taking a bludger to the head. Blainey levitates the poor girl off onto a stretcher while the team calls in their reserve player.

And then it seems the yellow team regains their strength, hitting back at Slytherin with all their might. They make five goals in the span of minutes, much to the lackluster groaning from Sterling sat beside her. Mirabel, on the other hand, is ecstatic as she cheers loudly.

A flash of gold catches her eye, high above the Ravenclaw tower on the opposite side of the pitch – and it seems the Slytherin seeker has spotted it too, as she rushes off after it. Catherine has to crane her neck back as the two seekers follow after the ball, far beyond her classroom, toward the Black Lake.

When she turns back to the game, she can feel Sharp’s knee pushing against her back as he leans forward. The Slytherin beaters are in a back-and-forth with Hufflepuff down on the other side of the pitch, and they’re all looking worse for wear because of it.

Soon, the score is soaring up higher than anyone expected.

“Another ten points for Slytherin,” the student announcer bellows. “If Vance can get the snitch, Slytherin will be at the top of leader board for the Quidditch Cup. Oh – it looks as if Warrington and Macnair are in trouble now!”

Kogawa sends another foul to Slytherin after they rammed Grant Powell into the goalposts and promptly knocked him out and off his broom. Blainey seems to have her hands full again down on the ground.

A new keeper gets substituted in and the game resumes.

“Theseus Scamander has his work cut out for him in his first official game – oh and that’s an unfortunate pass by Cygnus Black, as Slytherin racks up to 260 points.”

“Come on Bones, you can do this!” Mirabel shouts at the passing Chaser.

“Ooh,” Catherine winces as another goal is blocked by Slytherin’s keeper. She leans over to Roland, “It’s just getting painful at this point.”

“Exciting, isn’t it?” he beams.

Abraham says something to Sharp above the roar of the crowd and she can hear the two men openly laughing behind her. As she glances back to see what the fuss is about, she spots the two seekers flying back across the courtyard. She jumps to her feet – gaining the attention of the rest of the faculty in the stand.

“Come on, Vance!” Sterling roars in support.

“Yes, Whitby!” She hears from the Hufflepuff side of the stands.

Catherine follows the snitch as the glinting sunlight bounces off it – the two seekers drop down across the pitch, while Slytherin scores another goal in the process. Screams ring out in both directions. Hufflepuff’s captain is trying to rally her Chasers for another attack on the goalposts, while Macnair nearly knocks Bones off her broom with a bludger.

Another skirmish breaks out as Slytherin snatches the Quaffle back and takes towards the posts – just as Whitby flies back into view, his outstretched fingers nearly glancing the snitch.

“Berle passes to Walsh. Walsh takes the hit and, YES! Another ten points to Slytherin. Oh, there’s Vance now – it’s an all-out battle for the snitch now, Ladies and Gentlemen. Macnair takes aim and Whitby just ducks out of the way at the last second!”

Catherine glances over at the scoreboard, fully on the edge of her seat as the seekers make another lap of the pitch, following after the golden ball. Vance nearly knocks the Hufflepuff seeker off course, but he manages to righten himself at the last moment and –

“Yes! Yes, that’s it, folks! Whitby has caught the snitch. With 270 points to 300, Slytherin wins the match!”

A raucous chorus of boos and cheers echoes throughout the stadium as the Slytherin team takes their victory lap.

Sterling shakes her frozen hand, “Congrats to you two, it seems you’re walking away with quite the winnings today!”

She looks back at Sharp with a beaming smile, his own amused eyes meet her gaze as he claps for the team as they fly past the faculty stands.

Catherine counts out the twenty-seven gold pieces now in her possession as everyone begins to file down the stairs. She offers a tender grimace toward Mirabel as she passes.

“Better luck next time, yeah? They still have a chance to win the cup.”

She smiles in return, “While they might not have the same bite as other teams, their bark is certainly tougher.”

Waterford gently pats the herbology professor’s shoulder as they head down to the courtyard. Sterling is still there, dusting off his robes.

“That was uncanny luck, you two. I’ve never seen a bet so close before!”

The young witch shrugs, “I get the unfair privilege of being able to watch the teams practice every week. And this one is just too observant –“ she looks back at Sharp with a wily grin.

