#Hostililty

[lord-prey]

Bleh bleh

[the-empress-7]

I think it's very interesting that the interview with Dr. C was on Sky News. Home of Chris Ship, the sugariest of the UK journos (other than Bryony Gordon). Wonder how that decision on both sides came about?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but next to BBC, isn't Sky News the most liberal news channel in the UK? It was wise of Sophie to steer clear of the usual suspects like Dan Wootton and Piers Morgan, or anyone else who is seen as BRF friendly. Sky News has never hid it's hostililty towards the Monarchy.

[massensterben-a]

@deuscaedo

The trench is a morass of boot-churned mud. The rain has been mooring the camp in for a few days and the soldiers are more on edge than usual with fatigue, with utter boredom. White uniforms turned grey and dirt-specked, men have grown fangs overnight. Bertholdt is a tall child, commonly mistaken for older than he is, and among the many dour grimaces, he barely registers as out of the ordinary in this sea of bodies. Or at least he would, if it weren’t for the bright yellow armband.

The young candidate is tense with the heavy drizzle in the air, with the crate he carries in his arms, and with the wolfish stares than follow him. He is by himself, which is no good thing for a child like him to be. Eldians have a hard enough time when the officers start getting rowdy, but it turns out, it’s worse for the young ones. Three Marleyans are on his trail and Bertholdt doesn’t know why. There doesn’t necessarily need to be a reason, he found. He tries to hurry as he packs the last box of ammunition away, saves it from the damp atmosphere.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He hates to have his back turned on the soldiers when they prowl. He’s been tripped up and spat at often enough in his life to sense an air of growing hostililty without seeing it. Bertholdt means to duck out of the way and find his unit but his escape is cruelly intercepted.

A hand finds the back of his uniform, grabbing the fistful of fabric, and yanks, hard. Bertholdt yelps, a soft small sound in the constant roar of rain and battle. No one would ever hear it. The world upends on him, and then it goes black. He rolls, on instinct, over his shoulder when he is torn down to the ground but the assault caught him badly and he feels his face scrape over rocks and grains of hostile sand. His cheek burns beneath the layer of mud, red slickening the coat of dirt. He spits and coughs to the erupting cackling of hyena-faced soldiers. There is no fear like this.

The child makes to scramble to his feet, makes to retreat quickly as he is pelted with barked insults, calling him clumsy and inbred and devil freak. Bertholdt barely hears it over the pounding pulse in his ears. He almost gets up, almost. Then a heavy boot finds the back of his head and kicks him back into the mud.

‘And stay down!’

And Bertholdt stays down.

[sarahisslytherin]

so much hostililty

shut up sarah

@sarahisslytherin

i think it’s for you