Aesop pockets the galleons away, a pleased smile on his face.

“Hart, you flatter me.”

Together, the three professors make their way down the wooden stairs.

“I imagine Blainey will have her hands full tonight,” Roland comments lightly.

Catherine huffs, “That’s an understatement. Those poor students, a bludger to the head is nasty business.”

“You played?” the Defense professor asks as they head towards the castle.

She nods, rubbing her hands together, “Seventh year. Seeker.”

He grins, “Chaser, from fourth year on.” Sterling glances back at Sharp for a moment, “What about you, Aesop? Ever played?”

Catherine turns her attention to the potions professor as well, curiosity piqued.

Sharp grunts as they make it along the gravel path, his pace slowed slightly, “Beater, actually. Third year through sixth.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” she wonders aloud, shaking her head slightly.

He glances down at Catherine with a raised brow. She just grins in return, lightly nudging his arm with her left elbow.

Roland holds the door open for them both, smiling cheerily as he asks, “So, celebratory drinks in the staff lounge?”

Aesop inclines his head in agreeance to the idea, but Catherine quickly shakes her head.

“ ’Fraid you’ll have to go on without me. I have a prior engagement I really must be getting around for.”

Sterling’s expression simmers slightly, the faintest frown upon his usually bright features, “Shame. Sharp, you’re up for a bit of indulgence though, aren’t you?”

She finds the potions professor studying her in quite a focused fashion. As though she was a puzzle he was trying to sort out. His gaze finally lifts to meet the other man’s.

“I suppose I could find the time.”

“Excellent! We’ll have a drink in your honor, Hart,” he beams before he takes to the stairs.

Catherine offers the older man a faint smile before she heads down the stairs toward her chambers without another word.

Crosskirk was a tiny hamlet near the northern tip of the country. While the weather was currently unagreeable in the Highlands, near the Bay it was downright unruly. Thick gray clouds rolled overhead as the crash and thunder of the waves hitting the rocks below kept one from truly knowing if a storm was approaching or not. The wind itself was terribly ferocious out here on the cliffs, a true gale brought from the north sea.

While the village was relatively populated by Muggles, there were a few hidden magical gems about.

Particularly in the ruins of the old castle north of the hamlet.

To the non-magical eye, it appeared for all the world to be a relic of centuries lost. To the passing wizard or witch, however, one could find a lively and bustling marketplace.

She had managed to sneak away one quiet Sunday after receiving Miriam’s letter – just to get her barrings about her before she attempted… what she was about to do.

Rummaging through the contents of her travel bag, she procures the potion she had kept close to her person these last few weeks. An old trick she had learned from a previous professor.

Attached to the stopper, a small vial is tied with three silver-colored hairs contained inside. Plucked from the head of a drunken wizard down in Sussex when she first arrived in English territory four months back.

Crouching down, Catherine tugs the vial free and pulls the stopper out with her teeth. Flicking back the lid on the rounded container, she carefully drops the hairs inside – watching them disappear into the foul green liquid.

Polyjuice is a nasty thing to down, no matter how many times you manage it. In the coastal market, not many heads would turn at the sight of a weathered old wizard. With a quick conjuration of her clothes into a more appropriate attire, the now disguised witch makes her way to the magical market.

Perhaps as a bit of a caution, she keeps her head down and adds a slight limp to her gait. An almost too-perfected move, Catherine will admit with some sense of guilt. This was not her first time trapezing around in the body of another, and it was unlikely to be her last.

The roads are crowded with patrons. A rich mixture of smells wafts through the air – hardy spices, warm baked goods, heavy herbs, and sweet flowers. The stalls are filled with the usual fares: garden plants and potion ingredients, while the occasional sutler has a selection of robes or books for sale. But what she seeks is a bit farther from reach.

She keeps her eyes peeled for a man with a swirly tattoo near his eye. A pig-faced man with shoulder-length hair. But no one matches the description which was perhaps wishing for just too much.

Further down, a large stall has a stack of cages and tiny covered paddocks with noisy creatures. Nothing suspicious of course, all the typical fare. Kneazles, Crups, Puffeskeins, and a few owls resting on metal hanging perches.

“Looking for anything in particular, old timer?”

She gazes up at the portly man lounging upon a stool, a hand-carved pipe between his fingers.

“No – nothing here’s caught my eye yet,” her voice is now that of a deeper masculine rumble and she unintentionally clears her throat to rid herself of it.

“Specialty wares then?”

The man glances around at the other milling patrons before beckoning her forward.

“That is… if you’re not interested in the usual type of items?”

She gives a slight shake of her head, surprised by how willing the man was being about openly discussing the topic. As though he had nothing to truly fear here.

“Meaning?”

He reels back, “Well, that is to say, I know some types are a bit harder to find around these parts. Porlocks and the like.”

With a conjured breath, she asks, “And if I was interested in something a bit more, how shall we say, exotic?”

The man’s eyes gleam.

“I thought you might be the type. Here’s what you want to do, back down that row, third vendor on the left – with the blue and green awning – ask to see Owen. He’ll get you hooked up with what you’re looking for.”

She tilts her head down, “Much obliged.”

“Of course,” he grins.

Miriam’s coded letter had told her that the next big shipment would be arriving around the 28th of November, roughly around 9 p.m. that evening. And while she had no information to give about Bouchar, this was a step in the right direction.

So, Catherine follows the vendor’s directions and finds herself standing before a barren little display. A wooden rack with hanging amulets strung upon braided cords, tiny crystals, and pendants; two boxes of tarot cards, and a few measly bags of tea leaves.

A young witch with limp red hair peers up from behind the stall.

“Can I help you?”

She clears her scratchy throat, “I was told to come see Owen?”

With a nod, she kicks a stack of crates beside her with her boot. Slowly, the lid lifts, and a man’s head appears from inside.

“Someone here to see you, love.”

The man in question gazes over at Catherine, a slow grin befalling his features as he pops further out from the box. He has a head of mousy brown hair, a pair of chilling gray eyes, and a rounded face with an upturned sort of nose that almost resembled… a pig.

“Well, come on in – if you think you can manage. Don’t need the Auror’s sniffing about, do I?”

Quick as she can with an exaggerated gait, Catherine makes her way over to the crate and peers down at the ladder. She hefts her leg over the edge, finding a rung, before she manages to climb down. The woman places the crate lid back over once her head’s through.

Though the area is not shrouded in darkness by it, in fact, it’s lit by several torches around a small dungeonous room; an office of sorts. The man waves her over, pointing to a wooden chair near a simple table in the corner. He takes a seat opposite her and pulls out a blank book.

“Now, I’m guessing this might be your first time here, yeah? But not the first time in the trade.”

“No, no,” she agrees, folding her leg over her knee. “First time in this market though.”

“Oh, good. Then you know the procedure. So,” he clasps his hands together in a fist and rests them on the table in front of him. “What’re we looking for today?”

Catherine gives a good-natured sigh, “Would you be willing to indulge the folly of an old man for a minute?”

With an agreeable nod, she continues.

“I have searched and searched, from Knockturn Alley to the backstreets of Pillworth. Perhaps you can finally be the one to help me in my endeavor.”

The man grins like a leech, leaning forward, “You’ve got my attention, old man.”

She rests her feet on the floor and bends forward in a conspiratory fashion.

“Occamys.”

With a breath of disbelief, he shakes his head, “Don’t know where you get off thinking a place like this would have bloody Occamys for sale. But I assure you, even if I did have one to spare, it certainly wouldn’t come cheap. Coin I’m sure a man of your position couldn’t even dream of having.”

“Indulge me,” she says. “How much?”

He gives an incredulous laugh, “Alright, alright –“ The man leans back, scratching his chin in thought, “If I had to place a number on them, I would say…. Two thousand, each.”

“And, in this scenario where I had such money to spend, how many would you have to sell?” she asks with an airy tone.

Another laugh, then he says, “Six. Though you might manage to get your worth out of them, think there’s a few nesting mums in the mix. If, I had them, of course.”

“Of course,” she nods congenially.

“Perhaps I can find something more in your price range though? I hate to turn away a willing customer.”

She gives a shrug, pulling out her drawstring leather coin pouch.

“Or, perhaps we can talk business.”

With a shove, the purse sails across the table – landing directly in front of the man – who, after a moment, unties the bag and peers down into the bottomless pouch.

“Now, hold on a second…”

Catherine leans back in the chair, her arms crossed, a proud smile on her face.

“Now, maybe we got off on the wrong footing,” the man schools his eager expression as best he can. Setting the pouch to the side – though his fingers seem to linger – he says, “While I might not have those lovely little creatures for you right now, I believe by tomorrow there might be a good chance I’ll have some in stock.”

“Ah, well, if the price you’re offering stays, then I might be able to stick around till morning.”

“Fair enough,” the man stands, as does Catherine, who then shakes his hand vigorously.

“Come back, ‘round six if you can, before the other stalls open back up. Sundays are usually slow, but we don’t need any more prying eyes, do we?”

With a playful wink, she releases her hand from the man’s grip. Though every other part of herself wanted nothing more than to drag her palm against her trouser leg – wishing to remove the invisible ick from the detestable man and his undesirable career choice.

Another parting word, and then she’s up the ladder and back out into the clouded light of the marketplace.

Tonight then.

She waits until she is well past the walls of the market before she apparates out of sight – holding back the urge to vomit, and not from the act of apparating.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The creature explodes from her wand’s tip, spinning about the air with its silvery wisps before its head appears in front of her.

“A message for Natsai Onai, if you will please.”

She presses a hand against the creature’s snout, speaking as clearly as she can, “Crosskirk at midnight. Send your best. And Natty? I was never here.”

With a nod, the patronus lifts into the air and soars out of sight – blending in with rolling dark storm clouds high above.

Catherine adjusts her dragonhide bracers before she coils her hair back into a tight bun. Dragging the black hood of her cloak over her head, she bends down – peering over the cliff face at the open mouth of the cave below. White sea foam crashes over the jagged rocks, frozen mist reaching out toward her.

The ship had been settled far out past the shoreline for the past hour, barely disguised by the shimmers of a disillusionment charm. While it could fool the Muggles and possibly even a few of her kind, Catherine could always see past the usual constraints of normal magic. A gift, of sorts.

Now… if you asked her fellow professors, they would say her dueling days were well behind her after the fall of Ranrok. She had become a studious learner in the aftermath – diligent in her lessons. The fire that burned inside her had dampened and she was no longer a cause of concern.

If you asked her old classmates, they would say that she had quit after receiving her posting at the Ministry a year after graduating. She had devoted herself to the job, aspiring to become the next big name in creature care.

If you asked anyone in her personal circle, however, they would tell you a very different answer.

While Catherine Hart was known for being a carer of creatures of all breeds and dispositions, she was also a well-known, and very heavily despised, figure amongst poaching groups.

The English Fury, she was called across Europe.

Cánrěn de nǚwū – The Cruel Witch, in the Far East.

Keeper of Beasts, in South Africa.

And, her more recent title, Cadela Loira – The Blonde Bitch, in Brazil.

While her skills at fifteen had been remarkable, at the time, they had remained largely unrefined during her school years. There hadn’t exactly been a guidebook on her particular abilities, let alone how to control those powers. While Percival Rackham had given her as much advice as he could, there was a difference between theoretical studies and real-world application.

Her time at the Ministry had given her a small preview of what she could accomplish.

But her time alone, in the field? That was where her true abilities began to shine. Particularly when it came to poachers.

Catherine was not a cruel person, though some may have viewed her otherwise. The Unforgiveables would never pass through her wand so long as she still had breath left in her lungs. There was a delicate dance she managed now with her spellwork. And sometimes, the inability of a poacher to cast a quick enough Protego simply meant their downfall.

And though it had been five months since her last proper fight, she felt no apprehension in descending the cliffs when the ship anchored itself in front of the cave’s entrance.

She was not a fool anymore – that’s why she had bothered to alert Natty. She was twenty-eight, not immortal. She no longer carried the weight of the wizarding world upon her shoulders and she was all too well aware of her own mortality. She carried the scars to prove it, should anyone ask.

Crouched behind a jagged rock, she lays in wait as the ship’s crew begins to prepare for unloading.

“Homenum Revelio.”

Like radiant beacons of spirits, the men’s bodies light up under the detection spell. She counts thirteen on the boat alone.

Inexplicably small crates are levitated off the ship – disappearing further into the cave system. Her anger only increases once she catches the cries of distress over the thunderous crash of the waves.

One by one, she watches the boxes get offloaded. Forty-three in total. No larger than a typical house cat.

The lights dim from the ship and the crew begins to walk down the gangplank into the cave. Checking her pocket watch – 11:09 – she reaches into her bag and pulls out the last necessary brew. The shimmering silver swirls of the Invisibility potion are indefinitely easier to swallow than the Polyjuice. At once, she disappears from view and makes her way down to the cave.

Gripping her wand, she slithers along the damp cavern wall – the splash of frozen surf drenches her clothes in icy seawater, but she bites her tongue and keeps pressing forward. Up ahead, the rowdy chatter of men around an open fire garners her focus. There were roughly twenty of them sitting around, digging into their meal.

Looking back towards the emaciated Hippocampuses, she aims her wand and silently casts Diffindo at their chains. The removal of the magically enhanced bonds makes the collars around the beasts’ necks unclasp leading to happy neighing as the dozen or so creatures dive back into the sea.

Sweeping her gaze across the cave, she spots three men in front of the large stacks of wooden crates.

“Bloody beast don’t know what’s good for him,” one says with a bark of laughter as he kicks the box with his boot.

Inching closer, though hidden behind a large stack of empty iron cages, she aims her wand at the three oblivious guards.

“Obdormiscere,” she whispers, repeating the enchantment for each man.

The first begins to sway on his feet, the second yawns loudly with a stretch, and the third leans against a crate before they all slowly sink down to the wet cavern floor in a deep slumber.

Luckily for Catherine, this doesn’t raise the suspicion of the others around the fire, as she quickly crosses the cave toward the crates.

She lets out a soft whistle as she scans each box. Again and again, waiting for the familiar echo – but only the distressing whines and howls of captured beasts can be heard. She sadly pats one crate with her palm.

“You’ll be out of here soon, I promise.”

With a soft utterance of Protego placed around the crates, she takes a breath. Turning her attention toward the other poachers, she raises her wand – her blue eyes hardening to an ominous dark ink as she points the tip at the ceiling directly over their fire.

“Bombarda.”

The resulting BOOM and crashing of shattered rock sends the men flying and she can’t help but let out a pleased grin as the effects of her potion wear off and she drops her hood.

“Depulso!”

Aesop had just finished his meal and had watched his plate disappear from the table when several owls soared down into the Great Hall. While receiving post was rare on a Sunday, there was a particular occasion for anything to be delivered. His familiar Great-Horned owl came along to drop a bundle down on the table before he flew off to the rafters.

He unties the string around his rolled-up edition of the Evening Prophet and begins to read over the major headlines. Further down the staff table, Shah and Aragon are also perusing their own copies.

The usual fare of Ministry dealings covers the front page, while, on the second, something of a new interest captures his attention. His eyes dart over the lines with keen interest.

With a huff, he lowers the paper and directs it towards his seated companion.

“Point of interest for you, Hart.”

“Hmm?” the young witch glances up from her steak and kidney pie, her cheeks puffed up with her bite. With a sheepish look, she quickly swallows and grabs hold of the page. Her eyes dart across the paper before they’re directed by the gentle tap of his finger.

“Poaching Ring discovered in Northern Hamlet?”

Aesop hums in a gravely tone, leaning over to stare at the article alongside her, “It appears the Auror department uncovered them just last night – some fifty exotic beasts were in tow.”

“Poor things,” she murmurs. Her dull eyes glimmer down the lines as she absorbs the entry. “An Erumpent? Six Occamys? Runespoors? A bloody Sphinx?” At the slip, she quickly covers her mouth and offers an embarrassed sorry.

He clears his throat, “Off to be sold for bits and pieces, I imagine.”

She nods, glancing back at him as she returns the paper, “They’re not exactly well-known for being particularly good house pets, no. Shame it doesn’t say what happened to the poachers though.”

Folding the paper in half and flipping the page to the upcoming Quidditch matches, he merely adds, “Likely off being questioned and booked. The article didn’t mention any fatalities, surprisingly. They must have a new code of ethics at the Auror office.”

Hart gives a snort of amusement, making him raise his brow. But she just shakes her head and returns to her meal. He misses the creeping smile that crosses her lips as she raises her goblet to them. A certain glimmer in her unusually dark eyes.

Aesop reads his fill of articles and opinion pieces before he folds the paper onto the table. With a tired groan of discomfort, he manages to stand from his chair – offering a parting word to his colleagues – before he begins to head back to his quarters for the night.

He does notice the young professor slyly draw the evening paper closer to her, unfurling the neat creases, and staring quite intently at a particular article. But he thinks nothing of it as he passes the Slytherin table – instead concerning his thoughts to a stack of sixth-year essays that were still awaiting him at his desk.

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#aesop sharp x mc #aesop sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

[cryingoflot49]

Book Review

The Man In the High Castle by Philip K. Dick

In Philip K. Dick’s The Man In rhe High Castle, Nabusuke Tagomi is a Japanese businessman in San Francisco whose consciousness has been changed by the events leading up to a day when he buys a piece of jewelry from an antique store. After contemplating his life while sitting in a park, he walks to the road to hire a pedecab. He is unable to see one even though other people can see them in abundance. He also notices a concrete highway ramp that he has never seen before; when he asks a stranger about it, the man explains that everybody has hated it for a long time because it is so ugly. Tagomi suddenly becomes aware of something that everybody else had known about. But there is nothing wrong with Tagomi. He is like everyone else in that we don’t see everything that is objectively present to us because we aren’t making a conscious effort to see everything. Our perceptions of the objective world come to us in pieces and fragments. We see things that others don’t and they see things that we don’t. Thus this novel poses the question of how we can form a solid moral foundation to guide our actions when our perceptions of reality are haphazard at best.

The story is an alternative history taking place after World War II, examining what American would be like if Germany and Japan had won the war. The USA has been divided into four new countries. The West Coast is part of Japan, the Northeast is part of Nazi Germany, the middle states are what is left of America, and the Southeast is left to rot as a neo-Confederate backwater. Racist hierarchies have been ratified into law and the strictly hierarchical Japanese culture has become the norm on the West coast.

Like Mr. Kurtz in Heart of Darkness, The Man In the High Castle, Hawthorne Abendsen, does not appear until the end. He is the author of a book called The Grasshopper Lies Heavy which is an alternative account of World War II in which he describes what would have happened if America had won the war. So, yes, Philip K. Dick wrote an alternative history novel that revolves around a fictional alternative history novel within the plot. This book is all the rage because most people are familiar with it whether they have read it or not. The irony is that the characters who haven’t read it think they know what happens in the book and they are invariably wrong. This is a brilliant framing device that works on the premise that readers will know how World War II ended before reading Dick’s novel. It takes your mind off into several directions at once and then demands that the reader sort out the mess. This is not literature for shallow people who like being spoonfed entertainment.

But getting back to Mr. Tagomi, the businessman acts as a liaison between two secrets agents, one a Japanese official and the other a German working for the anti-Nazi resistance who has learned that the Nazis have plans to betray their Japanese allies in a catastrophic way. The Nazis are on to the German agent and send some thugs out to kill him in the presence of Tagomi.

The Nazis are also on to a craftsman and businessman named Frank Frink. He runs a fledgling jewelry business with a partner and it is the products they make and sell that act as a link between most of the major characters in the novel. The Nazis want to execute Frink because they think he is an enemy of the state and part of a Jewish plot to dominate the world. In reality, Frink just wants to run a successful business so he can impress his ex-wife and get her to come back to him.

Thus the plot threads are individually easy to follow, but there isn’t one thread that stands out above all the others so saying that there is a plot supported by subplots is a mischaracterization. Even though all the story lines are clearly articulated and the characters mostly cross paths with each other, it is the equal weighting of all the elements that makes the book a bit frustrating to read.

So Frink passes through the life of a store owner named Childan, a dealer in Americana and antiques. Frink comes into the store to alert Childan that some pistols he has in stock are not authentic relics from the Civil War, but are, in fact, forgeries manufactured by a company that Frink once worked for. Frink, the honest businessman, appears to be motivated to sabotage the counterfeit market. Later Childan buys a stock of Frink’s jewelry and sells a uniquely shaped pin to Mr. Tagomi, the same pin that the Japanese man meditates on in the park when his life gets disrupted. Frink’s jewelry is another clever narrative device as the introduction of his products into the collectibles market causes everyone who comes into contact with them to re-evaluate their lives.

Childan carries two important philosophical themes in the narrative. One confronts the meaning of monetary values as well as the value of objects in geenral and the other examines the subjective moral ambiguity a person faces when thrown into an existentially uncomfortable position. Childan and Tagomi play off of each other because they both experience a crisis in their subjective orientation to the world. The former of Childan’s two themes happens when he learns about the counterfeit guns in his store. If a customer believes that a pistol is an authentic artifact from the Civil War, does it matter if that is not the reality? And why would a similar gun made at the same time but not used in the Civil War be of lesser value? The truth is that the value of the item is in the mind of whoever owns it or wants it. The guns have no inherent value of their own and that estimation of their value may be based on illusion, fantasy, lies, or ignorance. So how is it possible to form a moral judgment on how to sell an item when its valuation is based on an inaccurate perception of what it truly is? Philip K. Dick poses this question without answering it.

The latter dilemma involving Childan addresses the issue of maintaining a sense of self-worth in a humiliating situation. When Childan goes to visit some clients, a Japanese couple who are enamored with Americana, he feels as though their attempts to embrace American culture are superficial and patronizing. Even worse, they latch onto aspects of American culture that he despises like jazz. Childan’s problem is that, being American means having lost the war to Japan and Germany so Childan feels ashamed of some things that are authentically unique to America, especially in regards to people who aren’t white. Instead he admires German classical music and opera in an attempt to identify with the Nazis who defeated America. He sees them as being culturally superior because of their victory. The problem isn’t that Childan has any inhrent sympathy for fascism or Nazism; since he lives on the west coast and is subjected to the rigid hierarchies of Japan that have been imposed on California, a small business owner like himself is relegated to a mid-level social status with the wealthier and more powerful Japanese people over him. Because of this he feels humiliated after losing the status he held before the war. In an attempt to compensate for his humiliation, he embraces the cause of fascism in an act of bad faith. He suffers from the dilemma of finding refuge in any available port during a storm. That post just happens to be the Germans. In this way, Dick isn’t justifying Nazism. He is explaining why a confused individual might embrace it under uncomfortable circumstances like during the visit he makes to his Japanese customers’ apartment.

Then Childan agrees to sell Frink and his partner’s jewelry on commission from his store. As the jewelry begins to circulate among the other characters in the book, their perceptions of reality begin to change.

Finally, Frink’s wife Julianna goes on a trip through Colorado to find Abendsen, the author of The Grasshopper Lies Heavy. Simply put, she is on a mission to alert him because she learns the Nazis have hatched a plot to assassinate him. The Nazis in this book are reckless, treacherous backstabbers on a path to self-destruction and possibly the annihilation of the world in their quest for power.

One final narrative device worth considering is the presence of the I Ching, the ancient Taoist book of vaguely worded verses that act as an oracle for all the characters in the story. In a world characterized by uncertainty and unpredictability, they turn to it as a means of guidance. Really it acts as a literary chorus to move the plot along like the witches in Macbeth. It also serves as an explanatory device when there is nothing better to rely on which is a weakness in this book. For example, when Julianna meets up with Abendsen, they consult the I Ching to answer a question of importance to the story. They receive an answer but we are expected to accept it as true because the oracle says it us true and no further explanation is given. It seems that Dick had no further explanation to offer so he just used the I Ching as a means of filling in the gap, rendering the meaning of its answer pointless. This is a form of narrative cheating and something that makes the ending almost irrelevant.

In the end, for a novel with so much to unpack and so many significant ideas, it could have been better. The pacing is slow and laborious. The characters all have flat affects. The plot lines become tangled in ways that make the result look like the end of a frayed rope rather than a cohesive work of writing. The pieces of the story just don’t hang together very well. It is an awkward book written by a young writer whose genius would come out in his later works of fiction.

The Man In the High Castle is certainly worth reading. It presents the abstract concept of what it means to live in a world where morality can never be certain since it based on faulty perceptions of reality. All the main characters exemplify this problem in the way they make choices while navigating through the world. In the end, there is no solution to this problem of certainty other than doing what they think is right even though they risk making costly mistakes in the end. It isn’t one of Philip K. Dick’s best works, but it is still good enough to read at least once. Just be patient as you read.

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